Authors: Daniel Silva
The Unlikely Spy (60 page)
Neumann went out, knowing he would never see her again. From Portman Square he walked north to the Baker Street underground station, followed by at least two people on foot as well as the black van. He entered the station, purchased a ticket for Charing Cross, and caught the next train there. At Charing Cross he changed trains and headed for Euston Station. With two men in pursuit, he walked through the tunnel connecting the underground station to the railway terminus. Neumann waited fifteen minutes at a ticket window and then purchased a ticket for Liverpool. The train was already boarding by the time he reached the platform. The carriage was crowded. He searched for a compartment with one free seat. He finally found one, opened the door, went inside, and sat down.
He looked at his wristwatch: three minutes until departure. Outside his compartment, the corridor was rapidly filling with passengers. It was not uncommon for some unlucky travelers to spend their entire journey standing or sitting in the corridor. Neumann stood and squeezed out of the compartment, muttering about an upset stomach. He walked toward the lavatory at the end of the carriage. He knocked on the door. There was no answer. Knocking a second time, he glanced over his shoulder; the man who had followed him onto the train was cut off from view by the other passengers standing in the corridor.
Perfect. The train started to move. Neumann waited outside the lavatory as the train slowly gathered speed. It already was traveling faster than most people would consider safe to jump. Neumann waited a few more seconds, then stepped toward the door, threw it open, and leapt down onto the platform.
He landed smoothly, trotting a few steps before settling into a brisk walk. He looked up in time to spot an annoyed ticket collector pulling the door closed. He walked quickly toward the exit and headed out into the blackout.
Euston Road was crowded with the evening rush. He hailed a taxi and hopped inside. He gave the driver an address in the East End and settled in for the ride.
48
HAMPTON SANDS, NORFOLK
Mary Dogherty waited alone at the cottage. She had always thought it was a sweet little place--warm, light, airy--but now it felt claustrophobic and cramped as a catacomb. She paced restlessly. Outside, the big storm that had been forecast had finally moved in over the Norfolk coast. Rain lashed against the windows, rattling the panes. The wind gusted relentlessly, moaning through the eaves. She heard the scrape of one of the tiles giving way on the roof.
Sean was away, gone to Hunstanton to collect Neumann from the train. Mary turned from the window and resumed her pacing. Snatches of their conversation of that morning played over and over in her head like a gramophone record stuck in a groove:
submarine to France . . . stay in Berlin for a while . . . passage to a third country . . . make my way back to Ireland . . . join me there when the war is over. . . .
submarine to France . . . stay in Berlin for a while . . . passage to a third country . . . make my way back to Ireland . . . join me there when the war is over. . . .
It was like a nightmare--as if she were listening to someone else's conversation or watching it in a film or reading it in a book. The idea was ludicrous: Sean Dogherty, derelict Norfolk-coast farmer and IRA sympathizer, was going to take a U-boat to Germany. She supposed it was the logical culmination of Sean's spying. She had been foolish to hope that everything would return to normal when the war was over. She had deluded herself. Sean was going to flee and leave her behind to face the consequences. What would the authorities do?
Just tell them you knew nothing about it, Mary.
And what if they didn't believe her? What would they do then? How could she stay in the village if everyone knew Sean had been a spy? She would be run off the Norfolk coast. She would be run out of every English village where she tried to settle. She would have to leave Hampton Sands. She would have to leave Jenny Colville. She would have to go back to Ireland, back to the barren village she had fled thirty years ago. She still had family there, family that would take her in. The thought was utterly appalling but she would have no choice--not after everyone learned that Sean had spied for the Germans.
Just tell them you knew nothing about it, Mary.
And what if they didn't believe her? What would they do then? How could she stay in the village if everyone knew Sean had been a spy? She would be run off the Norfolk coast. She would be run out of every English village where she tried to settle. She would have to leave Hampton Sands. She would have to leave Jenny Colville. She would have to go back to Ireland, back to the barren village she had fled thirty years ago. She still had family there, family that would take her in. The thought was utterly appalling but she would have no choice--not after everyone learned that Sean had spied for the Germans.
She began to weep. She thought, Damn you, Sean Dogherty! How could you have been such a damned fool?
