The Spy (26 page)

“I'll take it.” He beamed, and handed it to her. “Oh dear,” she observed, “look at this blemish.”

After getting him to toss in a genuine Japanese silk handkerchief with a picture of a fan on it, merchandise difficult to move these days, he settled at three and sixpence.

“Thank you so veddy, veddy much.” Thinking her a Bristol Smythe, she wouldn't want him to get the wrong idea.

“My
pleasure
, Miss Smythe.”

As soon as she left, hat pin bobbing happily in her pillbox hat, the Arab locked his door. Business had been bad lately, but never
this
bad. Crossing the lobby, Sinclair entered the dining room. The waitress greeted her cheerfully, “Disgusting day, isn't it?” She had seen the Arab, taking advantage of her.

“Yes, quite,” replied Valerie, in her best grown-up voice. She had no problem with it since it was hers. “Tea first, please.” The server, who was a hard thirty with sallow skin, dropped a menu and returned to the kitchen. She had been trying to call her husband, who was off work today. “Clive still running around on you, is he, Gladys?” taunted the cook, grilling chops.

It was the talk of the kitchen.

“When I catch that bitch she'll need a doctor,” vowed Valerie's waitress, talking over her shoulder and arriving back at the table.

Sinclair, alarmed, looked up. “Oh, I am so terribly sorry. Is your dog sick?”

“Nothin' to concern
you
, love. Parents stayin' at the 'otel, are they?” Such a
pathetic
-looking child! She picked up the menu, which seemed to have hat pin holes in it. “What'll it be, dearie?”

Touching gingerly at her hat, which was barely holding, Valerie placed an extensive order. When it arrived, she enjoyed it with gusto. The cook stuck his head out the door to see who was eating so much. Single, he was glad he didn't have kids. Making quick work of a chop, Sinclair kept glancing at the service door. Where was that waitress, had she gone to the bathroom? Sinclair didn't feel like eating alone. She wished for a gentleman to share her lunch. Perhaps that nice waiter from Friday.

When her tea arrived, it was cold: children got ignored in restaurants. She lifted the cup distractedly, and stared through the glass: the sky was like soup. Towards the east, black clouds towered.

“Fancy more tea, Miss?” It was the waitress. Valerie asked her where the waiter was, the one who had served her two nights ago. “—we have an appointment to have a date on Tuesday.”

The pot crashed to the floor!

Sinclair had wanted to tell him she would be out of town.

“Do ye now?” the waitress snapped, sidestepping the carnage. “I'll be sure 'n tell 'im—” A man came running out of the kitchen with a mop. “‘e's me 'usband!”

“Your husband?” Valerie turned to the man with a mop.
Poor bloke
. “How do you do, sir? The name is Smythe.” Valerie laid some money on the table. She hesitated, trying to figure, then added to it. She turned to the waitress. “Please do be so kind as to give this to your waiter. Tell him, if you will please”—she lowered her voice—“that it's for the other night.”

“Anything else?”

“Got a cigarette?”

The waitress leaned down so that Valerie could hear, “A cigarette, is it? Where would you like it, ya little brat, up yer ass?”

Valerie shook her head.

As she did so, her hat fell off. Trying to keep it from hitting the floor, the man with the mop batted at it desperately, and slipped on the tea. In falling, he grabbed the waitress for support, taking her with him. As she fell she kicked at the hat, which soared over the heads of the guests, who followed it with interest.

The hat rolled out the door.

“Excuse me,” said Valerie, over her shoulder, running after it. “Good luck with your cigarette!”

What a peculiar custom!

The Arab, who'd had a terrible day and who was just leaving, saw a blue pillbox hat rolling his way, being frantically pursued by his customer. In bending gallantly to retrieve it, he stabbed himself with the hat pin. The end of his finger was turning red. Valerie handed him the handkerchief with the picture of the fan on it. Gratefully, he wrapped it around his bleeding finger, just as the Manager walked up. Guests were listening; he would have to settle it. The Arab, who was holding the handkerchief up with both hands, was trying to explain what had happened. The Manager, staring in horror at the red circle in the middle, a miniature Japanese flag, grabbed the Arab by his elbow and steered him over to the front desk where he called Security. Within seconds, one of Hamilton's Operatives showed up, taking the Arab into custody in front of some women with flowered hats, late arrivals, who were demanding to know when his boutique would open. Peering around them, and spotting the girl, the Arab threatened to kill her. Hearing this, the Operative produced his weapon, and marched the Arab into a back room at gunpoint.

