He stepped back on the road and continued on, looking back over his shoulder every few paces. He knew from the map he’d studied that the road ran along the crest of a high bluff, which descended down sandy cliffs to the sea. There was no moon, and he found his way along the road by staying near the edge where the high grass rubbed against his leg. He kept his eye on the white foam of breaking waves on the beach below, which formed a half moon shape as it curved around a bay.
Adam trudged on, alternately glancing over his shoulder and down to the beach, until he was at the midpoint of the bay. He paused and listened to the crashing surf for a moment, then stepped off the road and walked carefully through the high grass to the edge of the bluff.
Am I early? He glanced at his watch but couldn’t make out the numbers in the darkness. It had been close to midnight when he’d snuck around the outskirts of the seaside town of Ustka, staying clear of the marauding Red Army soldiers. He had followed the back routes and footpaths until he reached the coast road, and he guessed at least an hour had passed before he was surprised by the truck. That had been at least a quarter of an hour ago. The rendezvous was set for 0200. Not much longer.
Time passed. Adam knelt in the grass, staring into the blackness of the sea. Several times he thought he’d spotted a light and stood up, then nothing. The wind was stronger here, and the noise of the pounding surf enveloped him completely. With his spine tingling, he looked back toward the road every few minutes, making sure no one was sneaking up behind him.
He’d been on the move for seven days ever since receiving the message from London at an AK safe house in the Tuchola Forest. Seven days of plodding along muddy, rural roads on foot; in the back of ox carts; in ancient trucks owned by sympathetic peasants, who shared what little food they had. Seven days of avoiding the Red Army and, above all, the NKVD. But Adam was used to that part, he’d been a hunted man for years—first the Germans, now the Russians.
A flash, out at sea, slightly to his right.
He peered into the blackness. Nothing.
He waited.
Another flash, then a second. He was certain of it.
He glanced back toward the road, then slid down the sandy cliff on his butt, tumbling over at the bottom. He got to his knees and shook the sand from his woolen cap. He removed his glasses and wiped off the sand with his handkerchief, being careful with the cracked left lens. He put them back on and scanned the shoreline until he spotted several wooden pilings silhouetted against the foaming surf. That was the spot. He took one last glance at the top of the bluff then sprinted across the beach to the pilings.
Adam braced himself against one of the rough, wooden posts—the remains of a pier long since vanished—and stared in the direction where he’d last seen the flash. The spray soaked him instantly, the chill of the piercing wind driving straight through to his bones. Within minutes he was freezing and felt dizzy. The occasional dizzy spells were another result of the bullet wound last September. He’d had his thirty-fourth birthday two weeks ago, but on nights like this he felt twice his age. He clung tight to the post, shivering and waiting for the dizziness to pass.
He saw it again. Another flash.
What did the message say? Three quick flashes? Answer with two flashes?
Adam reached into his pocket for the flashlight he’d taken from the AK safe house. His hand trembled from the cold as he held it and fumbled for the switch. He flicked it on and off twice, wondering if it were strong enough.
Then he glanced back at the bluff again. Goddamn it!
Headlights bounced along the coast road.
He turned back toward the sea and was startled when he saw the light almost on top of him. Then, out of the gloom, the shape of a boat appeared, its rounded bow rising and falling in the surf. He flicked the flashlight again, twice, as the boat swept ashore.
Two figures emerged, one holding a line, the other racing toward him. He was a large, husky man, wearing a black rubber suit, his pistol drawn. He shouted in English, “We are looking for Oskar!” The voice was deep and strong, the accent British, the words expected.
Adam shouted back, “Oskar has taken the train.”
A gunshot from the bluff—
The British marine fired back—
Then he grabbed Adam’s arm. “Let’s get out of here, chum. You’re off to London.”
Twenty-Four
THE HOTEL ROOM in London was small but clean, with fresh sheets and a private bath. There were clean clothes in the bureau, a new suit in the closet and room service. Adam thought he’d died and gone to heaven.
The first day after his arrival, he had stumbled about in a fog. The entire journey seemed surreal, like something he might expect to see in the cinema—tough men in a rubber raft, a submarine, a small twin-engine plane. He’d been whisked to the hotel in a limousine with instructions to get some sleep and, in no uncertain terms, to stay put.
By the afternoon of the second day, Adam was restless. He wore clean clothes for the first time in many months. The food was good, the best he’d had in years, and more than he could possibly eat. Apparently his hosts had special connections. He couldn’t imagine that even Londoners ate this good in wartime.
The bed was firm—a real bed with real sheets and pillows—though he still woke abruptly in the middle of the night, as he’d done almost every night since Warsaw. He would stare into the darkness, hands trembling, his back clammy with sweat. The dream varied little from one restless night to the next, though the faces would change—dead faces, their eyes wide open, staring back at him.
The proprietor of the hotel, a proper sort in a tweed jacket, pipe clenched in his teeth, had delivered the London Times to his room. The paper was still overflowing with news and pictures of V-E Day celebrations. Adam read it all, from front to back, scarcely able to believe the war had officially ended. It certainly hadn’t for the Russians, hunting down the AK in Poland.
Finally, at four o’clock in the afternoon, there was a knock on the door. It was the chauffer, the same one who’d driven him to the hotel without speaking. This afternoon he said, “You have an appointment.” That was all.
As the sleek, black Bentley dodged between black taxis and double-decker buses in the congested streets of London, Adam observed the condition of the city. He had left London in 1940, before the worst of the Blitz, but he had heard the reports about nonstop bombing raids. He noticed that part of the British Museum had been destroyed, several tube stations reduced to craters and the Commons Chamber of Parliament badly damaged. A number of windows were boarded up at Buckingham Palace, but Big Ben and Westminster Abbey still stood. Compared to Warsaw, London seemed virtually untouched.
The Bentley pulled into a garage underneath a familiar office building on Baker Street. The chauffer opened the rear door and handed Adam off to a pretty young woman, who introduced herself as Margie, Colonel Whitehall’s assistant.
They took the elevator to the fifth floor and walked down the same drab hallway he remembered from his previous visits. At the end of the hall, he was ushered into the same cluttered office he recalled, with two large windows overlooking an interior courtyard. A heavyset man with a pink, fleshy face and a shock of unruly white hair hoisted himself from his chair and stepped around the desk, hand outstretched.
“Adam, jolly good to see you again. What’s it been, three years, four? Have a seat.”