The Unlikely Spy(42)
"Surely there's something else we could do, Harry," Vicary said, pacing his office.
"We've done everything we can do, Alfred."
"Perhaps we should check with the RAF again."
"I just checked with the RAF."
"Anything?"
"Nothing."
"Well, call the Royal Navy--"
"I just got off the telephone with the Citadel."
"And?"
"Nothing."
"Christ!"
"You've just got to be patient."
"I'm not endowed with natural patience, Harry."
"I've noticed."
"What about--"
"I've called the ferry in Liverpool."
"Well?"
"Shut down by rough seas."
"So they won't be coming from Ireland tonight."
"Not bloody likely."
"Perhaps we're just approaching this from the wrong direction, Harry."
"What do you mean?"
"Perhaps we should be focusing our attention on the two agents already in Britain."
"I'm listening."
"Let's go back to the passport and immigration records."
"Christ, Alfred, they haven't changed since 1940. We've rounded up everyone we thought was a spy and interned everyone we had doubts about."
"I know, Harry. But perhaps there's something we missed."
"Such as?"
"How the hell should I know!"
"I'll get the records. It can't hurt."
"Perhaps we've run out of luck."
"Alfred, I've known a lot of lucky cops in my day."
"Yes, Harry?"
"But I've never known a lucky lazy cop."
"What are you driving at?"
"I'll get the files and make a pot of tea."
Sean Dogherty let himself out the back door of the cottage and walked along the footpath toward the barn. He wore a heavy sweater and an oilskin coat and carried a kerosene lantern. The last clouds had moved off. The sky was a mat of deep blue, thick with stars, a bright three-quarter moon. The air was bitterly cold.
A ewe bleated as he pulled open the barn door and went inside. The animal had become entangled in the fencing earlier that day. In her struggle to get free she had managed to slash her leg and tear a hole in the fence at the same time. She lay now on a bed of hay in the corner of the barn.
Dogherty switched on his radio and started changing the dressing, humming quietly to calm both their nerves. He removed the bloodied gauze, replaced it, and taped it securely in place.
He was admiring his work when the radio crackled into life. Dogherty bolted across the barn and slipped on his earphones. The message was brief. He sent back an acknowledging signal and dashed outside.
The ride to the beach took less than three minutes.
Dogherty dismounted at the end of the road and pushed the bicycle into the trees. He climbed the dunes, scrambled down the other side, and ran across the beach. The signal fires were intact, ready to be lit. In the distance he could hear the low rumble of an airplane.
He thought, Good Lord, he's actually coming!
He lit the signal fires. In a few seconds the beach was ablaze with light.
Dogherty, crouching in the dune grass, waited for the plane to appear. It descended over the beach, and a moment later a black dot leapt from the back. The parachute snapped open as the plane banked and headed out to sea.
Dogherty rose from the dune grass and ran across the beach. The German made a perfect landing, rolled, and was gathering up his black parachute by the time Dogherty arrived.
"You must be Sean Dogherty," he said in perfect public school English.
"That's right," Sean replied, startled. "And you must be the German spy."
The man frowned. "Something like that. Listen, old sport, I can manage this. Why don't you put out those bloody fires before the whole world knows we're here?"
PART TWO
14
EAST PRUSSIA: DECEMBER 1925
The deer are starving this winter. They leave the woods and scratch about the meadows for food. The big buck is there, standing in the brilliant sunshine, nose pushing into the snow for a little frozen grass. They are behind a low hill, Anna on her belly, Papa crouching beside her. He is whispering instructions but she does not hear him. She needs no instruction. She has waited for this day. Imagined it. Prepared for it.
She is slipping the shells into the barrel of her rifle. It is new, the stock smooth, unscratched, and smelling of clean gun oil. It is her birthday present. Today she is fifteen.
The deer is her present too.
She had wanted to take a deer earlier but Papa had refused. "It is a very emotional thing, killing a deer," he had said, by way of explanation. "It's hard to describe. You have to experience it, and I won't let that happen until you are old enough to understand."
It is a difficult shot--one hundred and fifty meters, a brisk icy crosswind. Anna's face stings with the cold, her body is shuddering, her fingers have gone numb in her gloves. She choreographs the shot in her mind: squeeze the trigger gently, just like on the shooting range. Just like Papa taught her.