“Anything I can do for you?” the Manager purred, to Valerie. The ultimate diplomat, he didn't have a name.

“Yes,” said Valerie. “Would you be so kind as to send somebody up to my room to adjust my Casablanca fan?”

“I
quite
understand,” apologized the Manager, glancing at the door where they had just taken the Arab. “One never knows these days where the enemy is going to surface.” Renting floor space to collaborators, could be a serious offense. He had come so highly recommended, too!

Valerie headed for the stairwell, the Manager following. Noting this, she stopped, and pulled him close.
She knew something
! The girl glanced over his shoulder and he lowered his ear. “The name is Smythe.”

“Smythe?”

Sinclair nodded, she narrowed her eyes: it was a clip, from
The Cat Woman
.

Instantly, the Manager was back on the phone to Security. “That's right. That Japanese collaborator you just arrested? His name is Smythe.”

“But isn't that who—?”

Smythe
!

Up the coast, Martin Seymour's phone was ringing.

Hamilton was still on hold.

A major security effort, Whitehall had a month to blow the
Waterfall
to hell, or die. The exact date would come in the course of the day.

In the parlance of the back-room boys, the Three Bears were defined by their place in history, and they were all men. Mama Bear was Lord Louis Mountbatten, Chief of Combined Operations, on secret recall from Ceylon. Baby Bear was Commodore John Blackstone, Royal Navy, Bletchley, who worked for Mama Bear; and Hamilton, whom MI.5 had solemnly cryptogrammed as the Big Bad Wolf.

Papa Bear would be disclosed at the last moment.

Hamilton, who had a sure instinct for covers, took one whiff and detected cigar smoke. Though not present at the meeting, he concluded that inspiration for the atomic mission, GOLDILOCKS, had come from a writer named Winston. From long association, he knew that Churchill's fables were invariably Grimm; and that this one, his favorite, had started two days following a chance meeting at the Royal.

To Hamilton, in charge of the nuts and bolts, was left the honor of the password, by which Operatives from MI.5 would identify their counterparts in MI.6. For this Sunday's use, the Commander had selected SAINT IVES. There was no particular reason for it. It just seemed a good place to go. By Sunday nightfall, his itinerary would take him to others.

After leaving Valerie, who wasn't privy to the planning, he had slept in the back seat of the Rolls that had carried him from Polperro to Southampton and up to the dockyard gates. Behind him, in the chopped waters of the harbor, iron-grey ships were riding at anchor, their stacks yawing skyward against the approaching sun.

Hamilton got out of the car and walked up to the driver. “Don't dally too long on Liberty,” he warned the Frenchman. He held his hat against the wind. “We meet promptly at 2100 hours. The marina—you have the slip number.”

“No problem, Commander.”

Hamilton knew damn well that de Beck would be dropping off in London, saying good-bye to one of his whores, and grabbing a few hours sleep. “See to it then,” the Commander concluded. “Easy on that car, what?” The last thing he needed was flack from General LeClerc. De Beck nodded, and backed the Rolls out of the gate. The Commander, braced against the wind, headed for the door.

Lights were beaming from the comer office.

Lieutenant Seymour was sorting through his mail: bills; a letter from a girl he'd danced with, drunk, scribbling out an address; and a postcard from Delhi, via Trincomalee. The cover showed a pale pink flamingo, card filched from Key West; message reading, “Mother eating porridge.” It was signed, “Sister.”

Bridley—wearing pith helmet and white suit, and whose mysterious trip had revealed itself in the stamp, post-forwarded—had been covering for Lord Louis and would accompany him to England.

Hamilton handed Seymour the cable. It had Parker written all over it. Seymour stuck with the card. “Lord Louis is back!” he announced. “Ceylon, is it, or—?”

