Daniel Silva - The Unlikely Spy

In the distance she could make out the outline of their cottage against the sky. She dismounted at the gate, pushed her bicycle up the footpath, and leaned it against the side of the cottage. Her father came out and stood in the doorway, wiping his hands on a rag. His face was still swollen from the fight. Jenny tried to push past him but he reached out and wrapped his hands around her arm in an iron grip.

"Have you been with him again?"

"No, Papa." She cried out in pain. "Please, you're hurting my arm!"

He raised his other hand to strike her, his ugly swollen face contorted with rage. "Tell me the truth, Jenny! Have you been with him again?"

"No, I swear," she cried, her arms raised about her face to ward off the blow she expected at any second. "Please, Papa, don't hit me! I'm telling you the truth!"

Martin Colville released his grip. "Go inside and make me some supper."

She wanted to scream, Make your own bloody supper for a change! But she knew where it would lead. She looked at his face and, for an instant, found herself wishing that James had killed him. This is the last time, she thought. This is the very last time. She went inside, removed her sodden coat, hung it on the wall in the kitchen, and started his dinner.

Clive Roach knew he had a problem the moment Rudolf entered the crowded carriage. Roach would be all right as long as the agent remained seated inside his compartment. But if the agent left the compartment to go to the lavatory or the restaurant car or another carriage, Roach was in trouble. The corridors were jammed with travelers, some standing, some sitting and trying vainly to doze. Moving about the train was an ordeal; one had to squeeze and push past people and constantly say "Excuse me" and "Beg your pardon." Trying to follow someone without being detected would be difficult-probably impossible if the agent was good. And everything Roach had seen thus far told him Rudolf was good.

Roach became suspicious when Rudolf, clutching his stomach, stepped from his compartment while the train was still at the platform at Euston Station and sliced forward along the crowded corridor. Rudolf was short, no more than five foot six, and his head quickly disappeared into the sea of passengers. Roach picked his way forward a few steps, earning him the grunts and groans of the other passengers. He was reluctant to get too close; Rudolf had doubled back several times during the day, and Roach feared he might have seen his face. The corridor was poorly lit because of blackout regulations and already shrouded in a fog bank of cigarette smoke. Roach stayed in the shadows and watched as Rudolf knocked twice on the lavatory door. Another passenger pushed past him, obstructing his view for just a few seconds. When he looked up again Rudolf was gone.

Roach stayed where he was for three minutes, watching the lavatory door. Another man approached, knocked, then went inside and closed the door behind him.

Alarm bells sounded inside Roach's head.

He pushed his way forward through the knot of passengers in the corridor, stopped in front of the lavatory door, and pounded on it.

"Wait your turn like everyone else," came the voice on the other side.

"Open the door-police emergency."

The man opened the door a few seconds later, buttoning his fly. Roach looked inside to make sure Rudolf was not there. Dammit! He threw open the door to the connecting passage and entered the next carriage. Like the other, it was dark and smoky and hopelessly crammed with passengers. It would be impossible for him to find Rudolf now without turning over the train carriage by carriage, compartment by compartment.

He thought, How did he vanish so quickly?

He hurried back to the first carriage and found the ticket collector, an old man with steel-rimmed spectacles and a clubfoot. Roach withdrew the surveillance photograph of Rudolf and stuck it in front of the ticket collector's face.

"Have you seen this man?"

"Short chap?"

"Yes," Roach said, his spirits sinking lower, thinking, Dammit! Dammit!

"He jumped off the train as we pulled out of Euston. Lucky he didn't break his bloody leg."

"Christ! Why didn't you say something?" He realized how ridiculous the remark must have sounded. He forced himself to speak more calmly. "Where does this train make its first stop?"

"Watford."

"When?"

"About a half hour."

"Too long. I have to get off this train now."

Roach reached up, grabbed the emergency-brake cord, and pulled. The train immediately slowed, as the brakes were applied, and began to stop.

The old ticket collector looked up at Roach, eyes blinking rapidly behind the spectacles, and said, "You're not a normal police officer, are you?"

Roach said nothing as the train drew to a halt. He threw open the door, dropped down to the edge of the track, and disappeared into the darkness.

Neumann paid off the taxi a short distance from the Pope warehouse and walked the rest of the way. He switched his Mauser from the waistband of his trousers to the front pocket of his reefer coat and then turned up his collar against the driving rain. The first act had gone smoothly. The deception on the train had worked exactly as he had hoped. Neumann was certain he was not followed after leaving Euston Station. That meant one thing: Mackintosh, the man who had tailed him onto the train, was almost certainly still on it and heading out of London bound for Liverpool. The watcher was not an idiot. Eventually he would realize Neumann had not returned to his compartment, and he would begin a search. He might ask questions. Neumann's escape had not gone unseen; the ticket collector had spotted him jumping from the train. When the watcher realized Neumann was no longer on the train, he would get off at the next stop and telephone his superiors in London. Neumann realized he had a very limited window of opportunity. He had to move quickly.

The warehouse was dark and appeared deserted. Neumann rang the bell and waited. There was no response. He rang the bell again and this time could hear the sound of footsteps on the other side. The door was opened a moment later by a black-haired giant in a leather coat.

"What do you want?"

"I'd like to see Mr. Pope, please," Neumann said politely. "I need a few items, and I was told this was very definitely the place to come."

"Mr. Pope is gone and we're out of business, so piss off."

The giant started to close the door. Neumann put his foot in the way.

"I'm sorry. It's really rather urgent. Perhaps you could help."

The giant looked at Neumann, a puzzled look on his face. He seemed to be trying to reconcile the public school accent with the reefer coat and bandaged face. "I suppose you didn't hear me the first time," he said. "We're out of business. Shut down." He grabbed Neumann's shoulder. "Now, fuck off."

Neumann punched the giant in the Adam's apple, then pulled out his Mauser and shot him in the foot. The man collapsed on the floor, alternately howling in pain and gasping for breath. Neumann stepped inside and closed the gate. The warehouse was just the way Catherine described it: vans, cars, motorbikes, stacks of black-market food, and several jerry cans of petrol.

Neumann leaned down and said, "If you make a move, I'll shoot you again and it won't be in the foot. Do you understand?"

The giant grunted.

Neumann selected a black van, opened the door, and started the motor. He grabbed two jerry cans of petrol and put them in the back of the van. On second thought, it was a very long drive. He took two more and put them in the back too. He climbed inside the van, drove it to the front of the warehouse, then got out and hauled open the main door.

Before leaving, he knelt beside the wounded man and said, "If I were you, I'd get straight to a hospital."