The Unlikely Spy

  Hampton Sands was too small, too isolated, and too quiet to warrant its own police constable. It shared one constable with four other Norfolk coast villages. Holme, Thornton, Titchwell, and Brancaster. The constable was a man named Thomasson, a police veteran who had worked the Norfolk coast since the last war. Thomasson lived in a police house in Brancaster and, because of the requirements of his work, had his own telephone.

  One hour earlier the telephone had rung, waking Thomasson, his wife, and his English setter, Rags. The voice at the other end of the line was Chief Superintendent Perkin from King's Lynn. The superintendent told Thomasson about the urgent telephone call he had received from the War Office in London, asking for assistance from local police forces in the search for two fugitive murder suspects.

  Ten minutes after receiving Perkin's telephone call, Thomasson was letting himself out the door of the cottage, wearing a blue oilskin cape and a sou'wester knotted beneath his chin and carrying a flask of sweet tea Judith had quickly made for him. He pushed his bicycle around from the shed at the back of the house, then set off toward the center of the village. Rags, who always accompanied Thomasson on his rounds, trotted easily next to him.

  Thomasson was in his midfifties. He never smoked, rarely touched alcohol, and thirty years of cycling the rolling coastline of Norfolk had left him fit and very strong. His thick, well-muscled legs pumped easily, propelling the heavy iron bicycle into Brancaster. As he suspected, the village was dead quiet. He could knock on a few doors, wake a few people up, but he knew everyone in the village and none of them were housing fugitive murderers. He took one pass through the silent streets, then turned onto the coast road and pedaled toward the next village, Hampton Sands.

  The Colville cottage was about a quarter mile outside the village. Everyone knew about Martin Colville. He had been deserted by his wife, was a heavy drinker, and barely scratched a living from his smallholding. Thomasson knew Colville was too hard on his daughter, Jenny. He also knew Jenny spent a great deal of time in the dunes; Thomasson had found her things after one of the locals complained about tinkers living on the beach. He coasted to a stop and shined his torch toward the Colville cottage. It was dark, and there was no smoke coming from the chimney.

  Thomasson pushed his bike up the drive and knocked on the door. There was no answer. Fearing Colville could be drunk or passed out, he knocked again, harder. Again, no answer. He pushed the door open and looked inside. The interior was dark. He called Colville's name one last time. Hearing no answer, he left the cottage and continued on into Hampton Sands.

  Hampton Sands, like Brancaster, was quiet and blacked out. Thomasson cycled through the village, past the Arms, the village store, and St. John's Church. He crossed the bridge over the sea creek. Sean and Mary Dogherty lived about a mile outside the village. Thomasson knew that Jenny Colville practically lived with the Doghertys. It was very likely she was spending the night there. But where was Martin?

  It was a difficult mile, the track rising and falling beneath him. Ahead of him, in the darkness, he could hear the click of Rags's paws on the track and the steady rhythm of his breathing. The Dogherty cottage appeared before him. He pedaled up to the drive, stopped, and shined his torch back and forth.

  Something in the meadow caught his attention. He played the beam of light across the grass and there--there it was again. He waded forward into the saturated meadow and reached down for the object. It was an empty jerry can. He sniffed--petrol. He turned it upside down. A thread of fuel trickled out.

  Rags walked ahead of him toward the Dogherty cottage. He saw Sean Dogherty's dilapidated old van parked in the yard. Then he spotted a pair of bicycles lying in the grass beside the barn. Thomasson walked to the cottage and knocked on the door. Like the Colville cottage, there was no answer.

  Thomasson didn't bother knocking a second time. He was by now thoroughly alarmed by what he had seen. He pushed back the door and called out "Hello!" He heard a strange sound, a muffled grunting. He shone his torch into the room and saw Mary Dogherty, tied to a chair, a gag around her mouth.

  Thomasson rushed forward, Rags barking furiously, and quickly untied the cloth around her face.

  "Mary! What in God's name happened here?"

  Mary, hysterical, gasped for air.

