The Spy (4 page)

Hamilton had sent her, and struck out. He needed a hit.

The younger man continued to stare at the photograph.

“It's a hard call, Seymour, and seeing this picture won't make it any easier.” He had seen others. “I should be remiss in my duty if I failed to send the person most qualified.” He paused. “There may never be a more important mission!”

“Yes, sir!”

He had taken her to Leed's for late tea the day before she had climbed aboard a moon plane, strapped to a parachute. She had just had her teeth cleaned, and she was all smiles
...

Hamilton had waved her good-bye.

The room was quiet for a moment.

“I see it this way,” said the Commander, returned to business. “As you have correctly observed, Seymour, Valerie Sinclair is a queer fish. After two years on ice, she may not be too happy with us. Whatever she expected the first time, I can assure you that it wasn't Gilbert and the Ferry Pilots, even though we kept our part of the bargain.”

“Yes, sir. You may be right. I seriously question if Valerie Sinclair would agree to anything at this point, unless she thought there was something in it for her.”

“Exactly. She'll accept the commission of course, because there's no way around it. However, one never really knows, does one? We don't want any surprises. Should she see it as already decided, and herself merely as a pawn, we could find ourselves with a problem.”

“Trouble we don't need,” said Seymour.

Hamilton was covering the bases. The mission had already started. It was too late for a replacement.

The Lieutenant looked worried.

“Relax, Seymour. Fish never bite on a northeast wind. She will set the hook herself, once she hears we're throwing in a partner.”

“The French agent, sir?”

“Sinclair's a
woman
, Seymour.”

“Yes, sir, I know that. But she is a bit off the wall, sir.”

“Precisely, Seymour. Well put. But you see, it's the very nature of this candidate, exactly those differences, that can even the odds.”

“Sir?”

“Her photographic memory, Seymour. Have you forgotten? Carrington's told me it's as though she lives inside of it, like a skin. Whatever it is, it appears to be something more than just simple memorization. We really don't know how it works, but it does look as though it may point to some other personality—which is exactly where we intend to take her.” Hamilton tossed him the lighter. “Her cover, I would think, could be our best chance yet for a real shot.” Sinclair's new name, not yet released, would be assigned by the Free French once her acceptability had been determined.

“Speaking of that, sir,” the Lieutenant clicked the lighter, disappearing behind blue smoke, “she knows the area around Brest from spending holidays there with school friends.”

“Very good, Seymour.” He retrieved his lighter. “I keep thinking,” Hamilton confessed, “about that stolen car.” Could the Lieutenant have missed something? “Any prior record of her having used a gun?”

“Yes, sir. Her husband taught her, before Dunkirk. Since they lived in Dorset, considered the likely place for a Jerry invasion, he made sure she knew how to handle it.”

“Is that her own story, Seymour? Did you check?”

“Checked,” the Lieutenant said. “We ran it through Scotland Yard. She's clean. Several other things, some hearsay we got from her father, was that she'd beaten up some boys who had challenged her, and that she'd run away from home—”

“Because of the boys?”

“No, sir, because of her father. Some years ago, it seems, his parishioners presented him with a church car. A Morris, I believe. He refused to let her drive it.”

“Did she know how?”

“Apparently she did, sir.”

“I see. Well, that's something, isn't it?” Hamilton might have plans for the father. “Let's get back to the guns. Do you think then, given a few hours, she could master regulation side arms?”

“Definitely. But you see, sir, the problem—”

“What is it, Seymour?”

“Well, sir, she's had very little practical experience.”

“My point exactly: She is an unknown. Therefore the Germans have no dossier on her.” He looked up. “Would you not agree, Seymour, that Sinclair might come straight about—with four days of Commando training at Achnacarry?”

“
Achnacarry
, sir?”

Achnacarry Castle, in Scotland, had been turned over by Sir Donald Cameron to the Royal Navy: specifically, to Lord Louis Mountbatten, who was head of the Commandos. Up to now, females had been excluded. Hamilton would have to use his clout.

Seymour said: “That might work at that, sir—if you can swing it. But it would be cutting it rather fine. I would like to see her get more time.”

