Daniel Silva - The Unlikely Spy

They flashed through a pair of villages-first Stickney, then Stickford. The scent of woodsmoke from fires burning in the cottages penetrated the interior of the van. Neumann heard a dog barking, then another. He reached in his pocket, removed his cigarettes, and gave them to Catherine. She lit two, kept one for herself, and handed one back to him.

"Would you like to explain that last remark?"

She thought, Would I? It felt terribly strange, after all these years, even to be speaking in German. She had spent six years hiding every shred of truth about herself. She had become someone else, erased every aspect of her personality and her past. When she thought about the person she was before Hitler and before the war, it was as if she were thinking about someone else.

Anna Katarina von Steiner died in an unfortunate road accident outside Berlin.

"Well, I didn't exactly go down to the local Abwehr office and sign up," she said. "But then, I don't suppose anyone in this line of work gets their job that way, do they. They always come for you. In my case, they was Kurt Vogel."

She told him the story, the story she had never told another person before. The story of the summer in Spain, the summer the civil war broke out. The summer at Maria's estancia. Her affair with Maria's father. "Just my luck, he turns out to be a Fascist and a talent spotter for the Abwehr. He sells me to Vogel, and Vogel comes looking for me."

"Why didn't you just say no?"

"Why didn't any of us just say no? In my case, he threatened the one thing in this world I care most about-my father. That's what a good case officer does. They get inside your head. They get to know how you think, how you feel. What you love and what you fear. And then they use it to make you do what they want you to do."

She smoked quietly for a moment, watching as they passed through another village.

"He knew that I lived in London when I was a child, that I spoke the language perfectly, that I already knew how to handle a weapon, and that-"

Silence for a moment. Neumann didn't press her. He just waited, fascinated.

"He knew that I had a personality suited to the assignment he had in mind. I've been in Britain nearly six years, alone, with virtually no contact with anyone from my side: no friends, no family, no contact with any other agents-nothing. It was more like a prison sentence than an assignment. I can't tell you how many times I dreamt about going back to Berlin and killing Vogel with one of the wonderful techniques he and his friends taught me."

"How did you enter the country?"

She told him-told him what Vogel made her do.

"Jesus Christ," Neumann muttered.

"Something the Gestapo would do, right? I spent the next month preparing my new identity. Then I settled in and waited. Vogel and I had a way of communicating over the wireless that didn't involve code names. So the British never looked for me. Vogel knew I was safe and in place, ready to be activated. Then the idiot gives me one assignment and sends me straight into the arms of MI-Five." She laughed quietly. "My God, I can't believe I'm actually going back there after all this time. I never thought I would see Germany again."

"You don't sound terribly thrilled about the prospect of going home."

"Home? It's hard to think of Germany as my home. It's hard to think of myself as German. Vogel erased that part of me at his wonderful little mountain retreat in Bavaria."

"What are you going to do?"

"Meet with Vogel, make certain my father is still alive, then collect my payment and leave. Vogel can create another one of his false identities for me. I can pass for about five different nationalities. That's what landed me in the game to begin with. It's all a big game, isn't it? One big game."

"Where are you going to go?"

"Back to Spain," she said. "Back to the place where it all started."

"Tell me about it," Neumann said. "I need to think about something besides this godforsaken road."

"It's in the foothills of the Pyrenees. In the morning we go hunting, and in the afternoon we ride up into the mountains. There's a wonderful stream with deep, cold pools and we stay there all afternoon, drinking icy white wine and smelling the eucalyptus trees. I used to think about it all the time when the loneliness got to me. I thought I was going to go crazy sometimes."

"It sounds wonderful. If you need a stable hand, let me know."

She looked at him and smiled. "You've been wonderful. If it weren't for you-" She hesitated. "God, I can't even imagine."

"Don't mention it. Glad I could be of assistance. I don't mean to rain on our parade, but we're not out of danger yet."

"Believe me, I realize that."

She finished her cigarette, opened the window a crack, and tossed the butt into the night. It hit the roadway and exploded into sparks. She sat back and closed her eyes. She had been running on adrenaline and fear for too long. Exhaustion stalked her. The gentle rocking of the van lulled her into a light half sleep.

Neumann said, "Vogel never told me your real name. What is it?"

"My real name was Anna Katarina von Steiner," she said, sleep creeping into her voice. "But I would prefer it if you continue to call me Catherine. You see, Kurt Vogel killed Anna before he sent her to England. I'm afraid Anna no longer exists. Anna is dead."

Neumann's voice, when he spoke again, was far away, at the end of a long tunnel.

"How did a beautiful and intelligent woman like Anna Katarina von Steiner end up here-like this?"

"That's a very good question," she said, and then fatigue overtook her and she was asleep.

The dream is her only memory of it: it was driven benevolently from her conscious thoughts long ago. She sees it now in flash bursts-stolen glimpses. Sometimes she sees it with her own eyes, as though she is reliving it, and sometimes the dream makes her watch it again like a spectator in a grandstand.

Tonight she is reliving it.

She is living beside the lake; Papa lets her go alone. He knows she will not go near the water-it is too chilly for swimming-and he knows she likes to be by herself to think about her mother.

It is autumn. She has brought a blanket. The tall grass at the edge of the lake is damp with the morning's rain. The wind moves in the trees. A flock of rooks scatter and wheel noisily overhead. The trees weep flaming leaves of orange and red. She watches the leaves float gently downward, like tiny hot-air balloons, and settle on the rippled surface of the lake.

It is then, as her eye follows the descent of the leaves, that she sees the man, standing in the trees across the lake.

He is very still for a long time, watching her; then he moves toward her. He is wearing knee-high boots and a thigh-length coat. A shotgun, broken at the breech, is cradled over his right arm. His hair and beard are too long, his eyes are red and damp. As he moves closer she can see something hanging from his belt. She realizes it is a pair of bloody rabbits. Limp with death, they seem absurdly long and thin.

Papa has a word for men like him: poachers. They come onto other people's land and kill the animals-deer and rabbit and pheasant. She thinks it is a funny word, poachers. It sounds like someone who prepares eggs in the morning. She thinks about that now as he approaches, and it makes her smile.

The poacher asks if he can sit next to her and she tells him yes.

He squats and lays the shotgun in the grass.

"Are you here alone?" he asks.

"Yes. My father says it's all right."

"Where is your father now?"

"He's in the house."