The Unlikely Spy

  Tonight she is reliving it.

  She is living beside the lake; Papa lets her go alone. He knows she will not go near the water--it is too chilly for swimming--and he knows she likes to be by herself to think about her mother.

  It is autumn. She has brought a blanket. The tall grass at the edge of the lake is damp with the morning's rain. The wind moves in the trees. A flock of rooks scatter and wheel noisily overhead. The trees weep flaming leaves of orange and red. She watches the leaves float gently downward, like tiny hot-air balloons, and settle on the rippled surface of the lake.

  It is then, as her eye follows the descent of the leaves, that she sees the man, standing in the trees across the lake.

  He is very still for a long time, watching her; then he moves toward her. He is wearing knee-high boots and a thigh-length coat. A shotgun, broken at the breech, is cradled over his right arm. His hair and beard are too long, his eyes are red and damp. As he moves closer she can see something hanging from his belt. She realizes it is a pair of bloody rabbits. Limp with death, they seem absurdly long and thin.

  Papa has a word for men like him: poachers. They come onto other people's land and kill the animals--deer and rabbit and pheasant. She thinks it is a funny word, poachers. It sounds like someone who prepares eggs in the morning. She thinks about that now as he approaches, and it makes her smile.

  The poacher asks if he can sit next to her and she tells him yes.

  He squats and lays the shotgun in the grass.

  "Are you here alone?" he asks.

  "Yes. My father says it's all right."

  "Where is your father now?"

  "He's in the house."

  "And he's not coming here?"

  "No."

  "I want to show you something," he says. "Something that will make you feel wonderful."

  His eyes are very damp now. He is smiling; his teeth are black and rotten. She becomes frightened for the first time. She tries to stand up but he grabs her by the shoulders and forces her down onto the blanket. She tries to scream but he smothers the sound with a big, hairy hand. Suddenly he is on top of her; she is paralyzed beneath the weight of him. He is reaching up her dress and pulling at her underwear.

  The pain is like nothing she has ever felt. She feels she is being ripped apart. He pins her arms behind her head with one hand and covers her mouth with the other so no one will hear her scream. She feels the still-warm bodies of the dead rabbits pressing against her leg. Then the poacher's face becomes contorted, as if he is in pain, and it stops as suddenly as it began.

  He is talking to her again.

  "You saw the rabbits? You saw what I did to the rabbits?"

  She tries to nod, but the hand over her mouth is pressing so hard she cannot move her head.

  "If you ever tell anyone about what happened here today, I'll do the same to you. And then I'll do it to your father. I'll shoot you both, and then I'll hang your heads from my belt. Do you hear me, girl?"

  She starts to cry.

  "You're a very bad girl," he says. "Oh, yes, I can see that. I think you actually liked it."

  Then he does it to her again.

  The shaking starts. She has never dreamed it this way before. Someone is calling her name, Catherine . . . Catherine . . . wake up. Why is he calling me Catherine? My name is Anna. . . .

  Horst Neumann shook her once more, violently, and shouted, "Catherine, dammit! Wake up! We're in trouble!"

  59

  LINCOLNSHIRE, ENGLAND

  It was three a.m. when the Lysander broke through the thick clouds and bumped to a landing at the small RAF base two miles outside the town of Grimsby. Alfred Vicary had never flown in an airplane, and it was not an experience he wished to repeat soon. The heavy weather tossed the plane during the entire flight from London, and as they taxied toward the small operations hut Vicary was never so glad to see any place in all his life.

  The pilot shut down the engine while a crewman opened the cabin door. Vicary, Harry Dalton, Clive Roach, and Peter Jordan quickly climbed down. Two men were waiting for them, a young square-shouldered RAF officer and a buff pockmarked man in a dilapidated raincoat.

  The RAF man stuck out his hand and handled the introductions. "Squadron Leader Edmund Hughes. This is Chief Superintendent Roger Lockwood of the Lincolnshire County Constabulary. Come inside the operations hut. It's crude but dry, and we've set up a makeshift command post for you."

