The Unlikely Spy(40)

Don't be that man.

There was something else Churchill had said; he had been complaining about the ceaseless rain. The prime minister, safe in the shelter of his subterranean fortress, complaining about the weather. . . .





Vicary rushed past the guard at MI5 headquarters without showing his identification badge.

"Any inspiration?" Harry asked, when Vicary returned to his office.

"Perhaps. If you needed to get a spy into the country on short notice, Harry, which route would you use?"

"I suppose I'd come through the east: Kent, East Anglia, even eastern Scotland."

"My thoughts exactly."

"So?"

"If you were mustering an operation quickly, which mode of transportation would you choose?"

"That depends."

"Come on, Harry!"

"I suppose I'd choose an airplane."

"Why not a submarine--put the spy ashore in a raft?"

"Because it's easier to get a small plane on short notice than a precious submarine."

"Exactly, Harry. And what do you need to drop a spy into England by plane?"

"Decent weather, for one thing."

"Right again, Harry."

Vicary snatched up the telephone receiver and waited for the operator to come on the line. "This is Vicary. Connect me with the RAF meteorological service immediately."

A young woman picked up a moment later. "Hello."

"This is Vicary from the War Office. I need some information about the weather."

"Quite a nasty spell we're having, isn't it?"

"Yes, yes," Vicary said impatiently. "When is it going to break in the east?"

"We expect the current system to move offshore sometime tomorrow afternoon."

"And we'll have clear skies?"

"Crystal."

"Damn!"

"But not for long. There's another front behind it, moving rapidly across the country in a southeasterly direction."

"How far behind it?"

"That's difficult to say. Probably twelve to eighteen hours."

"And after that?"

"The entire country will be in the soup for the next week--intermittent snow and rain."

"Thank you."

Vicary put down the phone and turned to Harry. "If our theory holds, our agent will try to enter the country by parachute tomorrow night."





13


HAMPTON SANDS, NORFOLK





The bicycle ride down to the beach usually took about five minutes. Sean Dogherty, late that afternoon, timed it just to make certain. He pedaled at a careful, unhurried pace, head inclined into the freshening wind beating off the sea. He wished the bicycle were in better shape. Like wartime England itself, it was battered, kicked around, desperately in need of maintenance. It clattered and grated with every turn of the pedals. The chain needed oil, which was scarce, and the tires were so bald and patched Dogherty might as well have been riding on the rims.

The rain had tapered off at midday. Plump, broken clouds floated over Dogherty's head like barrage balloons adrift at their moorings. Behind him the sun lay on the horizon like a fireball. The marshes and hillsides burned with a fine orange light.

Dogherty felt an intense excitement rising in his chest. He had not felt anything like this since the first time he met his Abwehr contact in London early in the war.

The road ended in a grove of pines at the base of the dunes. A weathered sign warned of mines on the beach; Dogherty, like everyone else in Hampton Sands, knew there were none. In the bicycle's basket, Dogherty had placed a sealed quart jar of precious petrol. He removed the jar, pushed the bicycle into the grove, and leaned it carefully against a tree.

Dogherty checked his watch--five minutes exactly.

A footpath led through the trees. Dogherty followed it, sand and dry pine needles beneath his feet, and started through the dunes. The crash of breaking waves filled the air.

The sea opened before him. The tide had reached its high mark two hours ago. Now it was running out fast and hard. By midnight, when the drop was scheduled, there would be a wide strip of flat hard sand along the water's edge, perfect for landing an agent by parachute.

Dogherty had the beach to himself. He returned to the pine trees and spent the next five minutes gathering enough wood for three small signal fires. It took four trips to carry the wood to the beach. He checked the wind--from the northeast, about twenty miles per hour. Dogherty stacked the wood in piles twenty yards apart in a straight line indicating the direction of the wind.

The twilight was dying. Dogherty opened the jar of petrol and doused the wood. He was to wait by his radio tonight until he received a signal from Hamburg that the plane was approaching. Then he would ride down to the beach, light the signal fires, take in the agent. Simple, if everything went according to plan.

Dogherty started back across the beach. It was then he saw Mary standing atop the dunes, silhouetted by the last light of sunset, arms folded beneath her breasts. The wind tossed hair across her face. He had told her the previous night; told her that the Abwehr had asked him to take in an agent. He had asked her to leave Hampton Sands until it was over; they had friends and family in London she could stay with. Mary had refused to leave. She had not said a word to him since. They bumped around the cramped cottage in angry silence, eyes averted, Mary slamming pots onto the stove and breaking plates and cups because of her jangled nerves. It was as if she were staying to punish him with her presence.