"I know you feel a certain loyalty to Admiral Canaris. After all, he is personally responsible for your rapid rise through the ranks of the Abwehr. But nothing you can say now can possibly change my opinion of Canaris. And a word to the wise. Be careful when coming to the aid of a drowning man. You may be dragged under as well."

Vogel was stunned. He said nothing. The barking of the dog faded slowly away, then was gone. The wind rose and blew snow across the path, erasing the border with the forest. Vogel wondered how close they laid the mines. He turned his head and glimpsed a pair of SS men trailing softly after them.

"It is now February," Himmler resumed. "I can predict with some certainty that Admiral Canaris will be dismissed soon, perhaps even by the end of the month. I intend to bring all the security and intelligence agencies of Germany under my control, including the Abwehr."

Vogel thought, The Abwehr under Himmler's control? It would be laughable if he wasn't serious.

"You are obviously a man of considerable talent," Himmler continued. "I want you to remain at the Abwehr. With a considerable promotion, of course."

"Thank you, Herr Reichsfuhrer." It was as if someone else said the words for him.

Himmler stopped. "It's cold. We should start back."

They walked past the security men, who waited until Himmler and Vogel were out of earshot before falling in quietly behind them.

Himmler said, "I'm glad we were able to reach agreement on the matter of leaving the agent in place. I think it is the prudent course of action at this time. And besides, Herr Vogel, it is never wise for one's personal feelings to cloud one's judgment."

Vogel stopped walking and looked into Himmler's desolate eyes. "What do you mean by that?"

"Please, don't treat me like a fool," Himmler said. "Brigadefuhrer Schellenberg spent some time in Madrid on another matter this past week. He met a friend of yours there--a man named Emilio Romero. Senor Romero told Brigadefuhrer Schellenberg all about your most prized possession."

Vogel thought, Damn Emilio for talking to Schellenberg! Damn Himmler for sticking his nose into places it doesn't belong! The SS men seemed to sense tension, and they drifted silently forward.

"I understand she's very beautiful," Himmler said. "It must have been difficult to give up a woman like that. It must be tempting to bring her home and lock her away. But she is to remain in place in England. Is that clear, Captain Vogel?"

"Yes, Herr Reichsfuhrer."

"Schellenberg has his faults: arrogant, too flashy, and this obsession with pornography--" Himmler shrugged. "But he's a clever and resourceful intelligence officer. I know you're going to enjoy working more closely with him."

Himmler turned abruptly and walked away. Vogel stood alone, shivering in the intense cold.

"You don't look well," Canaris said when Vogel returned to the car. "I usually feel that way after conversations with the chicken farmer. But I must admit I do a better job of hiding it than you."

There was a scratching at the side of the car. Canaris opened his door, and the dogs scampered inside and settled at Vogel's feet. Canaris rapped his knuckle on the glass divider. The engine turned over and the car crunched over the snow toward the gate. Vogel felt relief wash over him as the glare of the compound receded behind them and they returned once more to the gloom of the forest.

"The little corporal was very proud of you tonight," Canaris said, contempt in his voice. "And what about Himmler? Did you stick the dagger in me during your little moonlight stroll?"

"Herr Admiral--"

Canaris leaned over and put his hand on Vogel's arm. There was a look in his ice blue eyes Vogel had never seen.

"Be careful, Kurt," he said. "It is a dangerous game you are playing. A very dangerous game."

And with that Canaris leaned back, closed his eyes, and was immediately asleep.

39.

LONDON.

The operation was hastily code-named Kettledrum--who chose the name and why Vicary did not know. It was too complex and too sensitive to be run from his cramped quarters in St. James's Street, so for his command post Vicary procured a stately Georgian house in a terrace in West Halkin Street. The drawing room was converted into a situation room, with extra telephones, a wireless set, and a large-scale map of metropolitan London tacked to the wall. The upstairs library was turned into an office for Vicary and Harry. There was a rear entrance for the watchers and a pantry stocked with food. The typists volunteered to do the cooking, and Vicary, arriving at the house early that evening, was struck by the aroma of toast and bacon and the lamb stew bubbling on the stove.

A watcher led him upstairs to the library. A coal fire burned in the fireplace; the air was dry and warm. He struggled out of his sodden mackintosh, hung it on a hanger, and hung the hanger on the back of the door. One of the girls had left him a pot of tea, and he poured himself a cup. Vicary was exhausted. He had slept poorly after interrogating Jordan, and his hope of catching a little sleep in the car had been dashed by Boothby, who suggested they ride back to the office together so they could use the time to talk.