“There is no time,” retorted Hamilton briskly. “As matters stand, Commodore Blackstone could cut the cards to other than our favor. Besides, I couldn't very well object when he reminded me that some of our own pilots have had as little as nine hours flying experience.”

“Yes, sir. She will be air-dropped then?”

“Not if I can help it.” Hamilton was firm. The Commander had looked to something new under the sun, his Lieutenant with him, and they had found it: in this hunter-child's body, and in the unsearchable swift potentials of her mind. A Proteus, she inhabited this room where so many had come before, and through whose doors, so many had departed, and died. All of them were women, yet none of them were her.

“Tomorrow I will call Wren Sinclair myself and set the appointment. If selected, she will have to volunteer. This must be her decision, as well.”

Seymour nodded.

Hamilton, struggling, was tightening his tie. “Oh yes, one little item, hmmm? Should Parker contact you requesting the full pre-Mission Report for Blackstone, tell him the entire matter is in the hands of General LeClerc. By the time they get through that seawall of suspicion,” nice phrase, noted Seymour—“we should be off and sailing.”

“Yes, sir!”

He would tend to it, on the run.

“Sir, if Commodore Blackstone calls—?”

“Take care of it, will you?” Hamilton threw on his raincoat and was out the door. “And see to Loot's transfer.”

“Got it!”

Her eye was on the bird.

The same seagull, tired of garbage, who had checked her out the other day, sat atop the splintered pile at the end of Dockyard Row, peering into the water and trying to find some fish.

She wondered how he was doing.

Grasshopper Bay was awash with high swells surging over black rocks from the prows of the hospital ships that were coming in from Normandy, where blood was running into the sea. In listing the ships Valerie noticed that most of the LST's and LSP's that had been there the day before, had now departed. Lieutenant Carrington, who had business to attend to on some of the others, had told her not to expect him until the following morning. She was just about to lock the safe, where the TOP SECRET information was kept, when the telephone rang. Sinclair snatched it off the hook. “Lieutenant Carrington's Office. Wren Sinclair here.”

“Is Lieutenant Carrington there?” The voice sounded familiar.

“No, sir, not at the moment.”

“Good. This is Commander Hamilton, from Southampton.” She could see it, behind the voice, giant shipyards bristling in sunlight a hundred and fifty miles up the coast. “I visited your office yesterday and was very impressed with the way you carried out your duties.”

“Thank you, sir. I am sorry, but Lieutenant Carrington is not in the office.”

“Just as well,” said Hamilton, “it is you with whom I wish to speak. A matter of some urgency, you see. Listen carefully. Meet me tomorrow at 1300 hours where you usually take your lunch... Dorothy Cafe, yes, that's it. Now, not even Carrington must know about this. I shall be wearing my uniform. A comer booth is reserved where we can talk undisturbed, and our conversation must not be overheard. Do you have that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Not a word of this to anyone, do you understand?”

Valerie stared at the phone. “Yes, sir.”

“Fine. I know you can be trusted. See you tomorrow, then. Good-bye.”

“Thank you, Commander,” Valerie Sinclair said. “Good-bye for now.” She said it as an afterthought. It was more like a question. She turned then, and saw the safe already secured. Gathering up her purse—what in the world could he want?—she switched off the lights, locking the door. In the Administrative Offices of Grasshopper Bay, the upper windows were turning dark. She walked downstairs and made her way across the yard, digging out her pass....

“‘ello love, what we doin' tonight?”

“We?”

The guard wanted to chat. She left him hanging and entered the street. Wind flapped at her skirt. She crossed over, walking along the promenade to her flat. She had worked later than usual, and the long English day was at its best. Weymouth glowed in its beams of sunlight spearing in from the sea. Her thoughts went to the call from Commander Hamilton.

Would he be on to her about the Lea Francis?

Had he told Lieutenant Carrington? Could that explain why Carrington had been acting odd? In the cross-country, they'd told her to get there—they hadn't told her
how
. That bloke who came in second had probably filed a complaint. See you, Harry. Valerie wadded her guilt up in her chewing gum and tossed it in a can.

Twilight bathed the streets.

Suddenly, she felt she was being followed: nothing concrete, just a feeling of apprehension. She looked back. Did she see a man in a dark coat, slipping behind a shelter on the promenade—just there, where the Queen Victoria clock stood? After that strange conversation with Commander Hamilton, one could imagine anything. She turned and continued walking. It was still a good fifteen minutes to her flat. Daylight, which had filled the streets, disappeared from the horizon.

Darkness had come.

There seemed to be fewer people around. A wind had risen. Actually, what with papers flying, all she could see was a man in a trench coat, walking, some distance ahead.

She heard footsteps behind her—this time it was not imagination! She was definitely being followed. She must not continue walking along the front. It was too dangerous!

Now, even the man in the trench coat had disappeared, probably into a side road, which led off the main one. She must do the same, before the follower caught her up. He must not discover where she lived!

Trash rustled along the curb. She rounded the comer. Footsteps echoed from cribs of stone. She passed the man in the trench coat. He was wearing a wide-brimmed hat. Shadows concealed his face. Hurrying forward, she got an eerie feeling:

He didn't seem to have one!

She reached an alcove, stepped inside, and looked back. Her pursuer had appeared at the corner, in a dark coat and tall. He was reaching for something in his pocket. Was it a gun? He would have to pass the other man before he could get to her. Instead, he donned his cap and opened the door of a limousine.

A bus was coming. She pushed out of the alcove and crossed the street. The man without a face, standing amidst the stones and stairwells, seemed to have vanished.

She boarded, and found a seat. The bus accelerated. Behind it, following at a safe distance, a silver and black limousine was keeping it in view. Her pulse was racing—she had to get her breath! She wiped at her hair, adjusted her clothes, and looked back...at empty streets. She felt such a fool! Five minutes from the downtown area, she was soon among happier surroundings.

She stepped off the bus, and onto the esplanade, making her way back to the Gloucester Hotel. Adjacent to the Royal, the exquisite luxury of the place had not been dimmed by the demands of war. She remembered parties she had attended here, hosted by the Household Cavalry Regiment—chaps who knew how to treat a girl—Protectors to King George VI. She entered the lobby and approached the front desk.

“Do you have a vacant room?” she asked the receptionist.

The older woman, who was carefully groomed, put down her magazine and looked up. “Just one left, Miss, number thirteen. Seems that no one dare take it, with that number.” The thick Irish brogue left the rest undeclared.

“I'll take it,” Sinclair said.

“Eleven 'n sixpence then, 'n may the ghosts not find you.”

Sinclair paid for the room. It took most of her cash. With ghosts, it should have been cheaper. The Gloucester was still the Gloucester. Well then! She would enjoy a hot bath! Having collected the key, the girl paused for a moment at the magazine rack. She glanced over her shoulder. Outside in the street, fog was rising. Valerie felt chilled, she could feel it...

A vibration of some sort
...

She turned then, and headed for the stairs.

The Spy looked.

Frustrated, all he could see was her legs! Squinting into the lobby, the mysterious figure in the trench coat touched his driver's shoulder. “A clean hit, Ryan,” instructed his employer. “We do not want any witnesses!”

Ryan nodded, his powerful jaw muscles clenching in the efficiency of the thought. If you walked into a bar and saw Ryan, you wouldn't want to drink there.

It was looking like a scorcher.

Yielding to a hot sun, the veil of mist was burning off the harbor. Valerie opened the windows. She liked having the office to herself, it gave her a sense of belonging. Someday, she would have her own. She had checked out of the Gloucester, where she had enjoyed a solid breakfast. The world was making sense again.

Lieutenant Carrington called, still delayed, informing her that he was expecting an envelope. He asked her not to open it. Shortly after his call, it came in. It was from Hamilton. She held it up to the light, couldn't see what it was, and placed it neatly on his desk. The morning passed—strangely, there were no calls—and she was able to finish her files. At 1245 hours, Valerie locked the office, walked down the stairs, and hurried across the yards to the gate, where the guard waved her through. She missed the broad accents and lewd whistles of the friendly American troops, whose loud voices had carried laughter through the streets.