The Unlikely Spy(53)
Vicary used the telephone at a bakery. He munched a cheese sandwich while he waited for the operator to connect him with the office. He wanted to share a little of his newfound wealth, so he ordered two dozen scones for the typists and the girls in Registry.
Harry came on the line.
Vicary said, "I don't think it was Christa Kunst they dug out of that grave in Whitchurch."
"Then who was it?"
"That's your job, Harry. Get on the phone with Scotland Yard. See if a woman went missing about the same time. Start within a two-hour radius of Whitchurch; then go wider if you have to. When I get back to the office, I'll brief Boothby."
"What are you going to tell him?"
"That we're looking for a dead Dutch woman. He'll love that."
18
EAST LONDON
Finding Peter Jordan would not be a problem. Finding him the right way would.
Vogel's information was good. Berlin knew Jordan worked at Grosvenor Square at the Supreme Headquarters Allied Expeditionary Force, better known as SHAEF. The square was heavily patrolled by military policemen, impenetrable to an outsider. Berlin had the address of Jordan's house in Kensington and had put together an extraordinary amount of information on Jordan's background. What was missing was a minute-by-minute account of his daily routine in London. Without it Catherine could only guess at how best to make her approach.
Following Jordan herself was out of the question for a number of reasons. The first dealt with her personal security. It would be very dangerous for her to trail an American officer through the West End of London. She could be spotted by military policemen or by Jordan himself. If the officers were feeling especially diligent they could bring her in for questioning. A little checking might reveal that the real Catherine Blake died thirty years ago at the age of eight months and that she was a German agent.
The second reason for not following Peter Jordan herself was purely practical. It was virtually impossible for her to do the job correctly alone. Even if Neumann helped it would be difficult. The first time Jordan stepped into a military staff car she would be completely helpless. She couldn't walk up to a taxi and say "Follow that American staff car." Cabbies were aware of the threat posed to Allied officers by spies. She might be driven straight to the nearest police station instead. She needed nondescript vehicles to tail him, nondescript men to walk with him, nondescript men to maintain a static post outside his home.
She needed help.
She needed Vernon Pope.
Vernon Pope was one of London's biggest and most successful underworld figures. Pope, along with his brother Robert, ran protection rackets, illegal gambling parlors, prostitution rings, and a thriving black market operation. Early in the war Vernon Pope had brought Robert to the emergency room at St. Thomas Hospital with a serious head wound suffered in the blitz. Catherine examined him quickly, saw that he was concussed, and suspected his skull might have been fractured. She made certain Robert was seen by a doctor straightaway. A grateful Vernon Pope had left a note for her. It said, If there's ever anything I can do to repay you please don't hesitate to ask.
Catherine kept the note. It was in her handbag.
Somehow, Vernon Pope's warehouse had survived the bombing. It stood intact, an arrogant island surrounded by seas of destruction. Catherine had not ventured to the East End in nearly four years. The devastation was shocking. It was difficult to make certain she was not being followed. There were few doorways left for shelter, no boxes for false telephone calls, no shops for a small purchase, just endless mountains of debris.
She watched the warehouse from across the street, a light cold rain falling. She wore trousers, sweater, and a leather coat. The doors of the warehouse were pulled back, and three heavy lorries rumbled out into the street. A pair of well-dressed men pulled them shut quickly, but not before Catherine caught a glimpse inside. It was a beehive of activity.
A knot of dockworkers walked past her, coming off the day shift. She dropped in a few paces behind them and walked toward the Pope warehouse.
There was a small gate with an electric buzzer for deliveries. She pressed it, received no answer, and pressed it again. Catherine felt she was being watched. Finally the gate drew back.
"What can we do for you, luv?" The pleasant Cockney voice did not match the figure before her. He stood well over six feet tall, with black hair cropped close to his skull and small spectacles. He wore an expensive gray suit with a white shirt and silver tie. The muscles of his upper arms filled out the sleeves of the jacket.
"I'd like to speak to Mr. Pope, please." Catherine handed the hulk the note. He read quickly, as though he had seen many of them before.
"I'll ask the boss if he has a minute to see you. Come inside."
Catherine stepped through the gate, and he closed it behind her.
"Hands above your head, darling, that's a good girl. Nothing personal. Mr. Pope requires it of everyone." Pope's man patted her down. It was brisk and not very professional. She cringed as he ran his hands over her breasts. She resisted an impulse to crush his nose with her elbow. He opened her handbag, glanced inside, and handed it back. She had expected this so she had come unarmed. She felt naked without a weapon, vulnerable. Next time she would bring a stiletto.
He led her through the warehouse. Men dressed in overalls were loading crates of goods into half a dozen vans. At the far end of the warehouse boxes stood floor to ceiling on wooden pallets: coffee, cigarettes, sugar, as well as barrels of petrol. There was a fleet of shining motorbikes parked in a neat row. Vernon Pope was obviously doing a brisk business.