Mary went back to the window. On the track, in the direction of the village, she saw a pinprick of light, bobbing in the downpour. A moment later she saw the shine of a wet oilskin and the faint outline of a figure on a bicycle, body hunched forward into the wind, elbows thrust out, knees pumping. It was Jenny Colville. She dismounted at the gate and pushed the bicycle up the pathway. Mary opened the door to her. The wind gusted, hurling rain inside the cottage. Mary pulled Jenny inside and helped her out of her wet coat and hat.
"My God, Jenny, what are you doing out in weather like this?"
"Oh, Mary, it's marvelous. So windy. So beautiful."
"You've obviously lost your mind, child. Sit down by the fire. I'll make you some hot tea."
Jenny warmed herself in front of the log fire. "Where's James?" she asked.
"He's not here now," Mary called from the kitchen. "He's out with Sean somewhere."
"Oh," Jenny said, and Mary could hear the disappointment in her voice. "Will he be back soon?"
Mary stopped what she was doing and went back into the living room. She looked at Jenny and said, "Why are you so concerned about James all of a sudden?"
"I just wanted to see him. Say hello. Spend some time with him. That's all."
"That's all? What in the world has got into you, Jenny?"
"I just like him, Mary. I like him very much. And he likes me."
"You like him and he likes you? Where did you get an idea like that?"
"I know, Mary, believe me. Don't ask me how I know it, but I do."
Mary took hold of her by the shoulders. "Listen to me, Jenny." She shook Jenny once. "Are you listening to me?"
"Yes, Mary! You're hurting me!"
"Stay away from him. Forget about him."
Jenny began to cry. "I can't forget about him, Mary. I love him. And he loves me. I know he does."
"Jenny, he doesn't love you. Don't ask me to explain it all now, because I can't, my love. He's a kind man, but he's not what he appears to be. Let go of it. Forget about him! You have to trust me, little one. He's not for you."
Jenny tore herself from Mary's grasp, stood back, and wiped the tears off her face. "He
is
for me, Mary. I love him. You've been trapped here with Sean so long you've forgotten what love is."
is
for me, Mary. I love him. You've been trapped here with Sean so long you've forgotten what love is."
Then she picked up her coat and dashed out the front door, slamming it behind her. Mary hurried to the window and watched Jenny pedaling away through the storm.
Rain beat against Jenny's face as she pedaled along the rolling track toward the village. She had told herself she would not cry again, but she had not been able to keep her word. Tears mixed with the rain and streamed down her face. The village was tightly shuttered, the village store and the pub closed for the night, blackout shades drawn in the cottages. Her torch was lying in her basket, its pale yellow beam aimed forward into the pitch darkness. It was barely enough light to see by. She passed through the village and started toward her cottage.
She was furious with Mary. How dare she try to come between her and James? And what did she mean by that remark about him?
He's not what he appears to be.
She was also angry with herself. She felt terrible about the insult she had hurled at Mary as she ran out the door. They had never quarreled before. In the morning, when things calmed down, Jenny would go back and apologize.
He's not what he appears to be.
She was also angry with herself. She felt terrible about the insult she had hurled at Mary as she ran out the door. They had never quarreled before. In the morning, when things calmed down, Jenny would go back and apologize.
In the distance she could make out the outline of their cottage against the sky. She dismounted at the gate, pushed her bicycle up the footpath, and leaned it against the side of the cottage. Her father came out and stood in the doorway, wiping his hands on a rag. His face was still swollen from the fight. Jenny tried to push past him but he reached out and wrapped his hands around her arm in an iron grip.
"Have you been with him again?"
"No, Papa." She cried out in pain. "Please, you're hurting my arm!"
He raised his other hand to strike her, his ugly swollen face contorted with rage. "Tell me the truth, Jenny! Have you been with him again?"
"No, I swear," she cried, her arms raised about her face to ward off the blow she expected at any second. "Please, Papa, don't hit me! I'm telling you the truth!"
Martin Colville released his grip. "Go inside and make me some supper."
She wanted to scream, Make your own bloody supper for a change! But she knew where it would lead. She looked at his face and, for an instant, found herself wishing that James had killed him. This is the last time, she thought. This is the very last time. She went inside, removed her sodden coat, hung it on the wall in the kitchen, and started his dinner.
