The Unlikely Spy(147)

"Which leaves one more thing," he said, turning to Dogherty. "Are you coming with us?"

He nodded. "I've talked it over with Mary. She sees it my way. I'll come back to Germany with you: then Vogel and his friends can help me make my way back to Ireland. Mary will come across when I'm there. We've got friends and family who'll look after us until we get settled. We'll be all right."

"And how's Mary taking it?"

Dogherty's face hardened into a tight-lipped frown. Neumann knew it was quite likely he and Mary might never see each other again. He reached for the kerosene lamp, put a hand on Dogherty's shoulder, and said, "Let's go."





Martin Colville, standing astride his bicycle breathing heavily, saw a light burning inside Dogherty's barn. He laid his bicycle next to the road, then quietly crossed the meadow and crouched outside the barn. He struggled to understand the conversation taking place inside over the smack of the falling rain.

It was unbelievable.

Sean Dogherty--working for the Nazis. The man called James Porter--a German agent. A nest of German spies, operating right here in Hampton Sands!

Colville strained to hear more of the conversation. They were planning to drive up the coast to Lincolnshire and take a boat out to sea to meet a submarine. Colville felt his heart careening inside his chest and his breath coming quickly. He forced himself to be calm, to think clearly.

He had two choices: turn away, ride back to the village, and alert the authorities, or go inside the barn and take them into custody on his own. Each option had disadvantages. If he left for help, Dogherty and the spies would probably be gone by the time he returned. There were few police along the Norfolk coast, hardly enough to mount a search. If he went in alone he would be outnumbered. He could see Sean had his shotgun, and he assumed the two others were armed too. Still, he would have the advantage of surprise.

There was another reason why he liked the second option--he would enjoy personally settling the score with the German who called himself James Porter. Colville knew he had to act and act quickly. He broke open the box of shells, removed two, and snapped them into the barrel of the old twelve-gauge. He had never aimed the thing at anything more threatening than a partridge or a pheasant. He wondered whether he would have the stomach to pull the trigger on a human being.

He rose and took a step toward the door.





Jenny pedaled until her legs burned--through the village, past the church and the cemetery, over the sea creek. The air was filled with the sound of the storm and the rush of the sea. Rain lashed against her face and the wind nearly blew her over.

Jenny spotted her father's bicycle in the grass along the track and stopped next to it. Why leave it here? Why not ride it all the way to the cottage?

She thought she knew the answer. He was trying to sneak up without being seen.

It was then she heard the sound of a shotgun blast from Sean's barn. Jenny screamed, leapt from her bicycle, and let it fall next to her father's. She ran across the meadow, thinking, Please, God, don't let him be dead. Don't let him be dead.





52


SCARBOROUGH, ENGLAND





Approximately one hundred miles north of Hampton Sands, Charlotte Endicott pedaled her bicycle into the small gravel compound outside the Y Service listening station at Scarborough. The ride from her digs at a cramped guesthouse in town had been brutal, wind and rain the entire way. Soaked and chilled to the bone, she dismounted and leaned her bicycle next to several others in the stand.

The wind gusted, moaning through the three huge rectangular antennas that stood atop the cliffs overlooking the North Sea. Charlotte Endicott glanced up at them, swaying visibly, as she hurried across the compound. She pulled open the door of the hut and went inside before the wind slammed it shut.

She had a few minutes before her shift began. She removed her soaking raincoat, untied her hat, and hung them both on a dilapidated coat-tree in the corner. The hut was cold and drafty, built for utility, not comfort. It did have a small canteen, though. Charlotte went inside, poured herself a cup of hot tea, sat down at one of the small tables, and lit a cigarette. A filthy habit, she knew, but if she could hold a job like a man she could smoke like one. Besides, she liked the way they made her look--sexy, sophisticated, a little older than her twenty-three years. She also had become addicted to the damned things. The work was stressful, the hours brutal, and life in Scarborough was dreadfully boring. But she loved every moment of it.

There had been only one time when she truly hated it, the Battle of Britain. During the long and horrible dogfights, the Wrens at Scarborough could listen to the cockpit chatter of the British and German pilots. Once she heard an English boy screaming and crying for his mother as his crippled Spitfire fell helplessly toward the sea. When she lost contact with him, Charlotte ran outside into the compound and threw up. She was glad those days were over.

Charlotte looked up at the clock. Nearly midnight. Time to go on duty. She stood and smoothed her damp uniform. She took one last pull at her cigarette--smoking wasn't allowed in the hole--then crushed it out in a small metal ashtray overflowing with butts. She left the canteen and walked toward the operations room. She flashed her identification badge at the guard. He scrutinized it carefully, even though he had seen it a hundred times before, then handed it back to her, smiling a little more than necessary. Charlotte knew she was an attractive girl, but there was no place for that sort of thing here. She pushed open the doors, entered the hole, and sat down at her regular spot.