A Game of Spies (20 page)

“I promise,” Eva said.

Now her mother was Gretl, the girl with whom she worked at the Rundfunk.

“Besides,” Gretl said. “He's very good-looking.”

Eva was baffled. Gretl read it on her face and nodded toward the door. Hobbs was there, leaning jauntily in the doorway, smiling his lopsided smile.

“Why don't you marry him, Eva? For goodness sake, look how much he loves you. Look how much he's risked to warn you.”

“He's not … steady.”

“Nobody's perfect,” Gretl said.

She looked at Hobbs again. He shrugged, seemingly amused.

“Maybe,” she allowed.

“Here. Take your medicine.”

She looked back at Gretl. Now Gretl had become Klinger. Klinger was reaching forward with a hand full of pills. But there was something wrong with that hand, Eva saw. There were too many fingers on it.

She closed her mouth, shook her head.

“Liebling”
Klinger said. “It's best for you.”

His hand moved toward her face again. There were thirteen fingers on that hand. She turned her face away, suddenly awash in revulsion.

“Take your medicine, Eva.”

The fingers were intruding into her mouth. Peeling aside her lips, trying to penetrate the teeth. “Swallow it,” Klinger said.

She shook her head again.

“Don't be a fool. Swallow it.”

“Mm-mm.”

“God damn it,” he said.
“You take your medicine when I tell you to
!”

His other hand came up. There was a knife in it, wickedly sharp: a Hitler Youth dagger. She caught a flash of the legend emblazoned on the side.
Blut und Ehre.
Blood and honor.

Before she could move, the dagger had slid into her chest, sharp and smooth. Her mouth yawned open in a silent scream. The thirteen fingers slipped inside. She could feel them on her tongue, tickling like spider's legs. The pills dribbled down her throat.

“Now swallow,” Klinger said.

She woke with a muffled gasp.

Outside, the wind soughed quietly through the trees. Branches pattered softly against the window. She sat motionless for a moment, letting the dream fade from her system.

A nightmare,
she thought.

She was not cut out for this. Whatever potential Hobbs had thought he had seen in her, in that long-ago dream that had once been her life, was not there.

But soon enough it would be over. This was her last night in Gothmund. Her last night in Germany.

From the next room came the sound of Brandt's labored snoring. She considered sneaking out past him, for a breath of fresh air. But no; there were the neighbors. Even in the middle of the night, it would not be safe. For the neighbors already suspected her. To give them any more fodder for their suspicions would be unwise.

Tomorrow she would be on her way. Then all of their suspicions wouldn't matter.

She got out of bed and then stood hugging herself, with nowhere to go.

She had made it. She was safe. She had even managed to complete her mission.
Schlieffen.
It meant something.
They will know.

And she had done it by herself—without Hobbs.

Hobbs.

She smiled to herself, faintly.

That ridiculous false mustache. Just an oversized schoolboy, she thought, playing at being an adult. But then, that was Hobbs all over.

She caught herself. That was how he got you, of course. That immature charm. But he was worthless, when it came down to the real things in life. He was skilled as a drinking companion, gifted as a card player, and passable as a lover—just barely passable—but as a husband, or even a friend? He could not be trusted.

But then there was the letter.
I
hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me.
As if he still loved her. As if he wanted another chance.

Foolishness,
she thought.

She sat on the edge of the bed, and began to twist a lock of hair around her index finger.

First of all, it wasn't true. It was, doubtless, just another manipulation. Hobbs and his higher-ups at Whitehall wanted results, and they knew that Eva was likely no longer in thrall to them—after so many years, after so many miles—and so they had decided to manipulate her once again.

She could picture Hobbs and Cecil Oldfield sitting in the elder man's office at Leconfield House and drafting the letter, every word a calculation.
If she feels she's been hung out to dry, what's the best way to make her snap to?
By dangling Hobbs one more time, of course. The old carrot on the stick, to draw the horse and the cart. It had worked once; perhaps it would work again.