“I know,” the Commander said, opening and slamming drawers. “Where did you hide the sugar?” The teapot was already singing. Seymour walked over to the gun drawer, reached under the irons, and produced a box of American cubes. Intended for Conrad Parker from Captain Bernstein, Legal Department of Ike, and relevant to the release of data in Kay Summersby's file, the consignment had been intercepted by Bridley. Parlaying his heist, the Boffin had sent the sugar to Martin Seymour for his birthday. Bernstein, who had called Seymour several days ago from Southwick, an off-hand query seeking Bridley's whereabouts, was delighted to hear that his payoff to Parker had landed in Commander Hamilton's cup.

Connected to Mountbatten, wasn't he?

Bernstein, fishing for the code name, had pumped Seymour about their latest mission. The Lieutenant had covered: Bridley must have let it slip. But no, seems Bridley was being sought elsewhere as a material witness in a divorce matter.
Mrs. Loot
? Lieutenant Seymour and Captain Bernstein had talked before; they got along all right. Seymour, while bragging on their latest girl, hadn't told him anything of course; but had thanked him for the sugar. Which reminded him: he had promised it to Farvillant. A personal matter, Seymour thought it best not to enter it on his Blackmail List. Called to Hamilton's attention, the Commander had confronted his Lieutenant with a what-did-you-expect? Bridley was forever getting them into
something
. Two boxes, Hamilton noted.

“Include candles, did he?”

“No, sir. Just burning them at both ends.”

By breakfast, consisting of yesterday's crumpets, Hamilton in his shirt sleeves, collar open and tie loose, was having an exceedingly busy day. This activity was flowing into Bletchley Park, where the otherwise calm of Sunday was being interrupted by the ringing of many phones. Part of this was caused by the O.S.G., the Overseas Security Group, Operatives who were coordinating GOLDILOCKS from the township of Truro. This group of men, assigned by Lord Louis, were responsible for the nationwide clamp on this most secretive of operations. Like minnows among the trout, they could operate with greater secrecy in the backwaters of Britain.

Their source to and from Mama Bear was a mild-mannered man with steel-rimmed glasses named Grimes, soon to be Hamilton's new Security Adjutant—as yet unknown to most of his superiors. On this strange morning, Grimes was quartered at Beaulieu Abbey, secret headquarters of Lord Louis Mountbatten. To secure this choice spot, Hamilton had petitioned Lord Louis himself. Grimes, then, Hamilton's spy-in-residence, was so placed as to function as catalyst between Lord Louis, the crew at Truro, and Baby Bear, who was connected to the other part of Grimes' line—where Hamilton could listen. By such an arrangement, it was Hamilton then, and not Commodore Blackstone, who had first access to the total flow of information.

Blackstone, an old hand, knew immediately that he was being tapped. From Parker, and an obscure folder, he got the name:
Grimes, Arnold E., Royal Marines: Captain, Communications. Transferred to Southampton office 23 June, 1944, by special order Chief of Combined Operations
...

Mountbatten!

Hamilton had used Mountbatten!

From Blackstone's point-of-view, this act was an unspeakable breach of military form. It was also damned bloody bold and he knew it. By placing Grimes in the middle, a ploy that would be perceived by Whitehall as removing weight from Mountbatten's shoulders, Hamilton had removed himself...leaving Blackstone with the credit, and looking good.

“
—that damned elusive Pimpernel!
”

Sinclair was not alone in catching the resemblance.

Blackstone's phone rang. It was Mountbatten, from Beaulieu. The conversation, via Grimes, was about two items of concern: Hamilton's choice of the woman, and the weather.

The forecast, first.

Weather Command was now firmly in British hands. Churchill, partnered to SOE, and observing from the sidelines, was there to catch the ball should it sail out of the American court, not considered a problem: as of yesterday, gone to Normandy, Ike was out of the country.

Mountbatten was waving him good-bye.

“Yes, I quite agree,” purred Blackstone, “a bloody fine job.” He nestled his receiver, and looked up. The blinds in his windows were swelling in Sunday's cloudy air, as if to the winds of another time. Recalling Saturday's curious intrusion, the Commodore cocked his head.

He was listening.

“The gale should be in full force by then,” Lord Louis was saying. The storm was tacking in north, from the Channel. “You feel the craft sturdy enough, do you?”

John Blackstone, from Bletchley, informed him that Hamilton himself had selected the launch for the rendezvous. He'd be damned if he'd be blamed, if it sank!

“Yes, well, it's
his
mission, isn't it?” Lord Louis had still not cast his vote. “You're personally satisfied, are you?”