The Unlikely Spy(29)
Sean Dogherty, more than other residents of the Norfolk coast, took special note of such things. In 1940 he had been recruited to spy for the Abwehr and given the code name Emerald.
The cottage appeared in the distance, smoke lifting gently from the chimney only to be sliced off by the wind and carried across the broad meadow. It was a smallholding on rented land but it provided an adequate living: a small flock of sheep that gave them wool and meat, chickens, a small plot of root vegetables that fetched good prices these days at the market. Dogherty even owned a dilapidated old van and transported goods from neighboring farms to the market in King's Lynn. As a result he was given an agricultural ration of petrol, more than the standard civilian ration.
He turned into the drive, climbed off his bicycle, and pushed it along the pitted pathway toward the barn. Overhead, he heard the drone of Lancaster bombers setting out from their Norfolk bases. He remembered a time when the planes came from the other direction--the Luftwaffe's heavy Heinkels, sweeping in over the North Sea toward the industrial centers of Birmingham and Manchester. Now the Allies had established supremacy of the skies, and the Heinkels rarely ventured over Norfolk.
He looked up and saw the curtains of the kitchen window part slightly, saw the blurry image of Mary's face through the rain-streaked glass. Not tonight, Mary, he thought, eyes consciously averted. Please, not again tonight.
It had not been difficult for the Abwehr to convince Sean Dogherty to betray England and go to work for Nazi Germany. In 1921, his older brother, Daniel, was arrested and hanged by the British for leading an Irish Republican Army flying column.
Inside the barn Dogherty unlocked a tool cabinet and took down his Abwehr-issue suitcase transceiver, his cipher pad, a notebook, and a pencil. He switched on the radio and smoked a cigarette while he waited. His instructions were simple: turn on the radio once each week and stand by for any instructions from Hamburg. It had been more than three years since the Abwehr had asked him to do anything. Still, he dutifully switched on his radio at the instructed time and waited for ten minutes.
With two minutes remaining in the window, Dogherty placed the cipher pad and the notebook back in the cabinet. With one minute left, he reached for the power switch. He was about to shut off the radio when it suddenly came to life. He lunged for his pencil and wrote furiously until the radio went silent. He quickly tapped out an acknowledgment and signed off.
It took Dogherty several minutes to decode the message.
When he finished, he couldn't believe his eyes.
EXECUTE RECEPTION PROCEDURE ONE.
The Germans wanted him to take in an agent.
It had been fifteen minutes since Mary Dogherty, standing in the kitchen window, had seen her husband enter the barn. She wondered what was taking so long. Sean's dinner would go cold if he didn't come in soon. She wiped her hands on her apron and carried a mug of steaming tea to the front window. The rain was coming down harder now, wind whipping across the coastline from the North Sea.
She thought, Terrible night to be out in it, Sean Dogherty.
She cupped her hands around the chipped enamel mug, letting the rising steam warm her face. She knew what he was doing in the barn--he was on the radio with the Germans.
Spying for the Nazis, Mary had to admit, had rejuvenated Sean. In the spring of 1940 he reconnoitered huge sections of the Norfolk countryside. Mary watched in amazement as he seemed to come back to life under the assignment, pedaling several miles a day, looking for signs of military activity, taking photographs of coastal defenses. The information was passed to an Abwehr contact in London, who in turn passed it on to Berlin. Sean thought it was all very dangerous and loved every moment of it.
Mary hated it. She feared Sean would be caught. Everyone was on the lookout for spies; it was a national obsession. One slip, one mistake, and Sean would be arrested. The 1940 Treachery Act prescribed a single sentence for spying: execution. Mary had read about spies in the newspapers--the hangings at Wandsworth and Pentonville--and each one sent ice through her veins. One day, she feared, she would read of Sean's execution.
The rain fell harder now, and the wind beat so furiously against the side of the sturdy little cottage Mary feared it might come down. She thought of living alone on the broken-down old farm; it would be miserable. Shuddering, she drew away from the window and moved closer to the fire.
Perhaps it would have been different if she had been able to give him children. She pushed it from her mind; she had punished herself needlessly too long. No use dredging up things she could do nothing about. Sean was what he was and there was nothing she could do to change him.
Sean, Mary thought, what on earth has become of you?
The pounding at the door startled Mary, causing her to spill tea on her apron. It was not like Sean to lock himself out. She set down the mug in the window and hurried to the door, prepared to yell at him for leaving the cottage without his key. Instead, when she pulled back the door, she saw the figure of Jenny Colville, a girl who lived on the other side of the village. She stood in the rain, a shiny oilskin coat hanging over bony shoulders. She wore no hat and her shoulder-length hair lay plastered against her head, framing an awkward face that one day might be very pretty.
Mary could tell she had been crying.
"What happened, Jenny? Did your father hit you again? Has he been drinking?"
Jenny nodded and burst into tears.