A Gathering of Spies

by John Altman

  Winterbotham sighed.

  “Sir,” Kendall said, “if I were able—”

  “Yes, I know. Just shut up and let me think for a moment.”

  Kendall shut up.

  A few minutes passed. Winterbotham finished his pint, puffed on his pipe, sent one smoke ring through another. Presently, he said: “If I were to find some small favor you could do for me, in the future, could I depend on you to come through?”

  “No doubt of it, sir.”

  Winterbotham gathered together his pipe and tobacco, and stood. “Don’t dally too long here, Kendall, if you don’t mind the advice. That’s a fine young woman you’ve got at home. Even if she does wear trousers.”

  Kendall smiled. “I’ll tell her you said so, sir.”

  “Very good. Cheers, then.”

  He turned and began to move away. Suddenly, he stopped and came back to the booth.

  “Kendall,” he said, “there may well come a time when I will hold you to your word.”

  “I’d appreciate the chance to cancel the debt, sir.”

  Winterbotham looked at him for another moment. Then he nodded once and turned again to leave.

  “Sir?” Kendall said.

  “Yes?”

  “The back foot, you say?”

  “The back foot, Kendall.”

  He left Kendall looking after him. After five minutes, Kendall stirred, finished his pint, produced his tobacco and papers, and began to roll himself another cigarette.

  WHITLEY BAY, NEWCASTLE

  Peter Faulkner disliked Taylor and Winterbotham even before they began asking him questions.

  It was their clothes that caught his eye. They were city clothes, not designed for work in the shipyards nor on the fishing boats. When they sat down at the bar, he noticed their hands—city hands, smooth and uncallused. When they ordered their pints, he noticed their accents. City accents, and not the poor part of the city at that.

  They had all sorts of questions, Faulkner told his wife later that night. They asked about the shipyards and the weather patterns and the local inns. They showed him a photograph of a pretty young woman with long blond hair who looked, to his eyes, rather Nordic. They wanted to know if the woman had been seen around town lately. They asked him to imagine her with her hair a different length, or a different color. They asked him to add ten years to the face in the photograph.

  Scotland Yard, he told his wife. They must have been from Scotland Yard, on some sort of a manhunt.

  His wife laughed. You’ve some imagination, Peter Faulkner, she said. You should be writing dreadfuls for a living.

  What else could it be? he demanded. When mysterious men show around photographs of a beautiful woman …

  Probably just a cheating wife, Faulkner’s wife said. Probably just a jealous husband and his mate, hoping to come across as official. Why in the world would Scotland Yard be looking for a lone woman out here, of all places, at the end of the earth?

  By evening, Taylor and Winterbotham had visited no fewer than twelve pubs.

  They both were feeling weary, bloated, and a bit tipsy; and to make matters worse, the sky above them was clouding over rapidly. They settled down in a thirteenth tavern, Kirk House, to eat kidney pies that did not seem to have any kidney in them whatsoever. As they ate, they discussed what they had learned during the day.

  “If she stays at an inn, we’ve got her. There are only the three—York House, Brown, and the Bay. Therefore—”

  “Therefore, she won’t stay at an inn,” Winterbotham said.

  “Right. And if she is alive, she’d be in no shape to spend a week outdoors. She’ll find somebody to take her in.”

  Winterbotham nodded. “Some kind, unsuspecting Geordie.”

  “So we’ll have to wait until she comes out of hiding. We’ll nab her on the beach.”

  “At which point we’ll also have a submarine full of Nazis to contend with,” Winterbotham pointed out.

  “Peterson is bringing a corvette in today and anchoring her up the coast. Midnight Sunday he’ll slip down and give the bastards something to chew on.”

  Winterbotham took a sip of his ale. It was Newcastle Brown—Dog, to the locals—tangy and strong.

  “Harry,” Taylor said after a moment, “I owe you an apology. I raised your hopes, and now I’ve dashed them. I promise you this: As soon as the woman is in custody, your case will take priority.”

  Winterbotham nodded. “Thank you, Andrew.”

