A Gathering of Spies (26 page)

And then she would be back in Germany. After so long away, more than a lifetime … it was difficult to believe. What was Berlin like these days? Was it anything like the Berlin she remembered?

She wanted to sleep. She could easily drift off right there, sitting in that uncomfortable chair. But sleep was a luxury she could not yet afford. Less than three hours, she thought. Besides, she had to kill the old man, didn't she? Leaving him alive would be taking an unnecessary risk.

Not that he could really do her any harm …

What had happened to her, that she thought that way? What had happened to her sense of duty, her sense of
efficiency
?

He came back and handed her a plate. On the plate was a dull knife, a hunk of bread, stale but not moldy, and a small chunk of cheese. Beside the bread and cheese was a dollop of cabbage and potatoes, lightly fried.

“I'm sorry,” Rupert said. “'Taint much.”

“It looks wonderful.”

She devoured the food in a few bites, then picked the crumbs off her plate with her fingers. The old man wasn't paying attention. He was back behind his desk, drinking again, misty-eyed, talking about his daughter.

There was no need to kill him.

Just thinking it made her scorn herself even more. How had she lost her edge? She had seen what had happened to Fritz; she should have been more wary than ever of commiserating with the enemy.

But her mind kept coming back to the thought. There was no need to kill him. He was old, drunk, and kind. He was half mad with mercury poisoning. He was helpless.

On the other hand, any unforeseen quantity presented a possible danger. The safe route …

“Aha!” the old man cried. “She gets that, too!”

Katarina blinked. “What?” she said.

He leaned across the desk, pointing. His finger stopped an inch short of her forehead and hovered there.

“The worry line,” he said. “Marion gets that, too. When she's thinking about something, thinking hard, she gets that line right down the middle of her forehead, just the way you've got it there.”

“I'm just trying to figure out how on earth I'm going to get to Bridlington tomorrow, with my bicycle gone.”

“You and Mare would like each other. I know you would. She's a fine young woman.”

“I'm sure she is.”

“Fine young woman,” Rupert said again. He reached for his glass and found it empty. He reached for the bottle and found that empty, too.

He grinned foolishly. “Hell,” he said.

He pushed himself out of his chair, swayed for a moment, then carefully knelt on the floor, his back to Katarina, and reached for his liquor cabinet.

She picked up the knife.

Afterward, she vomited up the bread, the cheese, the cabbage and potatoes, and the tea. Waves of dizziness rolled over her like surf over the beach below.

But she got her hands under his arms anyway, and dragged him up the narrow stone staircase. He was heavier than she would have thought. People took on weight, in death. Sixty stairs wound up. By the time she reached the top, her breath was coming short and hard. A film of chilly sweat covered her face.

It was, she feared, the first stirrings of pneumonia. If only she could lie down, close her eyes, just for a few hours …

She placed old Rupert, with some effort, in the mercury bath under the great lens. The lens was a two-ton beehive of layered glass; the mercury filled the huge tub beneath it. Rupert settled into the viscous substance tentatively, but refused to sink below the surface. For several minutes, Katarina tried, without success, to prod him down. Time after time, he rose again. Finally she gave up.

She stumbled back downstairs. Sleep was coming for her; she couldn't pretend otherwise. She was on the verge of … on the verge of God only knew what. An hour or two was all she needed, that and some food that would stay down. Then she would return to the Fatherland and save all her countrymen and there would be parades and flowers and music and dancing and perhaps Fritz would be there, holding her, gently kissing her, as flashbulbs popped and the gallows swung in the background …

No, Fritz was dead. She had seen it herself.

Delirious
, she thought.
You're delirious
.

The thought of food was tempting, but the demands of finding and eating it seemed altogether too daunting. She staggered off the bottom step and moved past the study to see what else was in this hovel. She found one bedroom with a small bed neatly made. Better than the chairs in the study. She collapsed onto it face-first. Stripped off her filthy, sodden bandages, dropping them on the floor. Lying on a dead man's bed. A man she had just killed. A man who had taken her in, taken her out of the storm …

The storm
, she thought.

