The Unlikely Spy

He wondered why she had become involved with the Popes. Were they operating in complicity with her, involved in espionage as well as black marketeering and protection rackets? Unlikely, he thought. Perhaps she went to them because of services they could provide: black market petrol, weapons, men to mount a surveillance operation. Vicary could never be certain until he apprehended and questioned Robert Pope. Even then he planned to put the Pope operation under a microscope. If he saw anything he didn't like he would charge the lot of them with spying for Germany and throw them in prison for a very long time. And what about Rose Morely? Was it possible the whole thing was a dreadful coincidence? That Rose had recognized Anna Steiner and had paid for that with her life? Very possible, Vicary thought. But he would assume the worst-case scenario--that Rose Morely actually was an agent too. He would conduct a thorough investigation of her background before closing the book on her murder.

 

He looked at his wristwatch: one o'clock in the morning. He picked up the telephone and dialed the number once more. This time it was Helen's voice on the other end of the line. It was the first time he had heard it in twenty-five years. Hello. . . . Hello. . . . Who is this, please? Vicary wanted to speak but could not. Oh, bloody hell! And the connection was broken.

 

 

 

 

 

Catherine unlocked the study door, went inside, and closed it softly behind her. She switched on the desk lamp. From her handbag she removed her camera and her Mauser pistol. She laid the pistol on the desk carefully, the butt facing her, so she could swing it up rapidly into the firing position if necessary. She knelt in front of the safe and rotated the dial back and forth. She turned the latch and the door was open. Inside was the briefcase--locked. She unlocked it with her own key, opened it, and looked inside.

 

A black bound book with the words TOP SECRET--BIGOT ONLY on the cover.

 

She felt her heart begin to beat faster.

 

Catherine took the book to the desk, laid it down, and photographed the cover.

 

She opened it and read the first page: PHOENIX PROJECT 1. design specifications

 

 

 

2. construction schedule

 

 

 

3. deployment

 

 

 

 

 

Catherine thought, My God. I've actually done it!

 

She photographed that page and turned another.

 

Page after page of designs--she photographed all of them.

 

A page labeled CREW REQUIREMENTS--she photographed it.

 

Another page labeled TOWING REQUIREMENTS--she photographed it.

 

She ran out of film. She removed the spent film and reloaded the camera. She photographed two more pages.

 

Then she heard the noise upstairs--Jordan, getting out of bed.

 

She turned another page and photographed it.

 

Catherine heard him walking across the floor.

 

She turned another page and photographed it.

 

She heard water running in the bathroom.

 

She photographed two more pages. She would never have access to this document again, that she knew. If it truly contained the secret of the invasion, she had to keep working. While she photographed, she thought what she would do if he walked in on her. Kill him with the Mauser. No one would hear it because of the silencer. She could finish photographing the documents, leave, go to Hampton Sands, find Neumann, and signal the submarine. Keep working. . . . And what would happen when SHAEF counterintelligence found the body of an officer who knew the secret of the invasion? They would launch an immediate investigation. They would discover he had been seen with a woman. They would look for the woman and, unable to locate her, conclude she was an agent. They would conclude the documents in his safe had been photographed, that the secret of the invasion had been compromised. She thought, Don't come in here, Peter Jordan. For your sake and mine.

 

She heard the sound of the toilet flushing.

 

Just a few more pages. She photographed them quickly. Done! She closed the binder, returned it to the briefcase, and placed the briefcase back in the safe. She closed the door quietly and spun the lock. She picked up the Mauser, pulled the slide into the firing position, and turned out the light. She opened the door and crept out into the hall. Jordan was still upstairs.

 

Think quickly, Catherine!

 

She walked down the hallway and pushed back the door of the drawing room. She put the Mauser in the handbag and the handbag on the floor. She turned on the light and walked to the drinks trolley. Calm down. Take a deep breath. She picked up a glass and was pouring herself a brandy when Peter Jordan walked in.

 

 

 

 

 

Harry Dalton was waiting outside the Popes' warehouse in a department surveillance van. He had two men with him, Detective-Sergeant Meadows from the Metropolitan Police and a watcher named Clive Roach. Harry was in the front passenger seat, Roach behind the wheel. Meadows was getting a few minutes of sleep in the back.

 

It was dawn. It had been a long and dreadfully boring night. Harry was exhausted, but each time he tried to sleep he saw one of two disparate visions: Rose Morely lying dead in Hyde Park or Grace Clarendon's face as they made love. He wanted to climb into her bed and sleep around the clock. He wanted to hold her in his arms and never let go. He was under her spell again.

 

The visions of Grace were broken by the sound of a van drawing up in front of the warehouse. A tall, thick man climbed out of the driver's-side door. Harry could make him out in the weak morning light.

 

"Know him?" Clive Roach asked.

 

Harry said, "Yeah. His name is Dicky Dobbs."

 

"Looks like trouble."

 

"He's Pope's main muscle boy and enforcer."

 

"If I was on the run I think I'd want that one around for protection."

 

"You're right," Harry said. "Wake up Sleeping Beauty back there."

 

Dobbs unlocked the judas gale and went inside the warehouse. A moment later the main door was pulled upward. Dobbs emerged and climbed back inside the van.

 

Roach started the engine as Meadows sat up.

 

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