  They went inside. The RAF officer said, "I suppose it's not as nice as your digs in London."

  "You'd be surprised," Vicary said. It was a small room with a window overlooking the airfield. A large-scale map of Lincolnshire was tacked up on one wall, a desk with a pair of battered telephones opposite. "It will do just fine."

  "We have a wireless and a teleprinter," Hughes said. "We even can manage some tea and cheese sandwiches. You look as though you could use something to eat."

  "Thank you," Vicary said. "It's been a long day."

  Hughes went out and Chief Superintendent Lockwood stepped forward.

  "We've got men on every major road between here and the Wash," Lockwood said, his thick finger jabbing at the map. "In the smallest villages, they're just constables on bicycles, so I'm afraid they won't be able to do much if they spot them. But as they move closer to the coast, they'll be in trouble. Roadblocks here, here, here, and here. My best men, patrol cars, vans, and weapons."

  "Very good. What about the coastline itself?"

  "I've got a man on every dock and quay along the Lincolnshire coast and the Humber. If they try to steal a boat, I'll know about it."

  "What about the open beaches?"

  "That's another story. I don't have unlimited resources. I lost a lot of my good lads to the army, same as everybody else. I know these waters. I'm an amateur seaman myself. And I wouldn't want to head out to sea tonight in any boat I could launch from a beach."

  "This weather may be the best friend we've got."

  "Aye. One other thing, Major Vicary. Do we still need to pretend these are just a pair of ordinary criminals you're after?"

  "Actually, Chief Superintendent, we do indeed."

  The junction of the A16 and a smaller B-road lay just outside the town of Louth. Neumann had planned to leave the A16 at that point, take the B-road to the coast, turn onto another secondary road, and head north to Cleethorpes. There was just one problem. Half the police in Louth were standing in the junction. Neumann could see at least four men. As he approached, they shone their torches in his direction and waved for him to stop.

  Catherine was awake now, startled. "What's going on?"

  "End of the line, I'm afraid," Neumann said, bringing the van to a halt. "They've obviously been waiting for us. No talking our way out of this."

  Catherine picked up her Mauser. "Who said anything about talking?"

  One of the constables stepped forward, carrying a shotgun, and rapped on Neumann's window.

  Neumann wound down the window and said, "Good evening. What's the problem?"

  "Mind stepping out of the van, sir?"

  "Actually, I do. It's late, I'm tired, the weather's dreadful, and I want to get where I'm going."

  "And where would that be, sir?"

  "Kingston," Neumann said, though he could see the constable was already doubting his story. Another constable appeared at Catherine's window. Two more took up positions behind the van.

  The policeman pulled open Neumann's door, leveled the shotgun at his face, and said, "All right. Put your hands up where I can see them and get out of the van. Nice and slow."

  Jenny Colville sat in the back of the darkened van, hands and feet bound, mouth gagged. Her wrists hurt. So did her neck and her back. She had been sitting on the floor of the van for how long? Two hours? Three hours? Maybe four? When the van slowed, she allowed herself a brief flash of hope. She thought, Maybe this will all be over soon and I can go back to Hampton Sands and Mary and Sean and Dad will be there and things will be like they used to be before he c
ame and it will all turn out to be a bad dream and--she stopped herself. Better to be realistic. Better to think about what was really possible.

  She watched them in the front seat. They had spoken softly in German for a long time, then the woman fell asleep, and now Neumann was shaking her and trying to wake her up. Ahead, through the windscreen, she saw light--beams of light--bouncing back and forth, like torches. She thought, Police officers would carry torches if they were blocking the road. Was it possible? Did they know that they were German spies and that she had been kidnapped? Were they looking for her?

  The van stopped. She could see two policemen in front of the van and outside, near the back of the van, she could hear the footfalls and voices of at least two more. She heard the policeman tap on the glass. She saw Neumann wind down his window. She saw that he had a gun in his hand. Jenny looked at the woman. She had a gun in her hand too.

