"Is it? Since you've taken charge of this case it's been one disaster after another. My God, Alfred--a few more German spies running loose in this country and they could form a rugby club."

Vicary refused to be baited. "If you're not going to present my report to the director-general, I want the official record of this affair to reflect the fact that I made the suggestion at this time and you turned it down."

The corners of Boothby's mouth lifted into a terse smile. Protecting one's flank was something he understood and appreciated. "Already thinking of your place in history, are you, Alfred?"

"You're a complete bastard, Sir Basil. And an incompetent one as well."

"You're addressing a senior officer, Major Vicary!"

"Believe me, I haven't missed the irony."

Boothby snatched up the briefcase and his leather grip, then looked at Vicary and said, "You have a great deal to learn."

"I suppose I could learn it from you."

"And what in God's name is that supposed to mean?"

Vicary got to his feet. "It means you should start thinking more about the security of this country and less about your personal advancement through Whitehall."

Boothby smiled easily, as if he were trying to seduce a younger woman. "But, my dear Alfred," he said, "I've always considered the two to be completely intertwined."

21.

EAST LONDON.

Catherine Blake had a stiletto hidden in her handbag the following evening as she hurried along the pavement toward the Popes' warehouse. She had demanded a meeting alone with Vernon Pope, and, as she approached the warehouse, she saw no sign of Pope's men. She stopped at the gate and turned the latch. It was unlocked, just as Pope said it would be. She pulled it open and stepped inside.

The warehouse was a place of shadows, the only illumination from a light hanging at one end of the room. Catherine walked toward the light and found the freight lift. She stepped inside, pulled the gate closed, and pressed the button. The lift groaned and shuddered upward toward Pope's office.

The lift emptied onto a small landing with a set of black double doors. Catherine knocked and heard Pope's voice on the other side tell her to enter. He was standing at a drinks trolley, a bottle of champagne in one hand, a pair of glasses in the other. He held one out toward Catherine as she walked across the floor.

"No, thank you," she said. "I'm just staying for a minute."

"I insist," he said. "Things got a little tense the last time we were together. I want to make it up to you."

"Is that why you had me followed?" she said, accepting the wine.

"I have everyone followed, darling. That's how I stay in business. My boys are good at it, as you'll see when you read this." He held out an envelope toward Catherine, then pulled it away as her hand reached for it. "That's why I was so surprised when you managed to give Dicky the slip. That was smooth--ducking into the underground and then jumping on a bus."

"I changed my mind." She drank some of the champagne. It was ice cold and excellent. Pope held out the envelope again and this time allowed Catherine to take it. She set down her glass and opened it.

It was exactly what she needed, a minute-by-minute account of Peter Jordan's movements around London: where he worked, the hours he kept, the places he did his eating and drinking, even the name of a friend.

While she finished reading, Pope took the champagne from the ice bucket and poured another glass for himself. Catherine reached inside her handbag, took out the money, and dropped it on the table. "Here's the rest," she said. "I think that concludes our business. Thank you very much."

She was slipping the report on Peter Jordan into her purse when Pope stepped forward and loosened her grip on the bag. "Actually, Catherine darling, our business together has just begun."

"If it's more money you want--"

"Oh, I want more money. And if you don't want me to make a call to the police, you're going to give it to me." He took another step closer to her, pressed his body against hers, and ran his hand over her breasts. "But there's something else I want from you."

The bedroom doors opened and Vivie stood there, wearing nothing but one of Vernon's shirts unbuttoned to her waist. "Vivie, meet Catherine," Pope said. "Lovely Catherine has agreed to stay for the evening."

They didn't prepare her for situations like this at the Abwehr spy school in Berlin. They taught her how to count troops, how to assess an army, how to use her radio, how to recognize the insignia of units and the faces of senior officers. But they never taught her how to deal with a London gangster and his kinky girlfriend who planned to spend the evening taking turns with her body. She had the sensation of being trapped in some silly pubescent fantasy. She thought, This can't really be happening. But it was was happening, and Catherine could think of nothing from her training to get her through it. happening, and Catherine could think of nothing from her training to get her through it.

Vernon Pope led her through the doors into the bedroom. He pushed her down at the end of the bed, then sat down in a chair in the corner of the room. Vivie stood in front of her and undid the last two buttons of the shirt. She had small upturned breasts and pale skin that shone in the dim light of the room. She took hold of Catherine's head and pulled it to her breasts. Catherine played along with the depraved game, taking Vivie's nipple into her mouth, while she thought about how best to kill them both.

