The Spy (24 page)

Lights blinking in the night
...

She stared out at what was passing—bushes and blazoned buildings—bone-white houses of sleep. In Europe, rain would be drilling into the mud; men shivering in ditches without warmth. Had spies, sent by Hamilton, not prayed to the same God as the Germans, until captured and shot, they had died with their mouths full of the same earth? Would they be alive now if they had asked questions—staring at these blue-white stars holding high above the window of this speeding train? What
were
the nights like in France? She leaned forward and touched his knee.

“Yes, my dear?” The Commander looked at her curiously.

Valerie chewed her lip. “Sir? What happens to us if I get killed? Or if Pierre...?” The question was important to her. They were not in the cave now.

The train turned, its darker shadows sweeping across the landscape. “My dear—Lieutenant—you must try not to concern yourself with such
dreadful
questions.” She sat cross-legged on the seat. “We will face that if the time comes—”

Wind was batting at the windows of the train. Polperro was coming up. The air seemed colder, pressing into her body. She wished she had something warmer to wear. She definitely missed her uniform. Riding along, they looked at each other. The Commander was neither anxious, nor was he not anxious. The question nagged her, though he had answered part of it. She had been thinking of France. She felt Roc's cigarette in her pocket. “May I ask you,” Valerie Sinclair said, “are you yourself afraid to die?” The train was slowing.

Hamilton smiled.

“Well now, I wouldn't
welcome
it. You don't welcome it, do you, Sinclair?”

“Never!”

“You see, we're cut from the same cloth.” Hers was tacky cotton, he was wearing his. They felt the screech of brakes. She jumped up and pulled the shades, plunging them into utter blackness.
Death
, he had told her at Achnacarry,
is an unfathomable darkness
. From its eerie silence had come a voice:

“Got a light, sir?”

Telegraph lines were jumping, chattering like clowns. Disembarking, the man and the girl walked the short distance to The Red Lion. It was after eleven and the streets were deserted. Bags, leaves, and discarded newspapers scudded across the cobbles, plastering themselves against curbs and at the bases of trembling lamps. The wind, stronger now, had followed them up the coast.

She accepted his arm, and burrowed into it.

The wireless that day had hinted at foul weather, but the details were vague. As usual these days, shipping was being warned in a roundabout way. Polperro felt sucked dry, as if by a giant vacuum, common before a larger storm.

The Commander tested the air. By tomorrow night, all hell would be breaking loose. Hamilton was no stranger to it. Often, prestorm weather at sea had left him eager and apprehensive, on the keen edge of coiled and explosive excitement. Sinclair could feel it, in his grip. Entering the hotel, she could hear the raging of the wild air, high above them and along the abutments of the cliffs.

The lobby was deserted, fronted by a single clerk. As they passed him, Hamilton nodded. They hurried up the stairs, the Commander silencing her with a look.

Arriving at Valerie's room, he took the key from her hand and unlocked the door. Checking the hallways, he motioned her inside. They must not be seen together. “Why is that, sir?” the girl whispered. The Commander did not answer. He would not acknowledge it. Closing the door behind them, he remembered why:

If you still have doubts
, said Blackstone,
perhaps you could try de Beck on her for size
. Intended to assess the Frenchman's weakness, it was actually to determine the girl's. Once on the mission, each spy's vulnerability would affect the other spy's life. No British officer worthy of the name would leave that determination to a Frenchman.

Hamilton had decided.

After weeks of delays, and days of duty, after briefings and bullets, Achnacarry and caves, after Bridley and Farvillant, Elstree and LeClerc, and underneath the Casablanca fan, Commander David Hamilton officially kissed Valerie Sinclair. In the history of the Royal Navy, no Lieutenant ever surrendered faster.

Valerie tasted him; it wasn't right.

“Sinclair, how can I ever let you go?”

She heard his voice coming back to her, mechanically and distant, as if from the soundtrack of a foreign film. She had heard such arrogance before. This officer, for all of his pride and honor, was no better than the gate guards at Weymouth. At least they were honest about it. Hamilton, on the other hand, was acting as though bestowing a blessing.

