The Spy (34 page)

As for the race for the Waterfall, Ryan had said she could expect The Spy in France. There could yet be a mission. In that event, he would be looking in on her. Having turned his back, Ryan's employer was reading the heavens.
Next week
? The scimitar of his wide-brimmed hat filled the sky, black moon rising.

Sunday
, he decided.

Would she be on it?

The pilot had started the engines.

Leaves were blowing across the field.

“Here's to the road,” The Spy said. It was a toast. They could both use a shot. Caught in the wind from the props, they were bending together. “Remember,” The Spy said to her, “when it comes to
work
, no one can duplicate that which they dare not experience.” He snapped the brim of his hat, throwing his face—if that is the word she wanted—into deeper shadow yet. So then, where was it? Victory, denied to those who could not stay, was available to those who escaped:

It was time to go.

“Don't worry, sir,” Valerie said. “Your secret is safe with me.” She stared at the black glove. Was it missing a finger?

Adios, Valerie
...

They shook hands.

Bernstein was motioning. Valerie ran to the plane. He pulled her in. The door slammed! A lever fell. The motors roared, and the twin-engine swung forward. Shaking cabin sealed, clamped tight to bumping hardpack, side-gravitized and windsocked, they roared down the secret runway. Gathering speed, battling the earth, trees at the far end were rushing to meet them.

At the last second, they lifted!

“—you all right?” Since Captain Morris Bernstein cared about her rights, he had a right to ask her.

“Who? Me?”

The American handed her a smoke. He lit it for her, and she took it like a lady. One who is nervous. The world was falling away beneath them. The way she saw it, she had left England.

The pilot grinned: it was her first aeroplane ride.

“Take a look,” the Captain offered, he was sitting by the window. They exchanged places. She could feel the plane. The pilot turned off the lights. Sinclair pulled the curtain, she leaned forward, peering into the night. Staring quietly, she imagined the face of The Spy: another assignment, another success. She thought of his phone call, through the storm far ahead of her. The future. Was
that
why she hadn't seen his face? Would that explain Marchaud? Had Marchaud seen his face? No? Had anyone? Survivor of Necropolis, who he worked for no longer mattered to her—he worked for the good of his soul. In doing so, the harder job, he worked for the good of the world. Did she love him? She couldn't say. Would she meet him again?

Yes
...

She stared at the flaps. Beyond the horizon, needle of light across England's vastness, were the cliffs where she was brought up; the vicarage, a blur of blackened woods and stone. This time of night, the
Inhabitants
would be standing there between the trees, silvery in starlight, tears in their eyes. Far below, whitecaps would be crashing soundlessly against the iron lock of the sea. Valerie brushed at her cheeks.

The plane banked, leveling for Southwick.

Marchaud
, the child of the trapeze, had stayed in France. Sinclair, her other, was on her way to Eisenhower. Bernstein filled her in. The General was out of town. He was in a big fight in Normandy: something about British Army movements. Kicking butts, as it were, he would be back on Tuesday. Mrs. Summersby would meet them.

She was the general's girlfriend.

Valerie was glad that somebody was.

Hanging above the highway, flying low to avoid radar, Valerie felt like a bird. She looked, and did a double-take! The silver and black limousine was traveling the road just beneath them: so close, she could see the back window down!

Bernstein threw it a glance. “How about that?”

The Spy was there, he was looking up. Blinking like a code, blue rays shone about his face...glittering like agates. Valerie could taste it:
a vibration
...something had entered her thinking:

His photograph
!

Had she not taken it yet! From her bedroom, she had been called to the telephone. Having scheduled a studio appointment for Winston Churchill on Hamilton's say so and on her day off, the surprise call from The Spy had pulled her out of the darkroom. Sinclair looked down.
Was there still time
? There was? Or would be? There was! She waved. Well then! If the pilot would hold the customer, she would get right on it. An introductory offer:

She was lining it up...

CLICK
!

A tremendous LIGHT, like a
flashbulb
, shook the air outside the plane, echoing ahead of them and booming through the heavens!

“Son of a
bitch
!” Bernstein said. “Did you see that?”

Cross-eyed, Valerie shook her head.

Speeding away, The Spy rolled up his window...his eyes flashing with facts, like Holmes, “—looks like a clean hit!” he remarked to the driver, there being no other witnesses and offering congratulations all the way around. Overhead, the plane roared—dipping its wings.

Ryan looked up.

The Spy laughed.

A long shot, he had caught her on the fast shutter.