The Spy (27 page)

Blackstone said that he was. He waited for Lord Louis to ask his opinion of the girl: he didn't. Employing intuition, the Commodore decided not to press it. “
Marchaud
,” Blackstone told him. “Yes, that's right. We did her up as a child, at Elstree...yesterday, yes. How's that?”

There was something on the line: an unearthly, high-pitched vibration...
that damned bloody Grimes
! “Yes...I'm sorry, Louis, I didn't catch that.” The two Commodores had to wait until the phones cleared. “Hello? Yes, I can hear you now. He's to what—?”

“—to contact Papa Bear himself. You'll be a good fellow and let him know about it, won't you?”

Blackstone assured him that he would.

“If they throw it back to me, I'll decide.” In his offices at Beaulieu, an orderly had entered with late breakfast. “Thank you. On the table, please. Well then, Commodore, should it prove a go, we'll make sure our sub is where it's supposed to be. In that eventuality, see that David and his GOLDILOCKS team are on time. I believe he's on my call today...yes.” Mountbatten, phone to his chin, spread marmalade on his muffin. “Understand there's been an outside surveillance, hmmm?” The Spy could be anywhere, Blackstone couldn't say he didn't know, “—after the girl, yes.” Could be hiding in his files. “Civilian, apparently.” He stirred his tea. “Yes, I would think so, too. Hamilton filled you in then, did he?”

Bletchley was working on it.

Mountbatten made a note. Blackstone might be dancing to a different tune. Could it be the song of The Spy? The tune of men without faces? Multi-lingual? Reports had it that he could be Egyptian.
Spanish?
Or had he dreamt that? No, the girl was the key! “You've met the lady, have you?”

Blackstone hemmed and hawed.

“—yes, well, she sounds like a charming girl.” To Blackstone's ear, the voices of Hamilton and Mountbatten sounded alarmingly alike. “Give her my best, will you—?”

Blackstone stared hard at the picture of his wife: he was without a wise saying. “Yes, sir. I most certainly will...yes sir, thank you.” He hung up and dialed Hamilton. From his basement at Beaulieu, Grimes lit another cigarette—three ashtrays were overflowing—and picked up his earphones.

“Southampton. Lieutenant Seymour here.”

“This is SAINT IVES, Bletchley. Hamilton there, is he?”

The Lieutenant recognized the Commodore's voice. He put his hand over the receiver as Hamilton looked up. “Blackstone?” Seymour nodded. “I'll take it,” Hamilton said. He waited a moment, then snapped in the line.

“Commodore?”

“Hamilton! I've just finished speaking with Beaulieu.”

“The Three Bears matter, sir?”

“Quite so, David. Mama Bear wishes the very best for this SAINT IVES thing.” He'd be
damned
if he'd acknowledge that woman!

“Very good,” Hamilton said. “What do you hear from Truro?” Truro, in the county of Cornwall. Grimes punched a button.

“They're right on top of it,” the Commodore replied, “waiting for Papa Bear to come downstairs.” The mission then was still pending. Hamilton frowned. His information wasn't good enough: Grimes should have let him know.

“Things clear at Beaulieu, sir? They're keeping in touch with you, are they?”

“ ‘In touch,' old boy?” Blackstone's voice had dropped to the level of an offended father. “Is that how you choose to put it, David?”

Hamilton placed his hand over the receiver. “He's found out about Grimes,” he said, softly. Seymour's eyes implored heaven.

“Why do you think I spent half the bloody morning on the ringer to Beaulieu?” Blackstone was at his acerbic best. “I shall speak to you about this matter privately, David.” Grimes lit another cigarette, followed by static on the line.

“How's that, sir? We seem to have a bad connection.” Hamilton clicked his shutoff several times, to make the point.

“Dammit, David! Are you there! Hello?”

“Yes, sir. I'm here, sir.”

“See here, David...oh, rot! Never mind.”

“Sir?”

“—privately, David. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.” Hamilton understood.

The Commodore had caught him. For the moment, that was moment enough. “So tell me, David. How do things look? How do we stand with the storm?”

Hamilton glanced at his watch: he had appointments.

“I expect it will be on time, sir.”

“Um, yes. One would certainly think so. Mama Bear holds that view. All our people, of course, are in touch with Weather Division.” Blackstone, redefining blackmail, had taken advantage of the widening gulf between Ike and Monty. Propelling GOLDILOCKS through the middle, obliterating motives, he had clouded their waters like a giant squid. When the ink cleared, the mission papers on her would be missing.

