A Gathering of Spies (5 page)

“Yes.”

“That's why you're our man.”

Winterbotham lit his pipe again, and puffed on it thoughtfully.

“Harris Winterbotham,” Taylor said. “Professor of classics, war widower, and known dissembler. You don't like Churchill, Harry. You don't like his way of doing things, and you've made no secret of it. If Canaris checks on you, he won't have to dig very deep to find out about your past.”

“But I don't work for the War Office.”

“Ah! That's where you're wrong. For the past five months you've been working in the code-breaking division of Military Intelligence. Very hush-hush. Your expertise at chess, not to mention your all-around acumen”—the slightest edge of sarcasm crept into his voice—“makes you a valued member of our team. Of course, we're aware of the … sensitive … nature of your politics, and so you don't know as much as you might. We've kept you fairly isolated. But you know enough. You'll be irresistible to Canaris.”

“I see.”

“Schroeder will mention in tonight's report that he's found a valuable lead. But for the time being, we'll leave it at that. We want the
Abwehr
to be hungry for you, Harry. We'll take our time on this. In two weeks, or four, or six, Schroeder will feel comfortable enough to approach you with an offer. He'll find you willing. And at some point after that—”

“At some point after that, I'll begin spying for the Nazis.”

“You'll likely begin by telling them what you already know. And for that, Harry, God willing, they'll want to meet with you face-to-face. They'll want their own code-breakers working on you. They'll want their information direct, not coming through Schroeder.”

Winterbotham sent a ring of smoke floating toward the ceiling.

“How will I meet them?” he asked.

“We're hoping they'll arrange a
treff
—a clandestine meeting between
Abwehr
agents. It may be in a neutral place, like Portugal, or they may wish to bring you directly to the center of their operations: the headquarters of the
Abwehr
, in Berlin; their training facilities in Hamburg; or possibly, if Canaris thinks you're important enough, all the way to the top—to Hitler himself. Into the
Wolfsschanze
. The Wolf's Lair.”

“At which point—”

“At which point you'll tell them exactly what we've told you to tell them. A bit of truth, a bit of lies, and a lot in between. And in the meantime you'll keep your eyes open, Harry. You'll see how the
Abwehr
works—from the inside. With luck, you'll discover how much they know, or how much they suspect, about Double Cross. You'll learn whatever you can about their plans, both past and future. You'll remember every question they ask you, and the tone of voice when they ask it. Then you'll come back and you'll tell us everything. Everything.”

Taylor leaned forward, elbows on table. “I don't have to tell you how sensitive this is,” he said. “If they guess what you're there for, Harry, they'll kill you. But there's more to it than that. If they manage to get you talking—”

“The whole operation is compromised,” Winterbotham finished.

“Exactly.”

“That's a risk you're willing to take?”

“Risk is an essential element of our game. For the chance to see the inner workings of an enemy intelligence organization, while they're actually at war with us … for that, old chap, we're willing to risk a lot.”

“Everything.”

“Yes. Everything.”

“Hm,” Winterbotham said.

“Problems may arise. Schroeder may prove less cooperative than we hope. Or Canaris more suspicious.”

“Yes.”

“But if it works, old chap … if we dangle you as the bait, and they bite …” He trailed off again, and arched an eyebrow inquisitively.

“Do I have a choice?” Winterbotham asked.

“Of course. This is dangerous, Harry. I think I've made that clear. And if you choose not to take part in it, nobody will blame you. We would invite you to remain here, at Latchmere, as our guest, for the duration of the war. But we wouldn't blame you for an instant.”

“Hm,” Winterbotham said.

“So?”

Winterbotham took a moment before answering. He made two more smoke rings, a large one and a small one, and sent the small one floating through the large one. Then he looked up at Taylor. Later, when he thought back on it, Taylor would remember Winterbotham's eyes at that moment. They were small and sharp and hot, like twin smoldering coals. They were the eyes of the young Winterbotham—the wildcat.

Looking back, Taylor realized that those eyes should have warned him. He should have known, at that instant, that Winterbotham had ideas of his own about working for MI-5.

Winterbotham smiled, a rather morbid smile.

“Where do I sign?” he said.

LOS ALAMOS, NEW MEXICO

APRIL 1943

Catherine Danielson Carter couldn't believe her eyes.

She read the letter again, certain that she would find some indication that it was not what it seemed to be—it was a prank, a mistake, a gag. When she reached the end, her eyes skipped immediately back up to the first line. She was extremely conscious of the fact that she should really get the hell out of there, get away before somebody noticed she was missing from the party and came looking for her. But the letter in her hand was so incredible, so
impossible
, that she felt compelled to read it again, and then again, and then still again, although she had memorized it the first time through.

Finally, after finishing it for the fifth time, she tore her eyes from the page. She felt loose and shaky inside; she steadied herself against the desk with one hand. She had known that something was going on, of course. You didn't bring a hundred scientists and engineers and military personnel into the middle of the desert if something wasn't going on. You didn't build a hospital and a dormitory and a laboratory and an entire town if something wasn't going on. But she had never suspected …

She realized that she was going to throw up.

She couldn't do that, not there. She began to modulate her breathing the way Hagen had shown her so many years before, during her training.
Panic is your worst enemy
, Hagen had said.
It comes from inside. You cannot kill it, and that makes it dangerous. The secret is not to let the panic control you. You control the panic
.

She focused on her breathing. Shallow, rhythmic. Soon enough, the nausea was slipping away. It left her feeling hollow. What had she stumbled onto? The thought brought the panic back all over again. Her breathing accelerated; her heart thudded violently in her chest. She would throw up, she thought, any second now, vomiting all over the makeshift office of General Leslie Groves. And then she would be lost. They would know she had been there—and they would find …

No.