  “I only wish I could do more.”

  They ate and drank for a few moments, in silence.

  “If you don’t need me,” Winterbotham said, “I won’t stay around for the operation itself. I’d like to get back to London. Back to my books.”

  “Whatever you like, Harry.”

  “Perhaps when this is all over you’ll swing by for a game of chess.”

  “That would be Sunday evening.”

  “God willing.”

  “I’m feeling optimistic,” Taylor said. He reached over and gave Winterbotham’s shoulder a fraternal squeeze. “Thanks to you, old chap. You’ve been invaluable. I want you to know, Harry, that I’ve submitted your name for the Order of the Bath.”

  Winterbotham started. “A medal,” he said.

  “A medal.” Taylor turned his attention back to his kidney-free kidney pie. “I can’t think of anybody who deserves it more.”

  13

  PETERBOROUGH, NORFOLK

  “Who cuts your hair, darling?”

  Gladys Lockhart flushed. She handed the plate she had just washed to Agnes, who accepted it and began to wipe it dry.

  “You do it yourself,” Agnes pressed. “Don’t you?”

  Gladys, mortified, nodded.

  “Not anymore, you don’t. Let’s choose you a new look, darling. Have you got any magazines? You’ve got a Dorothy Lamour kind of face, but here you are with a Greer Garson kind of hairstyle. Where do you keep your movie magazines, Gladys?”

  “In … in my dresser,” Gladys managed.

  “Then let’s get these dishes done and have a look, darling, what do you say?”

  They finished the supper dishes with expediency, then Agnes followed Gladys upstairs to her bedroom. Gladys, still blushing, removed a stack of movie magazines from the lower drawer of her dresser. They spread them on the bed and then browsed through them together, sitting side by side.

  “Never underestimate the power of a good bob,” Agnes said. She looked up and then reached out and touched Gladys’s hair. “Have you ever considered changing the color?”

  “Coloring my hair?” Gladys said.

  “Yes, coloring your hair! You’ve got to think modern, Gladys. Just consider how nice you’d look as a brunette. As a matter of fact, it’s about time for me to make a change myself. Why, let’s swap!—I’ll go blond, and you go brunette. Then let’s see Sir John Frederick Bailey not pay any attention to you! Let’s just see it then!”

  Gladys giggled.

  “And for me,” Agnes said thoughtfully. “Mmmm, let’s see … I’m already too short to do very much, aren’t I? Pity. But we could go for a feather cut, I suppose, and dye it blond, or maybe red.… You don’t happen to have any hair dye, Gladys, do you?”

  Gladys shook her head.

  “What about one of your friends? Or perhaps there’s a shop nearby?”

  “Most dye goes straight to the army,” Gladys said, “for their uniforms.”

  “Mm,” Agnes said. “Yes, of course it does.”

  She thought for a moment; a crimp of concentration appeared between her eyes.

  “What about bleach? For the laundry?”

  “Why—yes, we’ve got that.”

  “But of course that would only work for me. Going blond, I mean. It’s not apt to turn you any darker.”

  “We could still change my style, though,” Gladys said hopefully, “couldn’t we?”

  “Of course, dear. I’ll cut you, and you cut me.”

  “But I’m not very good at cut
ting.”

  “We’ll work together,” Agnes said, “and go very slowly.”

  She reached out and took Gladys’s hand, squeezing it once.

  They made a surreptitious foray downstairs. Sir John, still using his study as a bedroom, was snoring audibly. Gladys quickly found bleach and scissors and a washbasin; as an afterthought she picked up an old copy of The Standard to catch the fallen hair.

  Back in the bedroom, Agnes began to cut, separating a few locks of hair at a time between her index and middle fingers, snipping, then moving along to another clump. Gladys watched in the mirror, fascinated, as the hair framing her face fell away.

  “I’m going to look fat,” she decided.

  “Nonsense. You’ll look beautiful.”

  “Please don’t cut too much, Agnes.”

  “Don’t worry, Gladys. Have faith.”