“Weather Reports look good—”

“Can't hear you, sir!”

Again, there were background noises on the line, as if from invisible men swimming. It was a transmission problem, originating from Truro: Grimes corrected it. “—how's the weather there in Southampton? And what's that bloody racket—?”

Hamilton glanced out the window. Southampton was normal-dreary, but normal. “About right for a Sunday, sir.”

“And Polperro?”

“Bad weather for bears, sir.”

“Excellent! Will you be at Beaulieu this afternoon, David?”

Hamilton thought that he would.

“Well then, that's your ticket, old boy. Incidentally, I've a message for you to deliver. You can take care of it there—can you? That's a good chap...” Hamilton waited. Blackstone, a Master at Bridge, thoroughly enjoyed taking the final Rubber. “Give my ‘best' to this
Grimes
fellow you ran in on me.”

Hamilton winced.

Southampton had just been added to Conrad Parker's Blackmail List. “Oh yes, one more thing. Papa Bear is waiting to hear from you. And David—?”

“Sir?”

“Best of luck today...at Beaulieu.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Baby Bear out.”

Hamilton hung up. His emotions were mixed. “Lieutenant, get me His Nibs.”

Seymour opened the secret compartment in his desk, and glanced at a taped card. At the same time, he picked up the special phone residing there. “SAINT IVES calling Papa Bear.” A Colonel, voice known to Seymour, came on the line.

“Come in SAINT IVES. Who's your animal?”

“This is Big Bad Wolf,” Lieutenant Seymour said.

“Right-o, Wolf. This is Bear Country. Hold, please.”

Seymour punched in a sequence on the decoder and nodded to Hamilton. The Commander picked up his phone.

“Oh, David. There you are at last.” It was the Prime Minister. “So good of you to call.”

“Yes, well...”

“Be patient, dear man. I know how you feel. Our sea voyage tonight is still on hold...there's good reason for it.”

Hamilton put it flat on the line. “Sir, is there a mission tonight—or is there not?”

“I see no reason to give you bad news. You certainly have my blessing. I think you know that.”

“Sir, what I need to know is—”

“It's because of this Commando thing of last week, David.” Seymour lit a cigarette. “No one is saying that the party is not on”—Captain Bernstein loomed, an uninvited guest—“as you may know, the entire decision now is with Mountbatten. He
is
Chief of Combined Operations, Supreme Commander, Asia—”

Why the sop? Hamilton knew all that. He would have to go to Beaulieu.

“I don't understand,” the Commander said, simply. “Is there some fault with the concept, some reason that—?”

“Of course not, David. It's a very bold and courageous idea...very bold.” The knowledge of the awesome threat to England hung in the still air of Sunday. Churchill was glad to have the Mission-Commander on the line. It
should
come from the Top. Hamilton would need to review the Code Override. Lord Louis had enough to do out at Beaulieu. They were both thinking of the Waterfall. “Hold on, David...” The Prime Minister, with a flick of his freckled hand, motioned to an Aide to illuminate the large wall calendar, where his protruding look zeroed in on August. “If they launch, it will be by August 6th. You have that? Yes,
August 6th
.” In Holland, German physicists were working feverishly, they didn't want to disappoint him. “How's that? Yes. That's her maximal time. You get that information for us, Commander, and we shall hurl a rod of steel down their throats!”

Hamilton felt better.

“Personally”—he had paused to light his cigar—“I think that women
should
go on missions...gives them a good gallop. That's what
I
do. I'll see you at Hyde. Good-bye, David.” The Prime Minister handed the phone to an Aide, who asked the Commander if he had any questions.

Hamilton said that he didn't and hung up.

August 6th
!

“Any problem, sir?” Seymour was closing his desk.

“Not really.”
Five weeks
! “Lord Louis hasn't decided yet.”

Hamilton handed Seymour his personal address book. “I'll be off to Beaulieu, let's get to work.”

For the next hour, from Southampton, the lines turned hot:

“This is Red Code Zero, come in please...”

“SAINT IVES calling?”

“Hang on.”

SAINT IVES calling
...

“You'd better wait...”

“—thank you, Major Farvillant. Yes, thank you very much. I appreciate your doing this for me on a Sunday.” The relay of details went down the line. The answers came back. Seymour checked them off.

They called the harbor master at Polperro, who would be honored to keep small craft away from the quay. Seymour hung up the phone and it rang again. It was The Red Lion. Something about Smythe. The Lieutenant listened. “
Oh, shit
—!” Seymour said. “So? What's his problem? No, let him go. Don't be ridiculous! Certainly, I'll vouch for him...yes, of course. Fine. Same to you!” Seymour tossed the phone back on the hook.

The Commander threw him a look.

“—Security, Polperro. Case of mistaken identity—”

“Keep on it,” Hamilton said.

They called the Commander of the Free French...yes, Farvillant has it...
nothing new on de Beck
...make sure he's on time, “—yes, attend to it personally, will you?...yes, if you don't mind...thanks ever so much.”

They called London.

They called Weather down coast.

“They're on, sir.”

Hamilton picked up the phone to his Security Team at The Red Lion. Something about an Arab. “Settled, is it? How's that? Yes. All right. Let me have the rest of it later, will you? That's a good fellow.” Of the two officers assigned to street watch, one of them had noticed a silver and black limousine, in town since mid-morning, but had not thought it important enough to say so. It was raining there, people did wear trench coats. It would come up at the review meeting, on Tuesday, when Hamilton would fasten on it.

They couldn't raise Transport on the phone, so Hamilton sent Seymour to get the driver and bring the car around. While waiting, he called Weather again, the submarine slip, and Grimes at Beaulieu, who told him he was expected. Finally, he got through to Transport. Seymour, with driver, had just left and they were on their way.
About bloody time
...Hamilton glanced impatiently at his watch. He lit a cigarette. Had he forgotten anything?

Yes, he had forgotten to have lunch.

Lieutenant Seymour appeared in the doorway. The Commander was stuffing final papers into his case. “Put my address book in the safe, will you?” He accepted his hat and Seymour helped him on with his coat. He turned. “So then! I'll ring you, if we're scrubbed. Otherwise, expect me Tuesday—”

Hamilton moved through the door, and was gone.

Within twenty minutes, his driver had him out of the Yards and through the suburbs, onto the Bournemouth Road. From there, it was a straight shot. Hamilton, as was his custom, retreated into himself and took a catnap. They reached the Abbey in late-afternoon, the dark windy air portending rain.

Lord Louis, dear to the hearts of all Commandos, received him personally in one of the large upper chambers he was using for an office. They shook hands energetically, Mountbatten breaking into a broad grin. Invited for tea, Hamilton got straight to the point.

“Is it a go? That's all I want to know.”

“Sit down, Commander, and let's talk about it.”

The question predominant in Lord Louis's mind was the reliability of the girl, Sinclair. Hamilton immediately suspected Blackstone. But it was Mountbatten's right. This remarkable man had spent all of his active life in the Royal Navy. There was a seriousness of purpose about him, an attention to detail, which Hamilton had observed before, and which he respected. In a very profound way, it was a hallmark of both their characters. Hamilton reiterated his case in his usual blunt and straightforward way, emphasizing Valerie's ingenuity and photographic memory:

The man without a face came up.

The Commander fielded it.

The girl's insistence that he didn't have one, Hamilton thought best to keep to himself. Credibility was delicate enough. There was nothing new to add to the girl's first report, but they were working on it.

“Let us hope so,” Lord Louis pointed out. “One has to stay on top of these things, if they're not to get out of hand. You will keep me apprised directly, won't you?”

Hamilton said that he would.

“Well then!” There was really no battle, and the Commander could have relaxed. Mountbatten, enjoying this younger version of himself, had already decided. He reached over, clasping Hamilton warmly by the shoulder.

“Let's go for it.”

“The mission is on then?”

The gracious man handed the Commander a sealed envelope. Hamilton, as Mission-Commander, knew it contained the rendezvous coordinates for the submarine. Lieutenant Pryor, the pilot, would have the other copy. If there were any lastminute changes, they could be radioed aboard ship. By this time tomorrow, de Beck would be behind enemy lines, in charge of disposable cameras. Sinclair, instructed to entrust the resultant prints to Pierre, would do so. The Frenchman, approved by John Blackstone, would then carry them back to England using the special codes arranged by Parker. That Blackstone's future was veering away from that of Lord Louis had become obvious to the Commander. But it was the future of Valerie Sinclair, once emptied of data, that now worried him. Surgically altered to fit Farvillant's
Biographie
, the biological profile of the French child reputedly killed, what were her own chances of survival? Rather poor, actually. It was not that Hamilton
wanted
this to happen; his own position on the Blackmail List made it expedient for him not to know: