A Game of Spies (21 page)

The Mercedes coughed, considered, and then died.

Hobbs looked at the petrol gauge for a moment. He reached out and tapped it. The needle stayed flat.

Then he grinned a black grin. Nothing could ever be easy.

He pushed open the door, limped to the boot of the Mercedes, and lifted it, thinking there might be something inside that he could use as a cane. He was not far from his destination. Just how close, he couldn't know. But too close to give up now.

The first thing he saw was a petrol can.

His grin returned. He grabbed the can, and knew immediately from the weight that it was empty. He shook the container and was rewarded only by an empty rattle. He flung it aside and bent down again.

A spare tire and a jack. He dug past them, his nose wrinkling at the fusty air of the trunk. A few oily rags and a pamphlet announcing a Strength Through Joy demonstration. He tossed it back. A moment later, he had found his satchel. When they had taken him, outside Wismar, they had also taken his things. Thrown them in the boot. But where was the rifle?

He leaned farther forward, searching. There it was—in the back of the trunk, having slid into a cranny behind the tire. He worked it free.

Before setting off, he opened the satchel and found his pack of Player's. Two cigarettes remained. And his book of matches, tucked inside. He shook a cigarette free and put it between his lips.

He lit it, then looked off over the land.

He had lost track of the days. Perhaps he had already missed the extraction. Perhaps Eva was already on her way back to England, and there would be nothing waiting for him even if he did manage to reach Gothmund.

But he wouldn't find out standing here, now, would he?

He gave himself five minutes—enough time to finish the cigarette, and to get used to the idea that there was more walking ahead.

His leg didn't like the idea. But his leg was outvoted.

He tossed the cigarette aside, planted the rifle, and took a first dogged step.

15

A small drama was playing out on the street before Number 8 Prinz Albrecht Strasse.

After watching for a few seconds, Frick turned. For some reason, the scene had unsettled him. He stood for a moment, trying to figure out why that should be. Because it reminded him of something he had forgotten. Something involving prisoners. But what?

“Herr Kriminal Inspektor,”
someone was saying.

Frick ignored the voice. He turned back to the window, to watch the denouement of the drama. Two wild dogs were fighting in the street. As he watched, one gained the upper hand; its jaws clamped down on the throat of the other. They rolled in a tangle of fur and switching tails. Blood sprayed. Then Gestapo agents were running forward, yelling and cursing. Four guns sounded at once. Both dogs rolled over, dead.

Except it wasn't the street outside Number 8 Prinz Albrecht Strasse.

It was the rolling hills outside Lübeck; night was just beginning to fall. And the dogs …

… the dogs were real.

“Fucking mutt,” Hauptmann said, from somewhere very close by. “He killed Boche.”

Around them, the division of Waffen SS, having gunned down the fighting dogs, milled aimlessly in the cool twilight. The abandoned Mercedes sat like an oversized dead snail. Two SS men stood by it, the embers of their cigarettes glowing intermittently.

“This is a setback,” Hauptmann said seriously. “Boche is the only decent tracker we've got out here.”

Frick said nothing. His headache was very bad—and still growing worse.

“What's the situation?” he asked tersely.

Hauptmann gave him an odd look.

“Nothing has changed,” Hauptmann said then. “He must have continued on foot. But without Boche, I'm not certain we can track him. None of these other bitches are worth a thing.”

The other bitches,
Frick thought. At first he didn't know what Hauptmann meant by that. Then he looked around and saw a half-dozen dogs led by SS agents. He jerked his chin up and down, to show that he had understood.

“We are awaiting your order,
Herr Kriminal Inspektor.”

With a gargantuan act of will, Frick managed to focus.

“We will split into two groups,” he said. “The man is badly wounded. We should catch up to him easily before dawn.”

Hauptmann seemed satisfied with that. He turned and went to relay the orders. As he watched the man walk away, Frick's vision rippled. His headache swelled; twin stilettos slid into his temples. He nearly collapsed to his knees from the pain.

Dear God in Heaven,
he thought.
Help me.

