The Unlikely Spy(37)

"It has to do with the invasion of Europe," Broome said. "We may need your help."

Jordan smiled. "You want me to build a bridge between England and France?"

"Something like that," Leamann said.

Broome was lighting a cigarette. He blew an elegant stream of smoke toward the river.

"Actually, Mr. Jordan, it's nothing like that at all."





12


LONDON





The skies erupted into a downpour as Alfred Vicary hurried across Parliament Square toward the Underground War Rooms, Winston Churchill's subterranean headquarters beneath the pavements of Westminster. The prime minister had personally telephoned Vicary and asked to see him straightaway. Vicary had quickly changed into his uniform and, in his haste, fled MI5 headquarters without an umbrella. Now, his only defense against the onslaught of freezing rain was to quicken his pace, one hand clutching the throat of his mackintosh, the other holding a batch of files over his head like a shield. He rushed past the contemplative statues of Lincoln and Beaconsfield and then, thoroughly wet, presented himself to the Royal Marine guard at the sandbagged doorway of No. 2 Great George Street.

MI5 was in a panic. The previous evening, a pair of decoded Abwehr signals had arrived by motorcycle courier from Bletchley Park. They confirmed Vicary's worst suspicions--at least two agents were operating inside Britain without MI5's knowledge, and it appeared the Germans planned to send in another. It was a disaster. Vicary, after reading the messages with a sinking heart, had telephoned Sir Basil at home and broken the news. Sir Basil had contacted the director-general and other senior officers involved in Double Cross. By midnight the lights were burning on the fifth floor. Vicary was now heading one of the most important cases of the war. He had slept less than an hour. His head ached, his eyes burned, his thoughts were coming and going in chaotic, turbulent flashes.

The guard glanced at Vicary's identification and waved him inside. Vicary descended the stairs and crossed the small lobby. Ironically, Neville Chamberlain had ordered construction to begin on the Underground War Rooms the day he returned from Munich declaring "peace in our time." Vicary would always think of the place as a subterranean monument to the failure of appeasement. Shielded by four feet of concrete reinforced with old London tram rails, the underground labyrinth was regarded as absolutely bombproof. Along with Churchill's personal command post, the most vital and secret arms of the British government were housed here.

Vicary moved down the corridor, ears filled with the clatter of typewriters and the rattle of a dozen unanswered telephones. The low ceiling was buttressed by the timbers of one of Nelson's ships of the line. A sign warned MIND YOUR HEAD. Vicary, barely five and a half feet tall, passed easily beneath it. The walls, once the color of Devonshire cream, had faded like old newspaper to a dull beige. The floors were covered in an ugly brown linoleum. Overhead, in a brace of drainage pipes, Vicary could hear the gurgle of sewage from the aboveground New Public Offices. Even though the air was filtered by a special ventilation system, it smelled of unwashed bodies and stale cigarette smoke. Vicary approached a doorway, where another Royal Marine guard stood at ease. The guard snapped to attention as Vicary passed, the crack of his heels deadened by a special rubber mat.

Vicary looked at the faces of the staff who worked, lived, ate, and slept belowground in the prime minister's subterranean fortress. The word pale did not do justice to the state of their complexions; they were pasty, waxen troglodytes, scampering about their underground warren. Suddenly, Vicary's windowless hutch in St. James's Street didn't seem so bad after all. At least it was above the ground. At least there was something approaching fresh air.

Churchill's private quarters were located in room 65A, next door to the map room and across the hall from the Transatlantic Telephone Room. An aide took Vicary immediately inside, earning him the icy stares of a band of bureaucrats who looked as though they had been waiting since the last war. It was a tiny space, much of it consumed by a small bed made up with gray army blankets. At the foot of the bed stood a table with a bottle and two glasses. The BBC had installed a permanent microphone so Churchill could make his radio broadcasts from the safety of his underground fortress. Vicary noticed a small, darkened sign that said QUIET--ON THE AIR. The room contained only one luxury item, a humidor for the prime minister's Romeo y Julieta cigars.

Churchill, cloaked in a green silk robe, the first cigar of the day between his fingers, sat at his small desk. He remained there as Vicary entered the room. Vicary sat on the edge of the bed and regarded the figure before him. He was not the same man Vicary had seen that afternoon in May 1940. Nor was he the jaunty, confident figure of newsreels and propaganda films. He was obviously a man who had worked too much and slept too little. He had just returned to Britain a few days earlier from North Africa, where he convalesced after suffering a mild heart attack and contracting pneumonia. His eyes were rimmed with red, his cheeks puffy and pale. He managed a weak smile for his old friend.

"Hello, Alfred, how have you been?" Churchill said, when the Royal Marine orderly closed the door.

"Fine, but I should be asking that of you. You're the one who's been through the mill."

"Never better," Churchill said. "Bring me up to date."

"We've intercepted two messages from Hamburg to German agents operating inside Britain." Vicary handed them across to Churchill. "As you know, we were acting on the assumption that we had arrested, hanged, or turned every German agent operating in Britain. This is obviously a major blow. If the agents transmit any information that contradicts material we've sent through Double Cross, they will suspect everything. We also believe they are planning to insert a new agent into the country."