"I didn't want you to believe I was a wanton woman."
"Darn, I was hoping you were a wanton woman."
"Peter," she said, and jabbed him in the leg with her finger.
"Are you ever going to answer my question? Why aren't you married?"
Catherine stared into the fire for a moment. "I was married. My husband, Michael, was shot down over the Channel the first week of the Battle of Britain. They never were able to recover his body. I was pregnant at the time, and I lost the baby. The doctors said it was the shock of Michael's death that did it." Catherine's gaze shifted from the fire to Jordan's face. "He was handsome and brave and he was my entire world. For the longest time after his death, I never looked twice at another man. I started dating a short time ago, but nothing at all serious. And then some foolish American who wasn't using his blackout torch smashed into me on a pavement in Kensington…"
There was a long and slightly uncomfortable moment of silence. The fire was dying. Catherine could hear the sound of a rainstorm getting up and pattering against the pavement outside the window. She realized she could stay like this for quite a while, sitting next to the fire with her brandy and this kind and gentle man. My God, Catherine, what's got into you? She tried for a moment to make herself hate him but she could not. She hoped he never did anything to threaten her, anything that would force her to kill him.
She made a show of looking at her wristwatch. "My goodness, look at the time," she said. "It's eleven o'clock. I've imposed on you too long. I should really be going-"
"What were you thinking just now?" Jordan asked, as if he had not heard a word she had just said.
What was she thinking? A very good question.
"I realize you can't talk about your work, but I'm going to ask you one question and I want you to tell me the truth."
"Cross my heart."
"You're not going to run off and get yourself killed, are you?"
"No, I'm not going to get myself killed. I promise."
She leaned over and kissed him on the mouth. His lips did not respond.
She pulled away, thinking, Did I make a mistake? Perhaps he wasn't ready for this.
He said, "I'm sorry. It's just been a very long time."
"It's been a very long time for me too."
"Maybe we need to try again."
She smiled and kissed him again. This time his mouth responded to hers. He pulled her close to him. She enjoyed the sensation of her breasts pressing against him.
After a moment she drew away.
"If I don't leave now I don't think I ever will."
"I'm not sure I want you to leave."
She gave him a final kiss and said, "When am I going to see you again?"
"Will you let me take you to dinner tomorrow night-a proper dinner, that is? Somewhere we can dance."
"I'd love that."
"How about the Savoy again, around eight o'clock."
"That sounds perfect."
Catherine Blake was brought back to reality by the cold blast of rain and the sight of Pope and Dicky sitting in a parked van. At least they had not interfered. Perhaps they were content to watch from a distance for the time being.
The late-night traffic was light. She quickly flagged down a taxi on Brompton Road. She climbed in and asked the cabbie to take her to Victoria Station. Turning around, she saw Pope and Dicky following.
At Victoria she paid off the driver and went inside, melting into a crowd of passengers stepping from a late-arriving train. She glanced over her shoulder as Dicky Dobbs came running into the terminus, head wheeling from side to side.
Quickly, she walked out through another door, vanishing into the blackout.
27
Her cottage in Vogel's secret village is flimsy and drafty, the coldest place she has ever known. There is a fireplace, though, and in the afternoon while she studies codes and radio procedures an Abwehr man comes and lays kindling and dry fir logs for the night.
The fire has burned low, the cold is creeping into the cottage, so she rises and tosses a pair of large logs onto the embers. Vogel is lying on the floor silently behind her. He is a terrible lover: boring, selfish, all elbows and knees. Even when he tries to please her he is clumsy and rough and preoccupied. It is a wonder she has been able to seduce him at all. She has her reasons. If he falls in love with her or becomes obsessed with her, Vogel will be reluctant to send her to England. It seems to be working. When he was inside her a moment ago he professed love for her. Now, as he lies on the rug, staring at the ceiling, he seems to be regretting his words.
"Sometimes I don't want you to go," he says.
"Go where?"
"To England."
She comes back, lies down next to him on the rug, and kisses him. His breath is horrible: cigarettes, coffee, bad teeth.
"Poor Vogel. I've made a shambles of your heart, haven't I?"
"Yes, I think so. Sometimes I think about taking you back to Berlin with me. I can get you a flat there."
"That would be lovely," she says, but she is thinking it might be better to be arrested by MI5 than spend the war as Kurt Vogel's mistress in some hovel of a flat in Berlin.
"But you are far too valuable to Germany to spend the war in Berlin. You must go behind enemy lines to England." He pauses and lights a cigarette. "And then there's something else I think. I think, Why would a beautiful woman fall in love with a man such as myself? And then I have my answer. She thinks he won't send her to England if he loves her."
"I'm not clever or cunning enough to do something like that."
"Of course you are. That's why I chose you."
She feels anger rising within her.
"But I've enjoyed our time together. Emilio said you were very good in bed. 'The best fuck of my entire fucking life'-that's the way Emilio described it. But then, Emilio tends to be a bit of a vulgarian. He said you were better than even the most expensive whores. He said he wanted to keep you in Spain as his mistress. I had to pay twice his usual fee. But believe me, you were well worth the money."
She gets to her feet. "Get out of here, now! I'm leaving in the morning. I've had enough of this hellhole!"
"Oh, yes, you're leaving in the morning. But it's not where you think. There's just one problem. Your trainers tell me that you are still reluctant to kill with your knife. They say you shoot very well, better than the boys, even. But they say you are slow with your stiletto."
She says nothing, just glares at him, lying on the rug in the firelight.
"I have a suggestion for you. Whenever you must use your stiletto, think of the man who hurt you when you were a little girl."
Her mouth drops open in horror. She has told only one person about it in her entire life: Maria. But Maria must have told Emilio-and Emilio, the bastard, told Vogel.
"I don't know what you're talking about," she says, but there is no conviction to her words.
"Of course you do. It's what made you what you are, a heartless fucking bitch."
She reacts instinctively. She takes a step forward and kicks him viciously beneath his chin. His head snaps back and crashes violently against the floor. He is very still, perhaps unconscious. Her stiletto is on the floor next to the fire; they have trained her to keep it near at all times. She picks it up and presses the release, and the shiny blade snaps into place. In the firelight it is bloodred. She takes a step toward Vogel. She wants to kill him, to plunge the stiletto into one of the kill zones they have taught her: the heart, the kidneys, through the ear or the eye. But Vogel is leaning on one elbow now, and there is a gun in his hand aimed at her head.