  Then she remembered what happened in the barn. Two people got in their way--her father and Sean Dogherty--and they had killed them both. It was possible they had killed Mary too. They weren't going to surrender just because some country policemen told them to. They would kill the policemen too, just like they killed her father and Sean.

  Jenny heard the door open, heard the police officer yelling at them to get out. She knew what was about to happen. Instead of getting out they would start shooting. Then the policemen would all be dead and Jenny would be alone with them again.

  She had to warn them.

  But how?

  She couldn't speak because Neumann had gagged her mouth so tightly.

  She could do only one thing.

  She raised her legs and kicked the side of the van as hard as she could.

  If Jenny Colville's action did not have its intended effect, it did grant at least one of the officers--the one standing nearest Catherine Blake's door--a more benevolent death. When he turned his head toward the sound, Catherine raised her Mauser and shot him. The Mauser's superb silencer damped the explosion of the round so that the gun emitted only a tense burst. The bullet smashed through the window, struck the constable at the hinge of his jaw, then ricocheted into the base of his brain. He collapsed onto the muddy apron of the road, dead.

  The second to die was the constable at Neumann's door, though Neumann did not fire the shot that killed him. Neumann knocked the shotgun away with a sweep of his right hand; Catherine turned and fired through the open door. The bullet struck the constable in the center of the forehead and exited at the back of his skull. He fell back onto the roadway.

  Neumann tumbled from the door and landed in the road. One of the officers at the rear of the van fired over his head, shattering the half-open window. Neumann quickly squeezed the trigger twice. The first shot struck the constable in the shoulder, spinning him around. The second pierced his heart.

  Catherine stepped from the van, the gun in her outstretched hands aimed into the darkness. On the other side of the van, Neumann was doing the same thing, only he was still lying flat on his stomach. Both waited, making no sound, listening.

  The fourth constable thought it best to flee for help. He turned and started running into the darkness. After a few steps he came into Neumann's range. Neumann took careful aim and fired twice. The running stopped, the shotgun clattered on the tarmac, and the last of the four men fell to the rainy roadway, dead.

  Neumann collected the bodies and stacked them at the back of the van. Catherine opened the rear doors. Jenny, eyes wide with terror, raised her hands to cover her head. Catherine lifted the gun into the air and struck Jenny's face. A deep gash opened over her eye. Catherine said, "Unless you want to end up like them, don't ever try anything like that again."

  Neumann lifted Jenny and laid her on the apron of the road. Then, together with Catherine, he placed the bodies of the dead constables in the back of the van. The idea had come to him immediately. The police officers had traveled to this spot in their own van; it was parked a few yards away on the side of the road. Neumann would hide the bodies and the stolen van out of sight in the trees and use the police van to drive to the coast. It might be hours before any other policeman came here and discovered the constables were missing. By then he and Catherine would be heading back to Germany aboard the U-boat.

  Neumann carried Jenny and placed her in the back of the police van. Catherine climbed into the driver's seat and started the motor. Neumann walked back to the other van and got inside. The engine was running. He reversed and turned around, then sped down the road, Catherine following. He tried not to think about the four dead bodies lying just inches from him.

  Two minutes later Neumann turned onto a small track leading off the road. He drove about two hundred yards, stopped, and shut down the motor. Then he climbed out and ran back to the road. Catherine had turned the van around and was sitting in the passenger seat when Neumann returned. He climbed in, slammed the door, and sped away.

  They passed the spot where the roadblock had been and turned onto the smaller B-road. According to the map it was about ten miles to the coast road, then another twenty miles to Cleethorpes. Neumann opened the throttle and pushed the van hard. For the first time since spotting the MI5 men in London, he allowed himself to imagine they just might make it after all.

  Alfred Vicary paced in his room at the RAF base outside Grimsby. Harry Dalton and Peter Jordan sat at the desk, smoking. Superintendent Lockwood sat next to them, arranging matches into geometric shapes.

  Vicary said, "I don't like it. Someone should have spotted them by now."

  Harry said, "All the major roads are sealed. They have to hit one of the roadblocks at some point."