Hauptmann was back—and looking at him strangely again. “The men are talking,” he said in a low voice.

Frick found the agony in his head, isolated it, and did his best to dismiss it. “Talking,” he repeated.

“They're nervous,
Herr Kriminal Inspektor.
The rifle is missing from the trunk; the man must have recovered it. And he is an excellent shot—remember Wismar.”

Frick could hardly remember what they were talking about.
Wismar?
he thought.

Hauptmann took a step closer, and added in a voice barely above a whisper, “Also, they are doubting you,
Herr Kriminal Inspektor.”

“Doubting me,” Frick said.

“You seem … unwell. The doctor—”

“I will not brook insubordination,” Frick said.

“No, of course not,
Herr Kriminal Inspektor.”

“Impress that upon them, Herr Hauptmann.”

Frick turned away as Hauptmann moved off, and looked over the dark swelling land. Hobbs was out there. Wounded. Not far away. He would have his man soon enough.

But there was a shape in the edge of his vision—a black something. As soon as he noticed it, he caught a sense of wings unfolding. Flapping lazily.

“Achtung
!” Hauptmann yelled, and the men gave him their attention.

They were moving over black land.

Frick had his gun in his hand—another Luger, requisitioned from the
Regierungsrat.
Beside him were three other men, also with guns in their hands. One of the men was Hauptmann. Another held a leash; a German shepherd sniffed busily at the damp ground.

“He's got something,” the man holding the leash said.

They all gathered around as the dog buried its muzzle in the earth. What did the dog have? Frick could not separate one thing from another. Then the dog looked up, whining. “This way,” the man said, and they were off again.

The land was swampy. Countless small lakes, most no larger than ponds, dotted the landscape. The water glistened under the light of the rising moon. Not far away, a cluster of black trees poked into the sky. The dog led them in that direction; they followed at a trot.

“Here!” a man cried.

They were entering the trees. Frick's nostrils were suddenly filled with the rich smell of nature: pine and fir, sharp and overwhelming. Too much. He could not stand it any longer. He raised a hand to his head.

The black bird lurking in the edge of his vision flapped its wings again, slowly.

“Herr Kriminal Inspektor …”

His head was throbbing. Behind his eyes, he realized. That was where the problem was. And he would need to …

“Herr Kriminal Inspektor …”

“Down,”
Hauptmann hissed.

Frick blinked dumbly.

“Down,”
Hauptmann hissed again. Then a rifle cracked. Frick threw himself down.

The moon overhead, peeking through the waving branches of the trees. A face in the moon, smiling down. The soft wet ground below. The men around him, lying flat, staring into the night. He brought himself back to reality, concentrating on these things, sifting out the strongest impressions.

“What now?” Hauptmann asked.

Frick blinked again. The rifle cracked for a second time. The bullet whispered harmlessly through the leaves above him, stirring currents of air.

“I'll get behind him,” one of the men announced, his voice thunderous, deafening.

He rose into a crouch. The rifle popped and he spilled backward with a truncated curse.

“Damn him,” Hauptmann breathed. “He's a devil with that gun.”

The man who was not Hauptmann elbowed forward in the muck. He had the German shepherd, Frick saw, still on the leash.

“Let the dog at him,” Frick said.

“Are you insane? He's in the branches.”

Another bullet pounded into the earth, spattering them with mud.

“We've got to move,” Hauptmann said desperately. “Retreat. Find reinforcements.”

“Herr Kriminal Inspektor
?” the other man said.

“Forget him,” Hauptmann said. “He's lost his mind.”

A moment later, the two men were moving off, back in the direction of the moonlit lakes. Frick rolled onto his back and watched them go.
Traitors,
he thought.
Cowards.

He rolled onto his stomach again. His head was throbbing horribly. There was an invader in there, behind his eyes. He would need to take action, he thought, to repel the invader. He would—

He saw Hobbs. His quarry.

Halfway up a slender tree; raising the rifle to his eye, taking aim.

