Authors: Daniel Silva
The Unlikely Spy (65 page)
Colville aimed the gun at Neumann a second time. Neumann rolled up onto his elbows, Mauser in his outstretched hands. Sean Dogherty stepped forward, screaming at Colville to stop. Colville turned the gun on Dogherty and squeezed the trigger. The blast struck Dogherty in the chest, lifting him off his feet and driving him backward like a rag doll. He fell on his back, blood pumping from the gaping wound in his chest, and died within a matter of seconds.
Neumann fired, hitting Colville in the shoulder and spinning him around. Catherine had by now drawn her own Mauser and, using both hands, leveled it at Colville's head. She fired twice rapidly, the silencer dampening the blasts to a dull thud. Colville's head exploded and he was dead before his body hit the floor of Dogherty's barn.
Mary Dogherty lay in an agitated half sleep upstairs in her bed when she heard the first shotgun blast. She sat bolt upright and swung her feet to the floor as the second blast shattered the night. She threw off her blanket and raced downstairs.
The cottage was in darkness, the sitting room and the kitchen deserted. She went outside. Rain beat against her face. She realized that she was wearing only her flannel nightgown. There was silence now, only the sound of the storm. She looked out across the garden and spotted an unfamiliar black van in the drive. She turned toward the barn and saw light burning there. She called out "Sean!" and started running toward the barn.
Mary's feet were bare, the ground cold and sodden. She called Sean's name several more times as she ran. A shaft of faint light spilled from the open door of the barn, illuminating a box of shotgun shells on the ground.
Stepping inside, she gasped. A scream caught in her throat and would not come out. The first thing she saw was the body of Martin Colville lying on the floor of the barn a few feet away from her. Part of the head was missing and blood and tissue were scattered everywhere. She felt her stomach retch.
Then she turned her attention to the second body. It was on its back, arms flung wide. Somehow, in death, the ankles had become crossed, as though he were napping. Blood obscured the face. For a brief second Mary permitted herself to hope that it wasn't actually Sean lying there dead. Then she looked at the old Wellington boots and oilskin coat and knew it was him.
The scream that had been trapped in her throat came out.
Mary cried, "Oh, Sean! Oh, my God, Sean! What have you done?"
She looked up and saw Horst Neumann standing over Sean's body, a gun in his hand. Standing a few feet from Neumann was a woman, holding a pistol in her hands aimed at Mary's head.
Mary looked back at Neumann and screamed, "Did you do this? Did you?"
"It was Colville," Neumann said. "He came in here, gun blazing. Sean got in the way. I'm sorry, Mary."
"No, Horst. Martin may have pulled the trigger, but you did this to him. Make no mistake about it. You and your friends in Berlin--you're the ones who did this to him."
Neumann said nothing. Catherine still stood with the Mauser leveled at Mary's head. Neumann stepped in, took hold of the weapon, and gently lowered it toward the ground.
Jenny Colville stayed in the darkened meadow and approached the barn from the side, hidden from view. She crouched against the outside wall, rain smacking against her oilskin, and listened to the conversation taking place inside.
She heard the voice of the man she knew as James Porter, though Mary had called him something else, something that sounded like Horse.
It was Colville. . . . Sean got in the way. I'm sorry, Mary.
It was Colville. . . . Sean got in the way. I'm sorry, Mary.
Then she heard Mary's voice. It had risen in pitch and quivered with anger and grief.
You did this to him. . . . You and your friends in Berlin.
You did this to him. . . . You and your friends in Berlin.
She waited to hear her father's voice; she waited to hear Sean's voice. Nothing. She knew then they both were dead.
You and your friends in Berlin. . . .
Jenny thought, What are you saying, Mary?
And then it all came together in her mind, like pieces of a puzzle that suddenly fall in the right order: Sean on the beach that night, the sudden appearance of the man called James Porter, Mary's warning to her earlier that afternoon:
He's not what he appears to be. . . . He's not for you, Jenny. . . .
He's not what he appears to be. . . . He's not for you, Jenny. . . .