But they knew she was no fool. And so they had honed their strategy.
I
hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me.

Because she was the most important thing to Hobbs, in this fictional construct. That would be the way to get the results they wanted. Simply cracking the whip one more time would not spur this particular horse again. No; it was the carrot on the stick.

And even if there
was
a grain of truth in it …

But there wasn't.

But even if there
was,
it didn't change a thing.

Hobbs begging forgiveness. Her first reaction had been that she never would have thought she'd see the day. But now her mind, energized by several days' rest, saw the larger context. Suppose Hobbs
had
been begging forgiveness. Suppose he
did
think he had let something precious slip away, when he had let her go. It still didn't change a thing.

It was easy, of course, to misbehave and then apologize. The difficult thing was to take the responsibility, to do the correct thing, the first time out. Hobbs apologizing should not have surprised her. Apologies were what weak men gave, instead of results.

And Hobbs was a weak man. A charming one, from time to time. In his element, when the light was right. But a weak one. She was better off without him.

Outside, the wind rose; she shivered. She got back into bed, drawing the blankets up to her chin.

Tomorrow. England.

Home, she supposed. As close to home as she had.

Once she passed on what Klinger had told her, Germany would be closed to her. But Nazi Germany was not her home anyway. The Germany that she had cared for was gone, a thing of the past, a relic that existed only in memory and the fisherman's paintings.

But what about her family? She had brothers. Had they joined up? By passing on Klinger's secrets, would she be putting them in danger?

There was no use in worrying about it. Her choices had been made long before. It was too late to change her mind now.

She listened to the old man's snoring, and wondered. Yes, it was too late to change her mind now.

And it was almost over.

She wanted nothing more than to have it over.

WISMAR

Hauptmann conferred with the
Regierungsrat,
then came to the corner of the police station where Frick sat holding the ice wrapped in cloth pressed to his temple.

“He has placed the call,” Hauptmann reported. “Another car will be here in a matter of minutes.”

Frick nodded, and took the cloth away from his head. The cloth was stained with dark blood. He looked at it for a moment, clinically, then pressed it back again.

“But he is concerned,” Hauptmann said. “He believes you require medical attention,
Herr Inspektor.
And I must say that I agree with him. Leave the man to me.”

Frick scowled. “Out of the question.”

“But you are unwell. Your head; and your hand—”

“I am fine.”

“Herr Inspektor
—”

“Fine,” Frick repeated. “The Mercedes had very little petrol. The Engländer will soon be on foot again. In his current condition, he is nearly helpless. And so we will have him. Then, and only then, I will receive whatever medical attention I may require.”

“Herr Inspektor,”
Hauptmann said. “Be reasonable.”

Frick started to growl a response …

… and then stopped.

When he shot the girl, her wide eyes grew even wider.

She tumbled back into the ditch. But she wasn't dead yet. He knew that even before he had stepped to the edge to check on her.

She was lying amidst a jumble of wan, dirty limbs—her family's limbs. The bullet had taken her in the side of the throat. The wound was ragged, and whistling. Her eyes pinned him. Burned into him.
Eighteen,
he thought.

He raised the gun and fired again.

Then he looked over his shoulder, hoping nobody had noticed. It was a waste of ammunition. Two bullets on one Jew. If his aim had been true the first time …

Nobody seemed to have noticed. The nearest member of his
Einsatzgruppen
squad stood a dozen yards away, looking at the town on the horizon. The town was burning. Black smoke roiled up into the sky. The air smelled like the air of an abattoir.

Frick turned from the ditch. He felt a pang of guilt. Two bullets. But nobody had noticed. It would be all right. Nobody would ever know that he had wasted two bullets in executing the beautiful Jewish girl.

“… headache?” Hauptmann was saying.

Frick saw that he was offering a small bottle. SS
Sanitäts
aspirin. He shook his head, then immediately regretted it.

“No. No need.”

