The warehouse was dark and appeared deserted. Neumann rang the bell and waited. There was no response. He rang the bell again and this time could hear the sound of footsteps on the other side. The door was opened a moment later by a black-haired giant in a leather coat.
"What do you want?"
"I'd like to see Mr. Pope, please," Neumann said politely. "I need a few items, and I was told this was very definitely the place to come."
"Mr. Pope is gone and we're out of business, so piss off."
The giant started to close the door. Neumann put his foot in the way.
"I'm sorry. It's really rather urgent. Perhaps you could help."
The giant looked at Neumann, a puzzled look on his face. He seemed to be trying to reconcile the public school accent with the reefer coat and bandaged face. "I suppose you didn't hear me the first time," he said. "We're out of business. Shut down." He grabbed Neumann's shoulder. "Now, fuck off."
Neumann punched the giant in the Adam's apple, then pulled out his Mauser and shot him in the foot. The man collapsed on the floor, alternately howling in pain and gasping for breath. Neumann stepped inside and closed the gate. The warehouse was just the way Catherine described it: vans, cars, motorbikes, stacks of black-market food, and several jerry cans of petrol.
Neumann leaned down and said, "If you make a move, I'll shoot you again and it won't be in the foot. Do you understand?"
The giant grunted.
Neumann selected a black van, opened the door, and started the motor. He grabbed two jerry cans of petrol and put them in the back of the van. On second thought, it was a very long drive. He took two more and put them in the back too. He climbed inside the van, drove it to the front of the warehouse, then got out and hauled open the main door.
Before leaving, he knelt beside the wounded man and said, "If I were you, I'd get straight to a hospital."
The man looked at Neumann, more confused than ever. "Who the hell are you, mate?"
Neumann smiled, knowing the truth would sound so absurd the man would never believe it.
"I'm a German spy on the run from MI-Five."
"Yeah--and I'm Adolf bloody Hitler."
Neumann climbed in the van and sped away.
Harry Dalton tore the blackout shades from the headlamps and drove dangerously fast westward across London. Transport section had offered a skilled high-speed driver, but Harry wanted to do the driving himself. He weaved in and out of traffic, one hand constantly pressing the horn. Vicary sat next to him on the front seat, nervously clutching the dash. The wipers struggled in vain to beat away the rain. Turning into the Cromwell Road, Harry accelerated so hard the rear end of the car slid on the slick tarmac. He sliced and snaked his way through the traffic, then turned south into Earl's Court Road. He entered a small side street, then raced down a narrow alley, swerving once to avoid a rubbish bin, then again to miss a cat. He slammed on the brakes behind a block of flats and brought them to a skidding halt.
Harry and Vicary got out of the car, entered the building through the rear service door, and pounded up the stairs toward the fifth floor to the surveillance flat. Vicary, ignoring the pain shooting through his knee like a knife, kept pace with Harry.
He thought, If only Boothby had let me arrest them hours ago, we wouldn't be in this mess!
It was nothing short of a disaster.
The agent code-named Rudolf had just jumped from a train at Euston Station and melted into the city. Vicary had to assume he was now attempting to flee the country. He had no choice but to arrest Catherine Blake; he needed her in custody and scared out of her wits. Then she might tell them where Rudolf was headed and how he planned to escape, whether other agents were involved, and where he kept his radio.
Vicary was not optimistic. Everything he felt about this woman told him she would not cooperate, even when faced with execution. All she had to do was hold out long enough for Rudolf to escape. If she did that, the Abwehr would possess evidence suggesting British Intelligence was engaged in a massive deception. The consequences were too awful to contemplate. All the work that had gone into Fortitude would be wasted. The Germans could deduce that the Allies were coming at Normandy. The invasion would have to be postponed and replanned; otherwise it would end in a blood-soaked catastrophe. Hitler's iron-handed occupation of western Europe would go on. Countless more would die. And all because Vicary's operation had fallen to pieces. They had one chance now: arrest her, make her talk, and stop Rudolf before he could flee the country or use his radio.