Sinclair opened her eyes.

She kissed him quickly. “Think of the waterproof makeup!” A line reserved for the Frenchman, she had just thrown it away on a fish. Having offered himself as bait, he was now swimming away.

Hamilton wasn't worth a damn at these things
!

It was embarrassing. The man was inept. Sinclair was off the hook. If he hadn't planned to fuck, he should have said so! A breach of promise, she shook off her shoe.

He threw up his arm, but not in time—his cap deflected the blow. Hamilton stared in alarm, at the bent insignia. “My god!” he muttered. “What strength!” With fingers of steel, he pulled it right.

“I am so sorry!” she cried. She was wiping her nose on the chenille. “I didn't mean to throw it at you!” Feeling safer, he popped on his hat.

“Bloody thoughtless of me.”

Blackstone sighed, it was in disgust
.

“More ‘tests,' sir?”

“Come now, Sinclair! You know better than that!” It was easier, when they cried. “But we had to be
sure
, you see. Whatever I do, whatever we've planned—the shit, as you would put it—is all geared to keep you alive.”

“That's
not
how I would put it!”

“Of course not,” he fended, “of course you wouldn't, but you understand. We must probe their armor, their weaknesses, you see.” Valerie had moved to the wardrobe, she was hanging up her clothes.

Drat
!

“Sinclair?” Feelings hurt, she was jabbing in her bag. Commander Hamilton walked over to her, he touched her arm.

“Sir?”

“Sit down.” Unhappy, she would get over it. “Now listen to me...”

He knelt, gripping the chair. A military professional, his voice was sincere. “If Pierre de Beck leaves you alone at any time—for anything other than a reasonable time”—and he emphasized the words—“be
on your guard
.”

Her lips parted slightly, her eyes were puzzled.

“Yes, you see, unknown to you, the Germans could have captured him or shot him. Do you understand?”

She studied his face. “Of course,” she said, “but couldn't the same thing happen to me?” She jumped up. “Surely, if Pierre could be shot or captured, I could. What's important, I would think, is to get the information.”

Otherwise
—!

The question eluded her, it was something he said on the train. “Even together, Commander, we may have but a fifty-fifty chance.”

“My dear Sinclair, it is not a matter of
statistics;
the information we're after is far more complex....”

“But if we're equal in our purposes—?”

“But you
aren't
.” His voice had metal in it. Hamilton then made a strange admission: “You're a daughter of the Commonwealth. You are a part of England, and England is a part of you. You represent her, but Pierre does not.”

“He
doesn't
?”

“No, he represents the Allies.”

“The
Allies
? but aren't we—?”

“How can I put it?” The Commander's hand went to his forehead, as though to alleviate unseen pain. “It is
England
, you see, who stands to be destroyed.”

She was stunned. Hamilton spoke for Churchill.

“That other weapon, you mean?” Her eyes widened. “The one you spoke about at Grasshopper Bay?”

“The Waterfall, yes. Actually...” He hesitated, then decided. “
Waterfall
is the German Code inversion for ‘Heavy Water.'”

Did he mean rocket fuel?

Without knowing why, she suddenly felt uncomfortable. “I'm not sure I understand—”

“Of course you do!” But she didn't. Hamilton now made a second decision: to withdraw the option of disclosure. He would not return to it. One did not share physics with one who did not already know, “—far too technical, really. Suppose we leave it for the experts, shall we?”

She could see it:
the world in flames
.

“It is England's problem, you see, and it is for the
English
to solve it.”

“It is not an Allied problem?”

“No...not exactly?”

“Then whose?”

Hamilton looked deep into her eyes. Finally, he said: “It is mine.”

Valerie was aghast. She turned and walked to the curtains. She peeked through them and out over the town, which was sleeping. Churchill, she now realized, was not without a certain lack of trust in his friends. Hamilton had as much as said so. It was as if the Prime Minister, after Coventry—perhaps as a consequence of it—had grown ever more secretive, ever more paranoid, as the war thundered to its conclusion. As to
whose
conclusion, delivery in Brittany would tell. That was their position, was it not? As the Commander had made clear to her at Weymouth, without this information—vital to national survival—England would lose.

