A Gathering of Spies (22 page)

“At odds?”

“I feel that we should be trying to apprehend the woman now, before she reaches Whitley Bay. Taylor would rather wait.”

“If you don't mind my saying so, sir, I can't imagine why we'd try to find her now. We know where she's going, and when, and just keeping the roadblocks up is putting quite a strain on Mr. Taylor's resources.” He puffed on his cigarette. “Besides,” he added, “she's almost certainly dead. Otherwise the dogs would have got her.”

“Dogs can sniff out a corpse as well as a living woman, Kendall.”

“Not if it's under water, sir. Begging your pardon.”

“Hm,” Winterbotham said.

He blew two more smoke rings, concentric.

“I have my own reasons for wanting to apprehend the woman before she reaches Whitley Bay,” he said. “Personal reasons. Do you know what role I serve for MI-Five, Kendall?”

“Not precisely, sir, no.”

“My wife is a captive of the Nazis. I've offered to betray England in exchange for her—with Taylor's blessing, of course. In other words, I've been groomed as a double agent.”

That stopped Kendall. He looked at Winterbotham for a long moment. Then he picked up his pint and took a slow sip.

“But as long as the Heinrich woman is free,” Winterbotham said, “my mission has been suspended.”

“Taylor's orders?”

“Yes.”

“My condolences, sir.”

“Kendall,” Winterbotham said, “that lorry was headed right for us. Do you remember?”

“I'll never forget it. If you hadn't knocked me aside …”

“Do you consider yourself to be in my debt?”

“You saved my life, sir.”

“Then help me, Kendall. Help me find the woman before Sunday. We'll organize our own search party and comb the countryside within, say, a hundred miles of Leicester.”

Kendall raised his eyebrows. He saw that Winterbotham was serious; the eyebrows lowered. He thought for a few moments, in silence.

“I couldn't get more than two or three from MI-Five, sir, without Taylor's becoming aware of it.”

“I've found that one can accomplish a great many things under Taylor's nose, son, without Taylor becoming aware of it. Surely you could scrape up more than two or three.”

“I'm sorry, sir. But I don't believe I could. Besides, even if only
I
were to disappear, it would raise questions.”

“I'm willing to let questions be raised. If we hand the woman to them, it won't make any difference.”

“How many would you require, sir?”

“A dozen, at least. More if at all possible.”

Kendall shook his head. “I don't count half that many men in MI-Five as true friends.”

“What about some other lads? Boyhood pals?”

“They're in the war, sir.”

Winterbotham sighed.

“Sir,” Kendall said, “if I were able—”

“Yes, I know. Just shut up and let me think for a moment.”

Kendall shut up.

A few minutes passed. Winterbotham finished his pint, puffed on his pipe, sent one smoke ring through another. Presently, he said: “If I were to find some small favor you
could
do for me, in the future, could I depend on you to come through?”

“No doubt of it, sir.”

Winterbotham gathered together his pipe and tobacco, and stood. “Don't dally too long here, Kendall, if you don't mind the advice. That's a fine young woman you've got at home. Even if she does wear trousers.”

Kendall smiled. “I'll tell her you said so, sir.”

“Very good. Cheers, then.”

He turned and began to move away. Suddenly, he stopped and came back to the booth.

“Kendall,” he said, “there may well come a time when I will hold you to your word.”

“I'd appreciate the chance to cancel the debt, sir.”

Winterbotham looked at him for another moment. Then he nodded once and turned again to leave.

“Sir?” Kendall said.

“Yes?”

“The back foot, you say?”

“The back foot, Kendall.”

He left Kendall looking after him. After five minutes, Kendall stirred, finished his pint, produced his tobacco and papers, and began to roll himself another cigarette.

WHITLEY BAY, NEWCASTLE

Peter Faulkner disliked Taylor and Winterbotham even before they began asking him questions.

It was their clothes that caught his eye. They were city clothes, not designed for work in the shipyards nor on the fishing boats. When they sat down at the bar, he noticed their hands—city hands, smooth and uncallused. When they ordered their pints, he noticed their accents. City accents, and not the poor part of the city at that.

