The Unlikely Spy

When they collided there was the sound of paper splitting and tins of food tumbling to the pavement.

 

"I'm sorry, I didn't see you there. Please, let me help you up."

 

"No, it's my fault. I'm afraid I've misplaced my blackout torch and I've been wandering around out here lost. I feel like such a fool."

 

"No, it's my fault. I was trying to prove to myself that I could find my way home in the dark. Here, I have a torch. Let me turn it on."

 

"Do you mind turning the beam toward the pavement? I believe my rations are rolling toward Hyde Park."

 

"Here, take my hand."

 

"Thank you. By the way, you can stop shining the light in my face any time now."

 

"I'm sorry, you're just--"

 

"Just what?"

 

"Never mind. I don't think that sack of flour survived."

 

"That's all right."

 

"Here, let me help you pick these things up."

 

"I can manage. Thank you."

 

"No, I insist. And let me replace the flour for you. I have plenty of food at my house. My problem is I don't know what to do with it."

 

"Doesn't the navy feed you?"

 

"How did--"

 

"I'm afraid the uniform and the accent gave you away. Besides, only an American officer would be silly enough to intentionally walk the streets of London without using a torch. I've lived here all my life, and I still can't find my way round in the blackout."

 

"Please, let me replace the things you've lost."

 

"That's a very kind offer but it's not necessary. It was a pleasure bumping into you."

 

"Yes--yes, it was."

 

"Can you kindly point me in the direction of Brompton Road?"

 

"It's that way."

 

"Thank you very much."

 

She turned and started to walk away.

 

"Hold on a minute. I have another suggestion."

 

She stopped walking and turned around.

 

"And what might that be?"

 

"I wonder if you might have a drink with me sometime."

 

She hesitated, then said, "I'm not sure I want to drink with a frightful American who insists on walking the streets of London without a torch. But I suppose you look harmless enough. So the answer is yes."

 

She walked away again.

 

"Wait, come back. I don't even know your name."

 

"It's Catherine," she called. "Catherine Blake."

 

"I need your telephone number," Jordan said helplessly.

 

But she had melted into the darkness and was gone.

 

 

 

 

 

When Peter Jordan arrived home he went into his study, picked up the telephone, and dialed. He identified himself, and a pleasant female voice instructed him to remain on the line. A moment later he heard the English-accented voice of the man he knew only as Broome.

 

 

 

 

 

24

 

 

KENT, ENGLAND

 

 

 

 

 

Alfred Vicary was being stretched to the breaking point. Despite the intense pressure to capture the spies, Vicary had kept his old caseload--the Becker network. He had considered asking to be relieved of it until after the spies had been arrested, but he quickly rejected the idea. He was the genius behind the Becker network; it was his masterpiece. It had taken countless hours to build and countless more to sustain. He would keep control of it and try to capture the spies at the same time. It was a brutal assignment. His right eye was beginning to twitch the way it did during final examinations at Cambridge, and he recognized the early symptoms of nervous exhaustion.

 

Partridge was the code name of a degenerate lorry driver whose routes happened to take him into restricted military zones in Suffolk, Kent, and East Sussex. He subscribed to the beliefs of Sir Oswald Mosley, the British Fascist, and he used the money he made from spying to buy whores. Sometimes he brought the girls along on his trips so they could give him sex while he drove. He liked Karl Becker because Becker always had a young girl stashed away and he was always willing to share--even with the likes of Partridge.

 

Daniel Silva's books