Catherine knew once she submitted to blackmail it would never end. Her financial resources were not unlimited. Vernon Pope could bleed her dry very quickly. With no money, she would be rendered useless. She decided there was little risk involved; she had covered her tracks carefully. The Popes and their men did not know where to find her. They only knew she worked as a volunteer nurse at St. Thomas Hospital, and Catherine had given the hospital a false address. They would also be reluctant to go to the police. The police would ask questions--answering them truthfully would mean admitting to following an American naval officer for money.

All of it hinged on killing Vernon Pope as quickly and quietly as possible.

Catherine took Vivie's other breast into her mouth and sucked the nipple until it became firm. Vivie's head rolled back and she moaned. She took Catherine's hand and guided it between her legs. Already she was warm and wet. Catherine had turned off all her emotions. She was just mechanically going through the movements of giving physical pleasure to this woman. She felt neither fear nor revulsion; she simply tried to remain calm and to think clearly. Vivie's pelvis began to work against Catherine's fingers, and a moment later her body trembled with an orgasm.

Vivie pushed Catherine down onto the bed, sat astride her hips, and began undoing the buttons of her sweater. She unhooked Catherine's brassiere and massaged her breasts. Catherine saw Vernon rise from his seat and begin to undress. For the first time she became nervous. She didn't want him on top of her or inside her. He might be a cruel and sadistic lover. He might hurt her. On her back, with her legs spread, she would be vulnerable. She would also be subject to his superior weight and strength. All the fighting techniques she had learned hinged on speed and maneuverability. If she were pinned beneath Vernon Pope's heavy body she would be defenseless.

Catherine had to play their game. Better still, she had to control it.

She reached up and took Vivie's breasts in her hands and stroked the nipples. She could see Vernon watching them. He was feeding on them with his eyes, drinking in the sight of the two women caressing each other. She drew Vivie toward her and guided her mouth to her breasts. Catherine thought how easy it would be to take Vivie's head in her hands and twist it until her neck snapped, but it would be a mistake. She needed to kill Pope first. Vivie would be easy after that.

Pope walked toward the bed and nudged Vivie aside.

Before Vernon could lie down on top of her, Catherine sat up and kissed him. She got to her feet as his tongue thrashed wildly about inside her mouth. She fought off an impulse to gag. For a moment she considered allowing him to make love to her, then killing him afterward when he was drowsy and satisfied. But she didn't want it to go on longer than was absolutely necessary.

She stroked his penis. He groaned and kissed her harder.

He was helpless now. She turned him so that his back faced the bed.

Then she slammed her knee viciously into his groin.

Pope doubled over, gasping for breath, hands between his thighs. Vivie screamed.

Catherine spun and drove her elbow into the bridge of his nose. She could hear the sound of the bone and cartilage snapping. Pope collapsed onto the floor at the foot of the bed, blood pouring from his nostrils. Vivie was kneeling on the bed, screaming. She was no threat to Catherine now.

She turned and moved quickly for the door. Pope, still on the floor, swung his leg.

It smashed into Catherine's right ankle and caused her own legs to become entangled. She crashed to the floor, the heavy fall taking her breath away. She saw stars for a moment and tears spilled into her eyes. She feared she was about to lose consciousness.

She struggled to her hands and knees and was about to climb to her feet when Pope grabbed her ankle in a vise grip and began dragging her toward him. She rolled quickly onto her side and drove the heel of her shoe into his broken nose. Pope screamed in agony, but his grip on her ankle seemed only to tighten.

She kicked him a second time, then a third. Finally, he let her go.

Catherine scrambled to her feet and ran to the couch, where Pope had made her leave her handbag. She opened it and unzipped the inner compartment. The stiletto was there. She took hold of the handle and pressed the release. The blade snapped into place.

Pope was on his feet, plunging through the darkness, hands reaching out for her. Catherine spun around and lashed out wildly with the weapon. The tip of the blade tore a gash across his right shoulder.

Pope grabbed the wound with his left hand, screaming in pain as blood began to pump between his fingers. His arm was across his chest--no way to plunge the stiletto into his heart. The Abwehr had taught her another method that made her cringe just to think about. But she would have to use it now. No other choice.

Catherine took a step closer, drew back the stiletto, and rammed it through Vernon Pope's eye.

Vivie was in the corner of the bedroom, lying on the floor in a fetal position, weeping hysterically. Catherine took her by the arm, pulled her to her feet, and pushed her back against the wall.

"Please--don't hurt me."

"I'm not going to hurt you."

"Don't hurt me."

"I'm not going to hurt you."

"I promise I won't tell anyone, not even Robert. I swear."

"Nor the police?"

"I won't tell the police."

"Good. I knew I could trust you."

Catherine stroked her hair, touched her face. Vivie seemed to relax. Her body went limp and Catherine had to hold her up to keep her from collapsing onto the floor.

"What are you?" Vivie asked. "How could you do that to him?"

Catherine said nothing, just stroked Vivie's hair while her other hand gently searched for the soft spot at the bottom of the rib cage. Vivie's eyes opened wide as the stiletto slid into her heart. A cry of pain caught in her throat and came out as a low gurgle. She died quickly and quietly, blank eyes staring into Catherine's.

Catherine released her. The motion of the body sliding down the wall pulled the stiletto from her heart. Catherine looked at the human wreckage all around her, the blood. My God, what have they made of me? My God, what have they made of me? Then she fell to her knees next to Vivie's dead body and was violently sick. Then she fell to her knees next to Vivie's dead body and was violently sick.

She conducted the rituals of escape with surprising calmness. In the bathroom, she washed their blood from her hands, from her face, and from the blade of the stiletto. There was nothing she could do about the blood on her sweater except conceal it beneath her leather coat. She walked through the bedroom, past the body of the woman, and into the next room. She went to the window and looked down into the street. Pope, it appeared, had kept his word. There was no one outside the warehouse. They would surely find his body in the morning, though, and when they did, they would come after her. For now, at least, she was safe. She collected her handbag and, from the table, the one hundred pounds in cash she had given Pope. She took the lift down, crossed the warehouse floor, and slipped out into the night.

22.

EAST LONDON.

Detective-Superintendent Andrew Kidlington, unlike most members of his profession, avoided murder scenes when he could. A lay preacher in his local church, he had lost his taste for the more ghoulish side of his profession long ago. He had assembled a thoroughly professional team of officers and believed it best to give them free rein. He had a legendary ability to deduce more about a murder from a good file than from a visit to the crime scene, and he made certain every shred of paper generated by his department crossed his desk. But it wasn't every day that someone stuck a knife in a man like Vernon Pope. This one he had to see for himself.

The uniformed officer standing watch outside the warehouse door moved aside as Kidlington approached. "The lift is at the far end of the warehouse, sir. Take it up one level. There's another man on the landing. He'll show you the way."

Kidlington slowly crossed the warehouse floor. He was tall and angular with a head of woolly gray hair and the look of someone perpetually preparing to break bad news. As a result his men tended to tread lightly around him.

A young detective-sergeant named Meadows was waiting for him on the landing. Meadows was too flashy for Kidlington's taste and put himself about with too many women. But he was an excellent detective and had promotion written all over him.

"Pretty messy in there, sir," Meadows said.

Kidlington could taste blood in the air as Meadows led him inside. Vernon Pope's body lay on an Oriental rug next to the couch. The dark circle of blood extended beyond the gray covering sheet. Kidlington, despite thirty years on the Metropolitan Police, still felt bile rising in his throat when Meadows knelt beside the body and drew back the sheet.

"Good Lord," Kidlington said, beneath his breath. He made a face and turned away for a moment to regain his composure.

"I've never seen one like this," Meadows said.

The dead body of Vernon Pope was lying naked, faceup, in a pool of dried black blood. It was obvious to Kidlington that the fatal wound was struck only after a brutal struggle. There was a large ragged slash across his shoulder. The nose had been badly broken. Blood had drained from both nostrils into the mouth, which had fallen open in death, as if to issue one last scream. Then there was the eye. Kidlington had trouble looking at it. Blood and ocular fluid had drained down the side of his face. The eyeball was destroyed, the pupil no longer visible. It would take an autopsy to determine the true depth of the wound, but it appeared to be the fatal blow. Someone had shoved something through Vernon Pope's eye and into his brain.

Kidlington broke the silence. "Approximate time of death?"

"Sometime last night, perhaps early evening."

"Weapon?"

"Hard to say. Certainly not an ordinary knife. Look at the shoulder. The edges of the wound are ragged."

"Conclusion?"

"Something sharp. A screwdriver, an ice pick perhaps." Kidlington glanced across the room. "Pope's is still on the drinks trolley. Unless your killer is walking around with his own ice pick, I doubt it was the murder weapon." Kidlington looked down at the body again. "I'd say it was a stiletto. It's a stabbing weapon, not a slashing weapon. That would account for the ragged wound on the shoulder and the clean puncture wound in the eye."

"Right, sir."

Kidlington had seen enough. He rose to his feet and gestured for Meadows to cover the body.

"The woman?"

"In the bedroom. This way, sir."