A Gathering of Spies

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A Gathering of Spies

John Altman

For my parents

I have often felt a bitter sorrow at the thought of the German people, which is so estimable in the individual and so wretched in the generality …

—
GOETHE

P
ROLOGUE

NEW YORK CITY

DECEMBER 1933

A light dusting of snow had fallen; the city looked almost pretty.

They walked toward the waterfront. Catherine could hear the whisper of a halfhearted Christmas carol from somewhere, the mystical hoot of a foghorn, the soft diffuse sound of music drifting over the river.

Her coat had lost all but one of its buttons; she was forced to hold the neck closed with one hand. How did Katarina manage to keep her coat looking so new? she wondered. How did Katarina always manage to traipse around a half foot above the realities of life,
floating
around, really, so untouchable and stylish and happy?

Katarina was talking about a movie she had seen:
The Eagle and the Hawk
, starring Cary Grant and Carole Lombard. Her green eyes sparkled; her blond hair bounced around her shoulders in time with her steps. She chattered on gaily, without a hint of self-consciousness. Katarina's English, Catherine found herself thinking, was better than the English of people who had lived here twice as long. Why, she even spoke with less of an accent than Catherine, who had been born in the Bronx. How on earth did Katarina do it? How was it that everything came to her so naturally?

Farther uptown, a ship was coming in; the water of the Hudson was alive with a thousand dancing lights. Catherine could see the bustle of activity on the quay, but she couldn't make out any detail—just a shapeless, undulating mass of humanity. A band was playing on the cruiser's deck, something brassy and celebratory but small with distance.

She shivered. She was cold. She shouldn't have come out in the first place. It was time to go home.

She turned to tell Katarina, but Katarina was gone.

After another moment she spotted her friend—moving off down a deserted dock, out over the black water.

“Katarina!” she called.

“Come on!” Katarina called back.

Then she vanished into the darkness somewhere beyond a stack of crates on the dock.

Catherine stared after her.
I won't follow her
, she thought.
It's late and it's cold and my coat only has one button, and besides, I'm not like Katarina. I don't enjoy adventures on dark, deserted docks late at night
.

Besides, she was starting a new job the next day. She wanted to make a good impression on her new employer—be in passable shape, at least, when he first saw her coming off the train. Not that she was hoping for anything to develop in that direction, of course. He was a widower, true enough, but she had no illusions about her own attractiveness. No, she didn't harbor even a tiny little hope. Still, a solid night's sleep seemed like a good idea. She wanted to be as presentable as possible when he first laid eyes on her.

She stepped onto the dock, hesitated for a moment, then took another step forward. God only knew who was lurking around out there at this time of night. She held her beaded purse more tightly to her body. A freezing sea spray leapt up from nowhere, turning her coat damp. She shivered again. Where had Katarina gone?

“Katarina,” she said, “I've got to get home.”

“Just come look at this, Cat, and I'll walk back with you.”

“Look at what?”

No answer.

Catherine stayed where she was for another moment, still holding the coat together with one hand. A flicker of some odd, foreign emotion was moving through her. After an instant, she recognized it as anger. Why was Katarina dragging her out onto this deserted dock the night before she started a new job? Katarina was jealous, that was why. Katarina had to keep working at Owen and Dunn, getting pawed by old George Gardner every time she turned around, while Catherine got to go off to the country and live in a nice house with a respectable man. Katarina wanted to ruin it for her.…

That's ridiculous
, she thought.
She came to see you off. She's your friend
.

She took another few steps forward, moving around the crate.

“Katarina?” she said.

It had been two years since the last time.

But it went perfectly. Her body took the responsibility itself, without waiting for instructions from her mind. She watched from a polite distance as her hand dug into her purse and removed the switchblade. She watched as her thumb depressed the catch and the blade
snick
ed out into the night. She watched as she put her back against the crate, waiting for Catherine to step into range; and then as her left arm came up and snaked around Catherine's throat, expertly, the fingers slipping inside Catherine's mouth. She watched as her right hand moved the blade up, finding the correct angle perfectly, elegantly, as if she had done this just yesterday.