She could hear it raging.

I wonder
,. she thought, and then slipped into a deep, dreamless slumber.

She swam back to consciousness slowly, clawing her way up through layers of sleep.

Somebody was standing over her. Watching her. She could feel the eyes boring into her. Whose eyes? Richard's? Where was she? Princeton? New York? Or was it Hamburg? No … She remembered. She was in a lighthouse on the eastern coast of England, and—

She opened her eyes.

A man was standing beside the bed.

She sat up and immediately scooted away, staring up at him with panic-bright eyes. She had fallen asleep.
Stupid, weak, clumsy, soft …

How had they found her?

Lightning flashed; she saw that the man held a gun.

The old fat one, she realized. The old fat one from Highgate.

A sheet of rain slapped violently against the window, making the pane rattle in its frame. The man turned his head reflexively a few degrees toward the sound.

She went for him.

16

HAM COMMON, SURREY

Taylor was sitting at the table, smoking a cigarette, when Rudolf Schroeder was shown into the room.

The guard behind Schroeder prodded him toward the empty chair with the butt of his carbine, evidently low on patience even after the brief walk from the barracks. Taylor said nothing as Schroeder fell into the chair. The man's usual insolent grin was painted on his face, but Taylor thought there was a forced element to it tonight.

The guard turned toward the door.

“A-
hem
,” Schroeder said. He lifted his hands above his head again and shook them. The cuffs there made a small, musical sound.

The guard looked at Taylor, who shook his head.

“Oh, dear,” Schroeder said as the guard left. His insolent smile was replaced by a mock, exaggerated pout. “Have we fallen so far, Andrew, that you need me handcuffed when we speak?”

Instead of answering, Taylor reached down and found the package he had brought from Whitley Bay. He put it on the table between them—a small white parcel loosely wrapped with a piece of twine.

Schroeder eyed it suspiciously. “What is it?”

“Open it and find out.”

“I've had enough chocolate, Andrew, thank you very much. Your friend tried to poison me, you know.”

“It's not chocolate, Rudolf.”

Schroeder reached for the box, hampered somewhat by the handcuffs around his wrists. His fingers manipulated the twine until it fell onto the table; then he poked the flaps of the package open and upended it.

Nothing came out.

He shook it twice, then turned the package over again.

“Empty,” he said.

Taylor nodded. “I hoped to make a point. No more gifts.”

Schroeder pulled a face.

“You said that you would speak to me in person,” Taylor said. “Here I am. I've traveled a fair distance, Rudolf, when time is of the essence, to hear what you have to say. I don't suggest you try my patience any more.”

Schroeder leaned back in his chair, seemingly sober.

“Andrew,” he said, “I apologize for dragging you all the way out here. But you must understand …”

Taylor brought the cigarette to his mouth; Schroeder's eyes followed it.

“I'm out of cigarettes,” Schroeder said. “Can you spare one?”

Taylor shook his head.

Schroeder, licking his lips, rearranged himself on the chair.

“You must understand,” he went on. “You hold all the cards, so to speak. Except, Andrew, for one. One card. The true location of rendezvous number four.”

“Mm,” Taylor said.

“If I had told you that over the telephone, what would I have? Nothing. So you can see, Andrew, why I need to play this close to the vest, as they say—that is how the expression goes? Close to the vest, yes. Because once I tell you my bit of information, I will
truly
have nothing.”

“But you will tell me?”

“In exchange for a promise,” Schroeder said.

“What promise is that?”

“The same promise the professor made me. Except in your case, Andrew, I'll expect you to keep it.”

“To bring you along for the
treff
.”

“Exactly.”

“I can't make that promise. Let you go, back to Germany?”

“Then you won't catch your spy.”

“Spy?”

“He told me that much.”

“Ah.”

“He made it sound important.”

“It is.”

