The Unlikely Spy(57)

Jordan came out forty-five minutes later.

Pope thought, Please God, not another forced march.

Jordan stepped to the curb and flagged down a taxi.

Dicky dropped the van into gear and eased carefully out into the traffic. Following the taxi was easier. It headed east, past Trafalgar Square and into the Strand; then, after traveling a short distance, it turned right.

Pope said, "Now this is more like it."

They watched as Jordan paid off his taxi and stepped inside the Savoy Hotel.

The vast majority of British civilians survived the war on subsistence levels of food, a few ounces of meat and cheese each week, a few ounces of milk, one egg if they were lucky, delicacies like tinned peaches and tomatoes once in a great while. No one was starving, but few people put on weight. But there was another London, the London of fine restaurants and lavish hotels, which secured a steady supply of meat, fish, vegetables, wine, and coffee on the black market, then charged their customers exorbitant prices for the privilege of dining there. The Savoy Hotel was one of those establishments.

The doorman wore a green greatcoat, trimmed in silver, and a stovepipe hat. Pope brushed past him and went inside. He crossed the lobby and entered the salon. There were rich businessmen, reclining in the comfortable easy chairs, beautiful women in fashionable wartime evening clothes, dozens of American and British officers in uniform, tweedy landed gentry up from the country for a few days in the city. Pope, following Jordan through the crowd, had a mixed reaction to the opulent scene. The West End rich were living the high life while the underprivileged East Enders were hungry and suffering the most from the blitz. But then, he and his brother had made a fortune in the black market. He dismissed the disparity as an unfortunate consequence of war.

Pope followed Jordan into the Grill bar. Jordan stood alone among the throng, trying vainly to get the bartender's attention to order a drink. Pope stood a few feet from him. He caught the bartender's eye and ordered a whisky. When he turned around, Jordan had been joined by a tall American naval officer with a red face and a good-natured smile. Pope took a step closer so he could hear their conversation.

The tall man said, "Hitler should come here and try to get a drink on a Friday night. I'm sure he'd have second thoughts about wanting to invade this country."

"You want to try our luck at Grosvenor House?" Jordan asked.

"Willow Run? Are you out of your mind? The French chef quit the other day. They ordered him to make the meals out of Crations and he refused."

"Sounds like the last sane man in London."

"I'll say."

"What do you have to do to get a drink around this place?"

"This usually works: two martinis, for Christ's sake!"

The bartender looked up, grinned, and reached for a bottle of Beefeaters. "Hello, Mr. Ramsey."

"Hello, William."

Pope made a mental note. Jordan's friend was named Ramsey.

"Well done, Shepherd."

Pope thought, Shepherd Ramsey.

"It helps to be a foot taller than anyone else."

"Did you make a reservation? There's no way we're going to get in the Grill tonight without one."

"Of course I did, old sport. Where the hell have you been anyway? I tried calling you last week. Let the telephone at your house ring off the hook: no answer. Rang your office as well. They said you couldn't come to the phone. Rang back the next day, same story. What the hell were you doing that you couldn't come to the phone for two days?"

"None of your business."

"Ah, still working on that project of yours, are you?"

"Drop it, Shepherd, or I'll knock you on your ass right here in this bar."

"In your dreams, old sport. Besides, if you make a scene in here, where the hell will we do our drinking? No decent establishment would have your kind."

"Good point."

"So when are you going to tell me what you've been working on?"

"When the war is over."

"That important, huh?"

"Yeah."

"Well, at least one of us is doing something important." Shepherd Ramsey downed his drink. "William, two more, please."

"Are we going to get drunk before dinner tonight?"

"I just want you to loosen up, that's all."

"This is about as loose as I get. What are you up to, Shepherd? I know that tone of voice."

"Nothing, Peter. Jesus, take it easy."

"Tell me. You know how I hate surprises."

"I've invited a couple of people to join us tonight."

"People?"

"Girls, actually. In fact, they've just arrived."

Pope followed Jordan's gaze toward the front of the bar. There were two women, both young, both very attractive. The women spotted Shepherd Ramsey and Jordan and joined them at the bar.

"Peter, this is Barbara. But most people call her Baby."

"That's understandable. Pleasure to meet you, Barbara."

Barbara looked at Shepherd. "God, you were right! He's a doll." She spoke with a working-class London accent. "Are we eating in the Grill?"

"Yes. In fact, our table should be ready."

The maitre d'hotel showed them to their table. There was no way Pope could listen to their conversation from the bar. He needed to be seated at the next table. Gazing through the entrance of the dining room, Pope could see the table beside them was empty but had a small reserved sign on it. No problem, he thought. He quickly crossed the bar and went out into the street. Dicky was waiting in the front of the van. Pope waved for him to come inside. Dicky climbed out and crossed the street.