They had all sorts of questions, Faulkner told his wife later that night. They asked about the shipyards and the weather patterns and the local inns. They showed him a photograph of a pretty young woman with long blond hair who looked, to his eyes, rather Nordic. They wanted to know if the woman had been seen around town lately. They asked him to imagine her with her hair a different length, or a different color. They asked him to add ten years to the face in the photograph.

Scotland Yard, he told his wife. They must have been from Scotland Yard, on some sort of a manhunt.

His wife laughed. You've some imagination, Peter Faulkner, she said. You should be writing dreadfuls for a living.

What else could it be? he demanded. When mysterious men show around photographs of a beautiful woman …

Probably just a cheating wife, Faulkner's wife said. Probably just a jealous husband and his mate, hoping to come across as official. Why in the world would Scotland Yard be looking for a lone woman out here, of all places, at the end of the earth?

By evening, Taylor and Winterbotham had visited no fewer than twelve pubs.

They both were feeling weary, bloated, and a bit tipsy; and to make matters worse, the sky above them was clouding over rapidly. They settled down in a thirteenth tavern, Kirk House, to eat kidney pies that did not seem to have any kidney in them whatsoever. As they ate, they discussed what they had learned during the day.

“If she stays at an inn, we've got her. There are only the three—York House, Brown, and the Bay. Therefore—”

“Therefore, she won't stay at an inn,” Winterbotham said.

“Right. And if she
is
alive, she'd be in no shape to spend a week outdoors. She'll find somebody to take her in.”

Winterbotham nodded. “Some kind, unsuspecting Geordie.”

“So we'll have to wait until she comes out of hiding. We'll nab her on the beach.”

“At which point we'll also have a submarine full of Nazis to contend with,” Winterbotham pointed out.

“Peterson is bringing a corvette in today and anchoring her up the coast. Midnight Sunday he'll slip down and give the bastards something to chew on.”

Winterbotham took a sip of his ale. It was Newcastle Brown—Dog, to the locals—tangy and strong.

“Harry,” Taylor said after a moment, “I owe you an apology. I raised your hopes, and now I've dashed them. I promise you this: As soon as the woman is in custody, your case will take priority.”

Winterbotham nodded. “Thank you, Andrew.”

“I only wish I could do more.”

They ate and drank for a few moments, in silence.

“If you don't need me,” Winterbotham said, “I won't stay around for the operation itself. I'd like to get back to London. Back to my books.”

“Whatever you like, Harry.”

“Perhaps when this is all over you'll swing by for a game of chess.”

“That would be Sunday evening.”

“God willing.”

“I'm feeling optimistic,” Taylor said. He reached over and gave Winterbotham's shoulder a fraternal squeeze. “Thanks to you, old chap. You've been invaluable. I want you to know, Harry, that I've submitted your name for the Order of the Bath.”

Winterbotham started. “A medal,” he said.

“A medal.” Taylor turned his attention back to his kidney-free kidney pie. “I can't think of anybody who deserves it more.”

13

PETERBOROUGH, NORFOLK

“Who cuts your hair, darling?”

Gladys Lockhart flushed. She handed the plate she had just washed to Agnes, who accepted it and began to wipe it dry.

“You do it yourself,” Agnes pressed. “Don't you?”

Gladys, mortified, nodded.

“Not anymore, you don't. Let's choose you a new look, darling. Have you got any magazines? You've got a Dorothy Lamour kind of face, but here you are with a Greer Garson kind of hairstyle. Where do you keep your movie magazines, Gladys?”

“In … in my dresser,” Gladys managed.

“Then let's get these dishes done and have a look, darling, what do you say?”

They finished the supper dishes with expediency, then Agnes followed Gladys upstairs to her bedroom. Gladys, still blushing, removed a stack of movie magazines from the lower drawer of her dresser. They spread them on the bed and then browsed through them together, sitting side by side.

“Never underestimate the power of a good bob,” Agnes said. She looked up and then reached out and touched Gladys's hair. “Have you ever considered changing the color?”

