The Spy (25 page)

God was important to her. Hamilton worked for him.

“I do not feel afraid now,” Valerie said, “I know I'm going to come back safely.” Commander Hamilton stood up. “What you told me last night, about de Beck—?”

“De Beck, yes...”

“—to do what he does?” The Commander smiled. “Captain de Beck and I will get along just fine, sir.” She got up from the bed, and walked over to the mirror.

“Lieutenant,” he said, “I would appreciate it if you would forget this ‘Commander' business when we are alone.” Sinclair looked at her own watch. Anything personal was generally offered, and withdrawn, in less than a minute. From the table of high romance, Hamilton was careful not to pick up too many tabs.

“Sir?”

“My friends, you see, call me David.”

Until now, she wasn't aware that he had any.

“Yes, sir, David!” Sinclair's salute plummeted past his composure like a can of paint from a bos'un's chair.

Hamilton forced a smile.

“What would happen, Commander, if I were prevented from going?”

“Ah!” Predictably, like those before her, Sinclair had found the courage to put her greatest anxiety into words. Hamilton said: “In that eventuality, we would promptly leave without you.”

It was a standing order, from Blackstone.

“I'll be there, sir!”

“Yes,” he answered wryly, “we all rather thought that you would.” For each espionage, planned or unplanned, there was a counterespionage; but bigger fish than Blackstone were circling. Still at attention, she was looking up at him. “At ease,” Hamilton said. The cards could not have fallen better to his advantage. He had saved the best for last.

“The Prime Minister sends you his best,” Hamilton lied.

It was coming, she could feel it, momentous.

“Did he call you?” the Commander asked.

“
Me?
”

“Why, yes, he does that sometimes” the Commander admitted, voice of Cheshire cat. Dark winds tugged at the blackout curtains. Commodore Blackstone had ascended from the lower depths. The Mission-Commander's grey eyes held steady, bathing the girl with honor. In the distance, a clock struck the hour.

Her minute was up.

“Your training is now completed,” Commander Hamilton said, “and you are at Liberty. Normally, our ‘Jack-dusty,' the Supply Officer, would have issued you grey strides and a blazer—or in your case, grey skirt and a blue blazer. But since you will not be wearing your uniform on the mission, we saw no need to attend to it.”

They had neglected to tell her that.

“Oh well, it's just one day, isn't it?”

“Exactly. I knew you would see it our way. At the dance you were officially on duty, you see.”

“I understand,” she said.

“Good show! Well then, I'll expect you at the marina at 2100 hours.” His hand was on the knob. “Sorry we didn't have more time to enjoy the weekend. If it were any other night—”

He wouldn't be here
.

“Oh, that's all right,” Valerie sang out. She was peering into the closet, to see what she would wear. It was mostly coathangers. She stood there, her back turned. Their time together was ending. For the girl risking her life, and who had less than a day to enjoy it, opportunity had never been withdrawn. To the Commander, it had never existed. It wasn't that Hamilton hadn't wanted to make love; he had simply wanted to make sure—for the Commonwealth, you see?—for MI.5. The child, Valerie Marchaud, was their invention. Sinclair, the woman, was the price.

What survived, would be the Bomb.

He looked at her, the way a man does. Blackstone was right: it had been a while. The Commander cleared his throat, resuming authority. Like the makeup, it was waterproof and it would not wash off in the rain.

Valerie turned around, she smiled at him.

Hamilton opened the door: a job well done. He could feel Commodore Blackstone's reassuring hand on his shoulder. “I have thrown caution to the winds for the past hour,” he confessed, shooting himself in the other foot, “but they have been the most wonderful minutes of my life.”

Before she could answer, he was gone.

Valerie Sinclair stood still in the room that had died and stared at the walls that were loveless and cold. At the moment, she did not feel like going to bed. She turned. Where Hamilton had made his exit, the door stood ajar. She walked over, closed it, and tested the latch.

“Good-bye, David.”

She sighed then, and reassumed the room.

She finished unpacking, hanging her uniform matter-of-factly in the wardrobe. As she undressed, she cast a curious look at the strange and forbidding bra, also Navy-issued. Tucking it into the top shelf of the wardrobe, and fishing out her gown, Valerie began to sing. She sang it to her little boy, Brian, or to her Daddy; either of them could hear it, if they wanted:

Slamming the panel:

The new brassiere, and the entire day, took her back to the boardwalks at Blackpool, where the flim-flam men, dark forearms curling with green Indian snakes, churned calliopes into mechanical tin-songs on the afternoon air of long-ago summers. No one had asked her, and perhaps no one ever would; but that was
not
where she wanted to be. Oh, they wouldn't mind reaching out to her—coaxing her from behind the tent-walls with their ruddy gifts!—and she saw herself running from them, chaps who could never help her.

When this mission was over, she knew exactly where she was headed: knocking at the great doorways of the world to enter sweet-smelling and voluptuous salons in Lisbon, London, and New York where rich and important women with dark tans and mirrored sloe eyes creamed with mascara held court for their buyers on pink brocade couches; and whose tiny feet, shewn with silk, had sunk deep into dreams on their Persian lamb rugs, coming closer and ever closer to her ideal...wearing slippers. From there, she knew, the brassiere had come. This mission then, might represent a real chance for her.