  "Sean--Martin--dead--barn--spies--submarine--Jenny!"

  "Vicary here."

  "Chief Superintendent Perkin of the King's Lynn police."

  "What have you got?"

  "Two dead bodies, a hysterical woman, and a missing girl."

  "My God! Start from the beginning."

  "After I received your call, I sent all my constables out on rounds. Police Constable Thomasson handles a handful of small villages along the north Norfolk coast. He found the trouble."

  "Go on."

  "It happened in a place called Hampton Sands. Unless you have a large map, you're not likely to find it. If you do, find Hunstanton on the Wash and trace your finger east along the Norfolk coast and you'll see Hampton Sands."

  "I've got it." It was nearly the spot where Vicary guessed the transmitter might be.

  "Thomasson found two bodies in a barn on a farm just outside Hampton Sands. The victims are both local men, Martin Colville and Sean Dogherty. Dogherty's an Irishman. Thomasson found Dogherty's wife, Mary, bound and gagged in the cottage. She'd been hit on the head and was hysterical when Thomasson discovered her. She told him quite a tale."

  "Nothing will surprise me, Superintendent. Please continue."

  "Mrs. Dogherty says her husband has been spying for the Germans since the beginning of the war--he was never a full-fledged IRA gunman, but he had ties to the group. She says a couple of weeks ago the Germans dropped another agent onto the beach named Horst Neumann, and Dogherty took him in. The agent has been living with them ever since and traveling regularly to London."

  "What happened tonight?"

  "She's not sure exactly. She heard gunshots, ran outside to the barn, and found the bodies. The German told her that Colville burst in on them, and that's when the shooting started."

  "Was there a woman with Neumann?"

  "Yes."

  "Tell me about the missing girl."

  "Colville's daughter, Jenny. She's not at home, and her bicycle was found at the Doghertys'. Thomasson speculates she followed her father, witnessed the shooting or the aftermath, and fled. Mary is afraid the Germans found the girl and took her with them."

  "Does she know where they were headed?"

  "No, but she says they're driving a van--black, perhaps."

  "Where is she now?"

  "Still at the cottage."

  "Where's Constable Thomasson?"

  "He's still on the line from a public house in Hampton Sands."

  "Was there any sign of a radio in the cottage or the barn?"

  "Hold on. Let me ask him."

  Vicary could hear Perkin, voice muffled, ask the question.

  "He says he saw a contraption in the barn that could be a radio."

  "What did it look like?"

  "A suitcase filled with something that looked like a wireless. It was destroyed by a shotgun blast."

  "Who else knows about this?"

  "Me, Thomasson, and probably the landlord at the public house. I suspect he's standing next to Thomasson right now."

  "I want you to tell absolutely no one else about what happened at the Dogherty cottage tonight. There is to be no mention of German agents in any report on this affair. This is a security matter of the utmost importance. Is that clear, Superintendent?"

  "I understand."

  "I'm going to send a team of my men to Norfolk to assist you. For now, leave Mary Dogherty and those bodies exactly where they are."

  "Yes, sir."

  Vicary was looking at the map again. "Now, Superintendent, I have information that leads me to suspect those fugitives are in all likelihood heading directly your way. We believe their ultimate destination is the Lincolnshire coast."

  "I've ca
lled in all my men. We're blocking all the major roads."

  "Keep this office informed of every development. And good luck."

  Vicary rang off and turned to Boothby.

  "They've killed two people, they probably have a hostage, and they're making a run for the Lincolnshire coast." Vicary smiled wolfishly. "And it looks as though they've just lost their second radio."

  58

  LINCOLNSHIRE, ENGLAND

  Two hours after leaving Hampton Sands, Horst Neumann and Catherine Blake were beginning to have serious doubts about their chances of making the rendezvous with the submarine in time. To escape the Norfolk coast, Neumann retraced his course, climbing into the cluster of hills in the heart of Norfolk, then following thin ribbons of road through the heathland and the darkened villages. He skirted King's Lynn to the southeast, wound his way through a series of hamlets, and then crossed the River Great Ouse at a village called Wiggenhall St. Germans.