Frick climbed forward, took shelter behind a wide trunk, and clumsily, with his left hand, checked the load in his Luger.

Hobbs saw the man making for the tree. There would just be time to make the shot—but when he squeezed the trigger, the hammer clicked sharply.

He reached to his belt for the last magazine, withdrew it, and then watched as it tumbled from his fingers, glanced off a branch, and struck the ground.

He stared in disbelief. He had dropped the last magazine. He could see it down there, half-buried in a pile of leaves. But the idea of scaling down the tree to retrieve it—in his current condition, with an armed man waiting to shoot him—was laughable.

He lowered the barrel of the Enfield, then brought one hand to his mouth and nibbled on the cuticle.

That was it, then.

After a few moments, he resettled himself on the branch, distributing his weight so that as little as possible rested on his ruined leg. The lone remaining man was still sheltered behind the tree. In a few moments, he would doubtless find the courage to make another try. And Hobbs would be stranded here, under the bright moonlight, like a target in a shooting gallery.

Somehow the thought was not as unsettling as it might have been. Death was coming for him—yet he had the oddly comforting feeling that he had been here before. He and Death had once known each other. Before he had ever been born, perhaps. Now they would find a chance to become reacquainted. What could be more natural? When a man's time came, his time came.

He took the last zigzagging cigarette from the pack, stuck it into his mouth, and lit it. Then he leaned back against the trunk, looking up through the leaves at the smiling moon. He drew deeply on the cigarette, savoring it. The tobacco was stale and half-rotten, but still soothing.

A night breeze ruffled his hair. He looked up at the stars; his head felt pleasantly light. What was taking the man so long? He was helpless, stranded up in this tree. He was ready to meet Death again—to put an end to all the struggle.
“He that dies pays all debts.”
What was that from? Ah, well.

His thoughts turned to Eva. Had she made it to Gothmund? His intuition was that she had. Eva would make it back to England. It was his time, but not yet hers. And that seemed natural.

Natural—but not right. For there was some other intuition about Eva, scraping at the edges of his mind.
The bait and switch,
he thought. She was the bait. And the switch was …

The thought was interrupted by a soft sound. He strained, listening. Just the wind?

No.

He crinkled his eyes in disbelief.

The man behind the tree was weeping.

There was something in Frick's head. Something very wrong.

It burned.

He clawed at the skin on his face, trying to peel it back, to gain access to the rot that had worked its way into his brain. But the skin wouldn't come. He sniffed, wiped a hand across his nose, and then withdrew his dagger from its sheath.

He began to pray in murmurs, long-forgotten Christian prayers that somehow found their way to his tongue without passing through his brain. At the same time, he pressed the edge of the blade against his cheek and then drew it down. The skin peeled off in a thin, curling ribbon. His blood welled, suppurated. Diseased blood. Still burning. He needed to get it out of himself. Immediately.

The knife moved down, then up again, then down again.

His lips drew back from his teeth. He kept working, whittling away at himself.

Black things. Fell things. They were inside him; they were a part of him.

The smell of fresh bread, heady and ripe.

Hobbs dropped onto the ground, keeping the scream clenched behind his teeth.

For an instant, he balanced like a stork. Then he planted the barrel of the Enfield and began to shuffle forward. If he tried for the magazine, he would lose his balance. Better to do it himself, by hand, while there was still a chance that the man behind the tree was distracted.

The man continued to weep. Between the tears, he was muttering to himself. Then even the muttering was quieted, as if something had interfered with the man's tongue. Before rounding the tree, Hobbs tried to figure how he would strike a blow without falling over. He would have one chance to swing the rifle; then he would come tumbling down. But he would make the blow count.

He rounded the tree.

And froze, astounded.

In his last moment, Frick looked up and saw the Engländer looking down at him, his mouth hanging open in shock.

Their eyes met, and something passed between them.

Then the winged creature took slow, clumsy flight. Frick fell onto one side. The knife tumbled from his lifeless fingers. His senses were shutting down—
Praise God,
he thought;
merciful to the end.