A Gathering of Spies (28 page)

The beach was deserted—except for the shadow of an empty dinghy resting on the sand.

Taylor and Kendall exchanged a glance without speaking. Then Taylor turned and looked back up the cliff. The fog thickened as his eyes moved higher; but from there he was able to make out the lighthouse, a black blur behind the mist. The occupants of the dinghy, he supposed, were up there.

If that was the case, they soon would be back.

He indicated, with a gesture, that Kendall should take cover farther down the beach. Then he himself crept back, silently, to the path leading up the cliff. He positioned himself about a dozen feet from the base in such a way that he would not be visible to anyone coming down until they were directly beside him.

He checked his gun again.

He considered lighting a cigarette, and decided he couldn't risk it.

He waited.

As soon as Hagen heard the engines burring softly over the distant sound of the surf, he silenced his companions by raising a hand. They were just coming off the foot of the spiral staircase—Hagen in the lead, Gruber behind him, Katarina supported between them, the British traitor bringing up the rear.

He cocked his head, listening. Although his hearing had deteriorated a bit, lately, it was still sharp. At least three cars, he decided, and possibly more.

Schmidt would not wait for them any longer than he deemed safe. In fact, he would probably relish the opportunity to strand Hagen there, in the heart of enemy territory.

He waved the men in close, and spoke in a whisper.

“I will lead,” he said, “and clear the path. You follow behind with Katarina. Keep off the beach until I have given my signal. And protect her at all costs. Your lives are valuable only as long as she remains alive.”

“Signal?” Gruber said. He was breathing hard, winded from the menial task of carrying Katarina down the stairs. Hagen felt a flash of disdain for this sallow little man, so soft and weak, such an apt emissary for the traitor Canaris. He dismissed it.

“A whistle. Wait two minutes before following me.”

He put Winterbotham's pistol into Winterbotham's hand, then vanished.

Gruber and Winterbotham looked at each other.

“Can he do it?” Winterbotham asked.

Gruber nodded. Winterbotham could smell his fear, ripe and sour.

“He can do it,” Gruber said.

Hagen listened.

Two groups, he decided. One directly in front of him moving through the fog toward the water. Three men in that group. Amateurs, whispering among themselves, squelching through the damp grass. The second group was behind him, circling around the back of the lighthouse. Professionals, or at least men with experience not limited to desks. He couldn't immediately know how many they were; they trod softly.

The three in front of him, however, would be easy.

He holstered the Luger before moving forward. If he could take the three silently, it would make the second group that much easier.

He fell into step behind the amateurs. He could see nothing, but he could
feel
them, feel their energy on the fog. Two were drifting off to the right. As a result, the other, continuing straight, was separating himself from his companions. None of them seemed to realize what was happening. Hagen followed the one who was continuing straight. The man was nervous, very nervous. Hagen could feel his nervousness crackling like electricity. He would have his gun in his hand, this nervous amateur, and he could not be given a chance to squeeze the trigger. But Hagen did not think that would be a problem.

He waited until the man in front of him had paused, perhaps realizing for the first time that he had become separated from his companions. Then he stepped forward, slipping his arm around the man's throat, inserting his fingers into the man's mouth. At the same time, he took the man's other hand, the one holding the gun, and applied sharp pressure to the inside of the wrist with his thumb until he heard the gun fall into the grass with a soft
flumph
. The man was beginning to choke. Hagen adjusted his balance, planted a strong grounding foot, and then bent the man over his knee, holding the head steady with one arm, and twisted.

He lay the corpse down soundlessly.

He drew a knife in case one of the man's companions had heard the short scuffle.

“Sir,” one of the other amateurs said. Perhaps ten feet away, perhaps fifteen, directly to his right, “a path. Leading down the cliffs.”

“Where?”

“Come on. I'll lead you.”

“Fredricks,” the other hissed.

Hagen froze.

“Fredricks!”

Hagen raised the knife, preparing to throw it.