“I wish I could help, Andrew. I like to think that we're friends, you and I. I like to think that under different circumstances … But you must understand, I require something in return, hm? That is only natural. It is what makes the world go 'round, hm?”

“Hm,” Taylor said.

“I see two possibilities,” Schroeder said. His eyes were still on the cigarette in Taylor's hand. “I could reveal the location to you en route. That way I would be guaranteed, at least, of being brought there. But I would have no guarantee of actually being allowed to go aboard the U-boat, hm? So there is a second option, hm? Which is that we trust each other. I will tell you where it is, and then trust you to bring me along—once you've given your word, of course.”

“Hm,” Taylor said again.

“I
do
trust you, Andrew. And I hope that you trust me—this one unfortunate exception aside, of course.”

“Of course.”

“It goes without saying that upon my return to Berlin I will not mention your operation here. As far as the Old Man will know, I found work at the pub near Whitehall. I arranged the
treff
. But Winterbotham, the agent of my choosing, was apprehended at the last moment by MI-Five. I escaped—barely.”

“I see.”

“Do we have an agreement?”

Taylor took another drag of his cigarette. He inspected the fingernails on his right hand.

“Why should I believe you now,” he asked, “when you've just finished lying to me?”

“Because you have no choice. But better: Because it is in my best interest to tell the truth once you've promised to take me along.”

“Hm.”

“Surely you can see the wisdom,” Schroeder said, and grinned slavishly.

Taylor shook his head.

Schroeder watched as he tapped out another cigarette, stuck it in his mouth.

“Tell me something else I can do for you, Rudolf. Anything else.”

“There is nothing else.”

“Money?”

“Please.”

“Women?”

Schroeder laughed. “I just want to go home.”

“But I can't allow that.”

“But you must.”

Taylor lit the cigarette in his mouth. He ran a hand over his pate.

“You'll find a way,” Schroeder said.

“God damn it, Rudolf.”

“I'm sorry. It's that or nothing.”

“All right. Where?”

“You are promising?”

“Yes,” Taylor said. “I am promising.”

“I'm trusting you, Andrew.”

“And I you. Where?”

“Yorkshire.”

“Where in Yorkshire?”

“Flamborough Head. There is a lighthouse. The window is Sunday mornings, three to five.”

“Three to five,” Taylor said. “Good Christ.”

He stood so suddenly that the table rocked. He turned, heading toward the door.

“Andrew,” Schroeder said.

Taylor paused, his hand on the doorknob. After a moment, he turned back to face Schroeder.

“You promised,” Schroeder said reasonably.

Taylor said nothing.

“Andrew,” Schroeder said, and manufactured a laugh. “You promised.”

“I lied.”

“You can't leave me here. I go crazy here. The walls close in on me. I was never meant for this.”

“You won't be here much longer.”

“I'm being moved?” Schroeder said. “God damn it, one cell is the same as the next. Take me with you, for God's sake! You promised! You promised me!”

“You'll never spend another night in a cell, Rudolf.”

Schroeder stared at him. “Andrew,” he whispered. “You wouldn't.”

Taylor left the room, closing the door behind himself.

17

THE NORTH SEA

The U-boat surfaced to find a storm turned to fog.

The fog was thick, palpable, impenetrable, choking the sporadic lightning into a diffuse alabaster glow.
Kapitänleutnant
Schmidt could barely make out his own hand held at arm's length from his eyes. But Hagen was peering off into the haze as if he were seeing something of great import.

It came as little surprise when he turned to Schmidt and said: “If she were to signal, we would not see it.”

Schmidt held his tongue.

“We must move closer,” Hagen said.

Schmidt shook his head. “
Herr
Hagen,” he said, “I will not.”

He felt, more than saw, Hagen bristling.

“If we cannot see the signal,
Kapitänleutnant
,” Hagen said, “then we are not fulfilling our duty. I would take that as—”

“If we move closer,
Herr
Hagen, we will lose this vessel, your spies, and our own lives. I will not brook argument on this matter. If you wish to try to take control of the boat, do so now. If not, you must respect my wishes.”