The Unlikely Spy(101)

"No," Boothby said. "But softly, Alfred, very softly."

"Don't worry. I'll be discreet."

"Some of the watchers specialize in that sort of thing--breaking and entering, you know."

"Actually, I have someone in mind for the job."





Harry Dalton worked the thin metal tool inside the lock on Peter Jordan's front door. Vicary stood facing the street, shielding Harry from view. After a moment Vicary heard the faint click of the lock giving way. Harry, like a consummate professional thief, opened the door as if he owned the place and led them inside.

"You're damned good at that," Vicary said.

"I saw someone do it in a movie once."

"Somehow, I don't believe that story."

"I always knew you were an intelligent bloke." Harry closed the door. "Wipe your feet."

Vicary opened the door to the drawing room and went inside. His eyes ran over the leather-covered furniture, the rugs, the photographs of bridges on the walls. He walked to the fireplace and examined the silver-framed photos on the mantel.

"Must be his wife," Harry said. "She was beautiful."

"Yes," Vicary said. He had quickly read the copy of Jordan's service file and background check given to him by Boothby. "Her name was Margaret Lauterbach-Jordan. She was killed in an automobile accident on New York's Long Island shortly before the war broke out."

They crossed the hall and looked inside the dining room and the kitchen. Harry tried the next door and found it was locked. Vicary said, "Open it."

Harry knelt down and worked the tool inside the lock. A moment later he turned the latch and they went inside. It was furnished as a working office, certainly for a man: a desk of dark stained wood, a chair of fine leather, and, a unique feature that said much about the occupant, a drafting table and stool that an engineer or an architect might use. Vicary switched on the desk lamp and said, "What a perfect place to photograph documents." The safe was next to the desk. It was old and looked as though it weighed at least five hundred pounds. Vicary looked closely at the legs and noticed they were bolted to the floor. He said, "Let's take a look upstairs."

There were three bedrooms, two overlooking the street, a third larger room at the back of the house. The two in front were obviously guest rooms. The wardrobes were empty and there were no personal touches of any kind. Vicary led them into Jordan's room. The double bed was unmade, the shades raised on windows overlooking a small, unkempt walled garden. Vicary opened the Edwardian wardrobe and looked inside: two U.S. Navy uniforms, several pairs of wool civilian trousers, a stack of sweaters, and several neatly folded shirts bearing the name of a men's shop in Manhattan. He closed the wardrobe and looked around the room. If she had been here she had left no trace, only a faint breath of perfume that hung in the air and reminded Vicary of the fragrance that Helen had worn.

Who is this, please? Oh, bloody hell!

Vicary looked at Harry and said, "Go downstairs, quietly open the door to the study, go inside, and close it again."

Harry came back two minutes later. "Did you hear anything?"

"Not a sound."

"So it's possible she may be slipping into his study at night and photographing everything he brings home."

"We have to assume that, yes. Check out the bathroom. See if she's left any personal items here at all."

Vicary could hear Harry rattling around inside the medicine chest. He came back into the bedroom and said, "Nothing belonging to a woman in there."

"All right. I've seen enough for now."

They went downstairs again, made certain the door to the study was locked, and let themselves out the front door. They had parked around the corner. As they turned onto the pavement Vicary looked up at the terrace of houses across the street. He looked down again very quickly. He could have sworn he saw a face in a darkened window looking back at him. A man's face--dark eyes, black hair, thin lips. He glanced upward again but this time the face was gone.





Horst Neumann played a game with himself to help ease the tedium of waiting: he memorized faces. He had become good at it. He could glance at several faces--on the train or in a crowded square--commit each to memory, then mentally flip through them, the way one looks at photographs in an album. He was spending so much time on the Hunstanton-to-Liverpool-Street run that he was beginning to see familiar faces all the time. The chubby salesman who always fondled his girlfriend's leg before kissing her good-bye at Cambridge and going home to his wife. The spinster who seemed forever on the verge of tears. The war widow who always gazed out the window and, Neumann imagined, saw her husband's face in the passing gray-green countryside. In Cavendish Square he knew all the regulars: the residents of the houses surrounding the square, the people who liked to come sit on the benches among the dormant plants. It was monotonous work, but it kept his mind sharp and helped pass the time.

The fat man came at three o'clock--the same gray overcoat, the same bowler hat, the same jittery air of a decent man embarking on a life of crime. The diplomat unlocked the door to the house and went inside. Neumann crossed the square and slipped the envelope through the slot. He heard the familiar grunt as the chubby diplomat stooped to retrieve it.

Neumann returned to his spot on the square and waited. The diplomat came out a few minutes later, found a taxi, and was gone. Neumann waited for a few minutes to make certain the taxi was not being followed.