“I've lost Fredricks,” the voice said.

A moment later, they were moving away down the cliff, scrabbling, making so much noise that it almost seemed as if they were making noise on purpose. Hagen let out his breath. He would let these two stay on the beach, he decided, where he knew their location, until he had finished dealing with the professionals.

He began to proceed forward, keeping near the edge of the cliff. He moved slowly, pausing after every two steps to listen. The professionals must have been somewhere in front of him, coming in his direction.

Unless, he thought suddenly, they had gone to the lighthouse instead.

No. He had heard them moving around the outside of the lighthouse, coming toward the beach.

But if he had made a mistake, Katarina would be the one to pay the price.

The thought made him frantic. He knew very well that panic was his worst enemy, but at that moment he gave himself over to it—after all of this, he had left Katarina behind, guarded by an idiot and a traitor. After all of this, after finally being reunited with her after more than ten years apart, he had immediately let her out of his sight. But it was not too late to correct his mistake.

He began to walk briskly toward the lighthouse, reminding himself to move silently, telling himself at the same time that as soon as he had satisfied himself that Katarina was out of harm's way, he would move silently, but for the time being—

“Scotland Yard!” someone cried.

In the next instant, somebody fired a gun.

Hagen cursed himself even as he dropped to the ground, even as he pulled free the Luger. He was old; that was the problem. He had decided that the men had been moving around the lighthouse and he had then doubted that decision, for no good reason at all. These men were professionals—Scotland Yard, as they had so considerately informed him. They had taken advantage of his mistake.

Another report sounded. A bullet whizzed close past his ear. Hagen rolled to his right, keeping the Luger close to his body,
in-tight
. How many? Now his own heart was pounding too loudly in his ears for him to be sure. He rolled four times and then sprung into a crouch, bringing the gun up, oscillating the barrel back and forth, still cursing himself. The knife had fallen somewhere. He forced himself to set aside the recriminations—there would be time for those later. He listened, extending his senses past his own thudding heart.

One, at least one, in front and to his right. His Luger was immediately trained on the man. But until he knew how many he faced, Hagen would not fire. He would not make the amateur's mistake and give away his own position by firing.

Instead, he began to backpedal.

Vanish
, he was thinking.
Vanish, then reappear. Seize the
—

“There!” someone cried.

Three more shots thundered in the night. Hagen gave up any pretense of backpedaling.

He turned and ran.

Gruber was standing in the narrow front hall of the lighthouse, peering outside through a small window. When the sound of the first shot came, he uttered a surprised yelp.

“
Hörst du das
?” he cried.

He kept looking out the window, licking his lips compulsively. Another shot sounded, and then, a moment later, three more in rapid succession.

“
Lass die Frau hier und beeile dich
,” Gruber said. “
Komm mit verstärkung von dem Boot zurück
.” He turned toward Winterbotham. “
Komm mit verstärkung
…” He trailed off.

He began to raise his hands over his head.

Winterbotham fired.

Taylor heard one shot, a second, three more; then, distantly, a sixth.

“Stay here!” he called to Kendall.

He began to charge up the slope without waiting for acknowledgment. The soil under his feet seemed looser going up, somehow, than it had coming down. He found himself having trouble finding dependable footholds. Perhaps he needed somebody's hand to hold, he thought. He kept moving anyway, doggedly, until his breath was rasping through his lungs.

Somewhere in the distance, a foghorn wailed.

A cramp stitched his side. He kept climbing, gritting his teeth.
Too old for this
, he thought.
Too old, too heavy
. Oh, but it all had gone to hell. He wanted to blame Winterbotham—Winterbotham, the old fool, God damn him to hell—but he could not blame Winterbotham without blaming himself. After all, he had been the one who had brought Winterbotham into the game. He had known his friend's reputation. He had taken a chance, and now it was coming back to haunt him.

