"Well, if it isn't the man of the hour!" Boothby sang, flinging open the rear door of his Humber. "Come inside, Alfred, before you freeze to death out there. I just finished briefing the Twenty Committee. Needless to say, they're thrilled. They've asked me to pass on their congratulations to you. So, congratulations, Alfred."

"Thank you, I suppose," Vicary said, thinking, When did he have time to brief the Twenty Committee? It was barely seven in the morning: raining, colder than hell, London veiled in the dull half-light of wintry dawn. The car pulled away from the curb into the silent, shimmering street. Vicary slumped down on the seat, leaned his head back, and closed his eyes, just for a moment. He was beyond exhaustion. Fatigue pulled at his limbs. It pressed on his chest like the winner of a schoolyard wrestling match, squeezed his head like a vise. He had not slept again, not after listening to Catherine Blake photographing the Kettledrum material. What was it that kept him awake, the excitement of so skillfully deceiving the enemy or disgust at the manner in which it was done?

Vicary opened his eyes. They were heading east, across the Georgian bleakness of Belgravia, then Hyde Park Corner, then Park Lane to Bayswater Road. The streets were deserted--a few taxis here and there, a lorry or two, solitary pedestrians rushing along the pavement like scared survivors of a plague.

Vicary, closing his eyes again, said, "What's this all about anyway?"

"Remember I told you the Twenty Committee was considering using some of our other Double Cross assets to help bolster the credibility of Kettledrum in Berlin?"

"I remember," Vicary said. He also remembered he had been stunned by the speed at which the decision had been reached. The Twenty Committee was notorious for bureaucratic warfare. Each and every Double Cross message had to be approved by the Twenty Committee before it could be sent to the Germans through turned agents. Vicary sometimes waited days for the Committee to approve Double Cross messages for his Becker network. Why were they able to move so quickly now?

He was too tired to search his brain for possible answers. He closed his eyes again. "Where are we going?"

"East London. Hoxton, to be precise."

Vicary opened his eyes to a slit, then let them close again. "If we're going to East London, why are we traveling west along Bayswater Road?"

"To make certain we're not being followed by members of any other service, friendly or hostile."

"Who's going to be following us, Sir Basil? The Americans?"

"Actually, Alfred, I'm I'm more worried about the Russians." more worried about the Russians."

Vicary lifted his head and twisted it around at Boothby before letting it fall back onto the leather seat. "I'd ask for an explanation of that remark, but I'm too tired."

"In a few minutes everything will be made clear to you."

"Will there be coffee there?"

Boothby chuckled. "Yes, I can guarantee that."

"Good. You won't mind if I use this opportunity to get a few minutes of sleep?"

But Vicary had drifted off and didn't hear Boothby's answer.

The car jerked to a halt. Vicary, floating in a light sleep, felt his head roll forward, then snap back. He heard the metallic crunch of a door latch giving way, felt a blast of cold air clawing at his face. He came awake suddenly. He looked to his left and seemed surprised to see Boothby sitting there. He glanced at his wristwatch. Good heavens, nearly eight o'clock!--they had been driving the London streets for an hour. His neck ached from the awkward position in which he had slept, slumped down in his seat with his chin pressing against the top of his rib cage. His head throbbed with a craving for caffeine and nicotine. He took hold of the armrest and pushed himself into a sitting position. He looked out the window: East London, Hoxton, an ugly Victorian terrace that looked like a factory fallen on hard times. The terrace on the other side had been bombed--a house here, a pile of rubble there, then a house, then rubble--like a mouth of rotting teeth.

He heard Boothby say, "Wake up, Alfred, we're here. What on earth were you dreaming about anyway?"

He felt suddenly self-conscious. What had had he dreamt? Had he talked in his sleep? He hadn't dreamt of France since--since when?--since they cornered Catherine Blake. He wondered if he had dreamt of Helen. Climbing out of the car, he was overcome by a wave of fatigue and had to steady himself by putting a hand on the rear fender of the car. Boothby seemed not to notice, for he was standing on the pavement, glaring back at Vicary impatiently, rattling loose change in his pocket. Rain fell harder now. The bleak landscape somehow made it seem colder. Vicary, joining Boothby on the pavement, breathed deeply of the raw, damp air and immediately felt better. he dreamt? Had he talked in his sleep? He hadn't dreamt of France since--since when?--since they cornered Catherine Blake. He wondered if he had dreamt of Helen. Climbing out of the car, he was overcome by a wave of fatigue and had to steady himself by putting a hand on the rear fender of the car. Boothby seemed not to notice, for he was standing on the pavement, glaring back at Vicary impatiently, rattling loose change in his pocket. Rain fell harder now. The bleak landscape somehow made it seem colder. Vicary, joining Boothby on the pavement, breathed deeply of the raw, damp air and immediately felt better.

