The Unlikely Spy (14 page)
Authors: Daniel Silva
With two minutes remaining in the window, Dogherty placed the cipher pad and the notebook back in the cabinet. With one minute left, he reached for the power switch. He was about to shut off the radio when it suddenly came to life. He lunged for his pencil and wrote furiously until the radio went silent. He quickly tapped out an acknowledgment and signed off.
It took Dogherty several minutes to decode the message.
When he finished, he couldn't believe his eyes.
EXECUTE RECEPTION PROCEDURE ONE.
The Germans wanted him to take in an agent.
It had been fifteen minutes since Mary Dogherty, standing in the kitchen window, had seen her husband enter the barn. She wondered what was taking so long. Sean's dinner would go cold if he didn't come in soon. She wiped her hands on her apron and carried a mug of steaming tea to the front window. The rain was coming down harder now, wind whipping across the coastline from the North Sea.
She thought, Terrible night to be out in it, Sean Dogherty.
She cupped her hands around the chipped enamel mug, letting the rising steam warm her face. She knew what he was doing in the barn--he was on the radio with the Germans.
Spying for the Nazis, Mary had to admit, had rejuvenated Sean. In the spring of 1940 he reconnoitered huge sections of the Norfolk countryside. Mary watched in amazement as he seemed to come back to life under the assignment, pedaling several miles a day, looking for signs of military activity, taking photographs of coastal defenses. The information was passed to an Abwehr contact in London, who in turn passed it on to Berlin. Sean thought it was all very dangerous and loved every moment of it.
Mary hated it. She feared Sean would be caught. Everyone was on the lookout for spies; it was a national obsession. One slip, one mistake, and Sean would be arrested. The 1940 Treachery Act prescribed a single sentence for spying: execution. Mary had read about spies in the newspapers--the hangings at Wandsworth and Pentonville--and each one sent ice through her veins. One day, she feared, she would read of Sean's execution.
The rain fell harder now, and the wind beat so furiously against the side of the sturdy little cottage Mary feared it might come down. She thought of living alone on the broken-down old farm; it would be miserable. Shuddering, she drew away from the window and moved closer to the fire.
Perhaps it would have been different if she had been able to give him children. She pushed it from her mind; she had punished herself needlessly too long. No use dredging up things she could do nothing about. Sean was what he was and there was nothing she could do to change him.
Sean, Mary thought, what on earth has become of you?
The pounding at the door startled Mary, causing her to spill tea on her apron. It was not like Sean to lock himself out. She set down the mug in the window and hurried to the door, prepared to yell at him for leaving the cottage without his key. Instead, when she pulled back the door, she saw the figure of Jenny Colville, a girl who lived on the other side of the village. She stood in the rain, a shiny oilskin coat hanging over bony shoulders. She wore no hat and her shoulder-length hair lay plastered against her head, framing an awkward face that one day might be very pretty.
Mary could tell she had been crying.
"What happened, Jenny? Did your father hit you again? Has he been drinking?"
Jenny nodded and burst into tears.
"Come in out of the rain," Mary said. "You'll catch your death of cold out there on a night like this."
As Jenny came inside Mary looked in the front garden for her bicycle. It wasn't there; she had walked all the way from the Colville cottage, more than a mile away.
Mary closed the door. "Take off those clothes. They're soaking wet. I'll get you a robe to wear until they're dry."
Mary disappeared into the bedroom. Jenny did as she was told. Exhausted, she shed the oilskin, letting it fall from her shoulders onto the floor. Then she pulled off her heavy wool sweater and dropped it on the floor next to the oilskin.
Mary came back with the robe. "Get the rest of those clothes off, young lady," she said, gentle mock anger in her voice.
"But what about Sean?"
Mary lied. "He's out fixing a break in one of his blessed fences."
"In this weather?" Jenny sang in her heavy Norfolk accent, regaining some of her usual good humor. Mary marveled at her resiliency. "Is he daft, Mary?"
"I've always known you were a perceptive child. Now, off with the rest of those wet clothes."
Jenny stripped off her trousers and her undershirt. She tended to dress like a boy, even more so than other country girls. Her skin was milky white and covered with goose bumps. She would be very lucky not to come down with a heavy cold. Mary helped Jenny into the robe and wrapped it around her tightly.
