It started in 1940 during a night raid over London. They sheltered together in the underground and in the morning, when the all clear sounded, she had taken him to her flat and to her bed. She was attractive in an unconventional way and a passionate, uninhibited lover--a pleasant, convenient escape from the pressure of the office. For Grace, Harry was someone kind and gentle who would help pass the time until her husband came back from the army.
They could have carried on that way the entire war. But three months into the affair Harry was suddenly overwhelmed with guilt. The poor sod is fighting for his life in North Africa, and I'm here in London bedding his wife. The feelings provoked a deeper crisis for him. He was a young man; maybe he should be in the army risking his life instead of chasing relatively harmless spies around Britain. He told himself MI5's work was vital to the war effort--indispensable--but the nagging feelings of doubt persisted. What would I do on the battlefield? Would I pick up my gun and fight or would I cower in a foxhole? He told Grace about his feelings the next night when he broke off the affair. They made love one last time, her kisses salty with tears. Bloody war, she kept saying. Lousy, bloody, awful war.
"I need a favor, Grace," Harry said, voice low.
"Listen to you, Harry. You don't call, you don't write, you don't bring me flowers. Then you pop round and say you need a favor." She smiled and kissed him again. "All right, what do you need?"
"I need to see the access list on a file."
Her face darkened. "Come on, Harry. You know I can't do that."
"An Abwehr man named Vogel--Kurt Vogel."
A look of recognition flashed across her face, then dissipated.
"Grace, I don't need to tell you we're working a very important case."
"I know you're working on an important case, Harry. The whole department is buzzing about it."
"When Vicary came down to pull Vogel's file, it was missing. He went to see Jago, and two minutes later he had the bloody thing in his hand. Jago spun some yarn about it being mislaid."
She was angrily digging through the files on the cart. She grabbed a bunch and began replacing them on the shelves.
"I know all about it, Harry."
"How do you know?"
"Because he blamed it on me. He wrote a letter of reprimand and put it in my file, the bastard."
"Who blamed you?"
"Jago!" she hissed.
"Why?"
"To cover his arse, that's why."
She was digging through the files again. Harry reached out and took her hands in his to make her stop. "Grace, I need to see that access list."
"The access list won't tell you anything. The person who had that file before Vicary doesn't leave a trail."
"Grace, please. I'm begging."
"I like it when you beg, Harry."
"Yeah, I remember."
"Why don't you come over for some dinner one night?" She dragged the tip of her finger over the back of Harry's hand. It was black from sorting files. "I miss your company. We'll talk, have a few laughs, nothing else."
"I'd like that, Grace." It was the truth. He missed her very much.
"If you tell anyone where you got this, Harry, so help me God--"
"It stays between you and me."
"Not even Vicary," she insisted. Harry put his hand over his heart. "Not even Vicary." Grace picked up another handful of files, then looked up at him. With her bloodred lips she mouthed the initials BB.
"How is it possible you don't have a single lead?" Basil Boothby said as Vicary sank down into the deep overstuffed couch. Sir Basil had demanded nightly updates on the progress of the investigation. Vicary, knowing Boothby's passion for having things in writing, suggested a concise note, but Sir Basil wanted to be briefed in person.
Tonight, Boothby had an engagement. He had mumbled something about "the Americans" to explain the fact he was dressing in his formal wear when Vicary was shown into the office. While he spoke his big paw was engaged in an abortive effort to stuff a gold cuff link through the starched cuff of his shirt. Sir Basil had a valet to assist him with such tedious tasks at home.
Vicary's briefing was suspended a moment while Boothby summoned his pretty secretary to help him dress. It gave him a moment to process the information Harry had given him. It was Sir Basil who had pulled Vogel's file. He tried to remember their first conversation. What was it Boothby had said? Registry may have something on him.
Boothby's secretary slipped quietly out. Vicary resumed his briefing. They had men watching every rail station in London. Their hands were tied because they had no description of the agents they were supposed to be looking for. Harry Dalton had compiled a list of every known location used by German agents for rendezvous points. Vicary had men watching as many of those as he could.
"I'd give you more men, Alfred, but there aren't any," Boothby said. "The watchers are all pulling double and triple shifts. The head of the watchers is complaining to me that you're running them into the ground. The cold is killing them. Half of them have been struck down by the flu."