Boothby led the way through the front door into the hall. The house must have been turned into flats, because there were metal letter boxes on one wall. At the back of the hall--directly opposite the door--was a staircase. Vicary let the door close and they were enveloped in darkness. He reached out and groped for a light switch--he had seen one there, somewhere. He found it, flipped it. Nothing.

"They take the blackout a little more seriously here than we do up West," Boothby said. Vicary dug a blackout torch from the pocket of his mackintosh. He handed it to Boothby, and Boothby led the way up the wooden stairs.

Vicary could see almost nothing, just the outline of Boothby's broad back and a puddle of listless light leaking from the weak torch. Like a blind man the rest of his senses were suddenly alive. He was treated to a tour of foul odors--urine, stale beer, disinfectant, dried egg frying in old fat. Then the sounds--a parent striking a child, a couple quarreling, another couple noisily copulating. Somewhere he heard notes on an organ and a chorus of male voices. He wondered if there was a church nearby, then realized it was the BBC. Only then did he comprehend that it was Sunday. Kettledrum and the search for Catherine Blake had robbed him of the days of the week.

They reached the landing on the top floor. Boothby shone the torch down the hall. The light reflected in the yellow eyes of a skinny cat. It hissed at them in anger before scurrying away. Boothby followed the sound of the church services. The singing had stopped, and the congregation was reciting the Lord's Prayer. Boothby had a key. He stuck it in the lock and switched off the torch before going inside.

It was a squalid little room: an unmade bed no larger than Vicary's at MI5 headquarters, a tiny galley kitchen where coffee burned on a gas ring, a small cafe table where two men sat still as statues, listening to the radio. Both had vile Gauloise cigarettes in their mouths, and the air was blue with smoke. The lights were doused; the only illumination came from narrow windows that looked over the back of a terrace on the next street. Vicary walked to the window and looked out at an alley strewn with rubbish. Two little boys were tossing tin cans into the air and hitting them with sticks. A wind rose, lifting old newspaper into the air like circling gulls. Boothby was dumping the burnt coffee into two suspect enamel mugs. He gave one to Vicary and kept one for himself. The coffee was vile--bitter, stale, and too strong--but it was hot and it had caffeine.

Boothby used his chipped cup to make the introductions, tipping it first toward the older and larger of the two men. "Alfred Vicary, this is Pelican. That's not his real name, mind you. That's his code name. You don't get to know his real name, I'm afraid. I'm not sure even I I know his real name." He tipped his mug at the second man sitting at the table. "And this fellow is Hawke. That's not a code name. That's his real name. Hawke works for us, don't you, Hawke?" know his real name." He tipped his mug at the second man sitting at the table. "And this fellow is Hawke. That's not a code name. That's his real name. Hawke works for us, don't you, Hawke?"

But Hawke gave no indication he had heard Boothby speak. He was not a Hawke--more like a Stick or a Rod or a Cane, cadaverous and painfully thin. His cheap wartime suit hung from his bony shoulders as if it had been thrown over a valet. He had the pallor of someone who worked at night and beneath ground. His blond hair was thinning and going rapidly gray, even though he was no older than the boys Vicary had tutored his last term at the university. He held his Gauloise like a Frenchman, between the tip of his long thumb and forefinger. Vicary had the uncomfortable feeling he had seen him somewhere before--in the canteen, maybe, or leaving Registry with a batch of files beneath his arm. Or was it leaving Boothby's office by the secret passageway, the way he had seen Grace Clarendon leaving that night? Hawke didn't look at Vicary. The only time he moved was when Boothby took a couple of steps toward him. Then he only inclined his head away a fraction of an inch and tightened his face, as if he feared Boothby might strike him.

Vicary looked next at Pelican. He might have been a writer or he might have been a dockworker, he might be German or he might be French. Polish, perhaps--they were everywhere. Unlike Hawke, Pelican stared straight back at Vicary, holding him in a steady, slightly bemused gaze. Vicary couldn't quite see Pelican's eyes because he wore the thickest glasses Vicary had ever seen, tinted slightly, as if he was sensitive to bright light. Beneath his black leather coat he wore two sweaters, a gray rollneck and a frayed beige cardigan that looked as though it had been made for him by a well-meaning relative with eyes as good as his. He smoked his Gauloise to a stub, then crushed it out, using the cracked nail of his thick thumb.

