The Unlikely Spy

Something about the exchange warmed the vindictive corners of Vicary's heart. The operator came on the line, and he gave her the number of MI5 headquarters in London. It took a few moments to get through. A department operator answered and connected Vicary to Harry Dalton.

 

Harry answered, his mouth full of food.

 

"What's the fare today?" Vicary asked.

 

"They claim it's vegetable stew."

 

"Any news?"

 

"I think so, actually."

 

Vicary's heart leapt.

 

"I've been going over the immigration lists one more time, just to see if we missed anything." The immigration lists were the meat and potatoes of MI5's contest with Germany's spies. In September 1939, while Vicary was still on the faculty at University College, MI5 had used immigration and passport records as the primary tool in a massive roundup of spies and Nazi sympathizers. Aliens were classified in three categories: Category C aliens were allowed complete freedom; Category B aliens were subject to certain restrictions--some weren't allowed to own automobiles or boats and limits were placed on their movement within the country; Category A aliens, those deemed to be a threat to security, were interned. Anyone who had entered the country before the war and could not be accounted for was assumed to be a spy and hunted down. Germany's espionage networks were rolled up and smashed, virtually overnight.

 

"A Dutch woman named Christa Kunst entered the country in November 1938 at Dover," Harry continued. "A year later her body was discovered in a shallow grave in a field near a village called Whitchurch."

 

"What's unusual about that?"

 

"The thing just doesn't feel right to me. The body was badly decomposed when it was pulled out of the ground. The face and skull had been crushed. All the teeth were missing. They used the passport to make the identification; it was conveniently buried with the body. It sounds too neat to me."

 

"Where's the passport now?"

 

"The Home Office has it. I've sent a courier up to collect it. It has a photograph. They say it got roughed up a bit while it was in the ground, but it's probably worth looking at."

 

"Good, Harry. I'm not sure this woman's death has anything to do with the case, but at least it's a lead."

 

"Right. How did the meeting go with the lawyer, by the way?"

 

"Oh, just a few papers to sign," Vicary lied. He felt suddenly awkward about his newfound financial independence. "I'm leaving now. I should be back in the office late this afternoon."

 

Vicary rang off as Kenton came back into the drawing room. "Well, I think that about does it." He handed Vicary a large brown envelope. "All the papers are there as well as the keys. I've included the name of the gardener and his address. He'll be happy to serve as caretaker."

 

They put on their coats, locked up the cottage, and went outside. Vicary's car was in the drive.

 

"Can I drop you anywhere, Edward?"

 

Vicary was relieved when he declined the offer.

 

"I spoke to Helen the other day," Kenton said suddenly.

 

Vicary thought: Oh, good heavens.

 

"She says she sees you from time to time in Chelsea."

 

Vicary wondered whether Helen had told Kenton about the afternoon in 1940 when he had stared into her passing car like some silly schoolboy. Mortified, Vicary opened the door of the car, absently beating his pockets for his half-moon glasses.

 

"She asked me to say hello, so I'm saying it. Hello."

 

"Thank you." Vicary got inside.

 

"She also says she'd like to see you sometime. Do some catching up."

 

"That would be lovely," Vicary said, lying.

 

"Well, marvelous. She's coming to London next week. She'd love to have lunch with you."

 

Vicary felt his stomach tighten.

 

"One o'clock at the Connaught, a week from tomorrow," Kenton said. "I'm supposed to speak with her later today. Shall I tell her you'll be there?"

 

 

 

 

 

The back of the Rover was cold as a meat locker. Vicary sat on the big leather seat, legs covered in a traveling rug, watching the countryside of Gloucestershire sweep past his window. A red fox crossed the road, then darted back into the hedge. Drowsy fat pheasants pulled at the cropped remains of a snowy cornfield, feather coats puffed out against the cold. Bare tree limbs scratched at the clear sky. A small valley opened before him. Fields stretched like a rumpled patchwork quilt into the distance. The sun was sinking into a sky splashed with watercolor shades of purple and orange.

 

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