The Spy

by Marc Eden

  “Oh, yes?” There!

  He waited. “Have it together, do we?”

  “Sorry, sir.” She sat down in the chair. Unless the Commander kept standing, the next place for him was the bed. She was so proud, it was shipshape. She wanted him to feel at home.

  “You were saying, sir?” She reached down and retrieved the last pillow. She clutched it in her lap.

  “As I was saying, Sinclair”—she tossed it on the bed—“the Chief made it clear that my uneasiness about de Beck is quite unfounded.”

  Was it her question, in the cave?

  “It’s just that certain sensitive matters are better served if we keep them between us, you see?” Blackstone had made it quite clear that it was he, Hamilton, who had selected him. “There is no time to find a replacement. The mission must go on as scheduled, otherwise—”

  Valerie looked up at the Commander with troubled brown eyes.

  “Relax, my dear. In such a dangerous undertaking, one must be absolutely certain about relationships. My concern is for your safety, a fact which may have nothing at all to do with de Beck. However, the Chief did add that if I still felt doubtful, to give you a word of warning.”

  But that wasn’t it at all, she realized. Yet Hamilton did not tell Valerie Sinclair exactly what Commodore Blackstone, O.B.E., V.C., and Chief of Combined Intelligence Services, had said.

  It had gone like this:

  “Hamilton, old chap, why are you so concerned for the safety of this particular girl? She has volunteered. She must know she is expendable.”

  “Each officer assigned to missions is my concern, sir.”

  “It was at your insistence, David, that we made her an officer.” For this, Hamilton owed him. “She’s the first woman ever, you know. My God, man! It just wouldn’t do for this to get out. There’s a certain long, and if I may say so, very proud tradition involved here. The Royal Navy is the Royal Navy, Commander! A man’s navy, sir! Why, this Sinclair is barely a third officer, and a female at that. Bloody cheek, I’d say!” Churchill himself, calling them the “backbone of the navy,” had refused to allow Chief Petty officers, including Valerie’s rate, to be promoted to officer rank. Flag officers considered women incompetent, inferior, actually: an embarrassing political assumption. Abwehr, dispatching all comers, had just sent fifteen traditionally trained female agents to their deaths. Going by the book, if not by the board, SOE was going down the drain. Blackstone was on his guard, De Gaulle was on his case, and Hamilton was on the carpet.

  Sinclair was in his hair.

  “She could at least have been a man,” the Commodore had fumed. The girl from Newton Swyre, condemned by opportunity and swallowed whole by the Royal Navy, had lodged in his throat like a bone.

  “She’s a full Lieutenant now, sir.”

  “Oh? Oh, yes, well, embarrassingly so, I suppose.”

  Hamilton had fought like hell for it. The Prime Minister, to whom John Blackstone had immediately appealed, remained neutral. The Commander, holding his ground, concluded that Churchill, aside from causing it, had finally nudged Blackstone to agree. In the higher offices, the commission of Valerie Sinclair had been viewed with something akin to apoplexy.

  “It’s just that I feel she’s the most qualified, sir.”

  “Rot!”

  The Welsh Commander had stuck to his guns.

  “This is not like you a’tall, David,” the Chief had retorted. “I can never remember you having a feeling like this for any of the girls you’ve sent on a mission, and up to a few hours ago, you, above all, felt de Beck was exactly the right man for the job. An impeccable background, sir, connections in France, and all that. See here, I’m beginning to wonder if you have more than a military interest in the girl. Come, David! I thought you were a confirmed bachelor.”

  Hamilton hadn’t answered.

  The Commodore had looked at his Commander intently. “Isn’t she a widow with a small boy?”

  “Yes, sir,” Hamilton replied.

  “Well, then, I can see your concern,” the Chief muttered. “Ah, you been dating lately, have you, David?”

  “Sir?”

  “See here, old boy, it happens to the best of us, you know,” Commodore Blackstone glanced at the silver-framed photograph of the woman on his desk. It was a snapshot of his wife, Emily, who was full of wise sayings.

