by John Altman
The guess had been welling in his mind for the past few feverish hours. It had come from nowhere, from his subconscious—yet he knew, somehow, that it was correct. It explained the reason Hagen left him under the poor oversight of Borg, the reason he had been sent to Berlin after his months at Lake Wannsee instead of being executed right then.
Eva was not the bait—the OKW clerk had been the bait. And the switch was the intelligence he would give her, the strategy to be followed by the Wehrmacht. Whatever the clerk had told Eva would be exactly wrong. The Allies would expect the Nazis to follow one course of action. They would follow the opposite—and Europe would be theirs.
If he could get aboard that plane, however, then he would frustrate Hagen even at this late stage in the game. He would show the man that he could not out-con a con man. If he could just get on that plane …
He had left the satchel behind. The sole remaining magazine for the Enfield was jammed into his belt, prodding into his hip with each lurching step. There were five bullets in the magazine. That would be five dead Nazis—for Hagen would doubtless have Eva under close watch.
The fever was unfortunate. But he would manage.
The smell of standing water reached his nose. A moment later, he saw the small lake. The surface was perfectly still, covered with a thin sheet of algae. Two silhouetted figures stood on the near bank. They were evidence, he thought, that his guess had been correct. Every move made by Eva was being watched, confirmed, and no doubt relayed back to Hagen.
Hobbs concealed himself behind a wide-reaching oak, then peeked out warily.
The men were facing away from him, looking off at the field on the other side of the water.
After looking for a moment, he turned his eyes up to the tree. From the ground, he couldn’t see the field clearly enough. There must have been other men posted around. If he simply walked out into the open, he might manage to kill one or two—but the remainder would gun him down like a dog. If he knew all of their positions, however, he could make every bullet count.
Five bullets. Would it be enough?
A low-hanging branch was within reach. But he felt dizzy again. If he tried to climb the tree, he might well catch the men’s attention. Even worse, he might lose his grip and come crashing back down.
But perhaps he could climb the side of the oak facing away from the field. Perhaps he could do it quietly, and set himself up in the branches without being noticed. If only he could still feel his leg …
Nothing ventured, he thought, nothing gained.
He strapped the Enfield over his shoulder and reached for the low-hanging branch.
Eva was hungry.
Her stomach growled—loud enough to embarrass her, although there was nobody there to hear it. She thought of the meal she would have once she arrived back in England. The food in England was terrible. Just thinking about it made her appetite shrivel.
She looked out across the dark field, at the gentle motion of the grass in the wind, at the lake on the far end. The lake smelled of rich, ripe decay. She would not enjoy sitting here for very much longer. But who knew when the plane would arrive? She might have a day, or even two, to spend sitting on this log. If it came to that, perhaps she would go back to the fisherman’s house after all. A meal, a bed.
She immediately changed her mind. The solitude was agreeable. She would rather sit here, hungry and cold but alone, than go back to the little house on the Fischerweg.
She pictured Hobbs at that moment: probably cuddled up with some German girl in a warm room, in a warm bed. Probably drunk on schnapps or whiskey. Had he tried to honor his rendezvous at the fisherman’s house, and simply lost his resolve? It seemed likely. That was the Hobbs she knew—quick to accept a challenge, but slow to follow through. Perhaps something else had happened. Perhaps he’d truly been unable to make it to Gothmund. But she doubted it.
For a time, she distracted herself with a fantasy of what her new husband might look like. He would be British, she guessed. Circumstances would require that. But some of the British were not so bad. They would have a little house in the country, and she would have her family. Not Kinder, Kirche, Küche—her mother’s philosophy—because that would be paralyzingly dull. But a family nevertheless. She would work on the farm, riding horses. At night she would tuck in her little girl and read her bedtime stories. Fairy tales; Mother Goose. Little Miss Muffet sat on a tuffet.
She brought one hand to her mouth, to stifle a yawn. It was late. She was still hungry. Even the thought of curds and whey was suddenly, obscenely appealing.
Along came a spider, and sat down beside her …
A spider, she thought.
She felt a flash of déjà vu. A dream of a memory … a memory of a dream. A spider, slipping into her mouth and tickling her tongue. Thirteen legs on that spider.
Her brow wrinkled.
It had been a dream, hadn’t it? A recent one, not far obscured by the passage of time. And the spider had not been a spider. It had been a hand. A hand with thirteen fingers.
Klinger’s hand, pushing something into her throat. Take your medicine.
She made a small, confused sound: Hrm.
Was there some significance to the dream? It seemed that there must be. A dream, as they said, was never just a dream. And it was almost reachable, almost on the tip of her mental tongue.
Klinger, sitting by her bed, feeding her medicine. But there was something wrong with his hand. She remembered a sense of horror and revulsion. She did not want to swallow the medicine. But swallow it she had; for he had forced her.
The medicine represented something, she thought. In the odd, skewed logic of dreams, it represented something from reality.