Boothby removed his coat and turned down the radio. Then he looked at Vicary and said, "Well, now. Where should I begin?"

Hawke didn't work for us, us, Hawke worked for Boothby. Hawke worked for Boothby.

Boothby knew Hawke's father. Worked with him in India. Security. He met young Hawke in Britain in 1935 at a luncheon at the family's Kent estate. Young Hawke was drinking and talking too much, berating his father and Boothby for the kind of work they did, reciting Marx and Lenin like Shakespeare, waving his arms at the splendid gardens as though they were proof of the corruption of the English ruling classes. After lunch Hawke Senior smiled weakly at Boothby to apologize for his son's abominable behavior: children these days . . . you know . . . rot they're learning at school . . . expensive education gone to waste.

Boothby smiled too. He had been looking for a Hawke for a very long time.

Boothby had a new job: keep an eye on the Communists. Especially at the universities, Oxford and Cambridge. The Communist Party of Great Britain, with love and encouragement from its Russian masters, was trolling the universities for new members of the flock. The NKVD was looking for spies. Hawke went to work for Boothby at Oxford. Boothby seduced Hawke. Boothby gave direction to his directionless heart. Boothby was good at that. Hawke ran with the Communists: drank with them, quarreled with them, played tennis with them, fornicated with them. When the Party came for him, Hawke told them to fuck off.

Then the Pelican came for him.

Hawke called Boothby. Hawke was a good boy.

The Pelican was German, Jewish, and a Communist; Boothby saw the possibilities immediately. He had been a Communist street brawler in Berlin in the 1920s, but with Hitler in power he thought it best to find safer shores. He emigrated to England in 1933. The NKVD knew about the Pelican from his days in Berlin. When they found out he had settled in England they recruited him as an agent. He was supposed to be a talent spotter only, no heavy lifting. The first talent he spotted was Boothby's agent, Hawke. At the next meeting between Hawke and the Pelican, Boothby appeared out of nowhere and put the fear of God into him. Pelican agreed to go to work for Boothby.

Are you still with me, Alfred?

Vicary, listening at the window, thought, Oh, yes. In fact, I'm four moves ahead of you.

In August 1939, Boothby brought Hawke to MI5. On Boothby's orders, the Pelican told his Moscow controllers that his star recruit was now working in British Intelligence. Moscow was ecstatic. Pelican's star rose. Boothby used Pelican to funnel true but harmless material back to the Russians, all of it allegedly from his source inside MI5--Hawke--all information the Russians could verify from other sources. Pelican's star soared.

In November 1939, Boothby sent the Pelican to the Netherlands. A young, arrogant SS intelligence officer named Walter Schellenberg was making regular trips into Dutch territory under an assumed name to meet with a pair of MI6 agents.

Schellenberg was posing as a member of the Schwarze Kapelle Schwarze Kapelle and was asking the British for assistance. In truth, he wanted the British to give him the names of and was asking the British for assistance. In truth, he wanted the British to give him the names of real real German traitors so he could arrest them. The Pelican met Schellenberg in a cafe in a Dutch town just across the border and offered to work for him as a spy in Britain. He admitted he had done a job or two for the NKVD, including recruiting an Oxford boy named Hawke, who had just joined MI5 and with whom Pelican was still in regular contact. As a sign of goodwill the Pelican presented Schellenberg with a gift, a collection of Asian erotica. Schellenberg gave Pelican a thousand pounds, a camera, and a radio transmitter and sent him back to Britain. German traitors so he could arrest them. The Pelican met Schellenberg in a cafe in a Dutch town just across the border and offered to work for him as a spy in Britain. He admitted he had done a job or two for the NKVD, including recruiting an Oxford boy named Hawke, who had just joined MI5 and with whom Pelican was still in regular contact. As a sign of goodwill the Pelican presented Schellenberg with a gift, a collection of Asian erotica. Schellenberg gave Pelican a thousand pounds, a camera, and a radio transmitter and sent him back to Britain.

In 1940, MI5 reorganized. Vernon Kell, the old director-general who founded the department in 1909, was abruptly fired by Churchill. Sir David Petrie took charge. Boothby knew him from India. Boothby was kicked upstairs. He turned over the Pelican to a case officer--an amateur like you, Alfred: a solicitor, though, not a professor--but he kept a firm hand on him. Pelican was too important to be left to someone who barely knew his way to the canteen. Besides, the Pelican's dealings with Schellenberg were getting damned interesting.