  "Maybe they're not coming this way after all. Maybe I've made a dreadful miscalculation. Maybe they went south from Hampton Sands. Maybe the signal to the U-boat was a ploy and they're heading to Ireland on a ferry."

  "They're coming this way."

  "Maybe they've gone to ground, called it off. Maybe they're holed up in another remote village, waiting for it all to blow over before they make their move."

  "They've signaled the submarine. They have to go."

  "They don't have to do anything. It's possible they've spotted the roadblocks and the extra police about and decided to wait. They can signal the submarine at the next opportunity and try again when things have quieted down."

  "You're forgetting one thing. They don't have a radio."

  "We think they don't have a radio. You took one from them, and Thomasson found a destroyed radio in Hampton Sands. But we don't know for certain they don't have a third."

  "We don't know anything for certain, Alfred. We make educated guesses."

  Vicary paced, looking at the telephone, thinking, Ring, dammit, ring!

  Desperate to do something, he picked up the receiver and asked the operator to connect him to the Submarine Tracking Room in London. Arthur Braithwaite, when he finally came on the line, sounded like he was inside a torpedo tube.

  Vicary asked, "Anything, Commander?"

  "I've spoken with the Royal Navy and the local coastguard. The Royal Navy is moving a pair of corvettes into the area as we speak--numbers 745 and 128. They'll be off Spurn Head within the hour and will commence search operations immediately. The coastguard is handling things closer to shore. The RAF is putting up planes at first light."

  "When is that?"

  "Around seven a.m. Maybe a little later because of the dense cloud cover."

  "That may be too late."

  "It won't do them any good to go up before then. They need light to see. They'd be as good as blind if they went up now. There is some good news. We expect a break in the weather shortly before dawn. The cloud cover will remain, but the rain is expected to ease and the winds diminish. That will make it easier to conduct search operations."

  "I'm not sure that's such good news after all. We were counting on the storm to bottle up the coast. And better weather will make it easier for the agents and the U-boat to operate as well."

  "Point well taken.
"

  "Instruct the Royal Navy and the RAF to conduct the search as discreetly as possible. I know it sounds far-fetched, but try to make it all look routine. And tell everyone to mind what they say on their radios. The Germans listen to us too. I'm sorry I can't be more forthcoming, Commander Braithwaite."

  "I understand. I'll pass it up the line."

  "Thank you."

  "And try to relax, Major Vicary. If your spies try to reach that submarine tonight, we'll stop them."

  Police constables Gardner and Sullivan pedaled side by side through the dark streets of Louth, Gardner big, buff, and middle-aged, Sullivan thin and fit and barely twenty years old. Chief Superintendent Lockwood had ordered them to ride to a roadblock just south of the village and relieve two of the constables there. Gardner complained as he cycled. "Why do London's criminals always manage to end up here in the middle of a rainstorm, would you tell me that?" Sullivan was thoroughly excited. This was his first big manhunt. It was also the first time he had carried a weapon while on duty--a thirty-year-old bolt-action rifle from the weapons room at the station was slung over his shoulder.

  Five minutes later they arrived at the junction where the roadblock was supposed to be. The place was deserted. Gardner stood, legs astride the frame of his bike. Sullivan laid down his bike, broke out his torch, and shone it over the area. First he saw the tire marks, then the shattered glass.

  Sullivan shouted, "Over here! Quick!"

  Gardner climbed off his bike and pushed it over to where Sullivan was standing.

  "Christ Almighty!"

  "Look at the tracks. Two vehicles, the one they were driving and ours. When they turned around, the tires were muddied on the apron of the road. They've left us a nice set of tracks to follow."

  "Aye. You see where they lead. I'll ride back to the station and alert Lockwood. And for heaven's sake, be careful."

  Sullivan pedaled along the road, holding his torch in one hand, watching the tracks gradually fade away. One hundred yards after leaving the site of the roadblock, the trail was gone. Sullivan rode for another quarter mile, looking for any sign of the police van.