The Unlikely Spy(143)

Vicary stood up from his desk and stepped outside his office for the first time in two hours. The command post in West Halkin Street had been deserted, and his team had slowly streamed back to St. James's Street. They sat in the common area outside his office like dazed survivors of a natural disaster--wet, exhausted, defeated. Clive Roach sat alone, head down, hands folded. Every few moments one of the watchers would lay a hand on his shoulder, murmur encouragement into his ear, and move quietly on. Peter Jordan was pacing. Tony Blair had fixed a homicidal glare on him. The only sound was the rattle of the teleprinters and the chatter of the girls on the telephone.

The silence was broken for a few minutes at nine o'clock, when Harry Dalton walked into the room, his face and arm bandaged. Everyone stood and crowded around him--Well done, Harry, old boy . . . deserve a medal . . . you kept us in the game, Harry . . . be all over if not for you. . . .

Vicary pulled him into his office. "Shouldn't you be lying down resting?"

"Yeah, but I wanted to be here instead."

"How's the pain?"

"Not too bad. They gave me something for it."

"You still have any doubts about how you would react under fire on the battlefield?"

Harry managed a half smile, looked down, and shook his head. "Any breaks yet?" he asked, quickly changing the subject.

Vicary shook his head.

"What have you done?"

Vicary brought him up to date.

"Bold move, Rudolf coming back for her like that, snatching her from under our nose. He's got guts, I'll say that for him. How's Boothby taking it?"

"About as well as can be expected. He's upstairs with the director-general now. Probably planning my execution. We have an open line to the Underground War Rooms and the prime minister. The Old Man's getting minute-by-minute updates. I wish I had something to tell him."

"You've covered every possible option. Now you just have to sit and wait for something to break. They have to make a move somewhere. And when they do, we'll be onto them."

"I wish I could share your optimism."

Harry grimaced with pain and appeared suddenly very tired. "I'm going to go and lie down for a while." He walked slowly toward the door.

Vicary said, "Is Grace Clarendon on duty tonight?"

"Yeah, I think so."

The telephone rang. Basil Boothby said, "Come upstairs straightaway, Alfred."

The green light shone over Boothby's door. Vicary went inside and found Sir Basil pacing and chain smoking. He had stripped off his jacket, his waistcoat was unbuttoned, and he had loosened his tie. He angrily waved Vicary toward a chair and said, "Sit down, Alfred. Well, the lights are burning all over London tonight: Grosvenor Square, Eisenhower's personal headquarters at Hayes Lodge, the Underground War Rooms. And they all want to know one thing. Does Hitler know it's Normandy? Is the invasion dead even before we begin?"

"We obviously have no way of knowing yet."

"My God!" Boothby ground out his cigarette and immediately lit another one. "Two Special Branch officers dead, two more wounded. Thank God for Harry."

"He's downstairs now. I'm sure he'd like to hear that from you in person."

"We don't have time for pep talks, Alfred. We need to stop them and stop them quickly. I don't have to explain the stakes to you."

"No, you don't, Sir Basil."

"The prime minister wants updates every thirty minutes. Is there anything I can tell him?"

"Unfortunately, no. We've covered every possible route of escape. I wish I could say with certainty that we'll catch them, but I think it would be unwise to underestimate them. They have proven that time and time again."

Boothby resumed his pacing. "Two men dead, three wounded, and two spies possessing the knowledge to unravel our entire deception plan running loose. Needless to say, this is the worst disaster in the history of this department."

"Special Branch went in with the force they deemed necessary to arrest her. Obviously, they made a miscalculation."

Boothby stopped pacing and fixed a gunman's gaze on Vicary. "Don't attempt to blame Special Branch for what happened, Alfred. You were the senior man on the scene. That aspect of Kettledrum was your responsibility."

"I realize that, Sir Basil."

"Good, because when this is all over an internal review will be convened and I doubt your performance will be viewed in a favorable light."

Vicary stood up. "Is that all, Sir Basil?"

"Yes."

Vicary turned and walked toward the door.





The distant wail of the air-raid sirens started up while Vicary was taking the stairs down to Registry. The rooms were in half darkness, just a couple of lights burning. Vicary, as always, noticed the smell of the place: rotting paper, dust, damp, the faint residue of Nicholas Jago's vile pipe. He looked at Jago's glass-enclosed office. The light was out and the door was closed tightly. He heard the sharp smack of women's shoes and recognized the angry cadence of Grace Clarendon's brisk parade-ground march. He saw her shock of blond hair flash past the stacks like an apparition, then vanish. He followed her into one of the side rooms and called her name from a long way off so as not to startle her. She turned, stared at him with hostile green eyes, then turned away from him again and resumed her filing.