  After another ten minutes, Agnes stepped back, shook out Gladys’s hair—cuttings tumbled to the newspaper, pattering softly—then fluffed it up. They regarded it in the mirror together.

  “Very fantastic,” Agnes assured her.

  Gladys turned left and right, inspecting herself. “Really?” she said.

  “Very grown-up. Very glamorous. He’ll love it.”

  “Really, truly?”

  “Really, truly. Come on, now it’s my turn.”

  They changed positions. Gladys tried to take the scissors, but Agnes stopped her. “I can do the bangs myself,” she said.

  As it happened, she navigated the bulk of her own haircut, working with near-surgical precision. When it came time to even out the back, she let Gladys take over, stopping her every few moments to check the progress in the mirror.

  “You’ve got to be very careful,” Agnes said, “because it’s already so short. I don’t know how much time I’ll have to grow it out before he comes back.”

  “Before who comes back?”

  “Philip, of course. My fiancé.”

  “You’re engaged!”

  “Well,” Agnes said, “not officially. But I’ve got a feeling …”

  “Where is he now?”

  “In Sicily. He’s a lieutenant.”

  “Tell me about him, Agnes, please.”

  Agnes smiled at her reflection in the glass. “Let’s see,” she said as Gladys snipped at a stray lock. “He’s handsome, of course. But not too handsome. You want to stay away from the very handsome men, Gladys, darling. They think altogether too much of themselves, and when they lose their looks, they’ve got nothing left.”

  “What does Philip look like?”

  “He’s tall,” Agnes said. “Six feet tall. He’s thirty-four years old, and his hair is starting to gray a bit, but just around the temples. He’s thin, but not too thin. His nose and chin are a bit sharp, but strong; and his eyes, Gladys, are simply amazing. His eyes can make your heart stop in your chest. They change color, depending on his mood. Careful, there, darling, you don’t want to—thank you. But you know, I think that’s enough. We can bleach it now, but we must dilute the bleach first.”

  They mixed a concoction of bleach and water in the washbasin. Agnes lay on the floor, her head resting in the basin, as Gladys worked the liquid into her hair, the ends, the roots.

  “How long have you known one another?” Gladys asked.

  “Hm?” Agnes said. “Nearly two years.” Her eyes were closed. Her face, Gladys thought, looked very peaceful.

  “Have you …?”

  “Mm?”

  “You know,” Gladys said.

  “What?”

  “You know, Agnes. Don’t make me say it.”

  Agnes opened one eye, then closed it again. “Yes,” she said. “We have.”

  “Was he your first?”

  Agnes opened both eyes. She gazed abstractedly at the ceiling for a moment before closing them. “No,” she said.

  “Who else?”

  “I’d rather not discuss it, Gladys.”

  “But it is better with somebody you love, right?”

  “I’d rather not discuss it, I said. Now, just concentrate on what you’re doing.”

  “But, Agnes, please. You must tell me—”

  “Quiet, Gladys. Concentrate.”

  That night Katarina lay awake in bed, trying to will herself to sleep—and failing.

  She rolled over angrily and pressed her head deeper into the pillow. She needed to rest. The entire purpose of her staying in Peterborough was to rest.

  Why couldn’t she sleep? It made no sense. She was spent—utterly and completely spent, emotionally, mentally, and physically.

  She had realized, following her encounter with the Luftwaffe, that she needed to get outside of whatever new perimeter her pursuers established. That meant a hike—and not the leisurely sort. She had struck off on foot, setting a nearly impossible pace for herself, despite her dizziness. This, she had recognized, was her only real chance: to get farther from the crumpled lorry than they would think possible.

  The very worst of it had come near the beginning, during a one-mile hike down a shallow river. Simply submerging oneself in a creek, she knew, would not throw off a bloodhound. The scent rose to the top of the water. One needed to travel a good distance, slogging through a brook, for it to be worth anything. And she had done it, though her body—exhausted, battered, and burned—had cried bloody murder.

