Pope lost him at Hyde Park Corner.
Jordan had vanished into a crowd of soldiers and British civilians waiting to cross the street. When the light changed Pope followed an American naval officer roughly Jordan's height along Grosvenor Place. Then he looked down and realized the officer wasn't carrying a briefcase. He stopped and looked behind him, hoping Jordan would be there. He was gone.
Pope heard a horn blast in the street and looked up. It was Dicky.
"He's in Knightsbridge," Dicky said. "Get in."
Dicky executed a perfect U-turn through the buzzing evening traffic. Pope spotted Jordan a moment later and breathed a sigh of relief. Dicky pulled over and Pope jumped out. Determined not to lose his man again, Pope closed to within a few feet of him.
The Vandyke Club was a club for American officers in Kensington, off-limits to British civilians. Jordan went inside. Pope walked a few feet past the doorway, then doubled back. Dicky had pulled to the curb across the street. Pope, winded and chilled, climbed inside and closed the door. He lit a cigarette and finished the dregs of tea in the thermos. Then he said, "Next time Commander Jordan decides to walk halfway across London, you get out and walk with him, Dicky."
Jordan came out forty-five minutes later.
Pope thought, Please God, not another forced march.
Jordan stepped to the curb and flagged down a taxi.
Dicky dropped the van into gear and eased carefully out into the traffic. Following the taxi was easier. It headed east, past Trafalgar Square and into the Strand; then, after traveling a short distance, it turned right.
Pope said, "Now this is more like it."
They watched as Jordan paid off his taxi and stepped inside the Savoy Hotel.
The vast majority of British civilians survived the war on subsistence levels of food, a few ounces of meat and cheese each week, a few ounces of milk, one egg if they were lucky, delicacies like tinned peaches and tomatoes once in a great while. No one was starving, but few people put on weight. But there was another London, the London of fine restaurants and lavish hotels, which secured a steady supply of meat, fish, vegetables, wine, and coffee on the black market, then charged their customers exorbitant prices for the privilege of dining there. The Savoy Hotel was one of those establishments.
The doorman wore a green greatcoat, trimmed in silver, and a stovepipe hat. Pope brushed past him and went inside. He crossed the lobby and entered the salon. There were rich businessmen, reclining in the comfortable easy chairs, beautiful women in fashionable wartime evening clothes, dozens of American and British officers in uniform, tweedy landed gentry up from the country for a few days in the city. Pope, following Jordan through the crowd, had a mixed reaction to the opulent scene. The West End rich were living the high life while the underprivileged East Enders were hungry and suffering the most from the blitz. But then, he and his brother had made a fortune in the black market. He dismissed the disparity as an unfortunate consequence of war.
Pope followed Jordan into the Grill bar. Jordan stood alone among the throng, trying vainly to get the bartender's attention to order a drink. Pope stood a few feet from him. He caught the bartender's eye and ordered a whisky. When he turned around, Jordan had been joined by a tall American naval officer with a red face and a good-natured smile. Pope took a step closer so he could hear their conversation.
The tall man said, "Hitler should come here and try to get a drink on a Friday night. I'm sure he'd have second thoughts about wanting to invade this country."
"You want to try our luck at Grosvenor House?" Jordan asked.
"Willow Run? Are you out of your mind? The French chef quit the other day. They ordered him to make the meals out of Crations and he refused."
"Sounds like the last sane man in London."
"I'll say."
"What do you have to do to get a drink around this place?"
"This usually works: two martinis, for Christ's sake!"
The bartender looked up, grinned, and reached for a bottle of Beefeaters. "Hello, Mr. Ramsey."
"Hello, William."
Pope made a mental note. Jordan's friend was named Ramsey.
"Well done, Shepherd."
Pope thought, Shepherd Ramsey.
"It helps to be a foot taller than anyone else."
"Did you make a reservation? There's no way we're going to get in the Grill tonight without one."
"Of course I did, old sport. Where the hell have you been anyway? I tried calling you last week. Let the telephone at your house ring off the hook: no answer. Rang your office as well. They said you couldn't come to the phone. Rang back the next day, same story. What the hell were you doing that you couldn't come to the phone for two days?"
"None of your business."
"Ah, still working on that project of yours, are you?"
"Drop it, Shepherd, or I'll knock you on your ass right here in this bar."