The Unlikely Spy

A watcher led him upstairs to the library. A coal fire burned in the fireplace; the air was dry and warm. He struggled out of his sodden mackintosh, hung it on a hanger, and hung the hanger on the back of the door. One of the girls had left him a pot of tea, and he poured himself a cup. Vicary was exhausted. He had slept poorly after interrogating Jordan, and his hope of catching a little sleep in the car had been dashed by Boothby, who suggested they ride back to the office together so they could use the time to talk.

 

Overall control of Kettledrum was Boothby's. Vicary would run Jordan and be responsible for keeping Catherine Blake under surveillance. At the same time he would try to discover the rest of the agents in the network and their means of communication with Berlin. Boothby would be the liaison to the Twenty Committee, the interdepartmental group that supervised the entire Double Cross apparatus, so named because the symbol of Double Cross and the Roman numeral for twenty are the same: XX. Boothby and the Twenty Committee would produce the misleading documents for Jordan's briefcase and integrate Kettledrum into the rest of Double Cross and Bodyguard. Vicary did not ask about the nature of the misinformation, and Boothby did not tell him. Vicary knew what it meant. He had discovered the existence of the new German network and traced the leak back to Jordan. But now he was being shoved into a supporting role. Basil Boothby was fully in command.

 

"Nice digs," Harry said, as he entered the room. He poured himself a cup of tea and warmed his backside against the fire. "Where's Jordan?"

 

"Upstairs sleeping."

 

"Dumb bastard," Harry said, his voice lowered.

 

"He's our dumb bastard now, Harry. Don't forget that. What have you got?"

 

"Fingerprints."

 

"What?"

 

"Fingerprints, latent fingerprints from someone other than Peter Jordan, all over the inside of that study. On the desk, on the exterior of the safe. He says the cleaning lady was never allowed to go in. We should assume those latent fingerprints were left by Catherine Blake."

 

Vicary shook his head slowly.

 

"Jordan's house is ready to go," Harry continued. "We put so many microphones in that place you can hear a mouse fart. We evicted the family across the street and established a static post. The view is perfect. Anyone goes near that house gets their picture taken."

 

"What about Catherine Blake?"

 

"We traced her telephone number to a flat in Earl's Court. We took over a flat in the building opposite."

 

"Good work, Harry."

 

Harry looked at Vicary a long moment, then said, "Don't take this the wrong way, Alfred, but you look like hell."

 

"I can't remember the last time I slept. What's keeping you going?"

 

"A couple of Benzedrine and ten quarts of tea."

 

"I'm going to have a bite to eat, then try to get some sleep. What about you?"

 

"Actually, I had plans for the evening."

 

"Grace Clarendon?"

 

"She asked me to dinner. I thought I'd take the opportunity. I don't think we're going to have much free time the next few weeks."

 

Vicary rose and poured himself another cup of tea. "Harry, I don't want to take advantage of your relationship with Grace, but I'm wondering if she could do me a favor. I'd like her to run a couple of names quietly through Registry and see what comes up."

 

"I'll ask her. What are the names?"

 

Vicary carried his tea across the room and stood in front of the fire next to Harry.

 

"Peter Jordan, Walker Hardegen, and anyone or anything called Broome."

 

 

 

 

 

Grace never liked to eat before making love. Afterward Harry lay in her bed, smoking a cigarette, listening to Glenn Miller on the gramophone and the clatter of Grace cooking in her tiny kitchen. She came back into the bedroom ten minutes later. She wore a robe, loosely tied at her slender waist, and carried a tray with their supper on it: soup and bread. Harry sat up against the headboard and Grace leaned against the footboard. The tray was between them. She handed him a bowl of the soup. It was nearly midnight and they both were starved. Harry loved to watch her--the way she seemed to take such pleasure from the simple meal. The way her robe parted to reveal her taut, perfect body.

 

She noticed him looking at her and said, "What are you thinking, Harry Dalton?"

 

"I was thinking how much I never want this to end. I was thinking how much I wish every night of my life could be just like this."

 

Her face became very grave; she was absolutely incapable of hiding her emotions. When she was happy her face seemed to light up. When she was angry her green eyes smoldered. And when she was sad, like now, her body became very still.

 

"You mustn't say things like that, Harry. It's against the rules."

 

"I know it's against the rules, but it's the truth."

 

"Sometimes it's better to keep the truth to yourself. If you don't say it out loud, it doesn't hurt so much."

 

"Grace, I think I'm in love--"

 

She slammed down her spoon on the tray. "Jesus, Harry! Don't say things like that! You make it so damned hard sometimes. First you say you can't see me because you're feeling guilty, and now you're telling me you're in love with me."

 

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