Overall control of Kettledrum was Boothby's. Vicary would run Jordan and be responsible for keeping Catherine Blake under surveillance. At the same time he would try to discover the rest of the agents in the network and their means of communication with Berlin. Boothby would be the liaison to the Twenty Committee, the interdepartmental group that supervised the entire Double Cross apparatus, so named because the symbol of Double Cross and the Roman numeral for twenty are the same: XX. Boothby and the Twenty Committee would produce the misleading documents for Jordan's briefcase and integrate Kettledrum into the rest of Double Cross and Bodyguard. Vicary did not ask about the nature of the misinformation, and Boothby did not tell him. Vicary knew what it meant. He had discovered the existence of the new German network and traced the leak back to Jordan. But now he was being shoved into a supporting role. Basil Boothby was fully in command.

"Nice digs," Harry said, as he entered the room. He poured himself a cup of tea and warmed his backside against the fire. "Where's Jordan?"

"Upstairs sleeping."

"Dumb bastard," Harry said, his voice lowered.

"He's our our dumb bastard now, Harry. Don't forget that. What have you got?" dumb bastard now, Harry. Don't forget that. What have you got?"

"Fingerprints."

"What?"

"Fingerprints, latent fingerprints from someone other than Peter Jordan, all over the inside of that study. On the desk, on the exterior of the safe. He says the cleaning lady was never allowed to go in. We should assume those latent fingerprints were left by Catherine Blake."

Vicary shook his head slowly.

"Jordan's house is ready to go," Harry continued. "We put so many microphones in that place you can hear a mouse fart. We evicted the family across the street and established a static post. The view is perfect. Anyone goes near that house gets their picture taken."

"What about Catherine Blake?"

"We traced her telephone number to a flat in Earl's Court. We took over a flat in the building opposite."

"Good work, Harry."

Harry looked at Vicary a long moment, then said, "Don't take this the wrong way, Alfred, but you look like hell."

"I can't remember the last time I slept. What's keeping you going?"

"A couple of Benzedrine and ten quarts of tea."

"I'm going to have a bite to eat, then try to get some sleep. What about you?"

"Actually, I had plans for the evening."

"Grace Clarendon?"

"She asked me to dinner. I thought I'd take the opportunity. I don't think we're going to have much free time the next few weeks."

Vicary rose and poured himself another cup of tea. "Harry, I don't want to take advantage of your relationship with Grace, but I'm wondering if she could do me a favor. I'd like her to run a couple of names quietly through Registry and see what comes up."

"I'll ask her. What are the names?"

Vicary carried his tea across the room and stood in front of the fire next to Harry.

"Peter Jordan, Walker Hardegen, and anyone or anything called Broome."

Grace never liked to eat before making love. Afterward Harry lay in her bed, smoking a cigarette, listening to Glenn Miller on the gramophone and the clatter of Grace cooking in her tiny kitchen. She came back into the bedroom ten minutes later. She wore a robe, loosely tied at her slender waist, and carried a tray with their supper on it: soup and bread. Harry sat up against the headboard and Grace leaned against the footboard. The tray was between them. She handed him a bowl of the soup. It was nearly midnight and they both were starved. Harry loved to watch her--the way she seemed to take such pleasure from the simple meal. The way her robe parted to reveal her taut, perfect body.

She noticed him looking at her and said, "What are you thinking, Harry Dalton?"

"I was thinking how much I never want this to end. I was thinking how much I wish every night of my life could be just like this."

Her face became very grave; she was absolutely incapable of hiding her emotions. When she was happy her face seemed to light up. When she was angry her green eyes smoldered. And when she was sad, like now, her body became very still.

"You mustn't say things like that, Harry. It's against the rules."

"I know it's against the rules, but it's the truth."

"Sometimes it's better to keep the truth to yourself. If you don't say it out loud, it doesn't hurt so much."

"Grace, I think I'm in love--"

She slammed down her spoon on the tray. "Jesus, Harry! Don't say things like that! You make it so damned hard sometimes. First you say you can't see me because you're feeling guilty, and now you're telling me you're in love with me."

"I'm sorry, Grace, it's just the truth. I thought we could always tell each other the truth."