"Now, isn't that better?"
"Yes, thank you, Mary." Jenny started to cry again. "I don't know what I'd do without you."
Mary drew Jenny to her. "You'll never be without me, Jenny. I promise."
Jenny climbed into an old chair next to the fire and covered herself with a musty blanket. She pulled her feet up under herself, and after a moment the shivering stopped and she felt warm and safe. Mary was at the stove, singing softly to herself.
After a few moments the stew bubbled, filling the cottage with a wonderful smell. Jenny closed her eyes, her tired mind leaping from one pleasant sensation to the next--the warm smell of the lamb stew, the heat of the fire, the thrilling sweetness of Mary's voice. The wind and rain lashed at the window next to her head. The storm made Jenny feel wonderful to be safely inside a peaceful home. She wished her life were always like this.
A few moments later Mary brought a tray with a bowl of stew, a lump of hard bread, and a steaming mug of tea. "Sit up, Jenny," she said, but there was no response. Mary set down the tray, covered the girl with another quilt, and let her sleep.
Mary was reading next to the fire when Dogherty let himself into the cottage. She regarded him silently as he came into the room. He pointed to the chair where Jenny slept and said, "Why is she here? Her father hit her again?"
"Shhhh!" Mary hissed. "You'll wake her."
Mary rose and led him into the kitchen. She set a place for him at the table. Dogherty poured himself a mug of tea and sat down.
"What Martin Colville needs is a bit of his own medicine. And I'm just the man to give it to him."
"Please, Sean--he's half your age and twice your size."
"And what's that supposed to mean, Mary?"
"It means you could get hurt. And the last thing we need is for you to attract the attention of the police by getting in some stupid fight. Now, finish your dinner and be quiet. You'll wake the girl."
Dogherty did as he was told and resumed eating. He took a spoonful of the stew and pulled a face. "Jesus, but this food is stone cold."
"If you'd come home at a decent hour it wouldn't be. Where have you been?"
Without lifting his head from his plate, Dogherty cast Mary an icy glance through his eyebrows. "I was in the barn," he said coldly.
"Were you on the wireless, waiting for instructions from Berlin?" Mary whispered sarcastically.
"Later, woman," Sean growled.
"Don't you realize you're wasting your time out there? And risking both our necks too?"
"I said later, woman!"
"Stupid old goat!"
"That's enough, Mary!"
"Maybe one day the boys in Berlin will give you a real assignment. Then you can get rid of all the hate that's inside you and we can get on with what's left of our lives." She rose and looked at him, shaking her head. "I'm tired, Sean. I'm going to bed. Put some more wood on the fire so Jenny will be warm enough. And don't do anything to wake her. She's had a rough time of it tonight."
Mary walked upstairs to their bedroom and quietly closed the door behind her. When she was gone, Dogherty went to the cupboard and took down a bottle of Bushmills. Whisky was like gold these days, but it was a special night so he poured himself a generous measure.
"Maybe the boys in Berlin will do just that, Mary Dogherty," he said, raising his glass in a quiet toast. "In fact, maybe they already have."
9
LONDON
Alfred Vicary had actually engaged in deception to get a job with military intelligence during the First War. He was twenty-one, nearing the end of his studies at Cambridge, and convinced England was foundering and in need of all the good men she could lay her hands on. He wanted nothing to do with the infantry. He knew enough of history to realize there was no glory in it, only boredom, misery, and very likely death or serious injury.
His best friend, a brilliant philosophy student named Brendan Evans, arrived at the perfect solution. Brendan had heard the army was starting up something called the Intelligence Corps. The only qualifications were fluent German and French, extensive travel throughout Europe, the ability to ride and repair a motorbike, and perfect eyesight. Brendan had contacted the War Office and made appointments for them the next morning.
Vicary was despondent; he did not meet the qualifications. He had fluent if uninspired German, passable French, and he had traveled broadly across Europe, including inside Germany. But he had no idea how to ride a motorbike--indeed, the contraption scared the daylights out of him--and his eyesight was atrocious.
Brendan Evans was everything Vicary was not: tall, fair, strikingly handsome, possessed of a boyish lust for adventure and more women than he knew what to do with. They had one trait in common, flawless memories.
