"Oh, Mary, it's marvelous. So windy. So beautiful."
"You've obviously lost your mind, child. Sit down by the fire. I'll make you some hot tea."
Jenny warmed herself in front of the log fire. "Where's James?" she asked.
"He's not here now," Mary called from the kitchen. "He's out with Sean somewhere."
"Oh," Jenny said, and Mary could hear the disappointment in her voice. "Will he be back soon?"
Mary stopped what she was doing and went back into the living room. She looked at Jenny and said, "Why are you so concerned about James all of a sudden?"
"I just wanted to see him. Say hello. Spend some time with him. That's all."
"That's all? What in the world has got into you, Jenny?"
"I just like him, Mary. I like him very much. And he likes me."
"You like him and he likes you? Where did you get an idea like that?"
"I know, Mary, believe me. Don't ask me how I know it, but I do."
Mary took hold of her by the shoulders. "Listen to me, Jenny." She shook Jenny once. "Are you listening to me?"
"Yes, Mary! You're hurting me!"
"Stay away from him. Forget about him."
Jenny began to cry. "I can't forget about him, Mary. I love him. And he loves me. I know he does."
"Jenny, he doesn't love you. Don't ask me to explain it all now, because I can't, my love. He's a kind man, but he's not what he appears to be. Let go of it. Forget about him! You have to trust me, little one. He's not for you."
Jenny tore herself from Mary's grasp, stood back, and wiped the tears off her face. "He is for me, Mary. I love him. You've been trapped here with Sean so long you've forgotten what love is."
Then she picked up her coat and dashed out the front door, slamming it behind her. Mary hurried to the window and watched Jenny pedaling away through the storm.
Rain beat against Jenny's face as she pedaled along the rolling track toward the village. She had told herself she would not cry again, but she had not been able to keep her word. Tears mixed with the rain and streamed down her face. The village was tightly shuttered, the village store and the pub closed for the night, blackout shades drawn in the cottages. Her torch was lying in her basket, its pale yellow beam aimed forward into the pitch darkness. It was barely enough light to see by. She passed through the village and started toward her cottage.
She was furious with Mary. How dare she try to come between her and James? And what did she mean by that remark about him? He's not what he appears to be. She was also angry with herself. She felt terrible about the insult she had hurled at Mary as she ran out the door. They had never quarreled before. In the morning, when things calmed down, Jenny would go back and apologize.
In the distance she could make out the outline of their cottage against the sky. She dismounted at the gate, pushed her bicycle up the footpath, and leaned it against the side of the cottage. Her father came out and stood in the doorway, wiping his hands on a rag. His face was still swollen from the fight. Jenny tried to push past him but he reached out and wrapped his hands around her arm in an iron grip.
"Have you been with him again?"
"No, Papa." She cried out in pain. "Please, you're hurting my arm!"
He raised his other hand to strike her, his ugly swollen face contorted with rage. "Tell me the truth, Jenny! Have you been with him again?"
"No, I swear," she cried, her arms raised about her face to ward off the blow she expected at any second. "Please, Papa, don't hit me! I'm telling you the truth!"
Martin Colville released his grip. "Go inside and make me some supper."
She wanted to scream, Make your own bloody supper for a change! But she knew where it would lead. She looked at his face and, for an instant, found herself wishing that James had killed him. This is the last time, she thought. This is the very last time. She went inside, removed her sodden coat, hung it on the wall in the kitchen, and started his dinner.
49
LONDON
Clive Roach knew he had a problem the moment Rudolf entered the crowded carriage. Roach would be all right as long as the agent remained seated inside his compartment. But if the agent left the compartment to go to the lavatory or the restaurant car or another carriage, Roach was in trouble. The corridors were jammed with travelers, some standing, some sitting and trying vainly to doze. Moving about the train was an ordeal; one had to squeeze and push past people and constantly say "Excuse me" and "Beg your pardon." Trying to follow someone without being detected would be difficult--probably impossible if the agent was good. And everything Roach had seen thus far told him Rudolf was good.