Harry pushed open the door to the surveillance flat and led them inside. The curtains were open to the street, the room in darkness. Vicary struggled to make out the figures standing in various poses all around the room like statuary in a darkened garden: a pair of bleary-eyed watchers, frozen in the window; a half dozen tense Special Branch men leaning against one wall. The senior Special Branch officer was called Carter. He was big and buff with a thick throat and pockmarked skin. A cigarette, extinguished for security, jutted from the corner of his generous mouth. When Harry introduced Vicary, he pumped Vicary's hand ferociously once, then led him to the window to explain the disposition of his forces. The dead cigarette flaked ash as he spoke.
"We'll go in through the front door," Carter said, a trace of North Country in his accent. "When we do, we'll seal the street at both ends and a pair of men will cover the back of the house. Once we're in the house she'll have nowhere to go."
"It's extremely important that you take her alive," Vicary said. "She's absolutely useless to us dead."
"Harry says she's good with her weapons."
"True. We have reason to believe she has a gun and is willing to use it."
"We'll take her so fast she won't know what hit her. We're ready whenever you give us the word."
Vicary turned from the window and walked across the room to the telephone. He dialed the department and waited for the operator to forward the call to Boothby's office.
"The Special Branch men are ready to move on our order," Vicary said, when Boothby came on the line. "Do we have authorization yet?"
"No. The Twenty Committee are still deliberating. And we can't move until they approve it. The ball's in their court now."
"My God! Perhaps someone should explain to the Twenty Committee that time is one thing we don't have in great abundance. If we have one chance in hell of catching Rudolf, we need to know where he's going."
"I understand your dilemma," Boothby said.
Vicary thought, Your dilemma.
My
dilemma, Sir Basil?
He said, "When are they going to decide?"
"Any moment. I'll call you back straightaway."
Vicary rang off and paced the dark room. He turned to one of the watchers and said, "How long has she been in there?"
"About fifteen minutes."
"Fifteen minutes? Why did she stay on the street so long? I don't like it."
The telephone rang. Vicary lunged for it and brought the receiver to his ear. Basil Boothby said, "We have the Twenty Committee's approval. Bring her in, Alfred. And good luck."
Vicary slammed down the receiver.
"We're on, gentlemen." He turned to Harry. "Alive. We need her alive."
Harry nodded, grim-faced, then led the Special Branch men out of the room. Vicary listened to their footfalls on the stairs gradually fading away. Then, a moment later, he spotted the tops of their heads as they stepped from the building and headed across the street toward Catherine Blake's flat.
Horst Neumann parked the van in a small quiet side street around the corner from Catherine's flat. He climbed out and softly closed the door. He walked quickly along the pavement, hands thrust deeply into his pockets, one hand wrapped around the butt of the Mauser.
The street was in pitch darkness. He came to the pile of rubble that once was the terrace behind the flat. He groped his way across broken wood, crumbled brick, and twisted pipes. The rubble ended at a wall, about six feet high. On the other side of the wall was the garden at the back of the house--Neumann had seen it from the window of her room. He tried the gate; it was locked. He would have to open it from the other side.
He placed his hands on top of the wall, thrust with his legs, and pulled with his arms. Atop the wall now, he threw one leg over the other side and turned his body. He hung that way for a few seconds, looking down. The ground below was invisible in the dark. He could fall on anything--a sleeping dog or a row of dustbins that would make a terrible clatter if he landed on them. He considered shining his torch for a second but that might attract attention. He pushed himself off the top of the wall and fell through the gloom. There were no dogs or rubbish bins, just a thorny shrub of some kind that clawed at his face and his coat.
Neumann tore himself free from the thornbush and unlatched the gate. He crossed the garden to the back door. He tried the latch--it was locked. The door had a window. He reached in his coat pocket, withdrew the Mauser, and used it to smash the lower-left pane of glass. The noise was surprisingly loud. He reached through the shattered pane and unlocked the door, then quickly crossed the hall and ascended the stairs.
