A Game of Spies by John Altman Page A

had a week before, when Oldfield had first approached him about the mission.
    He found himself looking at his hands. They were open, turned up to face the muttering sky. A fine metaphor for his predicament, he thought—six in the one hand, half a dozen in the other.
    On the first hand were responsibility, common sense, and prudence. He had never met William Hobbs in person, but the man’s reputation had preceded him. If Hobbs was half the lout that most of the men around Whitehall believed him to be, then undertaking the mission would be tantamount to committing suicide. For Hobbs, according to the conventional wisdom around MI6, was working for the Nazis. He had been dodgy even before he had gone over there; and since his arrival, much to Oldfield’s chagrin, he had fallen off schedule. Even if he was still loyal, he lacked something in steadiness. By trying to take such a man out of Germany, Deacon might well be handing the Nazis a prototype aircraft, not to mention an experienced RAF pilot. His wife and son would be left without a father.
    That was on the one hand.
    But Deacon had never been renowned for his prudence. And on the other hand were the nobler virtues: justice, courage, loyalty, and honor. Assuming that Hobbs was not working for the Nazis—that he had a lion’s heart beating somewhere under his con man’s façade, and that he had successfully completed his own operation in Germany—then he would need to be evacuated. As would the Bernhardt girl, who might possibly be in possession of intelligence that could help them to win the war.
    On the one hand: responsibility, common sense, and prudence. On the other: justice, courage, loyalty, and honor.
    It was really no contest at all.
    He spat out the spearmint and went to keep his meeting.
    The old-fashioned lift carried him to the fifth floor with its ancient gears creaking loudly; Deacon operated the lever himself.
    He had not set foot inside Leconfield House for several months, since before the start of the war—but little around the War Office, he thought, seemed to have changed. The teak-inlaid halls still smelled musty and close. The men and women sitting behind their heavy black typewriters still looked weary and distracted. The crossword puzzle of that morning’s Times was in evidence, in various stages of completion, on the corner of nearly every desk.
    He marched down the corridor and then paused before a door at the end: the Director General’s office. He knocked twice, waited for the light above the door to flash green, and then stepped into an airy chamber dominated by a long polished conference table, with heavy red sashes framing a tall, rain-streaked window.
    Cecil Oldfield was bent over a map on the conference table. He beckoned Deacon closer without looking up.
    â€œThree hundred feet exactly,” Oldfield said, pointing to a spot on the map. “I’m afraid it doesn’t leave much room for error.”
    Deacon joined him as the door closed softly behind them.
    The map represented the town of Gothmund, huddled against the Trave River on the outskirts of Lübeck. The three hundred feet to which Oldfield had referred represented the field in which Deacon would be landing his prototype Lysander—or trying to land it, as the case may be.
    â€œAs far as we know, the field’s empty,” Oldfield said. “Too marshy for farming. But of course, we haven’t had any trustworthy firsthand reports for too long now.”
    Deacon leaned down, looking closer. “Marshy,” he repeated.
    â€œDon’t worry; the thaw hasn’t taken yet. You shouldn’t get stuck in any mud. We hope.”
    â€œHm.”
    â€œSo. Have you reached a decision?”
    Deacon’s mouth felt suddenly dry. When he spoke, however, his voice was clear. “I’m game,” he said.
    â€œGood,” Oldfield said smoothly. He hardly sounded surprised. “If all goes well, you’ll