Roach became suspicious when Rudolf, clutching his stomach, stepped from his compartment while the train was still at the platform at Euston Station and sliced forward along the crowded corridor. Rudolf was short, no more than five foot six, and his head quickly disappeared into the sea of passengers. Roach picked his way forward a few steps, earning him the grunts and groans of the other passengers. He was reluctant to get too close; Rudolf had doubled back several times during the day, and Roach feared he might have seen his face. The corridor was poorly lit because of blackout regulations and already shrouded in a fog bank of cigarette smoke. Roach stayed in the shadows and watched as Rudolf knocked twice on the lavatory door. Another passenger pushed past him, obstructing his view for just a few seconds. When he looked up again Rudolf was gone.
Roach stayed where he was for three minutes, watching the lavatory door. Another man approached, knocked, then went inside and closed the door behind him.
Alarm bells sounded inside Roach's head.
He pushed his way forward through the knot of passengers in the corridor, stopped in front of the lavatory door, and pounded on it.
"Wait your turn like everyone else," came the voice on the other side.
"Open the door--police emergency."
The man opened the door a few seconds later, buttoning his fly. Roach looked inside to make sure Rudolf was not there. Dammit! He threw open the door to the connecting passage and entered the next carriage. Like the other, it was dark and smoky and hopelessly crammed with passengers. It would be impossible for him to find Rudolf now without turning over the train carriage by carriage, compartment by compartment.
He thought, How did he vanish so quickly?
He hurried back to the first carriage and found the ticket collector, an old man with steel-rimmed spectacles and a clubfoot. Roach withdrew the surveillance photograph of Rudolf and stuck it in front of the ticket collector's face.
"Have you seen this man?"
"Short chap?"
"Yes," Roach said, his spirits sinking lower, thinking, Dammit! Dammit!
"He jumped off the train as we pulled out of Euston. Lucky he didn't break his bloody leg."
"Christ! Why didn't you say something?" He realized how ridiculous the remark must have sounded. He forced himself to speak more calmly. "Where does this train make its first stop?"
"Watford."
"When?"
"About a half hour."
"Too long. I have to get off this train now."
Roach reached up, grabbed the emergency-brake cord, and pulled. The train immediately slowed, as the brakes were applied, and began to stop.
The old ticket collector looked up at Roach, eyes blinking rapidly behind the spectacles, and said, "You're not a normal police officer, are you?"
Roach said nothing as the train drew to a halt. He threw open the door, dropped down to the edge of the track, and disappeared into the darkness.
Neumann paid off the taxi a short distance from the Pope warehouse and walked the rest of the way. He switched his Mauser from the waistband of his trousers to the front pocket of his reefer coat and then turned up his collar against the driving rain. The first act had gone smoothly. The deception on the train had worked exactly as he had hoped. Neumann was certain he was not followed after leaving Euston Station. That meant one thing: Mackintosh, the man who had tailed him ont
o the train, was almost certainly still on it and heading out of London bound for Liverpool. The watcher was not an idiot. Eventually he would realize Neumann had not returned to his compartment, and he would begin a search. He might ask questions. Neumann's escape had not gone unseen; the ticket collector had spotted him jumping from the train. When the watcher realized Neumann was no longer on the train, he would get off at the next stop and telephone his superiors in London. Neumann realized he had a very limited window of opportunity. He had to move quickly.
The warehouse was dark and appeared deserted. Neumann rang the bell and waited. There was no response. He rang the bell again and this time could hear the sound of footsteps on the other side. The door was opened a moment later by a black-haired giant in a leather coat.
"What do you want?"
"I'd like to see Mr. Pope, please," Neumann said politely. "I need a few items, and I was told this was very definitely the place to come."
"Mr. Pope is gone and we're out of business, so piss off."
The giant started to close the door. Neumann put his foot in the way.
"I'm sorry. It's really rather urgent. Perhaps you could help."