"All right, here's the truth. I'm married to a wonderful man I care for very much and don't want to hurt. But I've fallen desperately in love with a detective-turned-spycatcher named Harry Dalton. And when this damned war is over I have to give him up. And it hurts like bloody hell every time I let myself think about it." Her eyes welled with tears. "Now shut up and eat your soup. Please. Let's talk about something else. I'm stuck in dreary Registry all day with Jago and his wretched pipe. I want to know what's going on in the rest of the world."

"All right. I have a favor to ask of you."

"What kind of favor?"

"A professional favor."

She smiled at him wickedly. "Damn, I was hoping it was a sexual favor."

"I need you to quietly run a couple of names through the Registry index. See if anything comes up."

"Sure, what are they?"

Harry told her.

"Okay, I'll see what I can find."

She finished the soup, leaned back, and watched Harry while he ate the rest of his soup. When he was done she stacked the dishes on the tray and set the tray on the floor next to the bed. She turned out the lights and lit a candle on the bedstand. She took off her robe, and she made love to him in a way she never had before: slowly, patiently, as if his body were made of crystal. Her eyes never strayed from his face. When it was over she fell forward onto his chest, her body limp and damp, her warm breath against his neck.

"You wanted the truth, Harry. That's the truth."

"I have to be honest with you, Grace. It didn't hurt."

It began a few minutes past ten o'clock the following morning when Peter Jordan, standing in the upstairs library of Vicary's house in West Halkin Street, dialed the number for Catherine Blake's flat. For a long time the recording of this one-minute conversation held the distinction of the most listened-to wiretap in the history of the Imperial Security Service. Vicary himself would listen to the damned thing a hundred times, searching for imperfections like a master jeweler examining a diamond for flaws. Boothby did the same. A copy of the recording was rushed back to St. James's Street by motorcycle courier, and for one hour the red light burned over Sir Basil's door as he listened over and over again.

The first time Vicary heard only Jordan. He was standing a few feet away, his back politely turned, his eyes fixed on the fire.

"Listen, I'm sorry I haven't had a chance to call sooner. I've just been busy as hell. I was out of town a day longer than I expected, and there was no way for me to call."

Silence, while she tells him there's no need to apologize.

"I missed you very much. I thought about you the entire time I was away."

Silence, while she tells him she missed him terribly and can't wait to see him again.

"I want to see you too. In fact, that's why I'm calling. I booked us a table at the Mirabelle. I hope you're free for lunch."

Silence, while she tells him that sounds wonderful.

"Good. I'll meet you there at one o'clock."

Silence, while she says she loves him very much.

"I love you too, darling."

Jordan was quiet when it was over. Vicary, watching him, was reminded of Karl Becker and the dark mood he slipped into whenever Vicary forced him to send a Double Cross message. They killed the rest of the morning with chess. Jordan played a precise mathematical match; Vicary engaged in deception and subterfuge. While they played they could hear the banter of the watchers and the clatter of the typists downstairs in the situation room. Jordan was beating Vicary badly so Vicary resigned.

At noon Jordan went to his room and dressed in his uniform. At twelve fifteen he walked out the rear door of the house and clambered into the back of a department van. Vicary and Harry settled into their places downstairs in the situation room while Jordan was driven at speed up Park Lane like a high-security prisoner. He was taken to a secluded rear door of SHAEF headquarters in Blackburn Street and went inside. For the next six minutes, no one from Vicary's team saw him.

Jordan emerged from the front entrance of SHAEF at 12:35. He walked across the square, a briefcase chained to his wrist, and vanished into another doorway. This time his absence was ten minutes. When he reappeared, the briefcase was gone. From Grosvenor Square he walked to South Audley Street and from South Audley Street to Curzon Street. During his journey he was quietly shadowed by three of the department's best watchers, Clive Roach, Tony Blair, and Leonard Reeves. None of them saw any signs that Jordan was under surveillance by the opposition.

At 12:55 Jordan arrived at the Mirabelle. He waited outside, just as Vicary had instructed him to do. At precisely one o'clock a taxi braked to a halt in front of the restaurant and a tall, attractive woman stepped into view. Ginger Bradshaw, the department's best surveillance photographer, was crouched in the back of a department van parked across the street; as Catherine Blake took Peter Jordan's hand and kissed his cheek, he quickly shot six photographs. The film was rushed back to West Halkin Street, and the prints were sitting in front of Vicary in the situation room by the time they had finished lunch.