  “‘Straightening out a relationship,’ ” the Commodore informed him, “as Emily says, ‘is like ironing a wrinkled shirt: it flattens out the stress.’”

  “The stress? Are you saying—?”

  “I am saying, take care of it, David! But not—how shall we say?—at company expense? Try the theater district...a few days at Brighton, um?” Hamilton’s cool side was showing signs of heat. “Meanwhile, I assure you, there is nothing worth stewing about with this de Beck matter. The man is absolutely top grade!”

  Blackstone had cut the deal with LeClerc.

  “I feel certain Sinclair will come through for us, sir!”

  Smooth as an owl, Blackstone answered: “One of them, yes, most certainly, I should think...” The Commodore, heavy with the burdens of office, sighed wearily and looked favorably at his favorite genius, whose expression had fallen several fathoms.

  “Come, David! Look at life as life is. She’s a pretty little ratchet-wrench, it’s true,” he had seen Crichton’s film on her, “but it’s her photographic memory that makes her valuable to us. The camera, you see, doesn’t have to have a brain—it just has to have a shutter. Be a good fellow now and listen to the voice of experience.” He remembered his Hannibal. “She’s a military mouse, a stratagem, like poison gas. A trump card, I’ll admit, but certainly, old chap, nothing to get excited about. See here, David! Need I remind you? A woman—on a man-o-war?” The Commodore, whom three wars had failed to ruffle, leaned back in his chair. “As for your Frenchman, if you still have doubts, perhaps you could try de Beck on her for size.”

  “I may do that, sir.” Hamilton felt his jaws clench.

  “Some loose activity, was there, at the dance?”

  Blackstone knew better. The Commodore, who had pulled Hamilton away early, allowing the Frenchman a clear shot, was now ordering the Commander to test her. Informed of the Frenchman’s womanizing, he had turned it to his advantage. Should the girl prove to be sexually vulnerable, they would need to know before Sunday. To back it up, Blackstone showed him the first part of a TOP SECRET directive: decoded by Parker, and just in. This latest coda, sniffing out guilt, had come in during their conversation. While finding it personally distasteful and without disclosing its source, except to say that it was civilian, Blackstone didn’t mind passing it on to Hamilton. Meeting adjourned. The Commander was almost to the door when the Chief hit him with his broadside. “This girl has a whiff of the sleazy about her, if you know what I mean, sir?”

  That meeting had left Hamilton angry and adrift in a sea of words too painful to express, too formidable to challenge. The dark inferences of the German super weapon, the Waterfall, known to both as the real reason for the mission, had not been mentioned.

  It was the droning of the Casablanca fan that brought him back to The Spy: that Blackstone had shown him part of a secret order had not been lost on him. Civilian! That man without a face again, was it? Following their mission from London? In with Blackstone, was he? What kind of fool did they take him for? Attempting to answer his own questions, the Commander suddenly put on brakes. The man without a face, transferring guilt in a steady line, had come to mind again simply because Hamilton didn’t know. Now, he remembered he had turned the girl’s report of The Spy over to Mountbatten.

  Smiling, not too broadly, but enough to feel better, David Hamilton was aware that he was holding Valerie Sinclair’s hand. He was also aware that she was doing the squeezing. Lamplight was buzzing in the corner, flaring shadowy figures against the wall. It was nearly midnight. The Commander stood up, and touched her shoulder. He felt warmth there, and trust. There was still so much unattended. Blacksto
ne’s suspicions, the point of his visit, were now interfering with it. Rising up in front of him, it was a nightmare worse than any dance floor.

  Seducing a child! How could he live with it!

  Sinclair, hot as a light bulb, wasn’t helping any.

  “I have just forty-eight hours,” Hamilton began, clearing his throat, “to, er, save your life.”

  That sounded good!

  Sinclair listened, trying to get ready.

  “Very good.” On safer ground, he had decided to wait. “Now, should you become separated from Pierre, and yet reach Allied lines, I would advise you that you make yourself known immediately, and ask to be taken to the highest-ranking British Officer. As for the Americans, you will so conduct yourself as to have as little as possible to do with them. We wouldn’t be wanting them to know about you, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  Wasn’t he going to do anything?