She controlled the panic again.

Steady breathing, shallow, in and out.

Better.

After a moment, she began to move. She returned the letter to the file, put the file back into the desk, closed the drawer, and jiggled the handle until she heard the tumblers fall home. The lock was a standard double wafer—more secure than a conventional wafer tumbler lock, but just barely.

Catherine straightened. She looked around to make sure she hadn't left any evidence of her visit. The office was faintly illuminated by a slab of light coming through a pane in the door. The room looked much as it had fifteen minutes before, when she had allowed herself entrance by picking the lock with a bobby pin. Security at Los Alamos, to somebody with her training, was a joke. Each Friday night for the past two months, she had slipped away and explored the camp, secret documents and all, almost at her leisure.

She crossed the room and listened at the door. She knew from experience that two guards patrolled the hallway outside Groves's office. But they were responsible for the entire building, which meant that one passed by only every ten minutes. She waited until she heard footsteps rapping down the corridor. She kept waiting until they had passed. Then she slipped out, closed the door behind herself, checked to make sure the lock had taken, and walked quickly and quietly toward the rear exit.

When she came out into the night, the cold air was bracing. She moved back toward the canteen, where the party sounded as if it was gaining momentum. She could hear music, conversation, and much drunken laughter. It was always the same. There was a lot of steam to be blown off at Los Alamos. Before tonight, she had wondered why. Now she understood.

My God
, she thought again,
what have I stumbled onto
?

Before going back inside the canteen, she took a moment to check herself. Her hair was fine; her clothes were fine, or as fine as they got, considering the shortage of good material; but her face, surely, would show something. Her face would reveal that she had discovered the secret. Her face would betray her.

No.

Her body was an instrument, and she was its master.

She smiled—quite convincingly—then climbed the wooden steps and went to rejoin the party.

That night she woke with a scream rising in her throat.

She bolted up in bed. Richard was sleeping beside her, his chest rising and falling almost imperceptibly. Catherine sat with one hand clamped over her mouth, not looking at him, trembling. From not far away came the sounds of generators humming and, below that, the eerie whistle of desert wind.

After a few minutes, the shakes began to subside. She let out her breath slowly, wiping a hand across her brow. The hand came away clammy.

It had been a variation of the nightmare she had dreamed on and off for more than ten years, now. But this had been the worst in a long while—perhaps the worst ever. They all were gathered around her, everybody she knew from this life and the last, pointing and laughing. Hagen was there, barking orders in hoarse German, and Richard, her husband, looking at her with his imploring and somehow pathetic eyes. And Fritz was there, naked, as he had been the last time she had seen him, standing at the rail of a balcony in a hotel in Hamburg, tall and lean and fair. And behind them all was the gallows, swinging back and forth, creaking in a cold wind.…

Just a dream
, she thought.

She got out of bed and padded into the bathroom. They shared the bathroom with another couple, who lived in the next apartment in the dormitory. She checked cursorily to make sure their door was closed. The bathroom had no running water at night, but a bucket by the sink was filled with an already drawn supply. She splashed two handfuls onto her face—freezing, no surprise—and then went back to bed.

The letter. The goddamn letter.

Why did she have to find the letter?

It meant, of course, the end of Catherine Danielson Carter. And in one way that was a terrific relief. She hadn't let Richard touch her in an intimate way for years now, and yet the fact of being his wife was trying enough. He was old, and he
smelled
old—his smell was probably what bothered her most about him. But there was more to it than that. There was the hurt look that lurked eternally in his eyes, and the eager-to-please way he carried himself around her. Pandering. It made her feel guilty and disgusted all at once.

But there was more to it, even, than that. The fact was, she was still a young woman, or at least fairly young. She still had hopes of falling in love during her lifetime. And her relationship with Richard—even if it had not been founded on a lie—would never really give her any satisfaction. Every day she spent with him was another day she wasn't spending falling in love with somebody else.

That was the worst of it.

Perhaps, she sometimes thought, perhaps it was even possible that Fritz would still think of her in that way. Ten years had passed, a third of their lives, and yet …

She settled her head down on the pillow, gently. But she couldn't fool herself into thinking that sleep would come again that night.

The end of Catherine Danielson Carter
, she thought again.

It would be a relief in other ways as well. Catherine Danielson Carter was an immensely boring person who lived an immensely boring life. The reason she had gotten into this game in the first place, so many years before, was that she was precisely the
opposite
of an immensely boring person. She required adventure, risk, intrigue. She would relish the opportunity to stop playing the role of mousy little Catherine Carter …

Except …

Except that her chances of living long enough to play any other role were not very good.

There. She had thought it.

It was the end of Catherine Danielson Carter, but it was probably also the end of Katarina Heinrich.

She didn't want to die. But when she thought about the task that lay before her, now that she had found the letter, she realized that her chances were poor.

The letter, in a way, was her death sentence.

The night dragged on, and she thought about what had to happen next.

She would have to report the contents of the letter to Germany. Not just the letter, of course, but the blueprints and the technical data and everything else she had found during her months snooping around Los Alamos—she had learned it all, using the photographic memory techniques Hagen had taught her. But the letter was the most important part, the part that proved the significance of the rest. She had perused the blueprints over and over again during the previous few months, absorbing every detail without ever understanding just what they meant; but there was no mistaking the letter.

How would she get to Germany?

She didn't have her AFU—not that the AFU had the kind of range she would need to make contact with Hamburg from Los Alamos. Nor did she have a weapon. She had left it all behind when she had assumed the role of Catherine Danielson.

She did not even have a network to help her, not one worth mentioning. Most German agents in America had been rounded up, condemned in the trial of 1941, and summarily executed. No, she would have to get the information to Germany herself, somehow, without depending on any help from anyone.…