He reached Catherine's door and knocked softly.
From the other side of the door he heard her say, "Who's there?"
"It's me."
She opened the door. Neumann stepped inside and closed it. She was dressed in trousers, sweater, and leather jacket. The suitcase radio was standing next to the door. Neumann looked at her face. It was ashen.
"It could be my imagination," she said, "but I think something is going on downstairs. I've seen some men milling about on the street and sitting in parked cars."
The flat was dark, one light burning in the sitting room. Neumann crossed the room in a few quick steps and turned it off. He went to the window and lifted the edge of the blackout shade, peering out into the street. The evening traffic was moving below, throwing off just enough light for him to see four men charging from the apartment house across the street and heading their way.
Neumann turned and ripped his Mauser from his pocket.
"They're coming for us. Grab your radio and follow me down. Now!"
Harry Dalton threw open the front door and went inside, the Special Branch men behind him. He switched on the hall light in time to see Catherine Blake running out the back door, her suitcase radio swinging from her arm.
Horst Neumann had kicked open the back door and was running across the garden when he heard the shout from within the house. He rushed through the curtain of gloom, the Mauser in front of him in his outstretched hand. The gate flew open and a figure appeared there, silhouetted in the frame, gun raised. He shouted for Neumann to stop. Neumann kept running, firing twice. The first shot struck the man in the shoulder, spinning him around. The second shattered his spine, killing him instantly.
A second man stepped into his place and attempted to fire. Neumann squeezed the trigger. The Mauser bounced in his hand, emitting almost no sound, just the dull click of the firing mechanism. The man's head exploded.
Neumann raced through the gate, stepping over the bodies, and peered into the blackout. There was no one else behind the house. He turned and saw Catherine, a few feet behind him, running with the radio. Three men were chasing her. Neumann raised his gun and fired into the dark. He heard two men scream. Catherine kept running.
He turned and started across the rubble toward the van.
Harry felt the rounds whiz past his head. He heard the screams of both men behind him. She was right in front of him. He plunged through the darkness, arms outstretched before him. He realized he was at a distinct disadvantage; he was unarmed and alone. He could stop and try to find one of the Special Branch men's weapons, then chase them and try to shoot them both. But he was likely to be killed by Rudolf in the process. He could stop, turn around, go back inside, and signal the surveillance flat. But by then Catherine Blake and Rudolf would be long gone and they would have to start the damned search all over again and the spies would use their radio and tell Berlin about what they had discovered and we'd lose the fucking war, dammit!
The radio!
He thought, I may not be able to stop them now, but I can cut them off from Berlin for a while.
Harry leapt through the darkness, screaming deep in his throat, and grabbed hold of the suitcase with both hands. He tried to tear it from her grasp but she turned and pulled with surprising strength. He looked up and saw her face for the first time: red, contorted with fear, ugly with rage. He tried again to wrench the case from her, but he could not break her grasp; her fingers were clenched around the handle like a vise grip. She screamed Rudolf 's real name. It sounded like Wurst.
Then Harry heard a clicking sound. He had heard it before on the streets of East London before the war, the sound of a stiletto blade snapping into place. He saw her arm rise, then swing down in a vicious arc toward his throat. If he raised his own arm he could deflect the blow. But then she would be able to pull the radio away from him. He held on with both hands and tried to avoid the stiletto by twisting his head. The tip of the blade struck the side of his face. He could feel his flesh tearing. The pain came an instant later--searing, as though molten metal had been thrown against his face. Harry screamed but held on to the bag. She raised her arm again, this time plunging the tip of the stiletto into his forearm. Harry yelled with pain again, teeth clenched, but his hands would not let go of the bag. It was as if they were acting on their own now. Nothing, no amount of pain, could make them let go.