Jenny did not understand what Mary was trying to say at the time, but now she thought she did. The man she knew as James Porter was a German spy. And that meant Sean was a spy for the Germans too. Jenny's father must have discovered the truth and confronted them. And now he was lying dead on the floor of Sean Dogherty's barn.
Jenny wanted to scream. She felt hot tears pouring from her eyes down her cheeks. She raised her hands to her mouth to smother the sound of her crying. She had fallen in love with him, but he had lied to her and used her and he was a German spy and he probably just killed her father.
There was movement inside the barn, movement and a few soft exchanges of instructions that Jenny could not hear. She heard the German spy's voice, and she heard a woman's voice that did not belong to Mary. Then she saw the spy emerge from the barn and walk down the drive, torch in hand. He was heading toward the bicycles. If he found them, he would realize she was here too.
And he would come looking for her.
Jenny forced herself to breathe slowly, evenly, to think clearly.
She was being battered by several emotions. She was frightened, she was sick with the thought of her father and Sean dead. But more than anything else she was angry. She had been lied to and betrayed. And now she was driven by one overwhelming desire: she wanted them caught and she wanted them punished.
Jenny knew she would be no use if the German found her.
But what to do? She could try to run to the village. There was a telephone at the hotel and the pub. She could contact the police, and the police could come and arrest them.
But the village was the first place the spies would look for her. There was just one way into the village from the Doghertys': across the bridge by St. John's Church. Jenny knew she could be caught very easily.
She thought of a second option. They had to be leaving soon. They had just killed two people, after all. Jenny could hide for a short time until they had left; then she could emerge and contact the police.
She thought, But what if they take Mary with them?
Mary would be better off if Jenny were free and trying to find help.
Jenny watched the spy as he moved closer to the road. She saw the beam of his torch play over the surrounding ground. She saw it settle on something for a moment, then flash in her direction.
Jenny gasped. He had found her bike. She rose and started to run.
Horst Neumann spotted the pair of bicycles lying side by side in the grass at the edge of the road. He turned his torch toward the meadow, but the weak beam illuminated only a few feet in front of him. He lifted the bicycles, took hold of them by the handlebars, and rolled them up the drive. He left them at the back of Dogherty's barn, hidden from view.
She was out there--somewhere. He tried to picture what had happened. Her father storms out of the house with a gun: Jenny follows him and arrives at the Doghertys' cottage in time to see the aftermath. Neumann guessed she was hiding, waiting for them to leave, and he thought he knew where.
For a moment he considered letting her go. But Jenny was an intelligent girl. She would find a way to contact the police. The police would throw up roadblocks all around Hampton Sands. Making it to Lincolnshire in time to meet the submarine was going to be difficult enough. Allowing Jenny to remain free and contact the police would only make it tougher.
Neumann went inside the barn. Catherine had covered the bodies with some old sacking. Mary was sitting in a chair, shaking violently. Neumann avoided her gaze.
"We have a problem," Neumann said. He gestured at the covered body of Martin Colville. "I found his daughter's bicycle. We have to assume she's here somewhere and knows what happened. We also have to assume she'll try to get help."
"Then go find her," Catherine said.
Neumann nodded. "Take Mary in the house. Tie her up. Gag her. I have an idea where Jenny might be going."
Neumann went outside and hurried through the rain to the van. He started the motor, reversed down the drive, and headed toward the beach.
Catherine finished tying Mary to a wooden chair in the kitchen. She tore a tea cloth in two and wadded one half into a ball. She stuffed it into Mary's mouth, then tied the other half around her face in a tight gag. If she had her way Catherine would kill her now; she did not like leaving a trail for the police to follow. But Neumann obviously felt some attachment to the woman. Besides, it would probably be many hours before anyone found her, perhaps longer. The cottage was isolated, nearly a mile from the village; it might be a day or two before anyone noticed that Sean, Mary, Colville, and the girl were missing. Still, every survival instinct told her it was best to kill her and be done with it. Neumann would never know. She would lie to him, tell him Mary was unharmed, and he would never find out.
