Daniel Silva - The Unlikely Spy

He turned into the drive, climbed off his bicycle, and pushed it along the pitted pathway toward the barn. Overhead, he heard the drone of Lancaster bombers setting out from their Norfolk bases. He remembered a time when the planes came from the other direction-the Luftwaffe's heavy Heinkels, sweeping in over the North Sea toward the industrial centers of Birmingham and Manchester. Now the Allies had established supremacy of the skies, and the Heinkels rarely ventured over Norfolk.

He looked up and saw the curtains of the kitchen window part slightly, saw the blurry image of Mary's face through the rain-streaked glass. Not tonight, Mary, he thought, eyes consciously averted. Please, not again tonight.

It had not been difficult for the Abwehr to convince Sean Dogherty to betray England and go to work for Nazi Germany. In 1921, his older brother, Daniel, was arrested and hanged by the British for leading an Irish Republican Army flying column.

Inside the barn Dogherty unlocked a tool cabinet and took down his Abwehr-issue suitcase transceiver, his cipher pad, a notebook, and a pencil. He switched on the radio and smoked a cigarette while he waited. His instructions were simple: turn on the radio once each week and stand by for any instructions from Hamburg. It had been more than three years since the Abwehr had asked him to do anything. Still, he dutifully switched on his radio at the instructed time and waited for ten minutes.

With two minutes remaining in the window, Dogherty placed the cipher pad and the notebook back in the cabinet. With one minute left, he reached for the power switch. He was about to shut off the radio when it suddenly came to life. He lunged for his pencil and wrote furiously until the radio went silent. He quickly tapped out an acknowledgment and signed off.

It took Dogherty several minutes to decode the message.

When he finished, he couldn't believe his eyes.

EXECUTE RECEPTION PROCEDURE ONE.

The Germans wanted him to take in an agent.

It had been fifteen minutes since Mary Dogherty, standing in the kitchen window, had seen her husband enter the barn. She wondered what was taking so long. Sean's dinner would go cold if he didn't come in soon. She wiped her hands on her apron and carried a mug of steaming tea to the front window. The rain was coming down harder now, wind whipping across the coastline from the North Sea.

She thought, Terrible night to be out in it, Sean Dogherty.

She cupped her hands around the chipped enamel mug, letting the rising steam warm her face. She knew what he was doing in the barn-he was on the radio with the Germans.

Spying for the Nazis, Mary had to admit, had rejuvenated Sean. In the spring of 1940 he reconnoitered huge sections of the Norfolk countryside. Mary watched in amazement as he seemed to come back to life under the assignment, pedaling several miles a day, looking for signs of military activity, taking photographs of coastal defenses. The information was passed to an Abwehr contact in London, who in turn passed it on to Berlin. Sean thought it was all very dangerous and loved every moment of it.

Mary hated it. She feared Sean would be caught. Everyone was on the lookout for spies; it was a national obsession. One slip, one mistake, and Sean would be arrested. The 1940 Treachery Act prescribed a single sentence for spying: execution. Mary had read about spies in the newspapers-the hangings at Wandsworth and Pentonville-and each one sent ice through her veins. One day, she feared, she would read of Sean's execution.

The rain fell harder now, and the wind beat so furiously against the side of the sturdy little cottage Mary feared it might come down. She thought of living alone on the broken-down old farm; it would be miserable. Shuddering, she drew away from the window and moved closer to the fire.

Perhaps it would have been different if she had been able to give him children. She pushed it from her mind; she had punished herself needlessly too long. No use dredging up things she could do nothing about. Sean was what he was and there was nothing she could do to change him.

Sean, Mary thought, what on earth has become of you?

The pounding at the door startled Mary, causing her to spill tea on her apron. It was not like Sean to lock himself out. She set down the mug in the window and hurried to the door, prepared to yell at him for leaving the cottage without his key. Instead, when she pulled back the door, she saw the figure of Jenny Colville, a girl who lived on the other side of the village. She stood in the rain, a shiny oilskin coat hanging over bony shoulders. She wore no hat and her shoulder-length hair lay plastered against her head, framing an awkward face that one day might be very pretty.

Mary could tell she had been crying.

"What happened, Jenny? Did your father hit you again? Has he been drinking?"

Jenny nodded and burst into tears.

"Come in out of the rain," Mary said. "You'll catch your death of cold out there on a night like this."

As Jenny came inside Mary looked in the front garden for her bicycle. It wasn't there; she had walked all the way from the Colville cottage, more than a mile away.

Mary closed the door. "Take off those clothes. They're soaking wet. I'll get you a robe to wear until they're dry."

Mary disappeared into the bedroom. Jenny did as she was told. Exhausted, she shed the oilskin, letting it fall from her shoulders onto the floor. Then she pulled off her heavy wool sweater and dropped it on the floor next to the oilskin.

Mary came back with the robe. "Get the rest of those clothes off, young lady," she said, gentle mock anger in her voice.

"But what about Sean?"

Mary lied. "He's out fixing a break in one of his blessed fences."

"In this weather?" Jenny sang in her heavy Norfolk accent, regaining some of her usual good humor. Mary marveled at her resiliency. "Is he daft, Mary?"

"I've always known you were a perceptive child. Now, off with the rest of those wet clothes."

Jenny stripped off her trousers and her undershirt. She tended to dress like a boy, even more so than other country girls. Her skin was milky white and covered with goose bumps. She would be very lucky not to come down with a heavy cold. Mary helped Jenny into the robe and wrapped it around her tightly.

"Now, isn't that better?"

"Yes, thank you, Mary." Jenny started to cry again. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

Mary drew Jenny to her. "You'll never be without me, Jenny. I promise."

Jenny climbed into an old chair next to the fire and covered herself with a musty blanket. She pulled her feet up under herself, and after a moment the shivering stopped and she felt warm and safe. Mary was at the stove, singing softly to herself.

After a few moments the stew bubbled, filling the cottage with a wonderful smell. Jenny closed her eyes, her tired mind leaping from one pleasant sensation to the next-the warm smell of the lamb stew, the heat of the fire, the thrilling sweetness of Mary's voice. The wind and rain lashed at the window next to her head. The storm made Jenny feel wonderful to be safely inside a peaceful home. She wished her life were always like this.

A few moments later Mary brought a tray with a bowl of stew, a lump of hard bread, and a steaming mug of tea. "Sit up, Jenny," she said, but there was no response. Mary set down the tray, covered the girl with another quilt, and let her sleep.

Mary was reading next to the fire when Dogherty let himself into the cottage. She regarded him silently as he came into the room. He pointed to the chair where Jenny slept and said, "Why is she here? Her father hit her again?"

"Shhhh!" Mary hissed. "You'll wake her."

Mary rose and led him into the kitchen. She set a place for him at the table. Dogherty poured himself a mug of tea and sat down.