Eye of the Needle - Ken Follett [61]
It was coming back. In his first couple of years in London Faber had had little to do. The war had not yet started, and most people believed it would not come. (Faber was not among the optimists.) He had been able to do a little useful work—mostly checking and revising the Abwehr’s out-of-date maps, plus general reports based on his own observations and his reading of the newspapers—but not much. To fill in time, to improve his English, and to flesh out his cover, he had gone sightseeing.
His purpose in visiting Canterbury Cathedral had been innocent, although he did buy an aerial view of the town and the cathedral that he sent back for the Luftwaffe—not that it did much good; they spent most of 1942 missing it. Faber had taken a whole day to see the building: reading the ancient initials carved in walls, distinguishing the different architectural styles, reading the guidebook line by line as he walked slowly around.
He had been in the south ambulatory of the choir, looking at the blind arcading, when he became conscious of another absorbed figure by his side—an older man. “Fascinating, isn’t it?” the man said, and Faber asked him what he meant.
“The one pointed arch in an arcade of round ones. No reason for it—that section obviously hasn’t been rebuilt. For some reason, somebody just altered that one. I wonder why.”
Faber saw what he meant. The choir was Romanesque, the nave Gothic; yet here in the choir was a solitary Gothic arch. “Perhaps,” he said, “the monks demanded to see what the pointed arches would look like, and the architect did this to show them.”
The older man stared at him. “What a splendid conjecture! Of course that’s the reason. Are you an historian?”
Faber laughed. “No, just a clerk and an occasional reader of history books.”
“People get doctorates for inspired guesses like that!”
“Are you? An historian, I mean?”
“Yes, for my sins.” He stuck out his hand. “Percy Godliman.”
Was it possible, Faber thought as the train rattled on through Lancashire, that that unimpressive figure in a tweed suit could be the man who had discovered his identity? Spies generally claimed they were civil servants or something equally vague; not historians—that lie could be too easily found out. Yet it was rumored that Military Intelligence had been bolstered by a number of academics. Faber had imagined them to be young, fit, aggressive and bellicose as well as clever. Godliman was clever, but none of the rest. Unless he had changed.
Faber had seen him once again, although he had not spoken to him on the second occasion. After the brief encounter in the cathedral Faber had seen a notice advertising a public lecture on Henry II to be given by Professor Godliman at his college. He had gone along, out of curiosity. The talk had been erudite, lively and convincing. Godliman was still a faintly comic figure, prancing about behind the lectern, getting enthusiastic about his subject; but it was clear his mind was as sharp as a knife.
So that was the man who had discovered what Die Nadel looked like.
An amateur.
Well, he would make amateur mistakes. Sending Billy Parkin had been one: Faber had recognized the boy. Godliman should have sent someone Faber did not know. Parkin had a better chance of recognizing Faber, but no chance at all of surviving the encounter. A professional would have known that.
The train shuddered to a halt, and a muffled voice outside announced that this was Liverpool. Faber cursed under his breath; he should have been spending the time working out his next move, not remembering Percival Godliman.
They were waiting at Glasgow, Parkin had said before he died. Why Glasgow? Their inquiries at Euston would have told them he was going to Inverness. And if they suspected Inverness to be a red herring, they would have speculated that he was coming here, to Liverpool—this was the nearest link point for an Irish ferry.
Faber hated snap decisions.
Whichever, he had to get off the train.
He stood up, opened the door, stepped out, and headed for the ticket barrier.
He thought of something