The Unlikely Spy(90)

She finally remembered who the woman was. Her name was Rose Morely, and she had been the cook at her father's house in London. Catherine barely remembered her--only that she cooked rather poorly and always served the meat overdone. Catherine had had very little contact with the woman. It was amazing she recognized her.

She had two choices: ignore it and pretend it never happened or investigate and try to determine the extent of the damage.

Catherine chose the second option.

She paid off the driver at Marble Arch and got out. Dusk was fading quickly into the blackout. A number of bus routes converged on Marble Arch, including the bus she had just fled. With luck, Rose Morely would get off here and change for another bus. The bus she was on would turn down Park Lane to Hyde Park Corner. If Rose stayed on the bus, Catherine would try to slip on without her noticing.

The bus approached. Rose Morely was still in the same seat. As the bus slowed she got to her feet. Catherine had guessed right. The bus stopped. Rose disembarked from the rear doorway.

Catherine stepped forward and said, "You're Rose Morely, aren't you?"

The woman's mouth dropped open in surprise. "Yes--and you are Anna. I knew it was you. It had to be. You haven't changed a bit since you were a little girl. But how did you get here so--"

"When I realized it was you, I followed in a taxi," Catherine said, cutting her off. The sound of her real name, spoken in a crowd of people, made her shudder. She took Rose Morely by the arm and headed into the gloom of Hyde Park.

"Let's walk for a while," Catherine said. "It's been so long, Rose."

That evening Catherine typed her report to Vogel. She photographed it, burned it in the bathroom sink, then burned the ribbon, just as Vogel had taught her. She looked up and caught sight of her own reflection in the mirror. She turned away. The sink was black with the ink and the ash. Her fingers were black too, her hands.

Catherine Blake--spy.

She picked up the soap and began working it through her fingers.

It was not a difficult decision. It was worse than she could have imagined. I emigrated to England before the war, she had explained, as they walked along the pathway in the gathering darkness. I couldn't bear the thought of living under Hitler any longer. It was truly horrifying, the things he was doing to the Jews especially.

Catherine Blake--liar.

They must have given you a rough time.

What do you mean?

The authorities, the police. A whisper: Military Intelligence.

No, no, it wasn't difficult at all.

I work for a man named Commander Higgins now. I care for his children. His wife was killed in the blitz, poor dearie. Commander Higgins works for the Admiralty. He says anyone who entered the country before the war was assumed to be a German spy.

Oh, really?

I'm sure Commander Higgins will be interested to know you were not harassed.

There's no need to mention any of this to Commander Higgins, is there, Rose?

But there was no escaping it. The British public was very aware of the threat posed by spies. It was everywhere: the newspapers, on the radio, in the movies. Rose was not a foolish woman. She would mention the encounter to Commander Higgins, and Commander Higgins would telephone MI5, and MI5 would be crawling all over central London looking for her. All the meticulous preparation that went into creating her cover would be blown away because of one chance encounter with a domestic who had read too many spy thrillers.

Hyde Park in the blackout. It might have been Sherwood Forest if not for the distant drone of traffic on Bayswater Road. They had switched on their blackout torches, two pencils of fragile yellow light. Rose carried her shopping in her other hand. Goodness, try feeding children on four ounces of meat a week. I'm afraid they're going to be stunted. A grove of trees loomed ahead of them, a shapeless black blob against the last light in the western sky. I have to be going now, Anna. So nice to see you. They walk a little farther. Do it here, in the trees. No one will see. The police will blame it on some ruffian or refugee. Everyone knows street crime has reached alarming levels in the West End with the war. Take her food and her money. Make it look like a robbery that went wrong. It was lovely seeing you after all these years, Rose.

They parted in the trees, Rose walked north, Catherine south. Then Catherine turned around and walked after her. She reached into her handbag and withdrew the Mauser. She needed a very quick kill. Rose, I forgot something. Rose stopped and turned around. Catherine raised the Mauser and before Rose could utter a sound shot her through the eye.

The damned ink wouldn't come off. She lathered her hands once more and scrubbed them with a brush until they were raw. She wondered why she hadn't become sick this time. Vogel said it would be easier after a while. The brush took the ink away. She looked up in the mirror again, but this time she held her own gaze. Catherine Blake--assassin.

Catherine Blake--murderer.





33


LONDON





Alfred Vicary felt an evening at home might do him some good. He wanted to walk so he left the office an hour before sunset, enough time for him to make it into Chelsea before becoming stranded in the blackout. It was a fine afternoon, cold but no rain and scarcely a wind. Puffy gray clouds, their bellies pink from the setting sun, drifted over the West End. London was alive. He watched the crowds in Parliament Square, marveled at the antiaircraft guns on Birdcage Walk, drifted through the silent Georgian canyons of Belgravia. The wintry air felt wonderful in his lungs, and he forced himself not to smoke. He had developed a dry hacking cough--like the one he had during final exams at Cambridge--and he vowed to give the damn things up when the war was over.