The Spy (15 page)

Club talk: new cards, please.

“I cannot tell you how much I appreciate your making that clear,” Lord Louis acknowledged, “you had me worried there for a moment.”

“Understandable,” said Churchill.

After due deliberation then, accomplished in a flash, the Prime Minister was prepared to hand mission responsibility back to Mountbatten: correct it, he was saying. When Mountbatten started to object, some matter about his word to Blackstone, the P.M. rose to the occasion. For such an early hour in the morning, it was his finest. “I do not ask of history that you will have justified your allegiance to England by discretion at the proper time—I
demand
it.”

Lord Louis had heard clearly:
I do not ask of history...I demand it
. At least he knew to whom he was talking; he began to consider whom he would call.

Churchill again: “David is certain that she holds the key, and that she will surface satisfactorily from the mission. When she does, you won't be wanting any loose ends. Submarine's on Sunday, I understand. Hamilton has also assured me that she can't be made to talk—absolutely topping girl! Safe as the Bank of England!”

A shareholder, Mountbatten winced.

That was not the issue. Lord Louis knew that Eisenhower had his own counterintelligence sources. If smarting over criticism of Kay Summersby, the Supreme Commander would not hesitate to use them. “Well, we'll have to see what we can do about it, won't we?”

“Glad to hear it,” announced Churchill.

“She drives for him.” Mountbatten pointed out.

That Windsor voice again. “Morality and
bosh
!” boomed the Prime Minister. “Must this entire bloody war end up in the foul waters of rumor!” The rumors were true. It was what their American Commander might do, that bothered them.

Mountbatten put it flatly: “We have to launch GOLDILOCKS as scheduled.” It was the opinion of his men. In the respect of those men, rested the honor of England. People like Eisenhower had come, but they would leave again. “Couldn't we just explain it to him later? Surely, the interest of the Commonwealth...!”

“No! You make your peace with Ike. You make that peace now. Grab it by the horns, sir! Decisions must not be set adrift.” The caller slipped the cigar from his mouth, and snuffed it. “I do not consider it politic, with Bradley's present crisis, to have this come up later. With this new technology—pointing towards us out of hell!—it would be importune to extend an opportunity for others to level false charges against us, however ill-advised, that our interest in a major German breakthrough in physics is anything other than our own survival. Motives of self-aggrandisement, to the benefit of our Financial District, must never—never, sir!—find any safe harbor in our recorded histories, now being written!”

“But we're
paying
for it!” Mountbatten shot back.

“Exactly, sir! And should events prove that we are entitled to any rewards that may arise as the consequence of nuclear peacetime use, then that will be time enough to clearly state, and for others to understand, how very dear that price will have been!”

In the background, bankers reared like ghosts.

“Finders keepers?” Lord Louis coughed, so as not to grin.

“There, you see it? You have the picture faster than imagined. As you know, I was never in favor of this nuclear type of weaponry to begin with, but since we have had to attend to it or perish, we intend to
keep
what we buy—with our blood, on our beaches, and in the backwaters of Europe.”

Heavy water, heavy price.

In the Lewis Carroll coloring book, Dunkirk would not be colored black. They both knew the mission to be a winner. It was the losers, still essential, who might have to be accommodated. Later, words would match print, called history. At the moment, they were editing.

“John Blackstone doing well, is he?” Mountbatten inquired.

“About as well as Gladstone,” purred Churchill, speaking for Lord Randolph. The Prime Minister's American mother, fond of Victorian mansions, had never cared much for amber waves of grain. Though the Code Center's doors out at Bletchley had opened to American analysts six months ago, no Americans were currently in residence, nor any French either.

“This ultimate weapon then,” said Mountbatten, “is destined for responsible hands?” It was not a question, it was a vote. Churchill nodded, he said, “yes,” but he wasn't through. Mountbatten felt it, approaching yet invisible, the way he sensed ships on a shoal. At forty-four, his watch with the Prime Minister nearly ended, he had come to the dawn of his life. Over Peredynia, the rain had stopped and the sun was sinking. In England, it was just rising.

