"It was a long time ago."
"Who's Broome?"
"Sorry, Alfred."
"I want to know who Broome is."
"And I'm trying to tell you as politely as I can that you're not entitled to know who Broome is." Boothby shook his head. "My God! This isn't some college club where we sit around and swap insights. This department is in the business of counterintelligence. And it operates on a very simple concept: need to know. You have no need to know who Broome is because it does not affect any case to which you have been assigned. Therefore it is none of your business."
"Is the concept of need to know a license to deceive other officers?"
"I wouldn't use the word deceive," Boothby said, as though it were an obscenity. "It simply means that, for reasons of security, an officer is entitled to know only what is necessary for him to carry out his assignment."
"How about the word lie? Would you use that word?"
The discussion seemed to be causing Boothby physical pain.
"I suppose at times it might be necessary to be less than truthful with one officer to safeguard an operation being carried out by another. Surely this doesn't come as a surprise to you."
"Of course not, Sir Basil." Vicary hesitated, deciding whether to continue with his line of questioning or disengage. "I was just wondering why you lied to me about reading Kurt Vogel's file."
The blood seemed to drain from Boothby's face, and Vicary could see him bunching and unbunching his big fist inside his trouser pocket. It was a risky strategy, and Grace Clarendon's neck was on the block. When Vicary was gone, Boothby would call Nicholas Jago in Registry and demand answers. Jago would surely realize Grace Clarendon was the source of the leak. It was no small matter; she could be sacked immediately. But Vicary was betting they wouldn't touch Grace because it would only prove her information had been correct. He hoped to God he was right.
"Looking for a scapegoat, Alfred? Someone or something to blame for your inability to solve this case? You should know the danger in that more than any of us. History is replete with examples of weak men who have found it expedient to acquire a convenient scapegoat."
Vicary thought, And you're not answering my question.
He rose to his feet. "Good night, Sir Basil."
Boothby remained silent as Vicary walked toward the door.
"There's one more thing," Boothby finally said. "I shouldn't think I need to tell you this, but I shall in any case. We don't have an unlimited amount of time. If there isn't progress soon we may have to make--well, changes. You understand, don't you, Alfred?"
30
LONDON
As they walked into the Savoy Grill, the band began playing "And a Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square." It was a rather poor rendition--choppy and a bit rushed--but it was pretty, regardless. Jordan took her hand without speaking and they walked onto the dance floor. He was an excellent dancer, smooth and confident, and he held her very closely. He had come directly from his office and was wearing his uniform. He had brought his briefcase with him. Obviously it contained nothing important because he had left it behind at the table. Still, he never seemed to take his eyes off it for very long.
After a moment Catherine noticed something: everyone in the room seemed to be staring at them. It was terribly unnerving. For six years she had done everything in her power not to be noticed. Now she was dancing with a dazzling American naval officer at the most glamorous hotel in London. She felt exposed and vulnerable, yet at the same time she derived a strange satisfaction from doing something completely normal for a change.
Her own appearance certainly had something to do with the attention they were drawing. She had seen it in Jordan's eyes a few minutes earlier when she walked into the bar. She looked stunning tonight. She wore a dress of black crepe material with a deep plunge in the back and a neckline that showed off the shape of her breasts. She wore her hair down, held back by a smart jeweled clasp, and a double strand of pearls at her throat. She had taken care with her makeup. The wartime cosmetics were of extremely poor quality but she didn't require much--a little lipstick to accentuate the shape of her generous mouth, a little rouge to bring out her prominent cheekbones, a bit of liner around her eyes. She derived no special satisfaction from her appearance. She had always thought of her own beauty in dispassionate terms, the way a woman might evaluate her favorite china or a cherished antique rug. Still, it had been a very long time since she had walked through a room and watched heads turn her way. She was the kind of woman that both sexes noticed. The men could hardly keep their mouths closed, the women frowned with envy.
Jordan said, "Have you noticed that everyone in this room is staring at us?"