Hauptmann returned the aspirin to his pocket.

“At least let me find a doctor, to suture up your hand. We have hours of daylight left for tracking. The team from Berlin will not arrive for some minutes yet.”

Frick considered, then nodded reluctantly. “Find the doctor.”

He watched as Hauptmann turned and yelled an order to the
Regierungsrat.
The man liked giving orders, Frick thought. So many petty dictators in the world. But Hauptmann would not be allowed to usurp this operation. The Engländer was his quarry, and his alone. No matter if the bullet had grazed his head … no matter if his finger was gone …

His finger was gone.

The man had crippled him.

Nobody else would be allowed to take charge of the operation.

Hauptmann's voice was rising.
“Schnell,”
he cried. “
Schnell
—”

His mother set the loaf of fresh-baked bread on the table. The smell of it gave Frick a feeling of peace—of being home, safe, and protected. A marvelous feeling.

Then she was setting the bread down once again; and then yet again. Time had ceased to move forward. There was no progression—only a pleasing constancy, an eternal repetition. The fresh bread, the thread of faraway music; sense-memories and that delicious feeling of
being back home.

An Advent wreath hung from the ceiling, with four white candles guttering in a soft breeze. On the wall behind his head was the Advent calendar his father had made for him. Small paper windows dotted the calendar. Each morning until Christmas he would open one window and behind it find a treat: a chocolate, a ball, a candle. Was there any greater pleasure in life than the pleasure of counting down the days to Christmas on an Advent calendar? Was there any greater gift a man could receive than to relive that feeling over and over again?

Eighteen,
the girl had said.

But that was only a dream. The reality was this: his mother forever setting down the bread, the four candles forever flickering …

The doctor was talking with Hauptmann.

Then he turned and came back to Frick.
“Herr Kriminal Inspektor,”
he said. “How do you feel?”

Frick only shrugged.

The doctor was a fat little man, shaped and colored like a plum.
A glutton,
Frick thought. He began to talk very quickly, using medical terms that Frick couldn't quite understand. A gluttonous fool, and yet another petty dictator. Why was the world filled with men such as this? Why had they not yet been swept aside?

“… the bullet,” the doctor was saying. “You are fortunate, in that regard. But I would hardly …”

Perhaps the man's words would have made sense, Frick thought, if only they hadn't been so busy. Yet they
were
busy—in constant motion, the precise opposite of the sense-memory about his mother. The consonants and vowels fought each other on their way out of the man's mouth, jockeying for position. His tongue and palate were too fast, too precise. Or was the problem in Frick's mind instead? He was seeing too much.

“… program of rest,” the doctor was saying now. “Fresh air and relaxation. Perhaps a sanitarium. I might be able to provide a—”

Frick stood, pushing the man aside. He had no time for this. He took a few steps into the center of the room and then came to a stop, lost.

Hauptmann approached him. “Do you see,
Herr Inspektor
? You are unwell. You must cede control of the operation—”

Frick looked at the man. The stocky little worm. Dead skin cells sloughing off his body. Hauptmann was half-dead already, and didn't even realize it.

“You have a mother,” Frick said. “Don't you?”

Hauptmann paused.

“Even a worm such as you has a mother,” Frick said. “How would she like it, I wonder, in Moabit Prison? I have reason to suspect she has been producing newspapers, you see. Bolshevik propaganda. With one sweep of a pen …”

The color had drained from Hauptmann's face.

“My apologies,” he said. “I can see that I was mistaken, Herr Frick. You are well after all.”

“Address me by my proper title,” Frick snapped.

“Herr Kriminal Inspektor.
My apologies.”

“Where is the car from Berlin?”

“Arriving momentarily,
Herr Kriminal Inspektor.”

Frick nodded. “Assemble the men.”

He should have accepted the aspirin, he thought as Hauptmann skulked away. He had lost his own vial, somewhere in the woods.

And he had the beginning of a very bad headache.

LÜBECK