"Do you still love her?"
Jordan looked away. "I love the person I thought she was. I don't love the woman you tell me she is. Part of me almost believes this is all some kind of joke. So I suppose you and I have one thing in common."
"What's that?" Vicary asked.
"We both fell in love with the wrong woman."
Vicary laughed. He looked at his wristwatch and said, "It's getting late."
"Yes," Jordan said.
Vicary stood and led Jordan across the hall into the library. He unlocked his briefcase and removed a sheaf of papers from inside. He handed Jordan the papers and Jordan placed them inside his own briefcase. They stood in an awkward silence before Vicary said, "I'm sorry. If there was some other way to do this, I would. But there isn't. Not yet, at least."
Jordan said nothing.
"There's one thing that always bothered me about your interrogation: why you couldn't remember the names of the men who first approached you about working on Operation Mulberry."
"I met dozens of people that week. I can't remember half of them."
"You said one of them was English."
"Yes."
"Was his name Broome, by any chance?"
"No, his name wasn't Broome," Jordan said without hesitation. "I think I'd remember that. I probably should be going."
Jordan moved toward the door.
"I just have one more question."
Jordan turned and said, "What's that?"
"You are Peter Jordan, aren't you?"
"What in the hell kind of question is that?"
"It's a rather simple one really. Are you Peter Jordan?"
"Of course I'm Peter Jordan. You know, you really should get some sleep, Professor."
47
LONDON
Clive Roach was sitting at a window table in the cafe across the street from Catherine Blake's flat. The waitress brought his tea and his bun. He immediately placed a few coins on the table. It was a habit developed from his work. Roach usually had to leave cafes on short notice and in a hurry. The last thing he needed to do was attract attention. He sipped his tea and halfheartedly leafed through a morning paper. He was not really interested. He was more interested in the doorway across the street. The rain fell harder. He was not looking forward to going out in it again. It was the one aspect of his job he did not like--the constant exposure to foul weather. He'd had more colds and bronchial infections than he could remember.
Before the war he had been a teacher at a down-at-the-heel boys' school. He decided to enlist in the army in 1939. He was far from the ideal soldier--thin, pasty skin, sparse hair, an underpowered voice. Hardly officer material. At the induction center he noticed he was being watched by a pair of sharp-suited men in the corner. He also noticed they had requested a copy of his file and were poring over it with great interest. A few minutes later they pulled him from the queue, told him they were from Military Intelligence, and offered him a job.
Roach liked watching. He was a natural people watcher and he had a flair for names and faces. He knew there would be no medals for battlefield heroics, no stories he could tell down at the pub when the war was over. But it was an important job and Roach did it well. He ate his bun, thinking of Catherine Blake. He had followed many German spies since 1939, but she was the best. A real pro. She had embarrassed him once, but he had vowed he would never let it happen again.
He finished his bun and drank the last of his tea. He looked up from his table and saw her coming out of her block of flats. He marveled at her tradecraft. She always stood still for a moment, doing something prosaic, while scanning the street for any sign of surveillance. Today, she was fumbling with her umbrella as if it were broken. Roach thought, You're very good, Miss Blake. But I'm better.
He watched as she finally snapped up her umbrella and started walking. Roach got up, pulled on his coat, and walked out the door after her.