The medicine …
She caught the distant buzz of an insect. An ear-tricking buzz, both small and large. Gaining volume.
She stood up; the case on her lap spilled to the ground. She didn’t notice. Her eyes were searching the sky.
There—coming in under a dark reef of high clouds. The plane.
She felt herself smiling. She had made it. In one more minute, she would be safely aboard. Then back to England.
In one more minute, if nothing went wrong …
Then she heard another sound. From the direction of the path that led to town. She turned her head.
A man was climbing the path.
17
“Look there,” Braun whispered.
Hagen looked. He felt a sudden flare of dismay. Hobbs was coming up the path—and the two agents on that side of the field had let him come too far. The girl had already seen him. He was surrounded by incompetents.
Then he realized that the man was not Hobbs at all; perhaps that was why the agents had let him pass. It was an older man, bent almost double.
“The fisherman,” Braun said. “Brandt.”
“What’s he doing here?” asked the man with the uneven eyes.
“Look,” Braun said again, pointing in another direction now.
Hagen turned his eyes. The plane was there, coming in low.
“Herr Obersturmführer. What should we do?”
Hagen hesitated.
Brandt saw the girl and the plane at the same time.
He came to a stop. Nothing to worry about, after all. The extraction was proceeding. His secret was safe.
But there was a feeling: in his blood, in his bones. A premonition. All was not right.
He turned his head, looking for a sign of life in the brush. His eyes were not dependable these days. And the forest was full of mysteries, of insects and birds and trees that concealed things behind their undulating leaves.
Then his eyes moved to the stagnant lake. If there were secrets to be told, perhaps the water would share them with him. The water had been a part of his family’s blood for generations upon generations. They were attuned to each other, he and the water, with an intimacy that he would never share with land.
But the lake was still; it told him nothing.
He th
ought that he saw something on the far bank. A dark shape, or maybe two, among all the other dark shapes near the ground. But he couldn’t be certain.
Then his eyes ticked higher. He had seen a glint: in a tree just beyond the edge of the lake. He saw it again, a flash of starlight off metal. A figure with a rifle, aiming it at the field.
Gestapo, he thought.
For one more instant, he stood, torn by doubt. If he cried a warning to the girl, then they would have him, whether or not she managed to get on board the plane. And if they had him, the future would be bleak. The only question would be whether death came quickly or slowly.
But if he held his tongue and the girl didn’t manage to get aboard, they might still have him. He was standing in plain sight, clearly visible under the bright night sky.
And if the girl didn’t make it back to England, Noyce might let out his secret.
He would prefer death to that overwhelming dishonor.
He raised an arm, drew a breath, and opened his mouth. But he didn’t have enough spit to make the word.
He swallowed, moistening his tongue. Then parted his lips again and called at the top of his lungs:
“There!”
The man on the path was pointing.
Eva followed the line of his arm. It led across the field, over the pond, to the trees. “There!” he cried.
Then she saw the man in the trees. Holding a rifle.
She gasped, ducking for cover.
Hagen also followed the line of the man’s arm. He saw a figure in a tree, brandishing a rifle.
That was Hobbs.
And now the girl had seen him, too. Everything was falling apart, even as he watched, right there in front of his disbelieving eyes.
No. The girl would run for the plane, beset by panic. Even if Hobbs did know the truth, he would never reach her. Hobbs’ time was at an end. And Hagen would finish the man himself—making him pay for what he had done to Frick.
He turned to his men, pulling his gun from its holster.
Hobbs looked down from the sky—the plane was passing right over his head with a long Doppler whine—when the man’s hoarse scream echoed out across the lake.
The man, whoever he was, was pointing at him. And now the two agents on the near bank were turning to face him.
Finished, he thought.
But of course he was. He had been finished in the other tree, when the Gestapo agent had been following him. The oddly comforting feeling returned. He had known Death, once upon a time. And now they would become reacquainted. He had known it for his entire life, although he had rarely thought of it. Yet the knowledge had always been there. Someday it would end; and today was as good as any.
No, he thought then. Not finished yet.
He raised the Enfield. Five bullets. If he could make them count, he might still reach Eva.
He sent one into the chest of the man by the lake, and the man tumbled backward with a splash.
He worked the bolt. Tracked the second man, who was turning, looking for shelter. He shot the second man in the back.
Worked the bolt.
The plane was coming in for a landing.
Two figures: the man who had pointed at him, who was still pointing at him, and Eva. Long-range. He concentrated. Aimed at the pointing man. His hand moved with a sudden nervous spasm. He chewed on his lower lip, fit his finger back over the trigger. Aimed again.
Fired.
The pointing man went down.
Now the plane was moving in to land. No room to spare. Some daredevil of a pilot, he thought fleetingly. Some young fool, willing to give it all for King and Country.
Two bullets left. And one last chance to get to Eva.
He was preparing to drop from the tree, to make a mad dash across the field, when other men materialized from the foliage behind Eva—three of them.
And he was suddenly aware of two more: rustling on the eastern side of the lake, coming out into view.