Vicary conceived his plan.
That evening, in the cool twilight of August, Brendan taught him to ride a motorcycle on a deserted patch of road in the Fens. Vicary nearly killed them both several times, but by the end of the night he was roaring along the pathways, experiencing a thrill and a recklessness he had never before felt. The following morning, during the train ride from Cambridge to London, Brendan drilled him relentlessly on the anatomy of motorbikes.
When they arrived in London, Brendan went into the War Office while Vicary waited outside in the warm sunshine. He emerged an hour later, grinning broadly. "I'm in," Brendan said. "Now, it's your turn. Listen carefully." He then proceeded to read back the entire eye chart used for the vision test, even the hopelessly tiny characters at the bottom.
Vicary removed his spectacles, handed them to Brendan, and walked like a blind man into the dark, forbidding building. He passed with flying colors--he made only one mistake, transposing a
B
for a
D,
but that was Brendan's fault, not his. Vicary was immediately commissioned as a second lieutenant in the motorcyclist section of the Intelligence Corps, given a warrant for his uniform and kit, and ordered to cut his hair, which had grown long and curly over the summer. The following day he was ordered to Euston Station to collect his motorbike, a shiny new Rudge model packed in a wooden crate. A week later Brendan and Vicary boarded a troop-ship along with their motorbikes and sailed for France.
B
for a
D,
but that was Brendan's fault, not his. Vicary was immediately commissioned as a second lieutenant in the motorcyclist section of the Intelligence Corps, given a warrant for his uniform and kit, and ordered to cut his hair, which had grown long and curly over the summer. The following day he was ordered to Euston Station to collect his motorbike, a shiny new Rudge model packed in a wooden crate. A week later Brendan and Vicary boarded a troop-ship along with their motorbikes and sailed for France.
It was all so simple then. Agents slipped behind enemy lines, counted troops, watched the railways. They even used carrier pigeons to deliver secret messages. Now it was more complex, a duel of wits over the wireless that required immense concentration and attention to detail.
Double Cross. . . .
Karl Becker was a perfect example. He was sent by Canaris to England during the heady days of 1940, when invasion seemed certain. Becker, posing as a Swiss businessman, set himself up in suitable style in Kensington and began collecting every questionable secret he could lay his hands on. It was Becker's use of counterfeit sterling that set Vicary onto him, and within a matter of weeks he had been spun into MI5's web. Vicary, with the help of the watchers, went everywhere Becker went: to the parties where he traded in gossip and drank himself stiff on black-market champagne; to his meetings with live agents; to his dead drops; to his bedroom, where he brought his women, his men, his children, and only God knew what else. After a month Vicary brought down the hammer. He arrested Becker--pulled him from the arms of a young girl he had kept locked away and drunk on champagne--and rolled up an entire network of German agents.
Next came the tricky part. Instead of hanging Becker, Vicary turned him--convinced him to go to work for MI5 as a double agent. The following night Becker, from his prison cell, turned on his radio and tapped out a coded recognition signal to the operator in Hamburg. The operator asked him to stay on the air for instructions from his Abwehr control officer in Berlin, who ordered Becker to determine the exact location and size of an RAF fighter base in Kent. Becker confirmed the message and signed off.
But it was Vicary who went to the airfield the next day. He could have called the RAF, obtained the coordinates for the base, and sent them to the Abwehr, but it wouldn't be so easy for a spy. To make the message appear authentic, Vicary went about reconnoitering the air base just the way a spy would do it. He took the train from London and, because of delays, didn't arrive in the area until dusk. A military policeman harassed him on a hillside outside the base and asked him for his identification. Vicary could see the air base on the flats below, the same perspective from which a spy might see it. He saw a cluster of Nissen huts and a few aircraft along the grassy runway. During his return to London, Vicary composed a brief report on what he had seen. He noted that the light had been poor because the trains were late and said he had been prevented from getting too close by an MP. That night Vicary forced Becker to send the report with his own hand, for each spy had his own distinctive keying style, known as a
fist,
that German radio operators could recognize. Hamburg congratulated him and signed off.
fist,
that German radio operators could recognize. Hamburg congratulated him and signed off.
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