A Gathering of Spies (3 page)

“Darling,” Richard said, “it's a job. A phenomenal job.”

She blinked up at him sleepily.

“Government work,” he said, sitting down beside her. “It's a great honor, Catherine, just phenomenal.”

She yawned.

“Out of all the people in the department, they chose—”

“Richard,” she said.

“Me. They chose
me
.”

“I need tea,” she said.

She stood up and brushed past him into the kitchen.

Richard sat and listened as Catherine made herself a pot of tea. So far, he was thinking, so good. He had told her only half of it, of course. The easy half. He hadn't gotten to the part about needing to leave Princeton. But that could wait until she'd had her tea. Her mood after waking improved greatly, as a rule, with the consumption of caffeine.

After a few minutes she came back into the living room, cup in hand, her blond hair bouncing, and sat beside him on the couch again. She looked more alert now. Her eyes, green flecked with gray, were sharp. The beginnings of crow's-feet were imprinted around those eyes, but in Richard's opinion they only made her look more lovely. Catherine possessed a rare kind of beauty, a
true
beauty, which would only grow deeper and more profound as she got older.

She had brought her pack of cigarettes from the kitchen. She lit one and exhaled a thin stream of smoke. Her eyes found his.

“A job,” she said.

He nodded eagerly. “Not just any job. A phenomenal job. A phenomenal oppor—”

“What does it pay?”

“Pay?” he said.

The truth was, he hadn't even thought to ask what it paid. He didn't even know, as a matter of fact, if he
would
get paid. And he didn't especially care. This was a chance to work alongside the most brilliant men in the world. Elbow to elbow; cranium to cranium. Hell,
he
would pay for this opportunity, if that was what it took.

But Catherine's eyes, over the rim of her cup, were not only sharp—they were arch.

“I don't know exactly what it pays,” he said cautiously. “But I'm sure the money's good.”

“How good?”

“Good.”

“How good?” she asked, taking a drag from her cigarette, chasing it with a sip of tea.

“I don't know exactly. But that's not the point, Catherine. The point is that I'll be working with the greatest thinkers in the world.
The greatest thinkers in the world
.”

“The greatest thinkers in Princeton, you mean.”

“No, no, no. They'll be coming from all over. Chicago, Berkeley, maybe even—”

“Coming to Princeton?”

He blinked.

“Not coming to Princeton?” she said.

He shook his head.

“Coming where?” she asked.

“Well … Albuquerque.”

“Albuquerque?”

“New Mexico.”

“We're going to New Mexico?”

“That depends,” he said. “Some of the boys are bringing their wives. But some of them …” He left the thought unfinished.

A ridge of concentration appeared between her eyes.

That ridge, even after nearly eight years of marriage, mystified Richard Carter.

The things Catherine said, after getting that ridge between her eyes, invariably came as a surprise to him.

When Catherine had first arrived in Princeton nine years before, she had been far less prone to scowls. She had not smiled often, even then; she had kept mostly to herself as she went about her housekeeping duties. But she had possessed, at least, a pleasant air.

For the first few weeks, Carter had barely noticed that she was in the house. By the fifth week, he had become aware of her presence in an abstracted, affectionate sort of way. By the seventh, he'd found himself looking forward to their brief encounters—a polite passing in the halls, the occasional meal together.

By the time Catherine had been in the house for three months, he had fallen hopelessly in love with her.

At first he had refused to accept it. The girl was half his age, his own dear wife had been gone for only four years, and he was making progress in his work—the separation of uranium isotopes—which a love affair could serve only to slow down.

But the heart was not logical. Once set upon a course, no amount of rational argument could dissuade it.

Finally he had decided to bring the matter to a resolution. He had gathered his courage and proposed.

Catherine, in accepting, had made him the happiest man on earth.

But soon after had come the ridge.