Schellenberg was impressed with the Pelican's first reports. The material was all good but harmless stuff--munitions production, troop movements, bomb damage assessment. Schellenberg drank greedily of it, even though he knew it was coming from a Jewish Communist who had worked as a talent spotter for the NKVD. He and the rest of the SS despised Canaris and the professional intelligence officers at the Abwehr. They mistrusted the information Canaris was giving the Fuhrer. Schellenberg saw his opportunity. He could create a separate network in Britain that reported directly to him and Heinrich Himmler, bypassing the Abwehr altogether.

Boothby saw an opportunity too. He could use the Pelican network for two purposes: to verify misinformation being sent to Canaris through the Double Cross system and at the same time to sow mistrust between the two rival intelligence organizations. It was a delicate balancing act. MI5 wanted Canaris to remain on the job--after all, his agency had been totally compromised and manipulated--but a little palace intrigue was good too. British Intelligence could blow gently on the flames of dissension and treachery. Boothby started feeding Schellenberg information through the Pelican that raised questions about Canaris's loyalty--not enough for Schellenberg to plunge the dagger into the Old Fox's back, mind you, just enough to put the bloody thing in his hand.

In 1942, Boothby thought the game had spun out of control. Schellenberg compiled a lengthy list of Canaris's sins and presented it to Himmler. The Double Cross committee decided to throw Canaris a bone or two to untie the noose around his neck--high-grade intelligence he could show to the Fuhrer to prove the Abwehr's effectiveness. It worked. Himmler stuck Schellenberg's file in the drawer, and the Old Fox stayed on the job.

Boothby was pouring another cup of the obscene coffee. Vicary had been unable to finish his first cup. It sat half empty in the window, next to a dead moth that was slowly turning to powder. The little boys had been chased from the alley by the wind. It gusted, hurling rain against the glass. The room was in darkness. The house had gone quiet after the morning's activities. The only sound was the floor creaking beneath Boothby's restless pacing. Vicary turned from the window and watched him. He looked out of place in the grimy flat--like a priest in a cathouse--but he seemed to be enjoying himself thoroughly. Even spies like telling secrets sometimes.

Boothby reached inside the breast pocket of his suit, pulled out a single sheet of paper, and handed it to Vicary. It was the memorandum he had written to Boothby weeks ago, asking him to issue a security alert. Vicary looked at the top left corner; it had been stamped ACTION. Next to the stamp were two nearly illegible initials: BB. BB. Boothby reached out his hand and took the note back from Vicary. Then he gave it to Pelican. Boothby reached out his hand and took the note back from Vicary. Then he gave it to Pelican.

Pelican moved for the first time. He laid Vicary's memo on the table and switched on the light. Vicary, standing over him, could see Pelican's eyes crinkle in discomfort behind the dark glasses. From his pocket he removed a German-issue camera, the same one Schellenberg had given him in 1940. He carefully took ten photographs of the document, like a professional, adjusting the light and the camera angle each time to make certain he had at least one clear negative. Then he raised the camera and pointed it at Hawke. The camera clicked twice and he put it back in his pocket.

"The Pelican is going to Lisbon tonight," Boothby said. "Schellenberg and friends have requested a meeting with him. We think they're going to give him a very thorough going-over. Before they begin their interrogation, Pelican is going to give them this film. The next time Schellenberg and Canaris ride together in the Tiergarten, Schellenberg will tell him about it. Canaris and Vogel will take it as proof that Kettledrum is good as gold. Their agent has not been compromised. British Intelligence is in a panic. Therefore, the information she's sending about Operation Mulberry must be accurate. Get the picture, Alfred?"

Vicary and Boothby left first, Boothby leading, Vicary behind him again. Descending the stairs in the dark was harder than climbing them. Twice Vicary had to reach out in the gloom and steady himself on the soft shoulder of Boothby's cashmere coat. The cat reappeared and spat at them from a corner. The foul smells were the same; only the order was reversed. They reached the bottom of the stairs. Vicary felt the soles of his shoes scraping over the soiled linoleum of the hall. Boothby pushed open the door. Vicary, stepping back outside, felt the rain on his face.

