"Who else knows about this?"
"Me, Thomasson, and probably the landlord at the public house. I suspect he's standing next to Thomasson right now."
"I want you to tell absolutely no one else about what happened at the Dogherty cottage tonight. There is to be no mention of German agents in any report on this affair. This is a security matter of the utmost importance. Is that clear, Superintendent?"
"I understand."
"I'm going to send a team of my men to Norfolk to assist you. For now, leave Mary Dogherty and those bodies exactly where they are."
"Yes, sir."
Vicary was looking at the map again. "Now, Superintendent, I have information that leads me to suspect those fugitives are in all likelihood heading directly your way. We believe their ultimate destination is the Lincolnshire coast."
"I've called in all my men. We're blocking all the major roads."
"Keep this office informed of every development. And good luck."
Vicary rang off and turned to Boothby.
"They've killed two people, they probably have a hostage, and they're making a run for the Lincolnshire coast." Vicary smiled wolfishly. "And it looks as though they've just lost their second radio."
58
Two hours after leaving Hampton Sands, Horst Neumann and Catherine Blake were beginning to have serious doubts about their chances of making the rendezvous with the submarine in time. To escape the Norfolk coast, Neumann retraced his course, climbing into the cluster of hills in the heart of Norfolk, then following thin ribbons of road through the heathland and the darkened villages. He skirted King's Lynn to the southeast, wound his way through a series of hamlets, and then crossed the River Great Ouse at a village called Wiggenhall St. Germans.
The journey across the southern edge of the Wash was a nightmare. Wind poured in from the North Sea and whipped over the marshes and the dikes. The rain increased. Sometimes it came in irate squalls-swirling, windblown, erasing the edges of the road. Neumann hunched forward mile after mile, gripping the wheel with both hands as the van raced across the flat terrain. At times he had the sensation of floating through an abyss.
Catherine sat next to him, reading Dogherty's old Ordnance Survey map by the light of her torch. They spoke in German, so that Jenny could not understand. Neumann found Catherine's German odd: flat, toneless, no regional accent. The kind of German that is a second or third language. The kind of German that has not been used in a very long time.
Neumann, with Catherine navigating, plotted his course.
Cleethorpes, where their boat was waiting for them, lay next to the port of Grimsby at the mouth of the Humber. Once they were clear of the Wash, there were no large towns standing in their way. According to the maps there was a good road-the A16-that ran several miles inland along the base of the Lincolnshire Wolds, then to the Humber. For purposes of planning, Neumann assumed the worst. He assumed that Mary would eventually be found, that MI5 would eventually be alerted, and roadblocks would be thrown up on all major roads near the coastline. He would take the A16 halfway toward Cleethorpes, then switch to a smaller road that ran closer to the coast.
Boston lay near the western shore of the Wash. It was the last large town standing between them and the Humber. Neumann left the main road, crept through quiet side streets, then rejoined the A16 north of town. He opened the throttle and pushed the van hard through the storm.
Catherine switched off the blackout torch and watched the rain swirling in the soft glow of the headlamps.
"What's it like now-in Berlin?"
Neumann kept his eyes on the road. "It's paradise. We are all happy, we work hard in the factories, we shake our fists at the American and British bombers, and everyone loves the Fuhrer."
"You sound like one of Goebbels's propaganda films."
"The truth isn't quite so entertaining. Berlin is very bad. The Americans come with their B-Seventeens by day, and the British come with their Lancasters and Halifaxes at night. Some days it seems the city is under almost constant bombardment. Most of central Berlin is a pile of rubble."
"Having lived through the blitz myself, I'm afraid Germany deserves whatever the Americans and British can dish out. The Germans were the first to take the war to the civilian population. I can't shed many tears because Berlin is now being pounded into dust."
"You sound like a Brit yourself."
"I am half British. My mother was English. And I've been living among the British for six years. It's not hard to forget whose side you're supposed to be on when you're in a situation like that. But tell me more about Berlin."
"Those with money or connections manage to eat well. Those without money or connections don't. The Russians have turned the tables in the east. I suspect half of Berlin is hoping the invasion succeeds so the Americans can get to Berlin before the Ivans."
"So typically German. They elect a psychopath, give him absolute power, then cry because he's led them to the brink of destruction."
Neumann laughed. "If you were blessed with such foresight, why in the world did you volunteer to become a spy?"
"Who said anything about volunteering?"
They flashed through a pair of villages-first Stickney, then Stickford. The scent of woodsmoke from fires burning in the cottages penetrated the interior of the van. Neumann heard a dog barking, then another. He reached in his pocket, removed his cigarettes, and gave them to Catherine. She lit two, kept one for herself, and handed one back to him.
"Would you like to explain that last remark?"
She thought, Would I? It felt terribly strange, after all these years, even to be speaking in German. She had spent six years hiding every shred of truth about herself. She had become someone else, erased every aspect of her personality and her past. When she thought about the person she was before Hitler and before the war, it was as if she were thinking about someone else.
Anna Katarina von Steiner died in an unfortunate road accident outside Berlin.
"Well, I didn't exactly go down to the local Abwehr office and sign up," she said. "But then, I don't suppose anyone in this line of work gets their job that way, do they. They always come for you. In my case, they was Kurt Vogel."
She told him the story, the story she had never told another person before. The story of the summer in Spain, the summer the civil war broke out. The summer at Maria's estancia. Her affair with Maria's father. "Just my luck, he turns out to be a Fascist and a talent spotter for the Abwehr. He sells me to Vogel, and Vogel comes looking for me."
"Why didn't you just say no?"
"Why didn't any of us just say no? In my case, he threatened the one thing in this world I care most about-my father. That's what a good case officer does. They get inside your head. They get to know how you think, how you feel. What you love and what you fear. And then they use it to make you do what they want you to do."
She smoked quietly for a moment, watching as they passed through another village.
"He knew that I lived in London when I was a child, that I spoke the language perfectly, that I already knew how to handle a weapon, and that-"
Silence for a moment. Neumann didn't press her. He just waited, fascinated.
"He knew that I had a personality suited to the assignment he had in mind. I've been in Britain nearly six years, alone, with virtually no contact with anyone from my side: no friends, no family, no contact with any other agents-nothing. It was more like a prison sentence than an assignment. I can't tell you how many times I dreamt about going back to Berlin and killing Vogel with one of the wonderful techniques he and his friends taught me."