Daniel Silva - The Unlikely Spy

"It could be my imagination," she said, "but I think something is going on downstairs. I've seen some men milling about on the street and sitting in parked cars."

The flat was dark, one light burning in the sitting room. Neumann crossed the room in a few quick steps and turned it off. He went to the window and lifted the edge of the blackout shade, peering out into the street. The evening traffic was moving below, throwing off just enough light for him to see four men charging from the apartment house across the street and heading their way.

Neumann turned and ripped his Mauser from his pocket.

"They're coming for us. Grab your radio and follow me down. Now!"

Harry Dalton threw open the front door and went inside, the Special Branch men behind him. He switched on the hall light in time to see Catherine Blake running out the back door, her suitcase radio swinging from her arm.

Horst Neumann had kicked open the back door and was running across the garden when he heard the shout from within the house. He rushed through the curtain of gloom, the Mauser in front of him in his outstretched hand. The gate flew open and a figure appeared there, silhouetted in the frame, gun raised. He shouted for Neumann to stop. Neumann kept running, firing twice. The first shot struck the man in the shoulder, spinning him around. The second shattered his spine, killing him instantly.

A second man stepped into his place and attempted to fire. Neumann squeezed the trigger. The Mauser bounced in his hand, emitting almost no sound, just the dull click of the firing mechanism. The man's head exploded.

Neumann raced through the gate, stepping over the bodies, and peered into the blackout. There was no one else behind the house. He turned and saw Catherine, a few feet behind him, running with the radio. Three men were chasing her. Neumann raised his gun and fired into the dark. He heard two men scream. Catherine kept running.

He turned and started across the rubble toward the van.

Harry felt the rounds whiz past his head. He heard the screams of both men behind him. She was right in front of him. He plunged through the darkness, arms outstretched before him. He realized he was at a distinct disadvantage; he was unarmed and alone. He could stop and try to find one of the Special Branch men's weapons, then chase them and try to shoot them both. But he was likely to be killed by Rudolf in the process. He could stop, turn around, go back inside, and signal the surveillance flat. But by then Catherine Blake and Rudolf would be long gone and they would have to start the damned search all over again and the spies would use their radio and tell Berlin about what they had discovered and we'd lose the fucking war, dammit!

The radio!

He thought, I may not be able to stop them now, but I can cut them off from Berlin for a while.

Harry leapt through the darkness, screaming deep in his throat, and grabbed hold of the suitcase with both hands. He tried to tear it from her grasp but she turned and pulled with surprising strength. He looked up and saw her face for the first time: red, contorted with fear, ugly with rage. He tried again to wrench the case from her, but he could not break her grasp; her fingers were clenched around the handle like a vise grip. She screamed Rudolf 's real name. It sounded like Wurst.

Then Harry heard a clicking sound. He had heard it before on the streets of East London before the war, the sound of a stiletto blade snapping into place. He saw her arm rise, then swing down in a vicious arc toward his throat. If he raised his own arm he could deflect the blow. But then she would be able to pull the radio away from him. He held on with both hands and tried to avoid the stiletto by twisting his head. The tip of the blade struck the side of his face. He could feel his flesh tearing. The pain came an instant later-searing, as though molten metal had been thrown against his face. Harry screamed but held on to the bag. She raised her arm again, this time plunging the tip of the stiletto into his forearm. Harry yelled with pain again, teeth clenched, but his hands would not let go of the bag. It was as if they were acting on their own now. Nothing, no amount of pain, could make them let go.

She let go of the bag and said, "You're a brave man to die for a radio."

Then she turned and disappeared into the darkness.

Harry lay on the wet ground. When she was gone, he reached up to touch his face and was sickened when he felt the warm bone of his own jaw. He was losing consciousness; the pain was fading. He heard the wounded Special Branch men groaning nearby. He felt the rain beating against his face. He closed his eyes. He felt someone pressing something against his face. When he opened his eyes he saw Alfred Vicary leaning over him.

"I told you to be careful, Harry."

"Did she get the radio?"

"No. You kept her from taking the radio."

"Did they get away?"

"Yes. But we're chasing them."

The pain raced up on Harry very suddenly. He started to tremble and felt as though he was going to throw up. Then Vicary's face turned to water, and Harry blacked out.

Within one hour of the disaster in Earl's Court, Alfred Vicary had orchestrated the biggest manhunt in the history of the United Kingdom. Every police station in the country-from Penzance to Dover, from Portsmouth to Inverness-was given a description of Vicary's fugitive spies. Vicary dispatched photographs by motorcycle couriers to the cities, towns, and villages close to London. Most officers involved in the search were told the fugitives were suspects in four murders dating back to 1938. A handful of very senior officers were discreetly informed it was a security matter of the utmost importance-so important the prime minister was personally monitoring the progress of the hunt.

London's Metropolitan Police responded with extraordinary speed, and within fifteen minutes of Vicary's first call roadblocks had been thrown up along all major arteries leading from the city. Vicary tried to cover every possible route of escape. MI5 and railway police prowled the main stations. The operators of the Irish ferries were given a description of the suspects as well.

Next he contacted the BBC and asked for the senior man on duty. On the main nine o'clock evening news the BBC led with the story of a shoot-out in Earl's Court that had left two police officers dead and three others wounded. The story contained a description of Catherine Blake and Rudolf and concluded with a telephone number citizens could call with information. Within five minutes the telephones started ringing. The typists transcribed each well-meaning call and passed them on to Vicary. Most he tossed straight into the wastepaper basket. A few he followed up. None produced a single lead.

Then he turned his attention to the escape routes only a spy would use. He contacted the RAF and asked them to be on the lookout for light aircraft. He contacted the Admiralty and asked them to keep a careful watch for U-boats approaching the coastline. He contacted the coastguard service and asked them to keep a watch out for small craft heading out to sea. He telephoned the Y Service radio monitors and asked them to listen for suspect wireless transmissions.

Vicary stood up from his desk and stepped outside his office for the first time in two hours. The command post in West Halkin Street had been deserted, and his team had slowly streamed back to St. James's Street. They sat in the common area outside his office like dazed survivors of a natural disaster-wet, exhausted, defeated. Clive Roach sat alone, head down, hands folded. Every few moments one of the watchers would lay a hand on his shoulder, murmur encouragement into his ear, and move quietly on. Peter Jordan was pacing. Tony Blair had fixed a homicidal glare on him. The only sound was the rattle of the teleprinters and the chatter of the girls on the telephone.