  “There are certain things that you will be taking with you—writing devices, invisible ink, that sort of thing. However, it is highly unlikely that you yourself will be using them.”

  “Yes, sir. May I ask why?”

  She guessed he wasn’t.

  “With your photographic memory, you won’t need them. De Beck, on the other hand, will need to have your data committed to writing, you see. The articles will be for him.” Pierre had her out-ranked as far as France. She mentioned it. “That’s true,” Hamilton admitted, “but if you get in a hole, the best thing to do would be to ask Captain de Beck.”

  “But suppose he can’t answer? I mean, supposing the Germans are looking at him, or something?”

  “And you’re on hand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well then,” said Hamilton, “in that case, you would watch.”

  She untangled her legs.

  “—cautiously, of course. For example, let’s say you’re walking behind him, and he does something that’s a custom of France. You just do the same. In a French setting, with the possibility of Germans, whatever de Beck would do, you would do.”

  “Like ‘Follow the Leader’, sir?”

  Hamilton considered this.

  “Well, yes! I suppose one could put it that way,” which is not the way he wanted to leave it. De Beck was picking him up tomorrow night. He had planned to talk briefly with her, Saturday evening at the hotel, some last-minute items, that sort of thing.

  Now, he must.

  “Even so, something may arise, you see, for which you are not prepared. How shall we handle such an event?”

  Valerie shrugged.

  He was thinking ahead. This time next weekend, where would she be? The Germans had beds; they had other rooms, as well. He got up and walked to the window. Female agents appeared in his mind. They had been waiting there, throughout the summer. “I realize it’s against orders,” he heard himself saying, “but I have decided to send a cyanide capsule with you.” He turned back around. “Pierre, of course, is not to know. I will see to it that it is in your purse, aboard the submarine”

  “Will it get us into trouble, sir?”

  “No no, child, it’s the ‘L-Pill’. You’re familiar?”

  Valerie coughed. “Yes, sir.” The poison, contained in a glass capsule, would pass through her body if swallowed. Death would occur if it were crunched by her teeth. She searched his face. “Do you think we’re going to die, sir?”

  Blackstone had said, one of them.

  “No, I don’t,” Hamilton answered, his jaws tightening. “We’re just betting on the safe side, that’s all. Unfortunately, not all of our agents come back. In the present case, however, I am fully expecting that you both will. Still, one must sometimes take these risks, no matter how deeply it may affect one personally.”

  Valerie looked at him.

  Hamilton blushed.

  “I understand, sir. That information we’re after—?”

  “Yes?”

  “—it’s as good as in the bag, sir!”

  “Good show!” The Commander expected as much. “Now, where will you hide the pill? Once you have obtained it, of course.”

  Valerie began to think.

  Hamilton moved from one spot to another, then back to the chair. “There are other hiding places, naturally, used by women of British Intelligence—but not for you, my dear.”

  “Why not, sir?” Would it melt? If they could do it, so could she!

  “Because it’s—confidential, you see.”

  “Consider it forgotten.”

  Hamilton beamed, he was feeling tired; this SEX thing, Blackstone’s insistence. Or maybe it was the cyanide. From somewhere, he seemed to have a memory of a bad dream, turning itself off.

  “I know where!” Sinclair cried, turning it on. “See?...right here. If I tuck it into my bra, next to my skin, I am sure the pill will be safe.”

  “Ummm...?”

  She offered to demonstrate it for him. He handed her a coin. It fell out, rolling under the bed. In retrieving it, the front of her gown dropped.

  Hamilton looked.

  Her breasts were driving him crazy. He couldn’t bear the thought of it, those Everest breasts in enemy hands, that would be the first thing the Germans would grab for. The brassiere was out, at least the one she was trying to get back into.

  Sinclair faced the mirror. She smiled at the glass, for identity. Hamilton had her blocked. He stepped aside, his feet were killing him. He yearned for a place of tranquility and peace. Also, he could use a drink. “Now then!” said Hamilton politely. “Where was I?”

  “The pill, sir!”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “What about the inside of my thigh, Commander? Some tape? Surely the Germans would not look there. If they captured me—” If they did, the phone would ring down the road.

