It began before the damp freezing dawn, when the pair arrived outside Jordan's Edwardian house in Kensington in a black paneled van, complete with boxes of tinned food in the back and the name of a West End grocer on the side. They waited there until shortly before eight o'clock, Pope dozing, Dicky nervously munching a soggy bun and drinking coffee from a paper cup. Vernon Pope had threatened him with grievous bodily harm over last night's foul-up with the woman. He was damned if he was going to lose Peter Jordan. Dicky, considered the finest wheel man in London's criminal underground, had secretly vowed to pursue Jordan across the lawns of Green Park if need be.
Such motoring heroics would not be necessary, for at seven fifty-five a.m. an American military staff car drew up outside Jordan's house and blew its horn. The door of the house opened and a man of medium height and build emerged. He wore a U.S. Navy uniform, a white cap, and a dark overcoat. A thin leather briefcase hung at the end of his arm. He vanished into the back of the car and closed the door. Dicky had been concentrating on Jordan so intently he forgot to start the engine. When he tried to do so it coughed once and died. He cursed it, threatened it, and cajoled it before trying again. This time the van roared into life, and their silent watch on Peter Jordan was under way.
Grosvenor Square would present them with their first challenge. It was crowded with taxis, staff cars, and Allied officers rushing in every direction. Jordan's car passed through the square, entered an adjacent side street, and stopped outside a small unmarked building. Remaining on the street was impossible. Vehicles were parked on both sides with only one lane for traffic, and a white-helmeted MP was pacing up and down, lazily swinging his baton. Pope hopped out and walked back and forth along the street while Dicky circled. Ten minutes later Jordan emerged from the building, a heavy briefcase chained to his wrist.
Dicky collected Pope and headed back to Grosvenor Square, arriving in time to spot Jordan walking through the front entrance of SHAEF headquarters. He found a parking space in Grosvenor Street with a clear view and turned off the engine. A few minutes later they caught a glimpse of General Eisenhower flashing one of his famous smiles before disappearing through the entrance.
Pope, even if he had been trained by MI5 itself, could not have discharged his next moves any better. He determined that they could not cover the building with a static post alone; it was a huge complex, with many ways in and out. Using a public phone, he telephoned Vernon at the warehouse and demanded three men. When they arrived he posted one behind the building in Blackburn Street, another in Upper Brook Street, and the third in Upper Grosvenor Street. Two hours later Pope called the warehouse again and demanded three fresh faces--it wasn't safe for civilians to loiter around American installations. Vicary and Boothby, had they been able to hear the conversation, might have laughed at the irony, for like any good desk man and field agent, Vernon and Robert quarreled bitterly over resources. The stakes were different, though. Vernon needed a couple of good men to pick up a shipment of stolen coffee and to rough up a shopkeeper who had fallen behind with his protection payments.
They changed vehicles at midday. The grocer's van was replaced by an identical van with the name of a fictitious laundry service stenciled on the side. It was so quickly prepared that the word laundry was spelled laundery and the white clothes bags piled in the back were stuffed with crumpled old newspapers. At two o'clock they were brought a thermos flask of tea and a bag of sandwiches. An hour later, having finished eating and smoking a pair of cigarettes, Pope was growing nervous. Jordan had been inside nearly seven hours. It was getting late. Every side of the building was covered. But if Jordan left in the gloom of the blackout, it would he nearly impossible to spot him. But at four o'clock, the light almost gone, Jordan left the building by the main door on Grosvenor Square.
He repeated the same circuit as the morning, only in reverse. He walked across the square to the smaller building, the same heavy briefcase chained to his wrist, and went inside. He emerged a few moments later carrying the smaller briefcase he had had earlier that morning. The rain had stopped, and Jordan apparently decided a walk would do him good. He headed west, then turned south in Park Lane. Following him in the van would be impossible. Pope hopped out and shadowed Jordan along the pavement, staying several yards behind him.
It was more difficult than Pope imagined. The large Grosvenor House hotel in Park Lane had been taken over by the Americans as a billet for officers. Dozens of people jammed the pavement outside. Pope moved closer to Jordan to make certain he didn't mistake him for one of the other men. A military policeman glanced at Pope as he sliced through the crowd after Jordan. On some streets in the West End, Englishmen stuck out the same way they would in Topeka, Kansas. Pope tensed. Then he realized he wasn't doing anything wrong. He was simply walking down the street in his own country. He relaxed and the MP looked away. Jordan walked past Grosvenor House. Pope moved carefully behind him.