Authors: Daniel Silva
The Unlikely Spy (25 page)
She ducked into an underground station, melting into the evening crowds. She crossed through the tunnel and emerged on the other side of the street. A bus was waiting. She boarded it and found a seat next to an elderly woman. Through the fogged window she watched Dicky charge up the stairs into the street, panic on his face.
She felt a little sorry for him. Poor Dicky was no match for a professional, and Vernon Pope would be furious. She would take no chances: a taxi ride, two or three more buses, a stroll through the West End before returning to her flat.
For now she settled into her seat and enjoyed the ride.
The bedroom was dark when Vernon Pope entered and quietly closed the doors. Vivie rose to her knees at the end of the bed. Vernon kissed her deeply. He was being rougher than usual. Vivie thought she knew why. She slid her hand down the front of his trousers. "Oh, my God, Vernon. Is this for me or that bitch?"
Vernon parted the silk robe and pushed it down over her shoulders. "A little of both, I'm afraid," he said, kissing her again.
"You wanted her right there in the office. I could see it on your face."
"You always were a perceptive little girl."
She kissed him again. "When is she coming back?"
"End of the week."
"What's her name?"
"Calls herself Catherine."
"Catherine," Vivie said. "What a lovely name. She's beautiful."
"Yes," Pope said distantly.
"What kind of business is she into?"
Pope told her about the meeting; there were no secrets between them.
"Sounds a bit touchy. I think we could bring a good bit of leverage to bear on her."
"You're a very smart girl."
"No, just a very nasty girl."
"Vivie, I can tell when your mind is working in evil ways."
She laughed wickedly. "I have three days to dream up all the wonderful things we can do to that woman when she comes back. Now, take off your pants so I can help ease your pain."
Vernon Pope did as he was told.
A moment later there was a soft knock at the door. Robert Pope stepped inside without waiting for an answer. A shaft of light partially illuminated the scene. Vivie looked up, unashamed, and smiled. Vernon exploded in anger.
"How many times have I told you not to come in here when the door is closed?"
"It's important. She got away from us."
"How in the hell did that happen?"
"Dicky swears she was there one minute and gone the next. She just vanished."
"For Christ's sake!"
"No one gets away from Dicky. She's obviously a professional. We ought to stay as far away from her as possible."
Vivie felt a stab of panic.
"Get out of here and close the door, Robert."
When Robert was gone, Vivie licked Vernon playfully.
"You're not going to take that little queer's advice, are you, Vernon?"
"Of course not."
"Good," she said. "Now, where were we?"
"Oh, my God," Vernon groaned.
19
LONDON
Early the following morning, Robert Pope and Richard "Dicky" Dobbs made their unwitting debut in the world of wartime espionage with a hastily improvised surveillance of Commander Peter Jordan that would have made the watchers of MI5 a touch green with envy.
It began before the damp freezing dawn, when the pair arrived outside Jordan's Edwardian house in Kensington in a black paneled van, complete with boxes of tinned food in the back and the name of a West End grocer on the side. They waited there until shortly before eight o'clock, Pope dozing, Dicky nervously munching a soggy bun and drinking coffee from a paper cup. Vernon Pope had threatened him with grievous bodily harm over last night's foul-up with the woman. He was damned if he was going to lose Peter Jordan. Dicky, considered the finest wheel man in London's criminal underground, had secretly vowed to pursue Jordan across the lawns of Green Park if need be.
Such motoring heroics would not be necessary, for at seven fifty-five a.m. an American military staff car drew up outside Jordan's house and blew its horn. The door of the house opened and a man of medium height and build emerged. He wore a U.S. Navy uniform, a white cap, and a dark overcoat. A thin leather briefcase hung at the end of his arm. He vanished into the back of the car and closed the door. Dicky had been concentrating on Jordan so intently he forgot to start the engine. When he tried to do so it coughed once and died. He cursed it, threatened it, and cajoled it before trying again. This time the van roared into life, and their silent watch on Peter Jordan was under way.