It was the future, shaped like a mushroom cloud.

“If, ultimately, our decision is to let the Americans have it—along with the advance judgment of the world—we will live with that also.”

Lord Louis: “Are you saying then, you would have me steer Eisenhower left rudder? Sometime after Sunday, I presume.”

“Too late for that. No, we need to attend to it now. I will be talking to Monty, later today. Bit of a strain between himself and Ike, you know.” A gifted understatement, it would have been lost on Bradley. Mountbatten nodded. To preserve the contents of the German labs, a few British army movements, under the direction of Montgomery, might have to be changed. Whitehall, not to be caught napping, had quietly provided for it. “Nothing set in stone, you understand.”

Mountbatten could see it. He said, “Of course.”

“The Boffins are already on top of it. Little touchy for Monty, but I think he'll go along. Eisenhower's law office is where it may get sticky—” static on the line, “—bloke named Bernstein. I'll send you the whole report. Once we get her away from the possibility of Eisenhower's
lawyer
—” news, for Mountbatten, “—and safely en route, we should be able to put a whole new face on it.”

“Matter of hours,” Lord Louis pointed out.

The less spread, the better. Mountbatten's job, now defined, was to pull the string on Bull Durham—he had once seen Eisenhower in a pair of cowboy boots—and to close off criticism while insuring that Sunday night's launch proceeded smoothly. Lord Louis said, rather softly Churchill thought, “I will straighten it all out.”

Mountbatten had a curious way of tacking—sometimes into trouble. This time, neither man could afford it. “Ike must not be compromised,” the P.M. repeated. “Do you have that?”

“Certainly.”

“Excellent! Well then! I expect you'll do your best, Louis,” Churchill beamed. The red telephone was heading for its cradle. “That's what the Crown pays you to do.”

Mountbatten took it on the chin.

The Prime Minister hung up.

Footsteps were approaching....

Commander Hamilton listened. It was through the spindle of rock. Crunching carefully on gravel, the footsteps stopped. The approacher was bending over, photographing a bug. The telephone number of Sergeant Blumensteel's barracks still written on the inside of her thigh, Valerie Sinclair appeared in the entrance to the cave. Above the wild cliffs, the morning sun had just broken through. De Beck, nursing a headache, showed up a few moments later.

“Now, the most important thing when you arrive in France,” said Hamilton, having begun the briefing, “is to act completely natural.” He looked at Sinclair, who was blinking at the walls. “Remember, the people you'll encounter will have no knowledge of why you are there. You will be issued French identification cards, identical to those approved by the Gestapo, and French francs, most of them to Pierre. As a student, Valerie, you would not be carrying much money, you see.”

“Cameras...no?” Pierre was scraping guano off his boots.

“No. No minicameras or microfilm.” Any mechanical aids would be carried by the child, hidden in child things. “And no guns. The plans are simple. Their very simplicity, we feel, is your safeguard. In the unlikely event that you are suspected and searched—”

She was staring at the walls. They were wet, and oozing dark liquids. Blinking her eyelids, she took a picture of them.

“—just act French.” She hadn't missed a beat.

He waited. Neither of the spies reacted.

“Right. Well now, Pierre, any information you feel
you
may have difficulty in remembering must be written in code, and placed in the heels of your boots...your French boots, you see? The code will be based on your directives issued at Castor. You've already received the ciphers.”

Valerie raised an eyebrow.

Pierre yawned.

“You see, Sinclair, Pierre does not have your advantage, your photographic memory—”

“That's not
his
fault, Commander.” She was trying to make up, for last night. “I'm sure he has other abilities that are just as important.”

Photographic memory?

Pierre snapped awake! He had not known that about her! It would be covered at his final briefing.

“Your knowledge of yourselves is knowledge of each other,” Hamilton continued, throwing the Frenchman a glance. “I won't be there to help you. That's why we're having this little get-together. Come over here, the two of you.” The Commander got up.

They approached, and stood together.