She slid the blade between the fourth and fifth ribs, directly into Catherine Danielson's heart.

Catherine began to shake. Katarina, embracing her from behind, held on tightly. For a few seconds, Catherine shivered almost sensuously; then she let out a papery sigh. Not dead yet—but her chest cavity already would be filling with blood. Her punctured heart would drown itself.

Katarina removed the switchblade before she lowered Catherine to the dock. She wiped the blade clean on Catherine's raggedy coat, then flung the knife into the water.

After that she worked quickly, without looking at the body lying on the dock by her feet. She found the box she had put there earlier in the night, a small cardboard parcel tucked between two crates. From the box she withdrew two heavy, misshapen pieces of scrap steel, already entwined with ropes. She tied the loose ends of the ropes to Catherine's ankles. The wind was bitter and cold; she ignored it. From farther up the dock she could hear intermittent cheers as the cruiser discharged its passengers and the band played on.

Once she had the weights fastened to Catherine's ankles, she stood up and surveyed her handiwork. She took a long, critical look; a small furrow of concentration appeared on her brow. Then, abruptly, she rolled the body off the dock with one foot. The splash sounded very loud. Following the splash came a few moments of hissing as the ocean closed back up over the intruding object.

Then silence.

The band struck up a fresh tune—“Don't Blame Me.”

Katarina picked up Catherine Danielson's purse, dug through it, and found a cigarette. She slung the purse over her shoulder, lit the cigarette, and moved back down the dock.

PART ONE

1

SALISBURY, WILTSHIRE

DECEMBER 1942

They had been driving in silence for twenty minutes. Winterbotham's eyes were beginning to drift shut, despite his best efforts to keep them open, when Colonel Fredricks suddenly said, “You know, Professor, you're not at all what I expected.”

For a few moments, Winterbotham considered letting it pass. He knew what the colonel meant, and he wasn't in the mood for a fight. He was too goddamned tired. But then his pride—his old bedraggled pride, never knowing when to stay down—forced him to respond.

“How do you mean, Colonel?” he asked.

The colonel let out a small chuckle. “I had been led to expect a sort of wildcat, I suppose.”

Winterbotham looked out his window for another moment before answering. The countryside drifted past in absolute darkness; he couldn't make out even the top of the tree line. For the previous two years, all of England had been shutting itself down every night when dusk fell. He supposed they served their purpose, these voluntary blackouts; they made it difficult for the
Luftwaffe
to find their targets. But they also took a toll, one that was purely psychological but very real. Hitler hadn't won the war, not yet—but he had forced them to live in darkness, like animals in caves.

Then Winterbotham turned his head slowly to look at the man sitting beside him in the gloom. Colonel Fredricks was a tall, pallid man who resembled a cadaver. In the darkness, Winterbotham could see only a pale smudge, which would have been his face.

“A wildcat,” he mused.

“So I had been warned.”

“I'm sorry to disappoint you.”

“Oh, don't apologize, Professor. It is my great pleasure to find you …” He trailed off.

“Manageable?” Winterbotham said.

“Yes,” Fredricks said, relieved. “That's exactly right.”

“You thought I would demand to know where we're going,” Winterbotham said, “and I would make the trip as unpleasant for you as possible.”

“It had occurred to me. Yes.”

“So it must have been Taylor who sent you.”

Fredricks didn't answer.

“Taylor has always overestimated me,” Winterbotham said, and allowed himself a thin smile at the man's silence.

“I'm afraid I can't—”

“I haven't demanded to know our destination,” Winterbotham said, “because I already
know
our destination, Colonel Fredricks. We're going to a small nondescript house somewhere in the countryside, correct? I can't see that it much matters if I know the precise location or not. Once we've arrived, we'll meet with my old friend Professor Andrew Taylor, correct? And he will explain the reason for this rather bizarre invitation you have extended me, correct?”

Again, no answer.

“I haven't asked you what the matter is,” Winterbotham said, “for the simple reason that you don't
know
what the matter is. Isn't that right, Colonel? You're his retriever, but you don't know what you're retrieving, let alone why, correct?”