The Unlikely Spy(48)

"Why not?"

"Because I think Vogel is running his own show. I think we're dealing with a separate network of agents we never knew about."

"That's just a hunch, Alfred. We need to deal with the facts."

"Ever read Vogel's file?" Vicary said, as carelessly as possible.

"No."

And you're a liar, Vicary thought. "Judging by the way this affair has unfolded, I'd say Vogel has kept a network of sleeper agents inside Britain, on ice, since before the beginning of the war. If I had to guess, the primary agent is operating in London, the subagent somewhere in the countryside, where he could take in an agent on short notice. The agent who arrived last night is almost certainly here to brief the lead agent on his assignment. For all we know, they're meeting right now as we speak. And we're falling further and further behind."

"Interesting, Alfred, but it's all based on guesswork."

"Educated guesswork, Sir Basil. In the absence of hard, provable facts, I'm afraid that's our only recourse." Vicary hesitated, aware of the response his next suggestion was likely to generate. "In the meantime, I think we should schedule a meeting with General Betts to brief him on developments."

Boothby's face sagged into an angry frown. Brigadier General Thomas Betts was the deputy chief of intelligence at SHAEF. Tall, bearlike, Betts had one of the most unenviable jobs in London--making sure none of the several hundred American and British officers who knew the secret of Overlord gave that secret, intentionally or unintentionally, to the enemy.

"That's premature, Alfred."

"Premature? You said it yourself, Sir Basil. We have three German spies on the loose."

"I've got to go down the hall and brief the director-general in a moment. If I suggest to him that we broadcast our failures to the Americans, he will fall on me from a very great height."

"I'm sure the DG won't be too hard on you, Sir Basil." Vicary knew that Boothby had convinced the director-general that he was indispensable. "Besides, it's hardly a failure."

Boothby stopped pacing. "What would you call it?"

"A temporary setback."

Boothby snorted and crushed out his cigarette. "I will not permit you to tarnish the reputation of this department, Alfred. I won't have it."

"Perhaps there's something else you should consider besides the reputation of this department, Sir Basil."

"What's that?"

Vicary struggled out of the soft, deep couch. "If the spies succeed, we may very well lose the war."

"Well, then, do something, Alfred."

"Thank you, Sir Basil. That's certainly sound advice."





16


LONDON





From Hyde Park they took a taxi into Earl's Court. They paid off the driver a quarter mile from her flat. During the short walk they doubled back twice, and Catherine made a bogus call from a phone box. They were not being tailed. Her landlady, Mrs. Hodges, was in the hall as they arrived. Catherine threaded her arm through Neumann's. Mrs. Hodges shot her a glance of disapproval as they walked upstairs.

Catherine was reluctant to take him to her flat. She had jealously protected its whereabouts and refused to provide the address to Berlin. The last thing she needed was some agent on the run from MI5 to come pounding on her door in the middle of the night. But meeting in public was out of the question; they had much to discuss, and doing it in a cafe or a railway station was too dangerous.

She watched Neumann as he led himself on a tour of her flat. She could tell by the precise walk and economical gestures that he had been a soldier once. His English was flawless. Clearly, Vogel had chosen him carefully. At least he wasn't sending some rank amateur to brief her. He went to the drawing room window, parted the curtains, and gazed down into the street.

"Even if they're out there, you'll never spot them," Catherine said as she sat down.

"I know--but it makes me feel better to look." He came away from the window. "It's been a long day. I could use a cup of tea."

"Everything you need is in the kitchen. Help yourself."

Neumann set water on the stove to boil, then came back into the room.

"What's your name?" she asked him. "Your real name."

"Horst Neumann."

"You're a soldier. At least you used to be one. What's your rank?"

"I'm a lieutenant."

She smiled. "I outrank you, by the way."

"Yes, I know--Major."

"What's your cover name?"

"James Porter."

"Let me see your identification."

He handed it across. She examined it carefully. It was an excellent forgery. She gave it back to him. "It's good," she said. "But show it only if it is absolutely necessary. What's your cover?"

"I was wounded at Dunkirk and invalided out of the army. I'm a traveling salesman now."

"Where are you staying?"

"The Norfolk coast--a village called Hampton Sands. Vogel has an agent there named Sean Dogherty. He's an IRA sympathizer who runs a small farm."

"How did you enter the country?"

"Parachute."