The Unlikely Spy(86)

Catherine felt relief washing over her and at the same time an amazing sense of power and triumph. Finally, after months of training and years of waiting, she had done something. She realized suddenly that she liked spying--the satisfaction of meticulously planning and executing an operation, the childlike pleasure of knowing a secret, learning something that someone doesn't want you to know. Vogel had been right all alone, of course. She was perfect for it--in every way.

She opened the door and went back into the bedroom.

Peter Jordan was sitting up in bed in the moonlight.

"Where have you been? I was worried about you."

"I was dying of thirst." She couldn't believe the calm, collected voice was really hers.

"I hope you brought me some too," he said.

Oh, thank God. She could breathe again.

"Of course I did."

She handed him the glass of water, and he drank it.

Catherine asked, "What time is it?"

"Five o'clock. I have to be up in an hour for an eight o'clock meeting."

She kissed him. "So we have one hour left."

"Catherine, I couldn't possibly--"

"Oh, I bet you could."

She let the silk gown fall from her shoulders and drew his face to her breasts.





Catherine Blake, later that morning, strode along the Chelsea Embankment as a light, bitterly cold rain drifted across the river. During her preparation Vogel had provided her with a sequence of twenty different rendezvous, each in a different location in central London, each at a slightly different time. He had forced her to commit them to memory, and she assumed he had done the same thing with Horst Neumann before sending him into England. Under the rules it was Catherine who would decide whether the meeting would take place. If she saw anything she didn't like--a suspicious face, men in a parked car--she could call it off and they would try again at the next location on the list at the specified time.

Catherine saw nothing out of the ordinary. She glanced at her wristwatch: two minutes early. She continued walking and, inevitably, thought about what had happened last night. She worried she had taken things with Jordan too far, too fast. She hoped he hadn't been shocked by the things she had done to his body or by the things she had asked him to do to hers. Perhaps a middle-class Englishwoman wouldn't have behaved like that. Too late for second thoughts now, Catherine.

The morning had been like being in a dream. It felt as if she had been magically turned into someone else and dropped into their world. She dressed and made coffee while Jordan shaved and showered; the placid domestic scene felt bizarre to her. She felt a stab of fear when he unlocked the study door and went inside. Did I leave anything out of place? Does he realize I was in there last night? They had shared a taxi. During the short ride to Grosvenor Square she was struck by another thought: What if he doesn't want to see me again? It had never occurred to her before that moment. All of it would have been for nothing unless he truly cared for her. Her concerns had been groundless. As the taxi arrived at Grosvenor Square he asked her to have dinner with him that evening at an Italian restaurant in Charlotte Street.

Catherine turned around and retraced her steps along the Embankment. Neumann was there now, walking toward her, hands plunged into the pockets of his reefer coat, collar up against the rain, slouch hat pulled down close to his eyes. He had a good look for a field agent: small, anonymous, yet vaguely menacing. Put a suit on him and he could attend a Belgravia cocktail party. Dressed as he was now, he could walk the toughest docks in London and no one would dare look at him twice. She wondered if he had ever studied acting, like she had.

"You look like you could use a cup of coffee," he said. "There's a nice warm cafe not too far from here."

Neumann held out an arm to her. She took it and they strolled along the Embankment. It was very cold. She gave him the film and he carelessly dropped it into his pocket, as though it were spare change. Vogel had trained him well.

Catherine said, "You know where to deliver this, I assume."

"Cavendish Square. A man from the Portuguese embassy named Hernandez will pick it up at three o'clock this afternoon and place it in the diplomatic pouch. It will go to Lisbon tonight and be in Berlin in the morning."

"Very good."

"What is it, by the way?"

"His appointment book, some photographs of his study. Not much, but it's a start."

"Very impressive," Neumann said. "How did you get it?"

"I let him take me to dinner; then I let him take me to bed. I got up in the middle of the night and slipped into his study. The combination worked, by the way. I also saw the inside of his safe."

Neumann shook his head. "That's risky as hell. If he comes downstairs you're in trouble."

"I know. That's why I need these." She reached into her handbag and gave him the block of clay with the imprints of the keys. "Find someone to make copies of these and deliver them to my flat today. Tomorrow, when he goes to work, I'm going to go back inside his house and photograph everything in that study."

Neumann pocketed the block of clay.

"Right. Anything else?"

"Yes, from now on, no more conversations like this. We bump into each other, I give you the film, you walk away and deliver it to the Portuguese. If you have a message for me, write it down and give it to me. Understood?"