The giant looked at Neumann, a puzzled look on his face. He seemed to be trying to reconcile the public school accent with the reefer coat and bandaged face. "I suppose you didn't hear me the first time," he said. "We're out of business. Shut down." He grabbed Neumann's shoulder. "Now, fuck off."
Neumann punched the giant in the Adam's apple, then pulled out his Mauser and shot him in the foot. The man collapsed on the floor, alternately howling in pain and gasping for breath. Neumann stepped inside and closed the gate. The warehouse was just the way Catherine described it: vans, cars, motorbikes, stacks of black-market food, and several jerry cans of petrol.
Neumann leaned down and said, "If you make a move, I'll shoot you again and it won't be in the foot. Do you understand?"
The giant grunted.
Neumann selected a black van, opened the door, and started the motor. He grabbed two jerry cans of petrol and put them in the back of the van. On second thought, it was a very long drive. He took two more and put them in the back too. He climbed inside the van, drove it to the front of the warehouse, then got out and hauled open the main door.
Before leaving, he knelt beside the wounded man and said, "If I were you, I'd get straight to a hospital."
The man looked at Neumann, more confused than ever. "Who the hell are you, mate?"
Neumann smiled, knowing the truth would sound so absurd the man would never believe it.
"I'm a German spy on the run from MI-Five."
"Yeah--and I'm Adolf bloody Hitler."
Neumann climbed in the van and sped away.
Harry Dalton tore the blackout shades from the headlamps and drove dangerously fast westward across London. Transport section had offered a skilled high-speed driver, but Harry wanted to do the driving himself. He weaved in and out of traffic, one hand constantly pressing the horn. Vicary sat next to him on the front seat, nervously clutching the dash. The wipers struggled in vain to beat away the rain. Turning into the Cromwell Road, Harry accelerated so hard the rear end of the car slid on the slick tarmac. He sliced and snaked his way through the traffic, then turned south into Earl's Court Road. He entered a small side street, then raced down a narrow alley, swerving once to avoid a rubbish bin, then again to miss a cat. He slammed on the brakes behind a block of flats and brought them to a skidding halt.
Harry and Vicary got out of the car, entered the building through the rear service door, and pounded up the stairs toward the fifth floor to the surveillance flat. Vicary, ignoring the pain shooting through his knee like a knife, kept pace with Harry.
He thought, If only Boothby had let me arrest them hours ago, we wouldn't be in this mess!
It was nothing short of a disaster.
The agent code-named Rudolf had just jumped from a train at Euston Station and melted into the city. Vicary had to assume he was now attempting to flee the country. He had no choice but to arrest Catherine Blake; he needed her in custody and scared out of her wits. Then she might tell them where Rudolf was headed and how he planned to escape, whether other agents were involved, and where he kept his radio.
Vicary was not optimistic. Everything he felt about this woman told him she would not cooperate, even when faced with execution. All she had to do was hold out long enough for Rudolf to escape. If she did that, the Abwehr would possess evidence suggesting British Intelligence was engaged in a massive deception. The consequences were too awful to contemplate. All the work that had gone into Fortitude would be wasted. The Germans could deduce that the Allies were coming at Normandy. The invasion would have to be postponed and replanned; otherwise it would end in a blood-soaked catastrophe. Hitler's iron-handed occupation of western Europe would go on. Countless more would die. And all because Vicary's operation had fallen to pieces. They had one chance now: arrest her, make her talk, and stop Rudolf before he could flee the country or use his radio.
Harry pushed open the door to the surveillance flat and led them inside. The curtains were open to the street, the room in darkness. Vicary struggled to make out the figures standing in various poses all around the room like statuary in a darkened garden: a pair of bleary-eyed watchers, frozen in the window; a half dozen tense Special Branch men leaning against one wall. The senior Special Branch officer was called Carter. He was big and buff with a thick throat and pockmarked skin. A cigarette, extinguished for security, jutted from the corner of his generous mouth. When Harry introduced Vicary, he pumped Vicary's hand ferociously once, then led him to the window to explain the disposition of his forces. The dead cigarette flaked ash as he spoke.