Grosvenor Square would present them with their first challenge. It was crowded with taxis, staff cars, and Allied officers rushing in every direction. Jordan's car passed through the square, entered an adjacent side street, and stopped outside a small unmarked building. Remaining on the street was impossible. Vehicles were parked on both sides with only one lane for traffic, and a white-helmeted MP was pacing up and down, lazily swinging his baton. Pope hopped out and walked back and forth along the street while Dicky circled. Ten minutes later Jordan emerged from the building, a heavy briefcase chained to his wrist.
Dicky collected Pope and headed back to Grosvenor Square, arriving in time to spot Jordan walking through the front entrance of SHAEF headquarters. He found a parking space in Grosvenor Street with a clear view and turned off the engine. A few minutes later they caught a glimpse of General Eisenhower flashing one of his famous smiles before disappearing through the entrance.
Pope, even if he had been trained by MI5 itself, could not have discharged his next moves any better. He determined that they could not cover the building with a static post alone; it was a huge complex, with many ways in and out. Using a public phone, he telephoned Vernon at the warehouse and demanded three men. When they arrived he posted one behind the building in Blackburn Street, another in Upper Brook Street, and the third in Upper Grosvenor Street. Two hours later Pope called the warehouse again and demanded three fresh faces--it wasn't safe for civilians to loiter around American installations. Vicary and Boothby, had they been able to hear the conversation, might have laughed at the irony, for like any good desk man and field agent, Vernon and Robert quarreled bitterly over resources. The stakes were different, though. Vernon needed a couple of good men to pick up a shipment of stolen coffee and to rough up a shopkeeper who had fallen behind with his protection payments.
They changed vehicles at midday. The grocer's van was replaced by an identical van with the name of a fictitious laundry service stenciled on the side. It was so quickly prepared that the word
laundry
was spelled
laundery
and the white clothes bags piled in the back were stuffed with crumpled old newspapers. At two o'clock they were brought a thermos flask of tea and a bag of sandwiches. An hour later, having finished eating and smoking a pair of cigarettes, Pope was growing nervous. Jordan had been inside nearly seven hours. It was getting late. Every side of the building was covered. But if Jordan left in the gloom of the blackout, it would he nearly impossible to spot him. But at four o'clock, the light almost gone, Jordan left the building by the main door on Grosvenor Square.
laundry
was spelled
laundery
and the white clothes bags piled in the back were stuffed with crumpled old newspapers. At two o'clock they were brought a thermos flask of tea and a bag of sandwiches. An hour later, having finished eating and smoking a pair of cigarettes, Pope was growing nervous. Jordan had been inside nearly seven hours. It was getting late. Every side of the building was covered. But if Jordan left in the gloom of the blackout, it would he nearly impossible to spot him. But at four o'clock, the light almost gone, Jordan left the building by the main door on Grosvenor Square.
He repeated the same circuit as the morning, only in reverse. He walked across the square to the smaller building, the same heavy briefcase chained to his wrist, and went inside. He emerged a few moments later carrying the smaller briefcase he had had earlier that morning. The rain had stopped, and Jordan apparently decided a walk would do him good. He headed west, then turned south in Park Lane. Following him in the van would be impossible. Pope hopped out and shadowed Jordan along the pavement, staying several yards behind him.
It was more difficult than Pope imagined. The large Grosvenor House hotel in Park Lane had been taken over by the Americans as a billet for officers. Dozens of people jammed the pavement outside. Pope moved closer to Jordan to make certain he didn't mistake him for one of the other men. A military policeman glanced at Pope as he sliced through the crowd after Jordan. On some streets in the West End, Englishmen stuck out the same way they would in Topeka, Kansas. Pope tensed. Then he realized he wasn't doing anything wrong. He was simply walking down the street in his own country. He relaxed and the MP looked away. Jordan walked past Grosvenor House. Pope moved carefully behind him.
Pope lost him at Hyde Park Corner.
Jordan had vanished into a crowd of soldiers and British civilians waiting to cross the street. When the light changed Pope followed an American naval officer roughly Jordan's height along Grosvenor Place. Then he looked down and realized the officer wasn't carrying a briefcase. He stopped and looked behind him, hoping Jordan would be there. He was gone.
Pope heard a horn blast in the street and looked up. It was Dicky.
"He's in Knightsbridge," Dicky said. "Get in."
Dicky executed a perfect U-turn through the buzzing evening traffic. Pope spotted Jordan a moment later and breathed a sigh of relief. Dicky pulled over and Pope jumped out. Determined not to lose his man again, Pope closed to within a few feet of him.
The Vandyke Club was a club for American officers in Kensington, off-limits to British civilians. Jordan went inside. Pope walked a few feet past the doorway, then doubled back. Dicky had pulled to the curb across the street. Pope, winded and chilled, climbed inside and closed the door. He lit a cigarette and finished the dregs of tea in the thermos. Then he said, "Next time Commander Jordan decides to walk halfway across London, you get out and walk with him, Dicky."
Jordan came out forty-five minutes later.
Pope thought, Please God, not another forced march.
Jordan stepped to the curb and flagged down a taxi.
Dicky dropped the van into gear and eased carefully out into the traffic. Following the taxi was easier. It headed east, past Trafalgar Square and into the Strand; then, after traveling a short distance, it turned right.
Pope said, "Now this is more like it."
They watched as Jordan paid off his taxi and stepped inside the Savoy Hotel.
The vast majority of British civilians survived the war on subsistence levels of food, a few ounces of meat and cheese each week, a few ounces of milk, one egg if they were lucky, delicacies like tinned peaches and tomatoes once in a great while. No one was starving, but few people put on weight. But there was another London, the London of fine restaurants and lavish hotels, which secured a steady supply of meat, fish, vegetables, wine, and coffee on the black market, then charged their customers exorbitant prices for the privilege of dining there. The Savoy Hotel was one of those establishments.
The doorman wore a green greatcoat, trimmed in silver, and a stovepipe hat. Pope brushed past him and went inside. He crossed the lobby and entered the salon. There were rich businessmen, reclining in the comfortable easy chairs, beautiful women in fashionable wartime evening clothes, dozens of American and British officers in uniform, tweedy landed gentry up from the country for a few days in the city. Pope, following Jordan through the crowd, had a mixed reaction to the opulent scene. The West End rich were living the high life while the underprivileged East Enders were hungry and suffering the most from the blitz. But then, he and his brother had made a fortune in the black market. He dismissed the disparity as an unfortunate consequence of war.
Pope followed Jordan into the Grill bar. Jordan stood alone among the throng, trying vainly to get the bartender's attention to order a drink. Pope stood a few feet from him. He caught the bartender's eye and ordered a whisky. When he turned around, Jordan had been joined by a tall American naval officer with a red face and a good-natured smile. Pope took a step closer so he could hear their conversation.
The tall man said, "Hitler should come here and try to get a drink on a Friday night. I'm sure he'd have second thoughts about wanting to invade this country."
"You want to try our luck at Grosvenor House?" Jordan asked.
"Willow Run? Are you out of your mind? The French chef quit the other day. They ordered him to make the meals out of C-rations and he refused."
"Sounds like the last sane man in London."
"I'll say."
"What do you have to do to get a drink around this place?"
"This usually works: two martinis, for Christ's sake!"
The bartender looked up, grinned, and reached for a bottle of Beefeaters. "Hello, Mr. Ramsey."
"Hello, William."
Pope made a mental note. Jordan's friend was named Ramsey.
"Well done, Shepherd."
Pope thought,
Shepherd Ramsey.
Shepherd Ramsey.
"It helps to be a foot taller than anyone else."
"Did you make a reservation? There's no way we're going to get in the Grill tonight without one."
"Of course I did, old sport. Where the hell have you been anyway? I tried calling you last week. Let the telephone at your house ring off the hook: no answer. Rang your office as well. They said you couldn't come to the phone. Rang back the next day, same story. What the hell were you doing that you couldn't come to the phone for two days?"
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