A Game of Spies (24 page)

For one more instant, he stood, torn by doubt. If he cried a warning to the girl, then they would have him, whether or not she managed to get on board the plane. And if they had him, the future would be bleak. The only question would be whether death came quickly or slowly.

But if he held his tongue and the girl didn't manage to get aboard, they might still have him. He was standing in plain sight, clearly visible under the bright night sky.

And if the girl didn't make it back to England, Noyce might let out his secret.

He would prefer death to that overwhelming dishonor.

He raised an arm, drew a breath, and opened his mouth. But he didn't have enough spit to make the word.

He swallowed, moistening his tongue. Then parted his lips again and called at the top of his lungs:

“There!”

The man on the path was pointing.

Eva followed the line of his arm. It led across the field, over the pond, to the trees.
“There
!” he cried.

Then she saw the man in the trees. Holding a rifle.

She gasped, ducking for cover.

Hagen also followed the line of the man's arm. He saw a figure in a tree, brandishing a rifle.

That
was Hobbs.

And now the girl had seen him, too. Everything was falling apart, even as he watched, right there in front of his disbelieving eyes.

No. The girl would run for the plane, beset by panic. Even if Hobbs did know the truth, he would never reach her. Hobbs' time was at an end. And Hagen would finish the man himself—making him pay for what he had done to Frick.

He turned to his men, pulling his gun from its holster.

Hobbs looked down from the sky—the plane was passing right over his head with a long Doppler whine—when the man's hoarse scream echoed out across the lake.

The man, whoever he was, was pointing at him. And now the two agents on the near bank were turning to face him.

Finished,
he thought.

But of course he was. He had been finished in the other tree, when the Gestapo agent had been following him. The oddly comforting feeling returned. He had known Death, once upon a time. And now they would become reacquainted. He had known it for his entire life, although he had rarely thought of it. Yet the knowledge had always been there. Someday it would end; and today was as good as any.

No,
he thought then.
Not finished yet.

He raised the Enfield. Five bullets. If he could make them count, he might still reach Eva.

He sent one into the chest of the man by the lake, and the man tumbled backward with a splash.

He worked the bolt. Tracked the second man, who was turning, looking for shelter. He shot the second man in the back.

Worked the bolt.

The plane was coming in for a landing.

Two figures: the man who had pointed at him, who was
still
pointing at him, and Eva. Long-range. He concentrated. Aimed at the pointing man. His hand moved with a sudden nervous spasm. He chewed on his lower lip, fit his finger back over the trigger. Aimed again.

Fired.

The pointing man went down.

Now the plane was moving in to land. No room to spare.
Some daredevil of a pilot,
he thought fleetingly.
Some young fool, willing to give it all for King and Country.

Two bullets left. And one last chance to get to Eva.

He was preparing to drop from the tree, to make a mad dash across the field, when other men materialized from the foliage behind Eva—three of them.

And he was suddenly aware of two more: rustling on the eastern side of the lake, coming out into view.

And then two others, on the western side, running forward at the sound of the gunshots.

Only two bullets left. So he was finished after all.

But he could do one last thing. He could make certain that Hagen's plan would never come to fruition.

Instead of dropping from the tree, he brought the rifle back to his eye.

And sighted on Eva.

Hagen was moving.

Circling to the west, around behind Hobbs. The man's luck had finally run out, he thought. In a few more moments, Hagen would have him. He would show Hobbs what it meant to interfere with Gerhard Hagen.

Don't make it personal,
he thought.

But it
was
personal.

As he moved, he saw the agents flooding onto the field. Not interfering with the girl, but interposing themselves between Hobbs and the plane. Giving her every chance. As long as she didn't realize that was what they were doing …

The girl was crouched behind a rock just slightly too small to shield her completely. Hagen had been impressed by the way she had taken cover—it had been born of instinct. She had not panicked. In that instant, he had felt the whisper of a revelation about the woman. He had seen why the British had chosen her as their agent. She was raw, and she was young. But something inside her was made for this. She had talent that could be refined. She would have made a fine pupil.

And now the plane was down, already wheeling around for the takeoff. The girl was breaking from behind her cover, making a try for it.

He saw Hobbs, in the tree, shouldering the rifle again. Not pointing at the SS men on the field, but beyond them, over them.

At the girl.

He couldn't,
Hagen thought.

He wouldn't.

But he was.

Hagen moved faster, raising his gun.

William,
Hobbs thought.
Are you sure you know what you're doing?

Spot weld between cheek, hand, and rifle. The night was calm. He had already learned the gun's whimsies. He could make the shot.

Eva was running for the plane. He led her off. His finger tightened on the trigger.

Are you sure you know what you're doing
? he thought again.

If he hadn't been sure before, he was now. The SS agents in the field had set themselves between him and Eva. They'd had every chance to apprehend her, and they hadn't even tried. She was meant to get on that plane, as he had guessed.

He fired.

The bullet went high, to the right.

You did that on purpose,
he thought.

He chambered the final round.

Now the Nazis were returning fire. Bullets whizzed past him on his left, over his head. His bladder let go, staining the crotch of his trousers; he hardly noticed.

Then Eva had nearly reached the plane. Her arm extended toward a ladder that had been welded to the side. But even as she reached for it, she was looking around, at the SS men scattered across the field. An expression flitted across her face. What was it?

His finger on the trigger paused.

As he watched, the expression deepened, became comprehension. Then he knew: she herself had suspected that something was not right. She had spent enough time with Hobbs to recognize a con when she saw one. And now that the men were letting her go, the pieces had fallen together.

The Lysander was gaining speed. Her expression turned determined. She grabbed again for the ladder, and then she had it.

