A Gathering of Spies (14 page)

“Of course,” she said. “I don't mean to be a burden.”

“I'm not asking you to leave, Catherine. Not at all. I'm just wondering if perhaps you've some idea, some very rough idea, of when you may …”

She was drifting up to kiss him, now. He pulled away. If he kissed her, he would lose his resolve. And one could not afford in this day and age to lose one's resolve. These were difficult times. He had done the woman a favor the day before, after all, giving her a place to stay, a warm bed, his companionship. But it could not be allowed to continue. And if she kissed him …

“Clive,” she murmured.

“Catherine, please. I can't—”

“I'll leave tonight.”

“Tonight?”

“Tonight,” she said, and slid the knife into his chest between his fourth and fifth ribs, puncturing his heart.

Winterbotham woke with a start.

He sat up, and the chessboard on his lap spilled to the floor.

For a moment he didn't know what had woken him. The house was dark; he had slept away the dusk. How did you like that? Three years of terrible insomnia and suddenly he was drifting off at the drop of a hat. In the middle of a game, if he remembered correctly. Dickens had proven to be a far sharper player than Winterbotham had initially assumed. And where was Dickens? That was what had woken him, he realized; Dickens moving. Dickens had moved—where? To answer the door? Yes, there had been a knock at the door. And now …

Dickens came into the room again. He was holding a torch, which shone for a second into Winterbotham's eyes, blinding him.

“God damn it,” Winterbotham said.

“Sorry, sir.” The light veered away.

“Somebody at the door?”

“Just a volunteer nurse, sir.”

“A volunteer nurse?”

“Looking for clean linen. They say the planes may come this way tonight.”

“Hm,” Winterbotham said. He was still blinking the sleep out of his eyes. The chess pieces had scattered all over the floor, he realized. He got down on his hands and knees—not as easy as it once had been; he grunted loudly—and began to gather them together by touch.

“Need some light there, sir?”

“Why don't you turn on some real damn lights and just pull down the blackout shades?”

“Sorry, sir. Taylor's orders.”

“God damn it,” Winterbotham said again. “What makes you think the darkness would work for you instead of for her?”

No answer from Dickens. Winterbotham let it go; he knew he was feeling crabby only because he was freshly awoken. He located the rest of the chess pieces, put them inside the board, and then stood, yawning copiously.

“What's the time?” he asked.

“Just past ten, sir.”

“Seems I drifted off.”

“Why don't you head on home now, sir? We're more than able to take care of things here.”

Winterbotham couldn't help but feel tempted. These men were half his age; they weren't drifting off to sleep except in their own beds. They were armed and trained and ready. What good could he really do there, even if the woman did show up? Most likely he would just be in the way. Besides, there was food at his flat. Not just turnips but half a beef pudding he had been saving. He had quit smoking and drinking; the least he could do was allow himself a half-decent meal.

“You're sure you can handle it without me?” he said.

“Quite sure, sir.”

“If you're really sure, Dickens.”

“Really quite sure, sir.”

“All right,” Winterbotham said. “I'll stop by in the morning.”

“I'll be back at noon, sir.”

“Thanks for the game, Dickens. You've a strong grasp of the opening.”

“My pleasure, sir.”

“Perhaps next time we can play through 'til the end.”

“I hope so, sir.”

“Good night,” Winterbotham said, and went out with his chessboard under his arm.

Katarina watched the old fat man leave.

She was back in Clive Everett's flat, looking out the window. She was naked; she had been in the process of changing her clothes when she noticed the man leaving. It was a stroke of luck. It meant one less person to worry about.

She was fairly certain, after her day of surveillance, that there were between seven and ten men in the house—minus one, now. A variety of trees half obscured the view from her window, but she had been able, by consistently changing her angle of observation, to reach some fairly solid conclusions. There were two on the first floor—three, if you counted the fat one. She had verified this with her own eyes, just minutes before, when she had knocked on the door. There were at least three on the second floor, perhaps more. At least two of them were short and squat. One had a beard. Another may even have been Fritz himself, although it was impossible to be sure.