He was never happier to be out of a place in his life. Walking to the car, he watched Boothby, who was watching him. Vicary felt as though he had just peered through the looking glass. He had been given a guided tour of a secret world of deception he never imagined existed. Vicary climbed into the car. Boothby got in next to him and closed the door. They were driven to Kingsland Road, then south toward the river. Vicary glanced at Boothby once, then averted his eyes. Boothby looked pleased with himself.

Vicary said, "You didn't have to show me all that. Why did you?"

"Because I wanted to."

"What happened to need to know need to know? I had no need to know all that. You could have tunneled my memo to Schellenberg and never told me about any of it."

"That's true."

"So why did you do it, to impress me?"

"In a way, yes," Boothby said. "You've impressed a great many people with your idea to leave Catherine Blake in place, including me. I realized I've underestimated you, Alfred--your intelligence and your ruthlessness. It takes a coldhearted bastard to send Peter Jordan back into that bedroom with a briefcase full of Double Cross. I wanted to show you the next level of the game."

"Is that how you think of this, Sir Basil, a game?"

"Not just a a game, Alfred, game, Alfred, the the game." game."

Boothby smiled. It could be his greatest weapon. Vicary, gazing at his face, imagined it was the same smile he used on his wife, Penelope, when assuring her he had given up his latest little love.

The illusion of Kettledrum required Vicary to spend much of his day in his cramped office in St. James's Street--after all, they were trying to convince the Abwehr, and the rest of the department, that Vicary was still pursuing a German agent with access to top-secret material. He closed the door and sat down at his desk. He desperately needed sleep. He laid his head on the desk like a drowsy student and closed his eyes. When he did, he was immediately back in the grimy Hoxton flat. He saw the Pelican and he saw the Hawke. He saw the little boys in the filthy alleyway, pale malnourished legs poking from their shorts. He saw the moth turning to dust. He heard the organ music echoing through the grand cathedral. He thought of Matilda; guilt over missing her funeral flashed over him like hot water poured down his neck.

Damn. Why can't I turn it off just for a few minutes and sleep?

Then he saw Boothby, striding around the flat, telling the story of the Hawke and the Pelican and the elaborate deception he had foisted on Walter Schellenberg. He realized he had never seen Boothby happier: Boothby in the field, surrounded by his agents, Boothby drinking vile coffee from a chipped enamel mug. He realized he had misjudged Boothby or, more accurately, he had been misled by Boothby. The entire department had been. Boothby was a lie. The comic bureaucrat, preening around his grand office, the silly personal maxims, the red light and the green light, the ridiculous fetish about moisture rings on his precious furniture--it was all a lie. That was not Basil Boothby. Basil Boothby was not a pusher of paper. Basil Boothby was a runner of agents. A liar. A manipulator. A deceiver. Vicary, drifting off to sleep, found he loathed Boothby just a little less. But one thing troubled him. Why had Boothby lowered the veil? And why now?

Vicary felt himself descending into a dreamless sleep. In the distance Big Ben tolled ten o'clock. The chimes faded, only to be replaced by the muffled clatter of the teleprinters outside his closed door. He wanted to sleep for a long time. He wanted to forget about it all, just for a few minutes. But after a short while, the shaking began--gentle at first, then violent. Then the sound of a girl's voice--at first downy and pleasant, then slightly alarmed. "Professor Vicary . . . Professor Vicary. . . . Please wake up. . . . Professor Vicary. . . . Can you hear me?"

Vicary, his head still resting on his folded hands, opened his eyes. For an instant he thought it was Helen. But it was only Prudence, a flaxen angel from the typing pool. "I'm so sorry to wake you, Professor. But Harry Dalton's on the line, and he says it's urgent. Let me bring you a cup of hot tea, you poor lamb."

41.

LONDON.

Catherine Blake left her flat shortly before eleven a.m., a light, cold rain falling. The darkening skies promised worse weather to come. She had three hours before her rendezvous with Neumann. On dreary days like these she was tempted to skip her painstaking ritual sojourns across London and proceed straight to the rendezvous site. It was monotonous, exhausting work, constantly stopping and checking her tail, jumping on and off underground trains and in and out of taxicabs. But it was necessary, especially now.

She paused in the door, knotting a scarf beneath her chin, looking into the street. A quiet Sunday morning, traffic light, shops still closed. Only the cafe across the street was open. A bald man sat in a window table reading a newspaper. He looked up for an instant, turned a page, and looked down again.