Catherine checked the knots one last time. Then she removed her Mauser from her coat pocket. She took hold of it, wrapped her index finger around the trigger, and touched the barrel to Mary's temple. Mary kept very still and stared defiantly at Catherine.
"Remember, Jenny is coming with us," Catherine said. "If you tell the police, we'll know. And then we'll kill her. Do you understand what I'm saying to you, Mary?"
Mary nodded once. Catherine took hold of the Mauser by the barrel, raised it into the air, and brought it down on the top of Mary's head. She slumped forward, unconscious, blood trickling through her hair toward her eyes. Catherine stood in front of the dying embers of the fire, waiting for Neumann and the girl, waiting to go home.
54
LONDON
At that moment, a taxi braked to a halt in a driving rain outside a stubby, ivy-covered blockhouse beneath Admiralty Arch. The door opened and a small, rather ugly man emerged, leaning heavily on a walking stick. He did not bother with an umbrella. It was only a few feet to the doorway, where a Royal Marine guard stood watch. The guard saluted smartly, which the ugly man did not bother returning, for it would have meant switching his stick from his right hand to his left, a troublesome task. Besides, five years after being commissioned as an officer in the Royal Navy, Arthur Braithwaite still was uncomfortable with the customs and traditions of military life.
Officially, Braithwaite was not on duty for another hour. But, as was his daily habit, he arrived at the Citadel one hour early to give himself more time to prepare. Braithwaite, crippled in one leg since childhood, knew that to succeed he always had to be better prepared than those around him. It was a commitment that had paid dividends.
The Submarine Tracking Room--down a warren of narrow, winding staircases--was not easily reached by a man with a badly deformed leg. He crossed the Main Trade Plot and entered the Tracking Room through a guarded door.
The energy and excitement of the place took hold of him immediately, just as it did every night. The windowless walls were the color of clotted cream and covered with maps, charts, and photographs of U-boats and their crews. Several dozen officers and typists worked at tables around the edges of the room. In the center stood the main North Atlantic plotting table, where colored pins depicted the location of every warship, freighter, and submarine from the Baltic Sea to Cape Cod.
A large photograph of Admiral Karl Donitz, commander of the Kriegsmarine, glowered down from one wall. Braithwaite, as he did every morning, winked and said, "Good morning, Herr Admiral." Then he pushed back the door of his glass cubicle, removed his coat, and sat down at his desk.
He reached for the stack of decodes that awaited him each morning, thinking, A far cry from 1939, old son.
Back in 1939 he had degrees in law and psychology from Cambridge and Yale and was looking for something to do with them. When war broke out he tried to put his fluent German to good use by volunteering to interrogate German POWs. So impressed were his superiors they recommended a transfer to the Citadel, where he was assigned to the Submarine Tracking Room as a civilian volunteer at the height of the Battle of the Atlantic. Braithwaite's intellect and drive quickly set him apart. He threw himself into his work, volunteered for extra duty, and read every book he could find on German naval history and tactics. Equipped with near-perfect recall, he memorized the biographies of every Kapitanleutnant of the
Ubootwaffe.
Within months he developed a remarkable ability to forecast U-boat movements. None of this went unnoticed. He was given the rank of temporary commander and placed in charge of submarine tracking, a stunning achievement for someone who had not passed through the Dartmouth Naval College.
Ubootwaffe.
Within months he developed a remarkable ability to forecast U-boat movements. None of this went unnoticed. He was given the rank of temporary commander and placed in charge of submarine tracking, a stunning achievement for someone who had not passed through the Dartmouth Naval College.
His aide rapped on the glass door, waited for Braithwaite's nod, and let himself inside. "Good morning, sir," he said, setting down a tray with a pot of tea and biscuits.
"Morning, Patrick."
"The weather kept things fairly quiet last night, sir. No U-boat surface sightings anywhere. The storm's moved off the western approaches. The east's bearing the brunt of it now, from Yorkshire to Suffolk."
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