  The journey across the southern edge of the Wash was a nightmare. Wind poured in from the North Sea and whipped over the marshes and the dikes. The rain increased. Sometimes it came in irate squalls--swirling, windblown, erasing the edges of the road. Neumann hunched forward mile after mile, gripping the wheel with both hands as the van raced across the flat terrain. At times he had the sensation of floating through an abyss.

  Catherine sat next to him, reading Dogherty's old Ordnance Survey map by the light of her torch. They spoke in German, so that Jenny could not understand. Neumann found Catherine's German odd: flat, toneless, no regional accent. The kind of German that is a second or third language. The kind of German that has not been used in a very long time.

  Neumann, with Catherine navigating, plotted his course.

  Cleethorpes, where their boat was waiting for them, lay next to the port of Grimsby at the mouth of the Humber. Once they were clear of the Wash, there were no large towns standing in their way. According to the maps there was a good road--the A16--that ran several miles inland along the base of the Lincolnshire Wolds, then to the Humber. For purposes of planning, Neumann assumed the worst. He assumed that Mary would eventually be found, that MI5 would eventually be alerted, and roadblocks would be thrown up on all major roads near the coastline. He would take the A16 halfway toward Cleethorpes, then switch to a smaller road that ran closer to the coast.

  Boston lay near the western shore of the Wash. It was the last large town standing between them and the Humber. Neumann left the main road, crept through quiet side streets, then rejoined the A16 north of town. He opened the throttle and pushed the van hard through the storm.

  Catherine switched off the blackout torch and watched the rain swirling in the soft glow of the headlamps.

  "What's it like now--in Berlin?"

  Neumann kept his eyes on the road. "It's paradise. We are all happy, we work hard in the factories, we shake our fists at the American and British bombers, and everyone loves the Fuhrer."

  "You sound like one of Goebbels's propaganda films."

  "The truth isn't quite so entertaining. Berlin is very bad. The Americans come with their B-Seventeens by day, and the British come with their Lancasters and Halifaxes at night. Some days it seems the city is under almost constant bombardment. Most of central Berlin is a pile of rubble."

  "Having lived through the blitz myself, I'm afraid Germany deserves whatever the Americans and British can dish out. The Germans were the first to take the war to the civilian population. I can't shed many tears because Berlin is now being pounded into dust."

  "You sound like a Brit yourself."

  "I am half British. My mother was English. And I've been living among the British for six years. It's not hard to forget whose side you're supposed to be on when you're in a situation like that. But tell me more about Berlin."

  "Those with money or connections manage to eat well. Those without money or connections don't. The Russians have turned the tables in the east. I suspect half of Berlin is hoping the invasion succeeds so the Americans can get to Berlin before the Ivans."

  "So typically German. They elect a psychopath, give him absolute power, then cry because he's led them to the brink of destruction."

  Neumann laughed. "If you were blessed with such foresight, why in the world did you volunteer to become a spy?"

  "Who said anything about volunteering?"

  They flashed through a pair of villages--first Stickney, then Stickford. The scent of woodsmoke from fires burning in the cottages penetrated the interior of the van. Neumann heard a dog barking, then another. He reached in his pocket, removed his cigarettes, and gave them to Catherine. She lit two, kept one for herself, and handed one back to him.

  "Would you like to explain that last remark?"

  She thought, Would I? It felt terribly strange, after all these years, even to be speaking in German. She had spent six years hiding every shred of truth about herself. She had become someone else, erased every aspect of her personality and her past. When she thought about the person she was before Hitler and before the war, it was as if she were thinking about someone else.

  Anna Katarina von Steiner died in an unfortunate road accident outside Berlin.

  "Well, I didn't exactly go down to the local Abwehr office and sign up," she said. "But then, I don't suppose anyone in this line of work gets their job that way, do they. They always come for you. In my case, they was Kurt Vogel."