Outside the cafe a half dozen people waited for a bus. Catherine looked at the faces and thought she had seen one of them before, maybe at the bus stop, maybe somewhere else. She looked up at the flats across the street. If they're watching you, they'll do it from a fixed position, a flat or a room over a shop. If they're watching you, they'll do it from a fixed position, a flat or a room over a shop. She scanned the windows, looking for any changes, any faces looking back at her. She saw nothing. She finished tying her scarf, put up her umbrella, and started walking through the rain. She scanned the windows, looking for any changes, any faces looking back at her. She saw nothing. She finished tying her scarf, put up her umbrella, and started walking through the rain.

She caught her first bus in Cromwell Road. It was nearly empty: a pair of old ladies; an old man who mumbled to himself; a slight man who had shaved poorly, wore a soggy mackintosh, and read a newspaper. Catherine got off at Hyde Park Corner. The man with the newspaper did too. Catherine headed into the park. The man with the newspaper headed in the opposite direction, toward Piccadilly. What was it Vogel had said about the watchers of MI5? Men you would walk past on the street and never give a second look. Men you would walk past on the street and never give a second look. If Catherine were selecting men to be MI5 watchers, she would have chosen the man with the newspaper. If Catherine were selecting men to be MI5 watchers, she would have chosen the man with the newspaper.

She walked north on a footpath bordering Park Lane. At the northern edge of the park, at Bayswater Road, she turned around and walked back to Hyde Park Corner. Then she turned around and walked north again. She was confident no one was following her on foot. She walked a short distance along Bayswater Road. She stopped at a letter box and dropped an empty unmarked envelope into the slot, using the opportunity to check her tail once more. Nothing. The clouds thickened, the rain fell harder. She found a taxi and gave the driver an address in Stockwell.

Catherine sat back in her seat, watching the rain running in patterns down the window. Crossing Battersea Bridge, the wind gusted, causing the taxi to shudder. The traffic was still very light. Catherine turned around and looked through the small porthole of a rear window. Behind them, perhaps two hundred yards away, was a black van. She could see two people in the front seat.

Catherine turned around and noticed the cabbie was watching her in his rearview mirror. Their eyes met briefly; then he returned his gaze to the road. Catherine instinctively reached inside her handbag and touched the grip of her stiletto. The cab turned into a street lined with bleak, identical Victorian houses. There was not another human being in sight; no traffic, no pedestrians on the pavement. Catherine turned around again. The black van was gone.

She relaxed. She was especially anxious to make today's rendezvous. She wanted to know Vogel's response to her demand to be taken out of England. Part of her wished she had never sent it. She felt certain MI5 was closing in on her; she had made terrible mistakes. But at the same time she was gathering remarkable intelligence from Peter Jordan's safe. Last night she photographed a document emblazoned with the sword and shield of SHAEF and stamped most secret. It was quite possible she was stealing the the secret of the invasion. She could not be sure from her vantage point--Peter Jordan's project was just one piece in a giant, complex puzzle. But in Berlin, where they were trying to fit that puzzle together, the information she was taking from Peter Jordan's safe might be invaluable, pure gold. She found she wanted to continue, but why? It was illogical, of course. She had never wanted to be a spy; she had been blackmailed into it by Vogel. She never felt any great allegiance to Germany. In fact, Catherine felt no allegiance to anything or anyone--she supposed that's what made her a good agent. There was something else. Vogel had always called it a game. Well, she was hooked on the game. She liked the challenge of the game. And she wanted to win the game. She didn't want to steal the secret of the invasion so Germany could win the war and the Nazis could rule Europe for a thousand years. She wanted to steal the secret of the invasion to prove she was the best, better than all the bumbling idiots the Abwehr sent to England. She wanted to show Vogel that she could play his game better than he could. secret of the invasion. She could not be sure from her vantage point--Peter Jordan's project was just one piece in a giant, complex puzzle. But in Berlin, where they were trying to fit that puzzle together, the information she was taking from Peter Jordan's safe might be invaluable, pure gold. She found she wanted to continue, but why? It was illogical, of course. She had never wanted to be a spy; she had been blackmailed into it by Vogel. She never felt any great allegiance to Germany. In fact, Catherine felt no allegiance to anything or anyone--she supposed that's what made her a good agent. There was something else. Vogel had always called it a game. Well, she was hooked on the game. She liked the challenge of the game. And she wanted to win the game. She didn't want to steal the secret of the invasion so Germany could win the war and the Nazis could rule Europe for a thousand years. She wanted to steal the secret of the invasion to prove she was the best, better than all the bumbling idiots the Abwehr sent to England. She wanted to show Vogel that she could play his game better than he could.