  Somehow the dogs had never quite caught up to her, although she had heard them, more than once, baying in the distance. After leaving the stream, she had walked all through the night, all through the following day, keeping to the woods whenever possible, giving wide leeway to the towns she encountered; then, after a few hours of fitful rest, she had walked all through the night again. She had pushed herself to the very point of collapse.

  But she had made it. That was all that mattered. She had come far enough to slip through the third perimeter. Now they wouldn’t find her unless they conducted a house-to-house sweep.

  Which they surely would, considering the import of the knowledge in her head.

  She wondered, not for the first time, why they hadn’t come yet.

  Perhaps they were focusing themselves only on roadblocks and railway junctions. But this explanation, while tempting, did not satisfy her. She knew the secret of the bomb; would they really be content to pursue her in an essentially passive way? Not, she was forced to concede, unless they possessed some backup plan, some perceived likelihood of catching her farther down the line.

  The treff?

  Would they be waiting for her there?

  But how could they possibly know where the rendezvous would be? Even if they had broken her codes, the chances that they could have isolated and identified the particular burst of wireless noise from Hamburg that had been her instructions …

  Could Fritz have betrayed her? She would not have doubted it. Yet she couldn’t figure out how. He was dead before she had ever learned the location of the rendezvous.

  Then what?

  She heaved another sigh and rolled over again, burrowing into the sheets. It did not particularly matter, she thought, one way or the other, if they were expecting her at the treff. It did not matter because she was already committed. She would go ahead with the rendezvous in any case, trap or not.

  Then she had the strangest thought of all:

  What if she wasn’t already committed?

  What if she changed her mind? Took herself out of the game?

  She opened her eyes, considering.

  It would be possible, she decided. Lay low in Peterborough for a week or two, until things cooled a bit. Then move on. Elsewhere in England, or up into Scotland; or to Lisbon, or Tangier, or Casablanca. Eventually the war would end, and then the world would open itself to her. Perhaps, she thought, she could even return to America. The Jitterbug. The Big Apple. The Lindy Bop. Yes, it could be done. She was still young enough to start over.

  She thought of Philip, the fictional Philip, whom she had described to Gladys in such detail out of whole cloth. Then sh
e thought, somewhat wryly, of Oscar Wilde: Man is least himself when he talks in his own person. Give him a mask and he will tell you the truth.

  But was that really what she desired—a safe, conventional, boring situation? Had she forgotten so quickly what life had been like for Catherine Danielson Carter?

  No, she hadn’t forgotten.

  Better to be true to herself and perish than to risk returning to that—or, even worse, to risk what had happened to Fritz.

  And don’t forget, she thought, if you make it, you’ll be a hero. You’ll return to Germany with the secret that will win the war. You’ll have your pick of men. You’ll live out your life with the victors in splendor, with honor, in luxury.

  And yet …

  And yet.

  And yet she did not believe, deep down, that the secret in her head would be enough to win the war.

  Or, more precisely, she did not believe that her people would use it that way.

  Every time she tried to picture the result of her delivering her secret to Hitler, she envisioned Götterdämmerung—the twilight of the gods. That was the Germanic way, after all, from times of legend: Valhalla ablaze in an orgy of death and destruction, friends and foes perishing as one; Siegfried, Brunhilde, Wotan all drowning in blood and flame—yet satisfied, somehow, with what they had wrought. It was, she believed, the true essence of Hitler’s war: not to conquer the world and acquire lebensraum, not at its core, but to fight against impossible odds and to conquer, for a time; and then, when his enemies had beaten him back, to burn everything he encountered. His foes, his followers, and finally, gloriously, himself.

  Blasphemy.

  Blasphemy and propaganda.

  She was exhausted. That was the problem.

  She tried again to force herself to sleep. She would need her sleep in the days to come.

  Then she thought of the girl.

  Another betrayal. Another murder.

  She had not allowed herself to grow close to anybody, to make any sort of real personal connection since her time at Owen and Dunn, ten years before. The marriage to Richard had been a study in keeping chilly distance; she had not let him past even her outermost line of defense.

  The last time she had grown at all close to anybody, in fact, she had ended up killing her.