He first saw the ridge appear between her eyes when he had suggested that they find another cleaning woman to hire. She had been about to become his wife; it had never occurred to him that she would want to continue in her capacity as housekeeper. But the ridge had shown up and she had thought hard for five silent minutes. Then she had announced that she didn't know what she would do with herself if he hired someone else to take her job, and she'd really rather he didn't. He had capitulated without argument—he could never argue with her—and had then watched, baffled but silent, as she did less housework with every passing month.

Who knew how her mind worked? Not he. But the ridge meant trouble; he knew that much.

The ridge was also there when she had told him out of the blue, the previous year, that she wanted to go to work for the Federal Shipbuilding Company in Kearny, New Jersey. She felt guilty for doing nothing, she said, lazing around the house all day while the country slogged off to war. She wanted to manufacture ball bearings like the other women, tossing in her own two cents. This from a woman who couldn't manage to keep a modest little university house dust-free, although she had fourteen waking hours a day in which to do it.

But he hadn't argued.

The Kearney adventure, of course, had lasted less than a month. Cat hadn't expected to work fifty-hour weeks driving rivets; nor had she expected to be required to wear slacks.

Finally, she stirred. The ash on her cigarette had grown long. She tapped it into a ceramic ashtray on an end table, then said, “How long will it last—this job?”

“A few months. Maybe longer.”

“In Albuquerque.”

“Yes.”

“Who else is going?”

“A bunch of boys from the university. But I'm the only one from my department. That's why it's such a phenomenal—”

“Yes, it's a phenomenal honor, you've made that clear,” she said. “What would I do, Richard, if I stayed here while you went away?”

He shrugged. “Whatever you want, I suppose.”

“What would I do if I came with you?”

“There wouldn't be much. It's in the middle of the desert.”

“What does the government want with an old mathematician, anyway?”

“Darling, I don't really think you'd—”

The ridge began to appear again.

“It's a bit technical,” he said quickly. “Besides, it's a secret.”

“But I'm your wife.”

“Yes, of course you are. But …”

“Oh, forget it. I'm sure you're right. I wouldn't understand.”

She stabbed out her cigarette, barely smoked.

“I'll come with you,” she decided, and then watched him closely.

“I would be the luckiest man in the world,” Richard said, “if my gorgeous wife was really willing to follow me out into the middle of nowhere.”

She looked at him for another moment, clinically. He wondered if he had said something wrong. It was so hard to know how she would react these days. He never would have guessed that she would have any interest in following him to Los Alamos. She had become a stranger to him at some point.…

Then she dropped into his lap and gave him a kiss. A real kiss, full on the lips. It was rare, lately, to get a real kiss from Catherine. He kissed back. God, but she was beautiful.

In the last instant before his eyes drifted closed, he took a look at her forehead.

The ridge was nowhere to be seen.

They had chosen
him
—and his beautiful young wife was willing to accompany him to the middle of nowhere.

There was no doubt in Richard Carter's mind at that moment that he was the most fortunate man on the face of the earth.

HOLLAND PARK, LONDON

Three weeks had passed since Winterbotham's cryptic meeting with his old friend Andrew Taylor. During that time he had not gotten a single good night's sleep—but there was nothing unusual about that.

At some point in the nether hours of each morning, he would give up and seek refuge in his library. He would sit wearing his favorite faded bathrobe, poring over some dusty old tome or other, smoking pipe after pipe of orange-flavored tobacco, sometimes drinking a bit of the mediocre whiskey he had squirreled away. None of it helped put him back to sleep or even put his mind at ease. It was the worst insomnia he had suffered since the early days of the war, when Ruth first had been lost. He had slept better during the worst of the
Luftwaffe
's bombing raids than he was sleeping now.

We all make mistakes
.

That we do
, Taylor had agreed.

Perhaps that was one of mine
.

Perhaps it was
.