But what was “heavy water”?

She remembered that afternoon, when he had first told her; and she remembered his words:
Waterfall...a weapon, which if deployed, will render us absolutely defenseless against it
. What kind of weapon? Hamilton had mentioned Einstein. She recalled from files since destroyed—one of her first jobs following her Clearance—that Einstein and a man named Szilard had written a letter to Roosevelt...that a copy of it was in a folder called the
Manhattan Engineering District
, intended for Bletchley Park; but that it had been routed to Weymouth instead; because of the mistake of an officer who was no longer there. A man in civilian clothes had come—just as Hamilton had—asking her if she remembered anything. She had lied, and told him
no
.

“How do you spell Oppenheimer?” he had asked.

Photographing his motives, they spoke to her a picture:

The London Financial District had not forgiven Washington for excluding them, and making them wait in line. And what they were concealing: was
a tool of power
. War or no, there were men willing to steal these tools of power from other men in order to use them for themselves. Later, looking at her prints, photographs of this picture had not developed. Something had happened in the dark room. It had to do with guilt. Beyond the limits set by MI.5, she was forbidden to see: truth was for experts. It was all very much an ULTRA secret, heavily censored, and far too dreadful for her to know. Whatever it was, whoever was after it, whatever the cost, MI.5 was counting on her to photograph it.

That's why there was a mission.

“I understand,” the girl said. But what was it she understood? She was staring at men without faces; at pictures without parts. This
weapon
...could that explain the presence of The Spy? Was that why he had followed her? Dark pathways into the truth ended before steel doors; and people like her were not supposed to go there.

She sat down on the edge of the bed.

Hamilton took his turn in the chair. “There are still a few loose ends...” She looked up. “Now, for one thing, you'll want to wear your street clothes to the marina...”

“Security reasons?”

Hamilton nodded.

“But what do I do with my uniform?” She was so proud of it.

“My dear Valerie...” his voice was strong, “a uniform is forever. Just leave your things in the room, as is. We will take care of it.”

“Yes, sir.”

He smiled at her and she recalled his remark, following Achnacarry, the afternoon they'd arrived in Polperro: that it was too dangerous to discuss plans in their rooms. She understood now, that had been meant for de Beck. But her partner was someone that Hamilton hadn't talked much about, “—your uniform, I dare say, will be waiting here for you when you get back.”

“It will?”

“Of course. And who knows? Perhaps another ring...hmmm?” An upgrade in rank, he meant. She looked across at him and knew, in the way she knew things, that a further promotion for her was not his to give. More, that her commission must have cost him dearly. Somewhere, in plush offices and ironclad security mansions, forbidden to her, David Hamilton hung on a cross. Dispensation would come from there, from his superiors, depending on whether she lived—and delivered.

For the Commander, she was the ultimate bet.

He asked her for the two letters.

She walked to the bureau, licked and sealed the envelopes, and handed them over. They would go as they were.

“What about Pierre?”

“What about him?”
Bloody damn
! Hamilton pocketed the letters; he could see she was wrought. He must repair any doubt—he had caused it. “Pierre is at fever pitch for the mission, and at top form. You are, as I have told you, a formidable match.” He motioned her aside. He needed the bed for a table.

Produced from an inside pocket, the Commander unrolled an oilskin packet with stitched compartments. “Now then,” he said, “—your battered glasses. The left-hand temple is removed and becomes a pen. The writing, of course, will be on your body and will be invisible.” He had not mentioned the cyanide. It would be in her purse. They had already gone over it. The items would be given to her aboard the submarine.

Sunday
...

“This perpendicular bar, you see, also contains the ink.” The Commander had extracted a gold chain, with a white cross attached. “The point pops out on the verticle.” The sight of the cross made her uneasy. She thought of Marchaud.
Hadn't she seen it before?
He showed her: how all the things would work. Tucking them back into their compartments, he rolled up the packet, and returned it to his coat. “When you wear the cross, wear it well, and may God go with you.”