“Coloring my hair?” Gladys said.

“Yes, coloring your hair! You've got to think
modern
, Gladys. Just consider how nice you'd look as a brunette. As a matter of fact, it's about time for me to make a change myself. Why, let's swap!—I'll go blond, and you go brunette.
Then
let's see Sir John Frederick Bailey not pay any attention to you! Let's just see it
then
!”

Gladys giggled.

“And for
me
,” Agnes said thoughtfully. “Mmmm, let's see … I'm already too short to do very much, aren't I? Pity. But we could go for a feather cut, I suppose, and dye it blond, or maybe red.… You don't happen to have any hair dye, Gladys, do you?”

Gladys shook her head.

“What about one of your friends? Or perhaps there's a shop nearby?”

“Most dye goes straight to the army,” Gladys said, “for their uniforms.”

“Mm,” Agnes said. “Yes, of course it does.”

She thought for a moment; a crimp of concentration appeared between her eyes.

“What about bleach? For the laundry?”

“Why—yes, we've got that.”

“But of course that would only work for me. Going blond, I mean. It's not apt to turn you any darker.”

“We could still change my style, though,” Gladys said hopefully, “couldn't we?”

“Of course, dear. I'll cut you, and you cut me.”

“But I'm not very good at cutting.”

“We'll work together,” Agnes said, “and go very slowly.”

She reached out and took Gladys's hand, squeezing it once.

They made a surreptitious foray downstairs. Sir John, still using his study as a bedroom, was snoring audibly. Gladys quickly found bleach and scissors and a washbasin; as an afterthought she picked up an old copy of
The Standard
to catch the fallen hair.

Back in the bedroom, Agnes began to cut, separating a few locks of hair at a time between her index and middle fingers, snipping, then moving along to another clump. Gladys watched in the mirror, fascinated, as the hair framing her face fell away.

“I'm going to look fat,” she decided.

“Nonsense. You'll look beautiful.”

“Please don't cut too much, Agnes.”

“Don't
worry
, Gladys. Have faith.”

After another ten minutes, Agnes stepped back, shook out Gladys's hair—cuttings tumbled to the newspaper, pattering softly—then fluffed it up. They regarded it in the mirror together.

“Very fantastic,” Agnes assured her.

Gladys turned left and right, inspecting herself. “Really?” she said.

“Very grown-up. Very glamorous. He'll love it.”

“Really, truly?”

“Really, truly. Come on, now it's my turn.”

They changed positions. Gladys tried to take the scissors, but Agnes stopped her. “I can do the bangs myself,” she said.

As it happened, she navigated the bulk of her own haircut, working with near-surgical precision. When it came time to even out the back, she let Gladys take over, stopping her every few moments to check the progress in the mirror.

“You've got to be very careful,” Agnes said, “because it's already so short. I don't know how much time I'll have to grow it out before he comes back.”

“Before who comes back?”

“Philip, of course. My fiancé.”

“You're engaged!”

“Well,” Agnes said, “not
officially
. But I've got a feeling …”

“Where is he now?”

“In Sicily. He's a lieutenant.”

“Tell me about him, Agnes, please.”

Agnes smiled at her reflection in the glass. “Let's see,” she said as Gladys snipped at a stray lock. “He's handsome, of course. But not
too
handsome. You want to stay away from the
very
handsome men, Gladys, darling. They think altogether too much of themselves, and when they lose their looks, they've got nothing left.”

“What does Philip look like?”

“He's tall,” Agnes said. “Six feet tall. He's thirty-four years old, and his hair is starting to gray a bit, but just around the temples. He's thin, but not
too
thin. His nose and chin are a bit sharp, but strong; and his eyes, Gladys, are simply amazing. His eyes can make your heart stop in your chest. They change color, depending on his mood. Careful, there, darling, you don't want to—thank you. But you know, I think that's enough. We can bleach it now, but we must dilute the bleach first.”

They mixed a concoction of bleach and water in the washbasin. Agnes lay on the floor, her head resting in the basin, as Gladys worked the liquid into her hair, the ends, the roots.