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Authors: Daniel Silva

BOOK: The Unlikely Spy
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She wants desperately to tell him, to tell someone. If Mother were still alive she might be able to tell her. But she cannot bring herself to tell Papa. He would go insane. It would not be fair to him.
"Nothing, Papa. I'm tired now." She kisses his cheek. "Goodnight, Papa. Sweet dreams."
LONDON: JANUARY 1944
It had been six days since Catherine Blake received the message from Hamburg. During that time she had thought long and hard about ignoring it.
Alpha was the code name of a rendezvous point in Hyde Park, a footpath through a grove of trees. She couldn't help but feel jittery about going forward with the meeting. MI5 had arrested dozens of spies since 1940. Surely some of those spies had spilled everything they knew before their appointments with the hangman.
Theoretically, this should make no difference in her case. Vogel had promised her she would be different. She would have different radio procedures, different rendezvous procedures, and different codes. Even if every other spy in England were arrested and hanged, they would have no way of getting at her.
Catherine wished she could share Vogel's confidence. He was hundreds of miles away, cut off from Britain by the Channel, flying blindly. The smallest mistake might get her arrested or killed. Like the rendezvous site, for example. It was a bitterly cold night; anyone loitering in Hyde Park would automatically come under suspicion. It was a silly mistake, so unlike Vogel. He must be under enormous pressure. It was understandable. There was an invasion coming; everyone knew it. The only question was when and where.
She was reluctant to make the rendezvous for another reason: she was frightened of being drawn into the game. She had grown comfortable--too comfortable, perhaps. Her life had assumed a structure and a routine. She had her warm flat, she had her volunteer work at the hospital, she had Vogel's money to support her. She was reluctant, at this late stage of the war, to put herself in danger. She did not regard herself as a German patriot by any means. Her cover seemed totally secure. She could wait out the war and then make her way back to Spain. Back to the grand
estancia
in the foothills. Back to Maria.
Catherine turned into Hyde Park. The evening traffic in Kensington Road faded to a pleasant hum.
She had two reasons for making the rendezvous.
The first was her father's safety. Catherine had not volunteered to work for the Abwehr as a spy, she had been forced to do it. Vogel's instrument of coercion was her father. He had made it clear her father would be harmed--arrested, thrown into a concentration camp, even killed--if she did not agree to go to Britain. If she refused to take an assignment now, her father's life would surely be in danger.
The second reason was more simple--she was desperately lonely. She had been cut off and isolated for six years. The normal agents were allowed to use their radios. They had
some
contact with Germany. She had been permitted almost no contact. She was curious; she wanted to talk to someone from her own side. She wanted to be able to drop her cover for just a few minutes, to shed the identity of Catherine Blake.
She thought, God, but I almost can't remember my real name.
She decided she would make the rendezvous.
She walked along the edge of the Serpentine, watching a fleet of ducks fishing the gaps in the ice. She followed the pathway toward the trees. The last light had faded; the sky was a mat of winking stars. One nice thing about the blackout, she thought: you could see the stars at night, even in the heart of the West End.
She reached inside her handbag and felt for the butt of her silenced pistol, a Mauser 6.35 automatic. It was there. If anything appeared out of the ordinary she would use it. She had made one vow--that she would never allow herself to be arrested. The thought of being locked up in some stinking British jail made her physically sick. She had nightmares about her own execution. She could see their laughing English faces before the hangman placed the black hood over her head and the rope around her neck. She would use her suicide pill or she would die fighting, but she would never let them touch her.
An American soldier passed in the other direction. A prostitute clung to his shoulder, was rubbing his cock and sticking her tongue in his ear. It was a common sight. The girls worked Piccadilly. Few wasted time or money on hotel rooms. Wall jobs, the soldiers called them. The girls just took their customers into alleyways or parks and raised their skirts. Some of the more naive girls thought fucking standing up would keep them from getting pregnant.
Catherine thought, Stupid English girls.
She entered the trees and waited for Vogel's agent to show.
The afternoon train from Hunstanton arrived at Liverpool Street Station a half hour late. Horst Neumann collected his small leather grip from the luggage rack and joined the line of passengers spilling onto the platform. The station was chaos. Knots of weary travelers wandered the terminus like victims of a natural disaster, faces blank, waiting for hopelessly delayed trains. Soldiers slept wherever they liked, heads pillowed on kit bags. A few uniformed railway policemen meandered about, trying to keep order. All the porters were women. Neumann stepped onto the platform. Small, agile, bright-eyed, he sliced his way through the dense crowd.
The men at the exit had AUTHORITY written all over them. They wore rumpled suits and bowler hats. He wondered if they were looking for him. There was no way they could have a description. Instinctively, he reached inside his jacket and felt for the butt of his pistol. It was there, tucked in the waistband of his trousers. He also felt for his billfold in his breast pocket. The name on his identity card read James Porter. His cover was a traveling pharmaceutical salesman. He brushed past the two men and joined the crowd jostling along Bishopsgate Road.
The journey, except for the inevitable delay, had gone smoothly. He had shared a compartment with a group of young soldiers. For a time they had eyed him malevolently while he read his newspapers. Neumann guessed any healthy-looking young man not in uniform would be subjected to a certain amount of contempt. He told them he had been wounded at Dunkirk and brought back to England half dead aboard an oceangoing tug--one of the "little ships." The soldiers asked Neumann to join them in a game of cards, and he beat the pants off them.
The street was pitch dark, the only light provided by the shaded headlamps of the evening traffic working its way along the road and the pale blackout torches carried by many of the pedestrians. He felt as if he were in the midst of a child's game, trying to perform a ridiculously simple task while blindfolded. Twice he smashed straight into a pedestrian coming in the opposite direction. Once he collided with something cold and hard and started to apologize before noticing it was a lamppost.