An instant later she was clambering up the side of the plane. The Lysander was drawing closer, gaining speed. Eva was exposed on the side, pulling herself up, directly in Hobbs' sights. An easy shot.

But his finger relaxed. He lowered the rifle.

There was no need to fire.

Dark relief flooded him. Whether she knew it or not, he had spared her. For him, it was finished—but for her, life was only beginning.

He turned his eyes to follow the plane as it lifted over his head, the engines filling the world.

The plane was heading into the lake.

At the last instant, the pilot pulled back on the throttle. Eva felt the wind being taken from her lungs. She was pressed back into the observer's seat in the rear cockpit, the engines screaming all around her. She could hear herself screaming, adding to the din.

Then the lake was skewing onto its side. They climbed toward the reef of clouds, the land rolling away beneath them.

The pilot turned to look at her. She was surprised at how young the man looked. Her own age, she thought. He was smiling—a complicated smile, of fear and relief and satisfaction.

“I think I pissed myself,” he remarked.

She only stared at him.

Two minutes later, they crossed over the coast; the dark sea spread out beneath them, vast and inscrutable.

Hagen approached the tree from behind.

He raised his Luger. Hobbs was facing away, following the plane as it arced above his head. Helpless.

But Hagen couldn't resist. The man had to know who had won. He demanded at least that much satisfaction.

“William,” he called.

Hobbs turned his head. The Enfield in his hand began to rise—but the rifle was a large weapon, and a clumsy one; thanks to the constricting branches of the tree, he had no chance of moving quickly enough to save his own life. And he must have realized this. He must have realized that he was finished.

And yet, inexplicably, there was the ghost of a smile on his face.

Hagen shot him three times.

As Hobbs tumbled from the tree, Hagen let out a long, shuddering breath. Then he stepped forward, the Luger held ready.

The Engländer lay on his back, one hand twisted into a grasping claw. But his eyes were glazed; the hand was motionless. The man was already dead.

Yet the ghost of a smile remained.

Hagen emptied the gun into his torso. Then he stepped away, reaching out one hand to support himself against the tree. His headache had returned, pounding viciously.

Too close.

A vacation,
he thought.

He would force himself to take a vacation.

He needed one.

18

THE WAR OFFICE, WHITEHALL:
APRIL 1940

The five interrogators wore identical charcoal pinstripes.

As each session progressed, their suits became lank with smoke and perspiration; by the end they looked as wrung out as Eva felt. Yet when the next session began, after a few hours of sleep stolen on a thin-mattressed cot or—when Oldfield felt generous—in a small flat they had taken out for her over a bookshop, the suits were crisp again. Were they the same suits, or new ones? Were they pressed and cleaned between each session? Did each man pass his suit to the man sitting on his left? With such questions, Eva distracted herself, and by doing so, she kept her sanity.

One of the men was always writing. She assumed that a microphone was hidden someplace, in this cramped windowless office on the fifth floor of Leconfield House, but the man always wrote anyway. Another of the men was always asking her to repeat whatever she had just said. A third frowned incessantly, as if he suspected Eva was trying to fool them; a fourth presented a façade of patience, understanding, and goodwill. She could trust this one. He was her defense against the others—or so she was meant to feel.

The fifth man was Cecil Oldfield.

Oldfield rarely spoke. Instead, he listened, conveying approval or disapproval with small tacit signals: a plucking at his sideburns, a small dry arching of eyebrows. Somehow, the four men picked up on his signals, and steered the debriefing in whatever direction he was indicating.

When her voice became too hoarse, they gave her sweet tea with lemon and took a five-minute break. Once every six hours, she was allowed to go for a walk around Saint James Park, always in the presence of the watchers. And once every twelve hours, or fourteen, or twenty-four, she was allowed the few pilfered moments of precious sleep.

Now the friendly one, with his open, agreeable face, was asking her for the tenth time to describe Klinger's demeanor on the night he'd appeared on her doorstep and whispered the word to her:
Schlieffen.

“He was drunk,” she started, and the one who always frowned immediately interrupted: “Actually drunk?”

“Yes. I think so.”

“Based on what?”

“He smelled of schnapps. And he was slurring.”

“But it could have been an act.”

“It could have been.”

“But was it?”

“I don't think so.”

“Go on,” he said.

She was allowed to continue until she'd reached the end of her story. Then the one who always asked her to repeat herself asked her to repeat herself.

They wanted to know the contents of the letter Hobbs had passed to her. Each time she tried to remember, she reported the words with slight variations. The frowner—following a cue from Oldfield—seized on this as if it was of great importance. When Eva tried to explain that memory was fallible, that if she reported the same words each time then
that
would have been cause of alarm, she prompted a great amount of throat clearing, doubtful glances, and lighting of cigarettes.

Then they looked at Oldfield, who stroked his sideburns. The frowner said, “We'll get back to that in a moment.”

She couldn't tell how they were taking her story. Did they believe her? Or did they think she was part of some Nazi operation? Or did they think she was an honest dupe? Or—

“—how many?” the frowner was asking.

How many SS agents had been on the field, he meant. She shook her head.

“Four? Six? Eight?”

“Six. Or eight.”

“More?”

She shrugged. “I don't know, exactly.”

“Yet they didn't move to stop you.”

“No.”

“Perhaps they simply didn't have time. Or perhaps the man in the tree with the rifle kept them still. Were they under cover?”

“At the beginning, they were under cover. Then they came out.”

“The man in the tree …”

“Hobbs,” she said.

“How do you know that?”

“I just know.”

“Did you see him?”

“Yes.”

“Did you see his face?”

“No.”

“Then how do you know?”

Eva shrugged again. “Intuition.”

“Intuition,” he repeated, with immeasurable sarcasm.