Perhaps he should have made directly for the lighthouse upon arriving, he thought, instead of for the beach. But how could he have known they would be in the lighthouse? No, his logic had been sound. Secure the beach, prevent the escape, then work his way back to the lighthouse. And Christ, the cramp in his side hurt. Christ, but it burned like fire. Christ, but he was out of shape. He kept climbing anyway. Should have scuttled the dinghy, he realized suddenly. Should have scuttled the dinghy so it wouldn't matter if they made it to the beach. He should turn around and do it now. But something wouldn't allow him to move away from the sound of the gunfire, no matter how legitimate his reason. To move away from the fight would have been to admit his failure as a man of action—to admit that his only contributions to the game would be limited to intellectual acrobatics, forevermore.

Finally he came off the path, onto the clifftop. He was panting loudly. He staggered through the fog on legs gone spongy, panting like a dog on a hot afternoon.
Worthless
, he thought.
Worthless in a fight
. Look at him. He was …

A man passed in front of him no more than two feet away.

Taylor stopped, staring. He had caught a glimpse of lustrous black.

None of the men in his party had been dressed in lustrous black.

The SS, on the other hand, were known to favor it.

Still panting, he gave chase.

Katarina Heinrich, witnessing the murder of Klaus Gruber, experienced a sudden rush of adrenaline.

She blinked, lifting her head. She blinked again and then suddenly she remembered the packet of amphetamine dust tucked into her shoe. She had forgotten it. Stupid, lazy, weak …

She clawed it out, fumbled it open, brought it to her face, inhaled sharply.

She managed to get her leg under herself, to throw her weight against the wall, to begin pulling herself to her feet. Gruber, the
Abwehr
man, was tumbling backward. In the muted kerosene glow coming from the study, Katarina could see his face—what was left of it—sliding off his skull like snow sheeting off a mountainside under a hot sun.

Now Winterbotham was turning, the gun coming around to bear. Katarina had no illusions about what would happen if he was allowed to complete his turn. She would be shot down in cold blood.

So she attacked.

She flung herself at Winterbotham, and the bullet moved inside her, and she went soft and weak all over. Her legs fell out from under her. The blow, which had been intended for his face, glanced harmlessly off his chest. Then she was on the cold, mossy floor again, waves of vertigo rushing over her. All of her wounds, it seemed, had reopened; she was slicked with blood. She moaned thickly. She rolled over, onto her back. Her eyes wanted to close. She felt tired, so tired …

Her heart thudded, double time. The amphetamine had reached her central nervous system.

Winterbotham was stepping away, aiming the gun at her.

She kicked up. The kick cost her; she felt something tear inside. But her foot hit the gun solidly, spinning it out of Winterbotham's hands, sending it end over end into the shadows.

Katarina used the momentum of the kick to roll herself over, onto her feet. There was so much agony inside her that she had given up trying to keep track of it all. She hurt, very badly.

She pushed the pain away.

Focused.

Came at Winterbotham, snapping a kick at his face, ignoring the ripping sensation in her belly.

He raised a hand to defend himself. The kick connected with his forearm. She immediately aimed a sharp jab at his head. This time she hit her mark. He staggered backward, dazed.

She took a moment to check her balance, and went for him again.

She sent a round kick toward his chest. He pulled back, cowering into the wall. Then, as the force of her kick turned her around, he moved forward, thinking that she would be most vulnerable when her back was facing him. Just as she had hoped. She leapt up immediately, spinning 180 degrees in the air, and caught him across the bridge of the nose with a crescent kick.

He went down.

She landed heavily on the balls of her feet. Bleeding everywhere, pain running through her body in an intricate network, breath rasping in and out of her lungs. But she had done it. He was down.

A wave of nausea took her; she stumbled.

He was up again.

They circled each other.

Blood poured down his face. His massive hands opened and closed. His eyes were small and bright and hot.

He feinted; she backed off. She feinted, and he blocked. Biding his time. She would have done the same, had she been in his position. He could see how badly she was hurt. Each passing second meant lost blood.

Run
, she thought.
Run for the beach
.