He had to laugh. London certainly had changed since his last visit.
He was born Nigel Fox in London in 1919 to a German mother and an English father. When his father died in 1927, his mother returned to Germany and settled in Dusseldorf. A year later she remarried--a wealthy manufacturer named Erich Neumann, a stern disciplinarian who wasn't about to have a stepson named Nigel who spoke German with an English accent. He immediately changed the boy's name to Horst, allowed him to take his family name, and enrolled him in one of the toughest military schools in the country. Horst was miserable. The other boys teased him because of his poor German. Small, easily bullied, he came home most weekends with blackened eyes and split lips. His mother grew worried; Horst had become quiet and withdrawn. Erich thought it was good for him.
But when Horst turned fourteen his life changed. At an all-comers track meet he entered the 1,500 meters in his school shorts and no shoes. He finished well under five minutes, stunning for a boy with no training. A coach from the national federation had watched the race. He encouraged Horst to train and convinced his school to make special provisions for the boy.
Horst came alive. Freed from the drudgery of the school's physical education classes, he spent afternoons running through the countryside and the mountains. He loved being alone, away from the other boys. He was never happier. He quickly became one of the best junior track athletes in the country and a source of pride for the school. He joined the Hitler
Jugend
--the Hitler Youth. Boys who had picked on him years earlier suddenly were vying for his attention. In 1936, he was invited to attend the Olympic Games in Berlin. He watched the American Jesse Owens stun the world by winning four gold medals. He met Adolf Hitler at a reception for Hitler Youth and even shook his hand. He was so excited he telephoned home to tell his mother. Erich was immensely proud. Sitting in the grandstand Horst dreamed of 1944, when he would be old enough and fast enough to compete for Germany.
The war would change all that.
He joined the Wehrmacht early in 1939. His physical fitness and lone-wolf attitude brought him to the attention of the
Fallschirmjager,
the paratroopers. He was sent to paratroop school at Stendhal and jumped into Poland on the first day of the war. France, Crete, and Russia followed. He had his Knight's Cross by the end of 1942.
Paris would end his jumping days. Late one evening he went into a small bar for a brandy. A group of SS officers had taken over the back room for a private party. Halfway through his drink, Neumann heard a scream from the back room. The Frenchman behind the bar froze, too terrified to go investigate. Neumann did it for him. When he pushed back the door he saw a French girl on the table, arms and legs pinned down by SS men. A major was raping her; another was beating her with a belt. Neumann went in on the run and delivered a brutal blow to the major's face. His head struck the corner of a table; he never regained consciousness.
The other SS men dragged him into an alley, beat him savagely, and left him for dead. He spent three months in a hospital recovering. His head injuries were so severe he was declared unfit to jump. Because of his fluent English he was assigned to an army intelligence listening post in northern France, where he spent his days sitting before a radio receiver in a cramped, claustrophobic hut, monitoring wireless communications originating across the Channel in England. It was drudgery.
Then came the man from the Abwehr, Kurt Vogel. He was gaunt and tired, and under different circumstances Neumann might have thought he was an artist or an intellectual. He said he was looking for qualified men willing to go to Britain and conduct espionage. He said he would double Neumann's Wehrmacht pay. Neumann wasn't interested because of the money, he was bored out of his skull. He accepted on the spot. That night he left France and returned to Berlin with Vogel.
A week before coming to Britain, Neumann was taken to a farmhouse in the district of Dahlem just outside Berlin for a week of briefings and intense preparation. Mornings were spent in the barn, where Vogel had rigged a jump platform for Neumann to practice. A live jump was deemed out of the question for security reasons. He also brushed up his skills with a handgun, which were impressive to begin with, and silent killing. Afternoons were given over to the essence of field work: dead drops, rendezvous procedures, codes, and radio. At times the briefings were handled by Vogel alone. At other times he brought his assistant, Werner Ulbricht. Neumann playfully referred to him as Watson, and Ulbricht accepted it with an uncharacteristic relish. In the late afternoons, with the winter light dying over the gentle snowy landscape of the farm, Neumann was allowed forty-five minutes for running. For three days he was permitted to go alone. But on the fourth day, his head filling with Vogel's secrets, a jeep shadowed him from a distance.
Evenings were Vogel's private preserve. After a group supper in the farmhouse kitchen, Vogel would lead Neumann into the study and lecture him by the fire. He never used notes, for Vogel, Neumann could see, had the gift of memory. Vogel told him of Sean Dogherty and the drop procedure. He told him of an agent named Catherine Blake. He told him of an American officer named Peter Jordan.
Each night Vogel would cover old ground before adding another level of detail. Despite the informality of the country atmosphere, his wardrobe never changed: dark suit, white shirt, and dark tie. His voice was as annoying as a rusty hinge, yet it held Neumann with its intensity and singleness of purpose. On the sixth night, pleased with his pupil's progress, Vogel actually permitted himself a brief smile, which he quickly covered with his right hand, embarrassed by his dreadful teeth.
Enter Hyde Park from the north, Vogel had reminded him during their final meeting. From Bayswater Road. Which Neumann did now. Follow the pathway to the trees overlooking the lake. Make one pass to make certain the place is clean. Make your approach on the second pass. Let her decide whether it will continue. She will know if it is safe. She is very good.
The small man appeared on the pathway. He wore a wool overcoat and a brimmed hat. He walked briskly past without looking at her. She wondered if she was losing her power to attract men.
She stood in the trees, waiting. The rules for the rendezvous were specific. If the contact does not appear exactly on time, leave and come back the following day. She decided to wait another minute, then leave.
She heard the footsteps. It was the same man who had passed her a moment earlier. He nearly bumped into her in the dark.

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