The Unlikely Spy(38)



"What are you doing to stop them?"

Vicary briefed Churchill on the steps they had taken thus far. "But unfortunately, Prime Minister, the chances of capturing the agent at the drop are not good. In the past--in the summer of 1940, for example, when they were sending in spies for the invasion--we were able to capture incoming spies because the Germans often told old agents operating in Britain precisely when, where, and how the new spies were coming."

"And those old agents were working for you as doubles."

"Or sitting in a prison cell, yes. But in this case, the message to the existing agent was very vague, a code phrase only: EXECUTE RECEPTION PROCEDURE ONE. We assume it tells the agent everything he needs to know. Unfortunately, it tells us nothing. We can only guess how the new spy is planning to get into the country. And unless we're very lucky, the chances of capturing him are slim at best."

"Damn!" Churchill swore, bringing his hand down on the arm of the chair. He rose and poured brandy for them both. He stared into his glass, mumbling to himself, as if he had forgotten Vicary was there.

"Do you remember the afternoon in 1940 when I asked you to come to work for the MI-Five?"

"Of course, Prime Minister."

"I was right, wasn't I?"

"How do you mean?"

"You've had the time of your life, haven't you? Look at you, Alfred, you're a completely different man. Good heavens, but I wish I looked as good as you."

"Thank you, Prime Minister."

"You've done marvelous work. But it will all mean nothing if these German spies find what they're looking for. Do you understand?"

Vicary exhaled heavily. "I understand the stakes involved, Prime Minister."

"I want them stopped, Alfred. I want them crushed."

Vicary blinked rapidly and, unconsciously, beat his breast pockets for his half-moon reading glasses. Churchill's cigar had gone dead in his hand. Relighting it, he indulged himself in a quiet moment of smoking.

"How's Boothby?" Churchill said finally.

Vicary sighed. "As ever, Prime Minister."

"Supportive?"

"He wants to be kept abreast of every move I make."

"In writing, I suppose. Boothby's a stickler for having things in writing. Man's office generates more bloody paper than the Times."

Vicary permitted himself a mild chuckle.

"I never told you this, Alfred, but I had my doubts about whether you could be successful. Whether you truly had what it took to operate in the world of military intelligence. Oh, I never doubted you had the brains, the intelligence. But I doubted whether you possessed the sort of low cunning necessary to be a good intelligence officer. I also doubted whether you could be ruthless enough."

Churchill's words stunned Vicary.

"Now why are you looking at me like that? You're one of the most decent men I've ever met. The men who usually succeed in your line of work are men like Boothby. He'd arrest his own mother if he thought it would further his career or stab the enemy in the back."

"But I have changed, Prime Minister. I've done things I've never thought I was capable of doing. I've also done things I'm ashamed of."

Churchill looked perplexed. "Ashamed?"

" 'When one is employed to sweep chimneys one must black one's fingers,' " Vicary said. "Sir James Harris wrote those words while he was serving as minister to The Hague in 1785. He detested the fact that he was asked to pay bribes to spies and informers. Sometimes, I wish it were still that simple."

Vicary remembered a night in September 1940. He and his team had hidden in the heather on a clifftop overlooking a rocky Cornish beach, sheltered from the cold rain beneath a black oilskin tarp. Vicary knew the German would come that night; the Abwehr had asked Karl Becker to arrange a reception party for him. He was little more than a boy, Vicary remembered, and by the time he reached the shore in his inflatable raft he was half dead with cold. He fell into the arms of the Special Branch men, babbling in German, just happy to be alive. His papers were atrocious, his two hundred pounds of currency badly forged, his English limited to a few well-rehearsed pleasantries. It was so bad Vicary had to conduct the interrogation in German. The spy had been assigned to gather intelligence on coastal defenses and, when the invasion came, engage in sabotage. Vicary determined that he was useless. He wondered how many more Canaris had like him--poorly trained, poorly equipped and financed, with virtually no chance of succeeding. Maintaining MI5's elaborate deception required that they execute a few spies, so Vicary recommended hanging him. He attended the execution at Wandsworth Prison and would never forget the look in the spy's eyes as the hangman slipped the hood over his head.

"You must make a stone of your heart, Alfred," Churchill said in a hoarse whisper. "We don't have time for feelings like shame or compassion--none of us, not now. You must set aside whatever morals you still have, set aside whatever feelings of human kindness you still possess, and do whatever it takes to win. Is that clear?"

"It is, Prime Minister."

Churchill leaned closer and spoke in a confessional tone. "There is an unfortunate truth about war. While it is virtually impossible for one man to win a war, it is entirely possible for one man to lose one." Churchill paused. "For the sake of our friendship, Alfred, don't be that man."

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