The Unlikely Spy

"There you go again, pretending to be superior, better than the rest of us. I would have thought you'd have learned your lesson by now. You need people like us. The country needs us."

 

They passed through the gate and into the drive. The gravel crunched beneath their feet. It reminded Vicary of the afternoon he was summoned to Chartwell and given the job at MI5. He remembered the morning at the Underground War Rooms, Churchill's words: You must set aside whatever morals you still have, set aside whatever feelings of human kindness you still possess, and do whatever it takes to win.

 

At least someone had been honest with him, even if it was a lie at the time.

 

They stopped at Boothby's Humber.

 

"You'll understand if I don't invite you in for refreshment," Vicary said. "I'd like to go wash the blood off my hands."

 

"That's the beauty of it, Alfred." Boothby held up his big paws for Vicary to see. "The blood is on my hands too. But I can't see it and no one else can either. It's a secret stain."

 

The car's engine fired as Boothby opened the door.

 

"Who's Broome?" Vicary asked one last time.

 

Boothby's face darkened, as though a cloud had passed over it.

 

"Broome is Brendan Evans, your old friend from Cambridge. He told us about that stunt you pulled to get into the Intelligence Corps in the First War. He also told us what happened to you in France. We knew what drove you and what motivated you. We had to--we were running you, after all."

 

Vicary felt his head beginning to throb.

 

"I have one more question."

 

"You want to know if Helen was part of it or whether she came to you on her own."

 

Vicary stood very still, waiting for an answer.

 

"Why don't you go find her and ask her for yourself ?"

 

Then Boothby disappeared into his car and was gone.

 

 

 

 

 

64

 

 

LONDON: MAY 1945

 

 

 

 

 

At six o'clock that evening, Lillian Walford cleared her throat, knocked gently on the office door, and let herself inside without waiting for an answer. The professor was there, sitting in the window overlooking Gordon Square, his little body folded over an old manuscript.

 

"I'll be leaving now, Professor, if you've nothing else for me," she said, beginning the ritualistic closing of books and straightening of papers that always seemed to accompany their Friday evening conversations.

 

"No, I'll be fine, thank you."

 

She looked at him, thinking, No, somehow I doubt that very much, Professor. Something about him had changed. Oh, he was never the talkative sort, mind you; never one to strike up a conversation, unless it was completely necessary. But he seemed more withdrawn than ever, poor lamb. And it had grown worse as the term progressed, not better, as she had hoped. There was talk round the college, idle speculation. Some said he had sent men to their death, or ordered men killed. Hard to imagine the professor doing such things, but it made some sense, she had to admit. Something had made him take a vow of silence.

 

"You'd better be leaving soon, Professor, if you want to make your train."

 

"I rather thought I'd stay in London for the weekend," he said, without looking up from his work. "I'm interested in seeing what the place looks like at night, now that the lights are back on again."

 

"That's certainly one thing I hope I never see again, the bloody blackout."

 

"Something tells me you won't."

 

She removed his mackintosh from the hook on the back of the door and placed it on the chair next to his desk. He laid down his pencil and looked up at her. Her next action took them both by surprise. Her hand seemed to go to his cheek on its own, by reflex, the way it would reach out for a small child who had just been hurt.

 

"Are you all right, Professor?"

 

He drew away sharply and returned his gaze to the manuscript. "Yes, I'm fine," he said. There was a tone in his voice, an edge, she had never heard before. Then he mumbled something under his breath that sounded like "never better."

 

She turned and walked toward the door. "Have a pleasant weekend," she said.

 

"I intend to, thank you."

 

"Good night, Professor Vicary."

 

"Good night, Miss Walford."

 

The evening was warm, and by the time he crossed Leicester Square he had removed his mackintosh and folded it over his arm. The dusk was dying, the lights of London slowly coming up. Imagine Lillian Walford, touching his face like that. He had always thought of himself as an adequate dissembler. He wondered if it was that obvious.

 

He crossed Hyde Park. To his left, a band of Americans played softball in the faint light. To his right, British and Canadians played a noisy game of rugby. He passed a spot where only days before an antiaircraft gun had stood. The gun was gone; only the sandbags remained, like the stones of ancient ruins.

 

He entered Belgravia, and by instinct he walked toward Helen's house.

 

I hope you change your mind, and soon.

 

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