“Pierre has persistence, and fluency in languages. As I told you, Lieutenant, we were both on the Dieppe raid in 1942, although with different units, and he was at Dunkirk. Before that, in France, he fought for his life against German oppression. He is well able to defend himself and you too, Valerie, I assure you. Most importantly, he has had experience in killing.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Sinclair, you received your Operative's training when you joined Naval Intelligence, and you were the best in your class.” That was for Pierre. “Enemy lines, however, are quite another matter. If you have to kill, you will have to kill with what you have. As for your remarkable memory—no thanks to the Navy, what?—well, sir, you were born with it.”

“Sir? thank you, sir.”

“Yes, well...Pierre? Your memory, old chap, is of a different order: Dunkirk and Dieppe. We expect this partnership to be formidable. Singly and together, you should both present a decent accounting of yourselves. Are there any questions?”

“I...”

“Yes, Valerie?”

“Suppose neither of us makes it. What would happen to...”

England?

Hamilton interrupted. De Beck present, her question was inappropriate.

“Good thinking, Sinclair.” It was as if he could feel chains. “Remember Achnacarry: ‘Selfconfidence is the backbone of courage!' Well then, that covers it, I would think, but there may yet be something.”

Seymour was right, she could be unpredictable.

In MI.5's plan to shape Sinclair into the persona which had survived the French girl's corpse, Blackstone was leaving the enforcement to Hamilton. Pierre was French as was Valerie Marchaud. Stripped of their military skins, in France there should be nothing for the Germans to spot. The British had come up with a weapon for which the Nazis could not possibly have imagined a defense: a French girl who was a dead girl who was a camera that didn't exist. Her partner was Pierre de Beck. Running a tight ship, David Hamilton would steer them through the shoals, each with separate instructions.

He would have to talk with her privately.

“The plan seems very straightforward, Commander,” said the girl. “The fact that Pierre's parents live near where we're going ashore is a great point in our favor. Supposing we had to try to find out where the French Underground was operating, with no help at all once we were there?”

Pierre finished it for her. “We would find ourselves in a cauldron of stew.” He turned to the Commander. “Dieppe, sir.”

It was on his agenda.

“Thank you, Pierre. Listen up, Sinclair. At our last briefing prior to the Dieppe raid—remember? I told you at Achnacarry—the entire operation was thoroughly explained: where we would land, our objectives, how we would return, et cetera. The raid was rehearsed eight times and yet, it was a bloody holocaust. It is obvious, you see, that our security was penetrated,” he paused, “by a German Operative. A bit too coincidental, don't you know, that maximal forces should have been waiting for us. We do not want that to happen this time.”

“Not a chance,” murmured the Frenchman.

“Now I cannot impress this on you enough: do
not
be over confident. Make your moves with extreme caution and do not, whatever you do, cause any suspicion. Consider what I have said carefully, and ask whatever questions you think necessary.” Valerie could sense it; her question had breached security. The Commander had cut her off. “Pierre, are you sure you have nothing to add?”

“I do not think you have overlooked anything, sir,” replied the Frenchman.

“Very well then,” said Hamilton. “Tomorrow we will go to the motion picture studios at Elstree. They have French people there who are experts on clothes and cosmetics. They are also members of British Intelligence.” This wasn't quite true: MI.5 insured their jobs. “Take the early train, Sinclair. I want you at Waterloo Station by 1200 hours. Pierre, see to the Rolls, will you, and you'll join us for Elstree.”

De Beck nodded.

“Good. I can now tell you when. On Sunday night, you will meet me at the Polperro marina at 2100 hours. You should have no difficulty in locating me. Look for the motor launch.” Anxious to leave, the Frenchman was dusting off his trousers. “Clothes, shoes, and supplies will be issued aboard the submarine, along with the necessary identification papers. As for the remaining part of today, you may spend it at leisure—”

Valerie smiled.

“—other than code and rowing practice for you, Pierre.”

De Beck's own smile fell, then brightened. There would be parties in London. Saturday evening, too.