Authors: Daniel Silva

The Unlikely Spy (35 page)

BOOK: The Unlikely Spy

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She says nothing, just glares at him, lying on the rug in the firelight.

"I have a suggestion for you. Whenever you must use your stiletto, think of the man who hurt you when you were a little girl."

Her mouth drops open in horror. She has told only one person about it in her entire life: Maria. But Maria must have told
Emilio--and
Emilio, the bastard, told Vogel.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she says, but there is no conviction to her words.

"Of course you do. It's what made you what you are, a heartless fucking bitch."

She reacts instinctively. She takes a step forward and kicks him viciously beneath his chin. His head snaps back and crashes violently against the floor. He is very still, perhaps unconscious. Her stiletto is on the floor next to the fire; they have trained her to keep it near at all times. She picks it up and presses the release, and the shiny blade snaps into place. In the firelight it is bloodred. She takes a step toward Vogel. She wants to kill him, to plunge the stiletto into one of the kill zones they have taught her: the heart, the kidneys, through the ear or the eye. But Vogel is leaning on one elbow now, and there is a gun in his hand aimed at her head.

"Very good," he says. Blood is pouring from his mouth. "I think you're ready now. Put away the knife and sit down. We need to talk. And please, put on some clothes. You look ridiculous standing there like that."

She puts on a robe and stirs the embers while he dresses and tends to his mouth.

"You're a complete bastard. I'd be a fool to work for you, Vogel."

"Don't even think of trying to back out now. I'd provide the Gestapo very convincing evidence of your father's treachery against the Fuhrer. You wouldn't want to see the things they do to people like that. And if you ever cross me once you're in England. I'll deliver you to the British on a silver platter. If you think that fellow hurt you when you were a little girl, just think about being raped repeatedly by a bunch of stinking British guards. You'll be their favorite prisoner, believe me. I doubt they would ever bother to hang you."

She has gone very still in the dark. She thinks how she can smash his skull with the cast-iron poker but Vogel is still holding his gun. She realizes she has been manipulated by him. She thought she was deceiving
him--she
thought she was in
control--but
all the while it was Vogel. He was trying to instill in her the ability to kill. She realizes he has done a very good job indeed.

Vogel is talking again. "By the way, I killed you tonight while you were letting me fuck you. Anna Katerina von Steiner, age twenty-seven, died in an unfortunate road accident outside Berlin about an hour ago. A terrible pity. Such a waste of talent."

Vogel is dressed now, holding a wet cloth against his mouth. It is stained with his blood.

"You're going to Holland in the morning, just as we planned. You stay there for six months, firmly establish your identity; then you go to England. Here are your papers for Holland, your money, and your train ticket. I have people in Amsterdam who will contact you and guide you from there."

He comes forward and stands very close to her.

"Anna wasted her life. But Catherine Blake can do great things."

She hears the door close behind him, hears the sound of his boots crunching through the snow outside her cottage. It is very quiet now, only the popping of the fire and the hiss of the bitter wind stirring the fir trees outside her window. She is still for a moment; then she feels her body begin to convulse. Standing is no longer possible. She falls to her knees in front of the fire and begins to weep uncontrollably.

BERLIN: JANUARY 1944

Kurt Vogel was sleeping on the camp bed in his office when he heard a dull scraping sound that made him sit up with a start. "Who's there?"

"It's only me, sir."

"Werner, for God's sake! You scared me to death, dragging your damned wooden leg like that. I thought it was Frankenstein coming to murder me."

"I'm sorry, sir. I thought you would want to see this right away." Ulbricht handed him a signal flimsy. "It just came in from Hamburg--a message from Catherine Blake in London."

Vogel read it quickly, heart pounding.

"She's made contact with Jordan. She wants Neumann to begin making regular pickups as soon as possible. My God, Werner, she's actually done it!"

"Obviously, a remarkable agent. And a remarkable woman."

"Yes," Vogel said distantly. "Signal Neumann at Hampton Sands at the first opportunity. Tell him to begin pickups on the prearranged schedule."

"Yes, sir."

"And leave word with Admiral Canaris's office. I want to brief him on the developments first thing in the morning."

"Yes, sir."

Ulbricht went out, leaving Vogel alone in the dark. He wondered how she had done it. He hoped one day she would come out so he could debrief her.
Stop fooling yourself, old man.
He wanted her to come out so he could see her just one more time, explain why he had treated her so horribly on the last night. It was for her own good. She couldn't see it then but maybe, with the passing of time, she could see it now. He imagined her now.
Is she frightened? Is she in danger?
Of course she was in danger. She was trying to steal Allied secrets in the heart of London. One false move and she would end up in the arms of MI5. But if there was one woman who could pull it off, it was she. Vogel had the broken heart and the broken jaw to prove it.

Heinrich Himmler was working his way through a stack of paperwork at his office on Prinz Albrechtstrasse when the call from Brigadefuhrer Walter Schellenberg was routed through to his desk. "Good evening, Herr Brigadefuhrer. Or should I say good morning."

"It's two A.M. I didn't think you would still be at the office."

"No rest for the weary. What can I do for you?"

"It's about the Vogel affair. I was able to convince an officer in the Abwehr communication room that it was in his interest to cooperate with us."

"Very good."

Schellenberg told Himmler about the message from Vogel's agent in London.

Himmler said, "So, your friend Horst Neumann is about to be brought into the game."

"It appears that way, Herr Reichsfuhrer."

"I'll brief the Fuhrer on the developments in the morning. I'm sure he'll be very pleased. This man Vogel seems to be a very capable officer. If he steals the most important secret of the war I wouldn't be surprised if the Fuhrer were to name him Canaris's successor."

