"Nonsense," Boothby snapped.
"Why is it nonsense?"
"Because this department is not going to officially inform the Americans and the prime minister that it is incapable of performing its job. That it is incapable of controlling the threat posed to the invasion preparations by German spies."
"That's not a valid reason for concealing this information."
"It is a valid reason, Alfred, if I say it is a valid reason."
Conversations with Boothby often assumed the characteristics of a cat chasing its own tail: shallow contradiction, bluff and diversion, point-scoring contests. Vicary bunched his hands judicially beneath his chin and pretended to study the pattern of Boothby's costly rug. The room was silent except for the sound of the floorboards creaking beneath Sir Basil's muscular bulk.
"Are you prepared to forward my memorandum to the director-general?" Vicary asked. His tone of voice was as unthreatening as possible.
"Absolutely not."
"Then I'm prepared to go directly to the DG myself."
Boothby bent his body and put his face close to Vicary's. Vicary, seated in Boothby's deep couch, could smell gin and cigarettes on his breath.
"And I'm prepared to squash you, Alfred."
"Sir Basil--"
"Let me remind you how the system works. You report to me, and I report to the director-general. You have reported to me, and I have determined it would be inappropriate to forward this matter to the DG at this time."
"There is one other option."
Boothby's head snapped back as if he had been punched. He quickly regained his composure, setting his jaw in an angry scowl. "I don't report to the prime minister, nor do I serve at his pleasure. But if you go around the department and speak directly to Churchill, I'll have you brought up before an internal review committee. By the time the committee is finished with you, they'll need dental records to identify the body."
"That's completely unfair."
"Is it? Since you've taken charge of this case it's been one disaster after another. My God, Alfred--a few more German spies running loose in this country and they could form a rugby club."
Vicary refused to be baited. "If you're not going to present my report to the director-general, I want the official record of this affair to reflect the fact that I made the suggestion at this time and you turned it down."
The corners of Boothby's mouth lifted into a terse smile. Protecting one's flank was something he understood and appreciated. "Already thinking of your place in history, are you, Alfred?"
"You're a complete bastard, Sir Basil. And an incompetent one as well."
"You're addressing a senior officer, Major Vicary!"
"Believe me, I haven't missed the irony."
Boothby snatched up the briefcase and his leather grip, then looked at Vicary and said, "You have a great deal to learn."
"I suppose I could learn it from you."
"And what in God's name is that supposed to mean?"
Vicary got to his feet. "It means you should start thinking more about the security of this country and less about your personal advancement through Whitehall."
Boothby smiled easily, as if he were trying to seduce a younger woman. "But, my dear Alfred," he said, "I've always considered the two to be completely intertwined."
21
EAST LONDON
Catherine Blake had a stiletto hidden in her handbag the following evening as she hurried along the pavement toward the Popes' warehouse. She had demanded a meeting alone with Vernon Pope, and, as she approached the warehouse, she saw no sign of Pope's men. She stopped at the gate and turned the latch. It was unlocked, just as Pope said it would be. She pulled it open and stepped inside.
The warehouse was a place of shadows, the only illumination from a light hanging at one end of the room. Catherine walked toward the light and found the freight lift. She stepped inside, pulled the gate closed, and pressed the button. The lift groaned and shuddered upward toward Pope's office.
The lift emptied onto a small landing with a set of black double doors. Catherine knocked and heard Pope's voice on the other side tell her to enter. He was standing at a drinks trolley, a bottle of champagne in one hand, a pair of glasses in the other. He held one out toward Catherine as she walked across the floor.
"No, thank you," she said. "I'm just staying for a minute."
"I insist," he said. "Things got a little tense the last time we were together. I want to make it up to you."
"Is that why you had me followed?" she said, accepting the wine.
"I have everyone followed, darling. That's how I stay in business. My boys are good at it, as you'll see when you read this." He held out an envelope toward Catherine, then pulled it away as her hand reached for it. "That's why I was so surprised when you managed to give Dicky the slip. That was smooth--ducking into the underground and then jumping on a bus."