  She told him the story, the story she had never told another person before. The story of the summer in Spain, the summer the civil war broke out. The summer at Maria's estancia. Her affair with Maria's father. "Just my luck, he turns out to be a Fascist and a talent spotter for the Abwehr. He sells me to Vogel, and Vogel comes looking for me."

  "Why didn't you just say no?"

  "Why didn't any of us just say no? In my case, he threatened the one thing in this world I care most about--my father. That's what a good case officer does. They get inside your head. They get to know how you think, how you feel. What you love and what you fear. And then they use it to make you do what they want you to do."

  She smoked quietly for a moment, watching as they passed through another village.

  "He knew that I lived in London when I was a child, that I spoke the language perfectly, that I already knew how to handle a weapon, and that--"

  Silence for a moment. Neumann didn't press her. He just waited, fascinated.

  "He knew that I had a personality suited to the assignment he had in mind. I've been in Britain nearly six years, alone, with virtually no contact with anyone from my side: no friends, no family, no contact with any other agents--nothing. It was more like a prison sentence than an assignment. I can't tell you how many times I dreamt about going back to Berlin and killing Vogel with one of the wonderful techniques he and his friends taught me."

  "How did you enter the country?"

  She told him--told him what Vogel made her do.

  "Jesus Christ," Neumann muttered.

  "Something the Gestapo would do, right? I spent the next month preparing my new identity. Then I settled in and waited. Vogel and I had a way of communicating over the wireless that didn't involve code names. So the British never looked for me. Vogel knew I was safe and in place, ready to be activated. Then the idiot gives me one assignment and sends me straight into the arms of MI-Five." She laughed quietly. "My God, I can't believe I'm actually going back there after all this time. I never thought I would see Germany again."

  "You don't sound terribly thrilled about the prospect of going home."

  "Home? It's hard to think of Germany as my home. It's hard to think of myself as German. Vogel erased that part of me at his wonderful little mountain retreat in Bavaria."

  "What are you going to do?"

  "Meet with Vogel, make certain my father is still alive, then collect my payment and leave. Vogel can create another one of his false identities for me. I can pass for about five different nationalities. That's what landed me in the game to begin with. It's all a big game, isn't it?
One big game."

  "Where are you going to go?"

  "Back to Spain," she said. "Back to the place where it all started."

  "Tell me about it," Neumann said. "I need to think about something besides this godforsaken road."

  "It's in the foothills of the Pyrenees. In the morning we go hunting, and in the afternoon we ride up into the mountains. There's a wonderful stream with deep, cold pools and we stay there all afternoon, drinking icy white wine and smelling the eucalyptus trees. I used to think about it all the time when the loneliness got to me. I thought I was going to go crazy sometimes."

  "It sounds wonderful. If you need a stable hand, let me know."

  She looked at him and smiled. "You've been wonderful. If it weren't for you--" She hesitated. "God, I can't even imagine."

  "Don't mention it. Glad I could be of assistance. I don't mean to rain on our parade, but we're not out of danger yet."

  "Believe me, I realize that."

  She finished her cigarette, opened the window a crack, and tossed the butt into the night. It hit the roadway and exploded into sparks. She sat back and closed her eyes. She had been running on adrenaline and fear for too long. Exhaustion stalked her. The gentle rocking of the van lulled her into a light half sleep.

  Neumann said, "Vogel never told me your real name. What is it?"

  "My real name was Anna Katarina von Steiner," she said, sleep creeping into her voice. "But I would prefer it if you continue to call me Catherine. You see, Kurt Vogel killed Anna before he sent her to England. I'm afraid Anna no longer exists. Anna is dead."

  Neumann's voice, when he spoke again, was far away, at the end of a long tunnel.

  "How did a beautiful and intelligent woman like Anna Katarina von Steiner end up here--like this?"

  "That's a very good question," she said, and then fatigue overtook her and she was asleep.

  The dream is her only memory of it: it was driven benevolently from her conscious thoughts long ago. She sees it now in flash bursts--stolen glimpses. Sometimes she sees it with her own eyes, as though she is reliving it, and sometimes the dream makes her watch it again like a spectator in a grandstand.