Daniel Silva - The Unlikely Spy

Jenny poured tea, holding the enamel mug close for warmth. The wind gusted, stirring the canopy of pine trees over her head. The moon appeared, followed by the first stars. Jenny could tell it would be a very cold night. She wouldn't be able to stay too long. She laid two larger pieces of wood on the fire and watched the shadows dancing on the rocks. She finished her tea and curled up in a ball, pillowing her head on her hands.

She pictured herself somewhere else, anywhere but Hampton Sands. She wanted to do something great and never come back. She was sixteen years old. Some of the older girls from the surrounding villages had gone to London and other big cities to take over the jobs left behind by the men. She could find work in a factory, wait tables in a cafe, anything…

She was beginning to drift off to sleep when she thought she heard a sound from somewhere near the water. For a moment she wondered if there really were tinkers living on the beach. Startled, Jenny got to her feet. The pine trees ended at the dunes. She walked carefully through the grove, for it had grown dark rapidly, and started up the slope of sand. She paused at the top, dune grass dancing in the wind at her feet, staring in the direction of the sound. She saw a figure dressed in an oilskin, sea boots, and a sou'wester.

Sean Dogherty.

He seemed to be stacking wood, pacing, calculating some distance. Maybe Mary was right. Maybe Sean was going crazy.

Then Jenny spotted another figure at the top of the dunes. It was Mary, just standing there in the wind, arms folded, gazing at Sean silently. Then Mary turned and quietly left without waiting for Sean.

When Sean was out of sight Jenny doused the embers, put away her things, and pedaled her bicycle home. The cottage was empty, cold, and dark when she arrived. Her father was gone, the fire long dead. There was no note explaining his whereabouts. She lay awake in bed for some time, listening to the wind, replaying the scene she had witnessed on the beach. There was something very wrong about it, she concluded. Something very wrong indeed.

"Surely there's something else we could do, Harry," Vicary said, pacing his office.

"We've done everything we can do, Alfred."

"Perhaps we should check with the RAF again."

"I just checked with the RAF."

"Anything?"

"Nothing."

"Well, call the Royal Navy-"

"I just got off the telephone with the Citadel."

"And?"

"Nothing."

"Christ!"

"You've just got to be patient."

"I'm not endowed with natural patience, Harry."

"I've noticed."

"What about-"

"I've called the ferry in Liverpool."

"Well?"

"Shut down by rough seas."

"So they won't be coming from Ireland tonight."

"Not bloody likely."

"Perhaps we're just approaching this from the wrong direction, Harry."

"What do you mean?"

"Perhaps we should be focusing our attention on the two agents already in Britain."

"I'm listening."

"Let's go back to the passport and immigration records."

"Christ, Alfred, they haven't changed since 1940. We've rounded up everyone we thought was a spy and interned everyone we had doubts about."

"I know, Harry. But perhaps there's something we missed."

"Such as?"

"How the hell should I know!"

"I'll get the records. It can't hurt."

"Perhaps we've run out of luck."

"Alfred, I've known a lot of lucky cops in my day."

"Yes, Harry?"

"But I've never known a lucky lazy cop."

"What are you driving at?"

"I'll get the files and make a pot of tea."

Sean Dogherty let himself out the back door of the cottage and walked along the footpath toward the barn. He wore a heavy sweater and an oilskin coat and carried a kerosene lantern. The last clouds had moved off. The sky was a mat of deep blue, thick with stars, a bright three-quarter moon. The air was bitterly cold.

A ewe bleated as he pulled open the barn door and went inside. The animal had become entangled in the fencing earlier that day. In her struggle to get free she had managed to slash her leg and tear a hole in the fence at the same time. She lay now on a bed of hay in the corner of the barn.

Dogherty switched on his radio and started changing the dressing, humming quietly to calm both their nerves. He removed the bloodied gauze, replaced it, and taped it securely in place.

He was admiring his work when the radio crackled into life. Dogherty bolted across the barn and slipped on his earphones. The message was brief. He sent back an acknowledging signal and dashed outside.

The ride to the beach took less than three minutes.

Dogherty dismounted at the end of the road and pushed the bicycle into the trees. He climbed the dunes, scrambled down the other side, and ran across the beach. The signal fires were intact, ready to be lit. In the distance he could hear the low rumble of an airplane.

He thought, Good Lord, he's actually coming!

He lit the signal fires. In a few seconds the beach was ablaze with light.

Dogherty, crouching in the dune grass, waited for the plane to appear. It descended over the beach, and a moment later a black dot leapt from the back. The parachute snapped open as the plane banked and headed out to sea.

Dogherty rose from the dune grass and ran across the beach. The German made a perfect landing, rolled, and was gathering up his black parachute by the time Dogherty arrived.

"You must be Sean Dogherty," he said in perfect public school English.

"That's right," Sean replied, startled. "And you must be the German spy."

The man frowned. "Something like that. Listen, old sport, I can manage this. Why don't you put out those bloody fires before the whole world knows we're here?"

The deer are starving this winter. They leave the woods and scratch about the meadows for food. The big buck is there, standing in the brilliant sunshine, nose pushing into the snow for a little frozen grass. They are behind a low hill, Anna on her belly, Papa crouching beside her. He is whispering instructions but she does not hear him. She needs no instruction. She has waited for this day. Imagined it. Prepared for it.

She is slipping the shells into the barrel of her rifle. It is new, the stock smooth, unscratched, and smelling of clean gun oil. It is her birthday present. Today she is fifteen.

The deer is her present too.

She had wanted to take a deer earlier but Papa had refused. "It is a very emotional thing, killing a deer," he had said, by way of explanation. "It's hard to describe. You have to experience it, and I won't let that happen until you are old enough to understand."

It is a difficult shot-one hundred and fifty meters, a brisk icy crosswind. Anna's face stings with the cold, her body is shuddering, her fingers have gone numb in her gloves. She choreographs the shot in her mind: squeeze the trigger gently, just like on the shooting range. Just like Papa taught her.

The wind gusts. She waits.

She rises onto one knee and swings the rifle into firing position. The deer, startled by the crunch of snow beneath her, raises its massive head and turns in the direction of the sound.

Quickly, she finds the buck's head in her sight, accounts for the crosswind, and fires. The bullet pierces the buck's eye, and it collapses onto the snowy meadow in a lifeless heap.

She lowers the gun, turns to Papa. She expects him to be beaming, cheering, to have his arms open to hold her and tell her how proud he is. Instead his face is a blank mask as he stares first at the dead buck, then at her.