"I can think of more worthy candidates for the job, Herr Reichsfuhrer," Schellenberg said.

"You'd better find some way of getting control of the situation. Otherwise you might find yourself out of contention."

"Yes, Herr Reichsfuhrer."

"You're riding with Admiral Canaris in the Tiergarten in the morning?"

"As usual."

"Perhaps you can find out something useful for a change. And do give the Old Fox my warmest regards. Good night, Herr Brigadefuhrer."

Himmler gently replaced the receiver in the cradle and returned to his eternal paperwork.

HAMPTON SANDS, NORFOLK

A gray dawn was leaking through thick clouds as Horst Neumann crossed the pine grove and climbed to the top of the dunes. The sea opened before him, gray and still in the windless morning, small breakers collapsing onto the seemingly endless expanse of beach. Neumann wore a gray tracksuit, a rollneck sweater beneath for warmth, and a pair of soft black leather running shoes. He breathed deeply of the cold crisp air and then scrambled down the dunes and walked across the soft sand. The tide was going out and there was a wide swath of hard flat sand, perfect for running. He stretched his legs, blew on his hands, and set out at an easy pace. Terns and gulls squawked in protest and moved away.

He had received a message from Hamburg earlier that morning instructing him to begin regular pickups of material from Catherine Blake in London. It was to be done on the schedule Kurt Vogel had given him at the farm outside Berlin. The material was to be placed through a doorway in Cavendish Square, where it would be collected by a man from the Portuguese embassy and sent to Lisbon inside the diplomatic pouch. It sounded simple. But Neumann understood that courier work on the streets of London would take him straight into the teeth of the British security forces. He would be carrying information that would guarantee him a trip to the gallows if he was arrested. In combat he always knew where the enemy was. In espionage work the enemy could be anywhere. He could be in the next seat in a cafe or on a bus, and Neumann might never know.

It took several minutes for Neumann to feel warm and for the first beads of sweat to appear on his forehead. The running worked its magic, the same magic it had worked on him since he was a boy. He was taken with a pleasant floating sensation, almost flight. His breathing was regular and relaxed, and he could feel the tension melting out of his body. He picked out an imaginary finish line about a half mile down the beach and increased his pace.

The first quarter mile was good. He glided along the beach, his long stride eating up the ground, shoulders and arms loose and relaxed. The last quarter mile was tougher. Neumann's breath grew harsh and ragged. The cold air tore at his throat. His arms felt as though he were carrying lead weights. His imaginary finish line loomed two hundred yards ahead. The backs of his thighs tightened suddenly, and his stride shortened. He pretended it was the homestretch of the 1,500-meter final of the Olympic Games--
the games I missed because I was sent off to kill Poles and Russians and Greeks and French!
He imagined there was just one man in front of him, and he was gaining ground excruciatingly slowly. The finish line was fifty yards away. It was a clump of sea grass stranded by the high tide, but in Neumann's imagination it was a real finish line with a tape and men in white jackets with stopwatches and the Olympic banner flapping over the stadium in a gentle breeze. He pounded his feet savagely against the hard sand and leaned across the sea grass, stumbled to a halt, and struggled to catch his breath.

It was a silly game--a game he had played with himself since he was a child--but it served a purpose. He had proved to himself that he was finally fit again. It had taken him months to recover from the beating he suffered at the hands of the SS men, but he had finally done it. He felt he was physically ready for anything he might be confronted with. Neumann walked for a moment before breaking into a light jog. It was then that he noticed Jenny Colville, watching him from atop the dunes.

Neumann smiled at her as she approached. She was more attractive than he remembered--a wide, mobile mouth, eyes large and blue, her pale complexion flushed from the morning cold. She wore a heavy wool sweater, a woolen cap, an oilskin coat, trousers haphazardly tucked inside Wellington boots. Behind her, beyond the dunes, Neumann could see white smoke from a doused fire drifting through the pine trees. Jenny drew nearer. She looked tired and her clothes appeared slept in. Yet she smiled with considerable charm as she stood, arms akimbo, and examined him.

"Very impressive, Mr. Porter," she said. Neumann always found her broad, singsong Norfolk accent difficult to comprehend. "If I didn't know better I'd say you were in training for something."

"Old habits are hard to break. Besides, it's good for the body and the soul. You should try it sometime. It would take those extra pounds off you."

"Ah!" She pushed him playfully. "I'm too skinny as it is now. All the boys in the village say so. They like Eleanor Carrick because she has big--well, you know. She goes down to the beach with them and they give her money to unbutton her blouse."

"I saw her in the village yesterday," Neumann said. "She's a fat cow. You're twice as pretty as Eleanor Carrick."

"You think so?"

"I do indeed." Neumann rubbed his arms briskly and stamped his feet. "I need to walk. Otherwise I'm going to be stiff as a board."

"Would you like some company?"

Neumann nodded. It was not the truth but Neumann saw no harm in it. Jenny Colville had a terrible schoolgirl crush on him; it was obvious. She made up some excuse to drop by the Dogherty cottage every day and never turned down an invitation from Mary to stay for tea or supper. Neumann had tried to pay an appropriate amount of attention to Jenny and carefully avoided putting himself in any situation where he might be alone with her. Until now. He would try to turn the conversation to his advantage--to take stock of how well his cover story was holding up in the village. They walked in silence, Jenny staring out at the sea. Neumann grabbed up a handful of stones and skipped them across the waves.

Jenny said, "Do you mind talking about the war?"

"Of course not."

"Your wounds--were they bad?"

BOOK: The Unlikely Spy

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