"We'll go in through the front door," Carter said, a trace of North Country in his accent. "When we do, we'll seal the street at both ends and a pair of men will cover the back of the house. Once we're in the house she'll have nowhere to go."
"It's extremely important that you take her alive," Vicary said. "She's absolutely useless to us dead."
"Harry says she's good with her weapons."
"True. We have reason to believe she has a gun and is willing to use it."
"We'll take her so fast she won't know what hit her. We're ready whenever you give us the word."
Vicary turned from the window and walked across the room to the telephone. He dialed the department and waited for the operator to forward the call to Boothby's office.
"The Special Branch men are ready to move on our order," Vicary said, when Boothby came on the line. "Do we have authorization yet?"
"No. The Twenty Committee are still deliberating. And we can't move until they approve it. The ball's in their court now."
"My God! Perhaps someone should explain to the Twenty Committee that time is one thing we don't have in great abundance. If we have one chance in hell of catching Rudolf, we need to know where he's going."
"I understand your dilemma," Boothby said.
Vicary thought, Your dilemma. My dilemma, Sir Basil?
He said, "When are they going to decide?"
"Any moment. I'll call you back straightaway."
Vicary rang off and paced the dark room. He turned to one of the watchers and said, "How long has she been in there?"
"About fifteen minutes."
"Fifteen minutes? Why did she stay on the street so long? I don't like it."
The telephone rang. Vicary lunged for it and brought the receiver to his ear. Basil Boothby said, "We have the Twenty Committee's approval. Bring her in, Alfred. And good luck."
Vicary slammed down the receiver.
"We're on, gentlemen." He turned to Harry. "Alive. We need her alive."
Harry nodded, grim-faced, then led the Special Branch men out of the room. Vicary listened to their footfalls on the stairs gradually fading away. Then, a moment later, he spotted the tops of their heads as they stepped from the building and headed across the street toward Catherine Blake's flat.
&
nbsp; Horst Neumann parked the van in a small quiet side street around the corner from Catherine's flat. He climbed out and softly closed the door. He walked quickly along the pavement, hands thrust deeply into his pockets, one hand wrapped around the butt of the Mauser.
The street was in pitch darkness. He came to the pile of rubble that once was the terrace behind the flat. He groped his way across broken wood, crumbled brick, and twisted pipes. The rubble ended at a wall, about six feet high. On the other side of the wall was the garden at the back of the house--Neumann had seen it from the window of her room. He tried the gate; it was locked. He would have to open it from the other side.
He placed his hands on top of the wall, thrust with his legs, and pulled with his arms. Atop the wall now, he threw one leg over the other side and turned his body. He hung that way for a few seconds, looking down. The ground below was invisible in the dark. He could fall on anything--a sleeping dog or a row of dustbins that would make a terrible clatter if he landed on them. He considered shining his torch for a second but that might attract attention. He pushed himself off the top of the wall and fell through the gloom. There were no dogs or rubbish bins, just a thorny shrub of some kind that clawed at his face and his coat.
Neumann tore himself free from the thornbush and unlatched the gate. He crossed the garden to the back door. He tried the latch--it was locked. The door had a window. He reached in his coat pocket, withdrew the Mauser, and used it to smash the lower-left pane of glass. The noise was surprisingly loud. He reached through the shattered pane and unlocked the door, then quickly crossed the hall and ascended the stairs.
He reached Catherine's door and knocked softly.
From the other side of the door he heard her say, "Who's there?"
"It's me."
She opened the door. Neumann stepped inside and closed it. She was dressed in trousers, sweater, and leather jacket. The suitcase radio was standing next to the door. Neumann looked at her face. It was ashen.
"It could be my imagination," she said, "but I think something is going on downstairs. I've seen some men milling about on the street and sitting in parked cars."