  An American sergeant would answer it.

  The Commander stared at her, then shook his head, as if to clear it. “With the Germans, Sinclair, nothing is sacred. How could you possibly have thought of your thigh?”

  She didn’t know.

  “Your shoe might be a better idea,” he offered, casually. He moved to the foot of the bed. His own feet hurt. The chair was empty. Gratefully, he sat down. She kicked off a slipper. Hamilton, lunging, saw it sailing past him. It whanged into the fan, which threw it into the blackout curtain. “What is this?” croaked the Commander, walking over to get it, “a bloody cricket match?”

  Sinclair, who had grabbed the chair, was looking at her other foot. Perplexed, he looked at what he was holding.

  “My fuzzy, sir?”

  Hamilton returned to the center of the room, the place where it all started. He was holding the...‘fuzzy.’ “Here you are, Sinclair.” He leaned over, and placed it in front of her chair. Her face was in her feet.

  All he could see was hair.

  “Well now! We seem to have had a most instructive go at it!” He would have words, for Seymour. As for the mission: “All hands on deck, ship ready for sailing, would you say?”

  Sinclair looked up. “Yes, sir. I couldn’t have said it better myself, sir. Speaking for my own person, sir, if I may be so bold—”

  “Get to it, Sinclair!”

  “Yes, sir! Things may turn out ruddy well, sir!”

  “Right-o. Well then, let us surely hope so,” said Hamilton, glad to be leaving, “in this line of work, one can never be too cautious.”

  “Got it, sir.”

  “Tomorrow, the studios at Elstree, hmmm? Fitting you out as a student, sort of thing. The latest French fashions, Sinclair! Even your bra, although no doubt, we have found a better hiding place.”

  “We have?”

  He clasped her hand tightly. Then he was gone.

  She took off her robe, looking into the long mirror, on the front of the wardrobe. The turquoise gown, thin-woven, Egyptian, was certainly flattering. A better hiding place? She stepped forward, and opened the front.

  “Oh my!” she said.

  Rigid as bullets, they stood at attention. If s
he glued the pill to one of them, would they notice?

  Another Friday night, and no date!

  Her simple needs, so long repressed, so long imprisoned at the bottom of a class society, now rose to the surface, bobbing along on secret currents of desire, trapped in a too-small room, beneath soft cotton:

  Keen for love.

  She stood and looked, transposed on a sea of glass. She knew he would have liked to see her without her robe—she wished that he had. The best hiding place of all was her heart.

  Nobody ever went there.

  She sighed, uneasy at the ending of Hamilton’s visit. She turned off the lights, opened the blackout curtains, and climbed into bed. The night was hot and her body pulled at her. She threw off the covers, kept the sheet, and fixed her pillows. Hamilton, inseparable from British interests, lingered for a moment in the middle of her thoughts. He had seemed so worried about de Beck. Not a word about Marchaud. Why was it she felt the girl was still alive? She did so wish to help her. To return her safely to France. There seemed no one else to protect her. She wanted to see her before Hamilton did.

  What was the weather like in France?

  Her eyes had closed.

  Beyond the harbor, across the breakwater where it joined the Channel, iron buoys tugged tautly on streaming chains. Below the surface, falling away into the open sea, the muffled creaking of metal and the rubbing of sounds wailed like a gnashing of bones.

  On the sea road, at the outskirts of town, covert as the cat who listened to it, the motor of a limousine was idling. “Sunday,” she heard him say, and she knew it was him. Late from his travels, gaze directed to the wall of the hotel, he stood alone atop the high dime, driver waiting.

  Sunday...

  Lights in her bedroom suddenly went out! She arose from her bed, and she was in the Camera Shop. All around her, pitiless and unretouched, were the pictures of her life. She was at the vicarage. Inhabitants pulled at her, but they wouldn’t listen. Trying to talk to her, they were causing the night to cry. Sinclair looked up, and into the eyes of time. Staring back at her from across the bridge of life, they revealed the new voice rising. Stamped on her brain, like a schema, it was hers: