The Unlikely Spy(75)

"I have no idea."

"Would you like to explain that?"

"I bumped into her in the blackout, literally. Knocked her groceries out of her arms. It was very embarrassing. But there was something about her."

"Did you get her telephone number?"

"No."

"How about a name?"

"Yes, I got a name."

"Well, that's something. Jesus Christ! I'd say you're a little out of practice. Tell me how she looked."

Peter Jordan told him: tall, brown hair falling across her shoulders, a wide mouth, beautiful cheekbones, and the most spectacular eyes he had ever seen.

"That's interesting," Shepherd said.

"Why?"

"Because that woman is standing right over there."





Men in uniform generally made Catherine Blake nervous. But as Peter Jordan crossed the bar toward her she thought she had never seen a man look quite so handsome as he did in his dark blue American naval uniform. He was a strikingly attractive man--she had not noticed how attractive the previous evening. His uniform jacket fitted him perfectly through his square shoulders and chest, as though it had been cut for him by a tailor in Manhattan. He was trim at the waist, and his walk had a smooth confidence about it that only self-possessed, successful men have. His hair was dark, nearly black, and in striking contrast to his pale complexion. His eyes were a distracting shade of green--pale green, like a cat's--his mouth soft and sensuous. It broke into an easy smile when he noticed she was looking at him.

"I believe I bumped into you in the blackout last night," he said, and stuck out his hand. "My name is Peter Jordan."

She took his hand, then absently allowed her fingernails to trail across the palm of his hand when she released her grip.

"My name is Catherine Blake," she said.

"Yes, I remember. You look as though you're waiting for someone."

"I am, but it appears he's stood me up."

"Well, I'd say he's a damned fool then."

"He's just an old friend, actually."

"Can I buy you that drink now?" Jordan asked.

Catherine looked at Jordan and smiled; then she glanced across the bar at Robert Pope, who was watching them intently.

"Actually, I would love to go somewhere a little more quiet to talk. Do you still have all that food at your house?"

"A couple of eggs, some cheese, maybe a can of tomatoes. And lots of wine."

"Sounds like the makings of a wonderful omelet to me."

"Let me get my coat."





Robert Pope, standing at the bar, watched them as they slipped through the crowd and into the salon. He calmly finished his drink, waited a few seconds, then left the bar and trailed quietly after them. Outside the hotel, they were shown into a cab by the doorman. Pope, walking quickly across the street, watched the cab drive away. Dicky Dobbs was sitting behind the wheel of the van. He started the motor as Pope climbed inside. The van slipped away from the curb, into the evening traffic. No need to rush, Pope told Dicky. He knew where they were headed. He leaned back and closed his eyes for a few minutes as Dicky drove westward toward Jordan's town house in Kensington.





During the taxi ride to Peter Jordan's house, Catherine Blake realized quite suddenly that she was nervous. It was not because a man who possessed the most important secret of the war was sitting next to her. She was just not very good at this--the rituals of courtship and dating. For the first time in a very long time she thought about her appearance. She knew she was an attractive woman--a beautiful woman. She knew most men desired her. But during her time in Britain she had gone to great lengths to conceal her appearance, to blend in. She had adopted the look of an aggrieved war widow: heavy dark stockings that hid the shape of her long legs, poor-fitting skirts that masked the curve of her hips, chunky mannish sweaters that concealed her rounded breasts. Tonight, she was dressed in a striking gown she had bought before the war, appropriate for drinks at the Savoy. Even so, for the first time in her life, Catherine worried about whether she was pretty enough.

Something else was bothering Catherine. Why did it take circumstances like these for her finally to be with a man like Peter Jordan? He was intelligent and attractive and successful and--well, apparently normal. Most of the other men Catherine had known would be behaving very differently by now. She remembered the first time with Maria Romero's father, Emilio. He had not bothered with flowers or romance; he barely even kissed her. He just pushed her down onto the bed and f*cked her. And Catherine had not minded. In fact, she rather liked it that way. Sex was not something to be done out of love and respect. She didn't even enjoy the conquest. For Catherine it was an act of pure physical gratification. Emilio Romero understood; unfortunately, Emilio understood many things about her.

She had given up long ago on the idea of falling in love, getting married, and having children. Her obsessive independence and deeply ingrained mistrust of people would never allow her to make the emotional commitment to a marriage; her selfishness and self-indulgence would never permit her to care for a child. She never felt safe with a man unless she was in total control, emotionally and physically. These feelings manifested themselves in the act of sex itself. Catherine had discovered long ago that she was incapable of having an orgasm unless she was on top.