The Unlikely Spy(87)

"Understood."

They stopped walking. "Well, you have a very busy day ahead of you, Mr. Porter." She kissed his cheek and said into his ear, "I risked my life for those things. Don't f*ck it up now."

Then she turned and walked away down the Embankment.





The first problem confronting Horst Neumann that morning was finding someone to make copies of Peter Jordan's keys. No reputable shop in the West End would make a duplicate key based on an imprint. In fact they would probably call the Metropolitan Police and have him arrested. He needed to go to a neighborhood where he might find a shopkeeper willing to do the job for the right price. He walked along the Thames, crossed Battersea Bridge, and headed into South London.

It didn't take Neumann long to find what he was looking for. The shop's windows had been blown out by a bomb. Now they were boarded up with plywood. Neumann stepped inside. There were no customers, just an older man behind the counter wearing a heavy blue shirt and a grimy apron.

Neumann said, "You make keys, mate?"

The clerk inclined his head toward the grinder.

Neumann took the clay from his pocket. "You know how to make keys from something like this?"

"Yep, but it will cost you."

"How's ten shillings sound?"

The clerk smiled; he had about half his teeth. "Sounds like sweet music." He took the clay. "Be ready by tomorrow noon."

"I need them right now."

The clerk was smiling his horrid smile again. "Well, now, that's going to cost you another ten bob."

Neumann laid the money on the counter. "I'll wait here while you cut them, if you don't mind."

"Suit yourself."





In the afternoon the rain stopped. Neumann walked a great deal. When he wasn't walking he was jumping on and off buses and rushing in and out of the underground. He had only the vaguest memories of London from when he was a boy, and he actually enjoyed spending the day in the city. It was a relief from the boredom of Hampton Sands. Nothing to do there except run on the beach and read and help Sean in the meadows with the sheep. Leaving the hardware shop, he pocketed the duplicate keys and recrossed Battersea Bridge. He took Catherine's block of clay, crushed it so as to erase the imprints, and tossed it into the Thames. It broke the surface with a deep bloop and vanished into the swirling water.

He meandered through Chelsea and Kensington and finally into Earl's Court. He placed the keys in an envelope and the envelope through Catherine's letter box. Then he took his lunch at a window table of a crowded cafe. A woman two tables away made eyes at him throughout the meal, but he had brought a newspaper for protection and looked up only occasionally to smile at her. It was tempting; she was attractive enough and it might be an enjoyable way to kill the rest of the afternoon and get off the streets for a while. It was insecure, however. He paid his bill, winked at her, and walked out.

Fifteen minutes later he stopped at a phone box, picked up the receiver, and dialed a local number. It was answered by a man who spoke heavily accented English. Neumann politely asked for a Mr. Smythe; the fellow at the other end of the line protested a little too vehemently that there was no one named Smythe at this number. Then he violently rang off. Neumann smiled and returned the receiver to its cradle. The exchange was a crude code. The man was the Portuguese courier Carlos Hernandez. When Neumann called and asked for someone with a name beginning with an S, the courier was to go to Cavendish Square and collect the material.

He still had an hour to kill. He walked in Kensington, skirting Hyde Park, and arrived at Marble Arch. The clouds thickened and it started to rain--just a few cold, fat drops to begin with, then a steady downpour. He ducked into a bookshop in a small street off Portman Square. He browsed for a bit, dismissing an offer of assistance from the dark-haired girl standing atop a ladder stocking books on the top shelves. He selected a volume of T. S. Eliot and a new novel by Graham Greene called The Ministry of Fear. While he was paying, the girl professed love for Eliot and invited Neumann for coffee when she took her break at four o'clock. He declined but said he was frequently in the area and would come back. The girl smiled, placed the books in a brown paper bag, and said she would like that. Neumann walked out, accompanied by the tinkle of the little bell attached to the top of the door.

He arrived in Cavendish Square. The rain diminished to a chilly drizzle. It was too cold for him to wait on a bench in the square, so he walked around it several times, never taking his eye from the doorway on the southwest corner.

After twenty minutes of this, the fat man arrived.

He wore a gray suit, gray overcoat, and bowler hat and carried himself as though he were about to rob a bank. He shoved his key in the door as though he were entering enemy territory and went inside. When the door closed Neumann crossed the square, removed the film from his jacket pocket, and dropped it through the mail slot. On the other side of the door he heard the fat man grunting as he stooped to pick it up. Neumann walked away and continued his tour of the square, again never taking his eyes from the house. The Portuguese diplomat emerged five minutes later, found a taxi after a moment, and was gone.

Neumann looked at his wristwatch. More than an hour before his train. He thought about going back to the bookshop for the girl. The idea of coffee and intelligent conversation appealed to him. But even innocent discourse was a potential minefield. Speaking the language and understanding the culture were two different things. He might make a stupid remark and she might become suspicious. It was not worth the risk.