Eye of the Needle(87)

“Name?”

“Peter Fredericks.”

Bloggs came off the wall and hit the man with the weighted handkerchief. The blow caught him accurately on the bridge of the nose, and he cried out. His hands went to his face.

“Stand to attention,” Bloggs said. “Name.”

The man stood upright, let his hands fall to his sides. “Peter Fredericks.”

Bloggs hit him again in exactly the same place. This time he went down on one knee, and his eyes watered.

“Where is the film?”

The man shook his head.

Bloggs pulled him to his feet, kneed him in the groin, punched his stomach. “What did you do with the negatives?”

The man fell to the floor and threw up. Bloggs kicked his face. There was a sharp crack. “What about the U-boat? Where is the rendezvous? What’s the signal, damn you—?”

Kincaid grabbed Bloggs from behind. “That’s enough,” he said. “This is my station and I can only turn a blind eye so long, you know—”

Bloggs rounded on him. “We’re not dealing with a case of pretty housebreaking. I’m MI5 and I’ll do what I f*cking well like in your station. If the prisoner dies, I’ll take responsibility.” He turned back to the man on the floor, who was staring at him and Kincaid, face covered with blood, and an expression of incredulity. “What are you talking about?” he said weakly. “What is this?”

Bloggs hauled him to his feet. “You’re Heinrich Rudolph Hans von Müller-Güder, born at Oln on May 26, 1900, also known as Henry Faber, a lieutenant colonel in German Intelligence. Within three months you’ll be hanged for espionage unless you turn out to be more useful to us alive than dead. Start making yourself useful, Colonel Müller-Güder.”

“No,” the man said. “No, no! I’m a thief, not a spy. Please!” He leaned away from Blogg’s upraised fist. “I can prove it—”

Bloggs hit him again, and Kincaid intervened for the second time. “Wait…all right, Fredericks—if that’s your name—prove you’re a thief.”

“I done three houses in Jubilee Crescent last week,” the man gasped. “I took about five hundred quid from one and some jewelry from the next one—diamond rings and some pearls—and I never got nothing from the other one because of the dog…you must know I’m telling the truth, they must have reported it, didn’t they? Oh, Jesus—”

Kincaid looked at Bloggs. “All those burglaries took place.”

“He could have read about them in the newspapers.”

“The third one wasn’t reported.”

“Perhaps he did them—he could still be a spy. Spies can steal too.” He felt rotten.

“But this was last week—your man was in London, wasn’t he?”

Bloggs was silent for a moment. Then he said, “Well, f*ck it,” and walked out.

Peter Fredericks looked up at Kincaid through a mask of blood. “Who’s he, the bleedin’ Gestapo?” he said.

Kincaid stared at him. “Just be glad you’re not really the man he’s looking for.”





“WELL?” Godliman said into the phone.

“False alarm.” Bloggs’s voice was scratchy and distorted over the long-distance line. “A small-time housebreaker who happened to carry a stiletto and look like Faber….”

“Back to square one,” Godliman said.

“You said something about an island.”

“Yes. Storm Island—it’s about ten miles off the coast, due east of Aberdeen. You’ll find it on a large-scale map.”

“What makes you sure he’s there?”

“I’m not sure. We still have to cover every other possibility—other towns, the coast, everything. But if he did steal that boat, the…”

“Marie II.”

“Yes. If he did steal it, his rendezvous was probably in the area of this island; and if I’m right about that, then he’s either drowned or shipwrecked on the island—”

“Okay, that makes sense.”

“What’s the weather like up there?”

“No change.”

“Could you get to the island, do you think, in a big ship?”

“I suppose you can ride any storm if your ship’s big enough. But this island won’t have much of a dock, will it?”

“You’d better find out, but I expect you’re right. Now listen…there’s an RAF fighter base near Edinburgh. By the time you get there I’ll have an amphibious plane standing by. You take off the minute the storm begins to clear. Have the local Coastguard ready to move at moment’s notice too—I’m not sure who’ll get there first.”

“But if the U-boat is also waiting for the storm to clear, it will get there first,” Bloggs said.

“You’re right.” Godliman lit a cigarette, fumbling for inspiration. “Well, we can get a Navy corvette to circle the island and listen for Faber’s radio signal. When the storm clears it can land a boat on the island.”

“What about some fighters?”

“Yes. Except like you, they’ll have to wait until the weather breaks.”