Of course it had been. Winterbotham knew it now. For the first few months following the outbreak of war, he had refused to admit that he had been mistaken. He had stuck tenaciously to his old line: Germany was not their enemy; Germany had been given a poor deal by Versailles, and England had nobody to blame but herself; peace in their time was the ultimate goal. But then there had come a time—had it been with the first bombing raids?—when he was no longer able to delude himself. As a matter of fact, he saw, Germany
was
the enemy. Nazi Germany was the worst enemy they had ever faced, and rather than appeasing Hitler, they should have done just the opposite. They should have done it from the very beginning.

None of which meant that he liked Churchill any more than he ever had. The man was a warmonger, and that was the plain truth. It just so happened that Hitler was even more of a warmonger, and fire had to be fought with fire. But in peaceful times he never would have supported Churchill. When a man needed combat to thrive, in Winterbotham's opinion, there was something wrong with him.

Still, Churchill was what England needed now.

And I
, he thought,
am I what England needs now
?

Of course he wasn't. He was an old man, for one thing, not the wildcat he once had been. But even when he
had
been a wildcat, he had been a devoutly pacifistic one. His wildness had been reserved for academic discussions and lively barroom debates. What England needed now was fighters, and he would never be a fighter.

It's a waste of talent, is what it is
, Taylor had said.

What talent? The talent to discuss literature? He had that in spades, but Taylor wouldn't want to hear any of what he would have to say. Winterbotham would be liable to quote Oscar Wilde:
Truth is rarely pure and never simple
. No, Taylor would want rhetoric, blood-stirring rhetoric, the better to rally the boys so they could cross the Channel, go back to Dunkirk, and start laying claim to Europe.
We shall fight on beaches, we shall fight on landing grounds, we shall fight in fields and in streets, we shall never surrender
.…

What other talent did he have? What else about him could have interested Taylor enough to account for the meeting?

Chess?

It was true, he had roundly trounced Taylor for years. But chess was just a game. And there were far better chess players than he in England.

We're fighting a new kind of war. Playing games is what we do
.

What was that supposed to mean? It was a new kind of war, all right, but as far as Winterbotham could see, the newness was a result of technology. Hitler's armies had rolled over France in short order thanks to the force of their tanks; the Japanese had devastated Pearl Harbor with their airpower from half a world away; but nowhere along the line were games being played that bore the slightest resemblance to chess. Brute force was the rule of the day.

What else? What else could he have that Taylor would think made him valuable?

His pipe was empty. He repacked it, tamped it down, and lit it. The library was heavy with the stillness of early morning. There wasn't so much as an air-raid siren to distract him … and he still couldn't figure it out.

I'm taking quite a risk just by meeting with you
.

That was understandable. Winterbotham had become the enemy when he hadn't been paying attention. His arguments for peace had made him a villain in his own country. So why would Taylor risk his peers' disapproval by making contact? Why
him
?

Because of Ruth
, he thought suddenly.

He's hoping I'll feel guilty enough about Ruth to want to throw myself into harm's way
.

The thought enraged him, not least because it smacked of truth. It wasn't his fault that Ruth had demanded to go to Poland, of course; he had tried to dissuade her. But perhaps he hadn't tried hard enough. Perhaps …

“Nonsense,” he said aloud.

Perhaps, perhaps not. In any case, it still didn't explain things. There were better chess players than Winterbotham; there were men with better politics than Winterbotham; and there was no shortage of men who had lost loved ones in the war and would be hungry for revenge.

He sighed. He couldn't sleep, but he was tired … so tired.

It was 1943, and the war raged on. The war would keep raging on, regardless of his participation, for the foreseeable future. Things didn't look as bleak as they had looked a few months before, that was true, but the outcome of the conflict was still far from certain. Hitler's
Wehrmacht
had overreached in Russia, caught unawares by the devastating winter, and had suffered losses. There was no way to know how bad these losses had been, but Winterbotham thought they might have been very bad, very bad indeed, for the little Austrian corporal. At roughly the same time, Rommel had foundered in Africa. But these German setbacks were by no means enough to finish the war. At some point, before the end, the Allies would have to cross the pond and set foot in France.…