49
LONDON
Clive Roach knew he had a problem the moment Rudolf entered the crowded carriage. Roach would be all right as long as the agent remained seated inside his compartment. But if the agent left the compartment to go to the lavatory or the restaurant car or another carriage, Roach was in trouble. The corridors were jammed with travelers, some standing, some sitting and trying vainly to doze. Moving about the train was an ordeal; one had to squeeze and push past people and constantly say "Excuse me" and "Beg your pardon." Trying to follow someone without being detected would be difficult--probably impossible if the agent was good. And everything Roach had seen thus far told him Rudolf was good.
Roach became suspicious when Rudolf, clutching his stomach, stepped from his compartment while the train was still at the platform at Euston Station and sliced forward along the crowded corridor. Rudolf was short, no more than five foot six, and his head quickly disappeared into the sea of passengers. Roach picked his way forward a few steps, earning him the grunts and groans of the other passengers. He was reluctant to get too close; Rudolf had doubled back several times during the day, and Roach feared he might have seen his face. The corridor was poorly lit because of blackout regulations and already shrouded in a fog bank of cigarette smoke. Roach stayed in the shadows and watched as Rudolf knocked twice on the lavatory door. Another passenger pushed past him, obstructing his view for just a few seconds. When he looked up again Rudolf was gone.
Roach stayed where he was for three minutes, watching the lavatory door. Another man approached, knocked, then went inside and closed the door behind him.
Alarm bells sounded inside Roach's head.
He pushed his way forward through the knot of passengers in the corridor, stopped in front of the lavatory door, and pounded on it.
"Wait your turn like everyone else," came the voice on the other side.
"Open the door--police emergency."
The man opened the door a few seconds later, buttoning his fly. Roach looked inside to make sure Rudolf was not there.
Dammit!
He threw open the door to the connecting passage and entered the next carriage. Like the other, it was dark and smoky and hopelessly crammed with passengers. It would be impossible for him to find Rudolf now without turning over the train carriage by carriage, compartment by compartment.
Dammit!
He threw open the door to the connecting passage and entered the next carriage. Like the other, it was dark and smoky and hopelessly crammed with passengers. It would be impossible for him to find Rudolf now without turning over the train carriage by carriage, compartment by compartment.
He thought, How did he vanish so quickly?
He hurried back to the first carriage and found the ticket collector, an old man with steel-rimmed spectacles and a clubfoot. Roach withdrew the surveillance photograph of Rudolf and stuck it in front of the ticket collector's face.
"Have you seen this man?"
"Short chap?"
"Yes," Roach said, his spirits sinking lower, thinking, Dammit! Dammit!
"He jumped off the train as we pulled out of Euston. Lucky he didn't break his bloody leg."
"Christ! Why didn't you say something?" He realized how ridiculous the remark must have sounded. He forced himself to speak more calmly. "Where does this train make its first stop?"
"Watford."
"When?"
"About a half hour."
"Too long. I have to get off this train now."
Roach reached up, grabbed the emergency-brake cord, and pulled. The train immediately slowed, as the brakes were applied, and began to stop.
The old ticket collector looked up at Roach, eyes blinking rapidly behind the spectacles, and said, "You're not a normal police officer, are you?"
Roach said nothing as the train drew to a halt. He threw open the door, dropped down to the edge of the track, and disappeared into the darkness.
Neumann paid off the taxi a short distance from the Pope warehouse and walked the rest of the way. He switched his Mauser from the waistband of his trousers to the front pocket of his reefer coat and then turned up his collar against the driving rain. The first act had gone smoothly. The deception on the train had worked exactly as he had hoped. Neumann was certain he was not followed after leaving Euston Station. That meant one thing: Mackintosh, the man who had tailed him onto the train, was almost certainly still on it and heading out of London bound for Liverpool. The watcher was not an idiot. Eventually he would realize Neumann had not returned to his compartment, and he would begin a search. He might ask questions. Neumann's escape had not gone unseen; the ticket collector had spotted him jumping from the train. When the watcher realized Neumann was no longer on the train, he would get off at the next stop and telephone his superiors in London. Neumann realized he had a very limited window of opportunity. He had to move quickly.
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