Authors: Daniel Silva
The Unlikely Spy (68 page)
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."
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.
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."
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."
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.
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.
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.
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.
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. . . .
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.
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