And then two others, on the western side, running forward at the sound of the gunshots.
Only two bullets left. So he was finished after all.
But he could do one last thing. He could make certain that Hagen’s plan would never come to fruition.
Instead of dropping from the tree, he brought the rifle back to his eye.
And sighted on Eva.
Hagen was moving.
Circling to the west, around behind Hobbs. The man’s luck had finally run out, he thought. In a few more moments, Hagen would have him. He would show Hobbs what it meant to interfere with Gerhard Hagen.
Don’t make it personal, he thought.
But it was personal.
As he moved, he saw the agents flooding onto the field. Not interfering with the girl, but interposing themselves between Hobbs and the plane. Giving her every chance. As long as she didn’t realize that was what they were doing …
The girl was crouched behind a rock just slightly too small to shield her completely. Hagen had been impressed by the way she had taken cover—it had been born of instinct. She had not panicked. In that instant, he had felt the whisper of a revelation about the woman. He had seen why the British had chosen her as their agent. She was raw, and she was young. But something inside her was made for this. She had talent that could be refined. She would have made a fine pupil.
And now the plane was down, already wheeling around for the takeoff. The girl was breaking from behind her cover, making a try for it.
He saw Hobbs, in the tree, shouldering the rifle again. Not pointing at the SS men on the field, but beyond them, over them.
At the girl.
He couldn’t, Hagen thought.
He wouldn’t.
But he was.
Hagen moved faster, raising his gun.
William, Hobbs thought. Are you sure you know what you’re doing?
Spot weld between cheek, hand, and rifle. The night was calm. He had already learned the gun’s whimsies. He could make the shot.
Eva was running for the plane. He led her off. His finger tightened on the trigger.
Are you sure you know what you’re doing? he thought again.
If he hadn’t been sure before, he was now. The SS agents in the field had set themselves between him and Eva. They’d had every chance to apprehend her, and they hadn’t even tried. She was meant to get on that plane, as he had guessed.
He fired.
The bullet went high, to the right.
You did that on purpose, he thought.
He chambered the final round.
Now the Nazis were returning fire. Bullets whizzed past him on his left, over his head. His bladder let go, staining the crotch of his trousers; he hardly noticed.
Then Eva had nearly reached the plane. Her arm extended toward a ladder that had been welded to the side. But even as she reached for it, she was looking around, at the SS men scattered across the field. An expression flitted across her face. What was it?
His finger on the trigger paused.
As he watched, the expression deepened, became comprehension. Then he knew: she herself had suspected that something was not right. She had spent enough time with Hobbs to recognize a con when she saw one. And now that the men were letting her go, the pieces had fallen together.
The Lysander was gaining speed. Her expression turned determined. She grabbed again for the ladder, and then she had it.
An instant later she was clambering up the side of the plane. The Lysander was drawing closer, gaining speed. Eva was exposed on the side, pulling herself up, directly in Hobbs’ sights. An easy shot.
But his finger relaxed. He lowered the rifle.
There was no need to fire.
Dark relief flooded him. Whether she knew it or not, he had spared her. For him, it was finished—but for her, life was only beginning.
He turned his eyes to follow the plane as it lifted over his head, the engines filling the world.
The plane was heading into the lake.
At the las
t instant, the pilot pulled back on the throttle. Eva felt the wind being taken from her lungs. She was pressed back into the observer’s seat in the rear cockpit, the engines screaming all around her. She could hear herself screaming, adding to the din.
Then the lake was skewing onto its side. They climbed toward the reef of clouds, the land rolling away beneath them.
The pilot turned to look at her. She was surprised at how young the man looked. Her own age, she thought. He was smiling—a complicated smile, of fear and relief and satisfaction.
“I think I pissed myself,” he remarked.
She only stared at him.
Two minutes later, they crossed over the coast; the dark sea spread out beneath them, vast and inscrutable.
Hagen approached the tree from behind.
He raised his Luger. Hobbs was facing away, following the plane as it arced above his head. Helpless.
But Hagen couldn’t resist. The man had to know who had won. He demanded at least that much satisfaction.
“William,” he called.
Hobbs turned his head. The Enfield in his hand began to rise—but the rifle was a large weapon, and a clumsy one; thanks to the constricting branches of the tree, he had no chance of moving quickly enough to save his own life. And he must have realized this. He must have realized that he was finished.
And yet, inexplicably, there was the ghost of a smile on his face.
Hagen shot him three times.
As Hobbs tumbled from the tree, Hagen let out a long, shuddering breath. Then he stepped forward, the Luger held ready.
The Engländer lay on his back, one hand twisted into a grasping claw. But his eyes were glazed; the hand was motionless. The man was already dead.
Yet the ghost of a smile remained.
Hagen emptied the gun into his torso. Then he stepped away, reaching out one hand to support himself against the tree. His headache had returned, pounding viciously.
Too close.
A vacation, he thought.
He would force himself to take a vacation.