Doubts had arisen, like fog under streetlights, but they had failed to frighten her, for her ambition was strong and true. Nor was she plagued by possibilities that it would be Blackpool and not Elstree, Newton Swyre and not London, that she would be forced to return to.

She put on her dressing gown.

The lovely Egyptian garment, shimmering with the deep shades of the sea, seemed shorn of its allure. Now it was just something to wear. Her father had sent it. She rearranged her street clothes. A vicar's daughter, she didn't own anything, and there was nothing to pack. There had been little time to shop.

Perhaps Sunday.

She moved from the chair onto the bed. The day had been terribly long. She yawned, the overhead fan humming a dreamless song. When she looked up again, the lights were still burning:

It was dawn.

Valerie got up and turned off the lamp and opened the curtains. The sea was up and threatening. On the horizon, morning ascended like a spirit.

She shook herself out, exercised, and turned on the taps. Her training was over; Hamilton had said so. Splashing
Evening in Paris
under the running faucets, Sinclair thoroughly enjoyed the luxury of an early morning bath. She stared at the tiny bottle on the shelf. Personal cosmetics, taken-for-granted things, she would miss. She checked the makeup on her body. One would have thought she'd been three months at Blackpool, or a lifetime on the Riviera. She would put sunglasses on her shopping list. She lathered, scrubbing gingerly at her cheeks. Her scalded face was feeling better.

Waterproof, it was.

Her brown eyes were drawn to the perfume again...to the label. Her feet pressed against the iron of the tub and she thought of the coast of France. There, the iron was lethal, and a thousand miles deep. She reached for it, but it was gone, a missing memory.
Danger that awaited her, speaking German in the night, and murdering things that landed
. Hitler must be defeated, or love could not breathe.

Then, she could get on with her plans.

What was it the Commander had said? If she were to be killed, and not Pierre? His words hung like motes of dust in the still air; like negatives without a darkroom: they were there, and yet they weren't.

Steam now erased their passage. Colorless vapors misted the bathroom window, camouflaging the black dawn beyond, where the foul clouds of war had been rising and gathering for four long and terrible years, and where SURVIVAL had proved to be the one headline that mattered, until now. She was going to be famous! She could see it: on the front page of
The Daily Telegraph:

VALERIE VICTORIOUS! FUEHRER FUCKED!

Armed with a foreign name, and with another's history, they were sending her backwards, into time. Well, she had lived in stranger places: she thought of the vicarage.

Her father again...his face.

Why didn't you love me
!

She pulled the plug. Her eyes widened, because her mind knew: he had turned a deaf ear. He had taken her share, without her permission, and given it all to God. The wind wailed. She listened. There was no answer. He would be too busy, praying for her soul.

Good-bye, Daddy
.

The new brassiere was too tight.
Blame somebody else
, Hamilton had advised.

Valerie kicked off her fuzzies.

Employing
dynamic tension
, accomplished at considerable risk to her jaw—that is, by hooking her toes into one end of the bra while pulling up mightily with both arms on the other—Sinclair had been able to stretch it enough for a comfortable fit. She snapped into her underwear, turning sideways to the mirror.

The Cat Woman
!

Her eyes narrowed, hissing sparks. She checked her makeup, and looked up. The Casablanca fan was wobbling. The curtains flapped. She walked to the window. The pale orb of the sun had disappeared, dark clouds rolling in from the sea. Turning to the glass, she put on her pillbox hat; fluffing up her hair, and feeling like a silent movie star.

After lunch, she would explore the town.

The hotel boutique was open, dedicated to Ladies Wear; and manned this Sunday by an Arab, whose relatives worked in the beachfront hotels. Upon seeing the strange-looking girl approach—blue dress, hem too long—he smiled broadly and slammed his cash register shut.

Sinclair walked through the door.

“How do you do?” she said. “My name is Smythe.”

“Of the Bristol Smythes?” They were his favorite customers: he didn't owe them. Sunday business was at an all time low and the Arab was anxious to make a sale. She wanted sunglasses. He was out. “Something for your mother?” He was trying to place her. “Big postcards, with belly-dancers—”No..? Rugs, a
choice:
belly-dancers, or camels! No? “Leather goods, perhaps?” His handbags were wrinkled and pink, sand-dune thin, and raspy as paper. “
No?
” With secret eyes, he glanced at her purse. The businessman scrutinized her carefully, seeking where to bite. This Smythe was a hard sell, the intellectual type!

Something warm, for her shoulders, at lectures
...

“What a coincidence,” he confided, “this is your lucky day! These Moroccan shawls are
just
in, absolutely the latest thing!” He flapped one out, holding it high in front of him, for her inspection. Valerie walked around behind him, to study the counter. When he lowered the shawl, no one was there. Puzzled, he stepped out into the lobby, looking to the right and left. Sinclair appeared at his side. She felt safer in the lobby. She tapped him on the shoulder.

The Arab jumped!

He'd thought it was his cousin, to whom he owed three quid. “You! I thought you had left. Did we decide on the shawl?” He glanced over his shoulder, escorting the girl back into the shop.

“My mother would like this hat pin,” Valerie said. “How much?” It was pearl-headed, long, and very sharp.

“How much? For a
Smythe
?” crooned the Arab, plucking the pin from her hand, and assessing it with reverence. “For your mother, special price. Nine shillings.”