On the third floor, two more. Of this she was absolutely certain. They were watching for her, looking out the window at regular intervals—covering the approach, they would call it. But by covering the approach so assiduously, they had given away their own numbers and positions.

Since the one who had answered the door had been armed (pistol, breast holster), she would work on the assumption that all of them were armed. But since he had come to the door with the gun still holstered, she would also assume that they were sloppy.

She felt nervous.

After watching the fat man get on his bicycle and pedal away, she resumed dressing. She was putting on Clive Everett's clothes, which were baggy, which was good, and which were black, which was better. She carried no bag, but she held two knives, one in each hand, turned haft-up so that the blades lay flat against the insides of her wrists.

One was the knife with which she had killed Clive Everett. Both were household knives, poorly balanced, and not the perfect weapons for her purposes, although she had sharpened the blades earlier in the day. But she thought they would do the job, if only she could place them correctly. They would not leave her much margin for error.

Around her waist was a length of cord she had cut from a clothesline in the backyard. The cord was not as dark as she would have liked, but it was thin and it was sturdy. It would fit very well across the staircase she had seen just moments before, when she had knocked on the door and asked for fresh linens.

Why was she so nervous? They were fewer than ten. It should not be a problem.

Panic is your worst enemy
, Hagen had taught her.

She took a few moments to get control of herself. Shallow, steady breathing. She was about to risk her life. But she had risked her life before. She had gone into worse circumstances before, although they had been only training missions. There was no reason for this to go poorly … unless she panicked.

Suddenly she remembered the dream she had had the night before. The same dream as ever, with slight variations. Fritz was there, but he was wearing an RAF uniform; he had become the enemy, chewing on a Churchill-esque cigar. Clive was there, pawing at her, bleeding from the ears and the eyes. Hagen was there, ramrod stiff, barking out orders, the swastika armband around his bicep brilliant and crisp. And the gallows was there, as always, creaking in the breeze, beckoning …

Katarina put the dream out of her head.

There was no more time for thinking.

Now was the time for action.

For the Fatherland.

7

She knocked twice.

The nervousness tried to rise again, to blunt her edge, to make her weak.…

No.

The door was opening.

The knife in her right hand turned over, the blade appearing from nowhere like a glittering magic trick.

He had his gun out.

Too late; no matter. The knife flicked across his throat and removed a shallow quarter inch of flesh, and then his blood was jetting into her face like a geyser.

She dropped and rolled left and forward, into the darkness. One more on this floor, to the rear. So far this kill had been silent. Dickens was teetering above her, not yet understanding that he was dead. Katarina took a moment to consider her options. Silent, it had been, absolutely silent, not so much as a gurgle—they still didn't know she was here—but which was more important, penetrating the house, staying in the darkness, or keeping the quiet? She decided to risk keeping the quiet. Instead of moving immediately forward, she took another moment to half stand, put her arms around Dickens's waist, and drag him inside. She laid him on the floor to the right of the door, then reached out and pushed it softly closed with one foot.

A light slashed across the room—somebody's torch.

“Ed?” a voice said.

The light and the voice were coming from the doorway that led to the rear of the floor. She circled, backpedaling, to her left, staying out of the beam. Her rear end bumped against a piece of furniture, but she kept moving, kept sliding, sidling, gliding, and by the time the beam of light had snaked around to the place where she had hit the furniture, she was behind the beam of light, behind the man. Blood was in her eyes; she blinked furiously. This would be as easy as the one at the door had been. A strike from behind. The only question was, ribs or throat? She preferred the ribs when at all possible, but—

He was turning around. The light hit the knife …

Instead of trying to draw his gun, he threw himself forward, grabbing for her knife hand. She cursed inwardly, let him get the hand, turned around the knife in the other hand, and tried to put it through his ear—except that he was already moving again. The torch hit the floor and rolled crazily; then they were on the floor together, grappling. God
damn
it, this was all she needed; she had lost one of the knives, and the man's weight was pressing against her chest. He was heavy, he was panting, and now he was punching her—a glancing blow to the temple—God
damn
it—she had hesitated—nobody's fault but her own—and these were the most valuable moments, the moments when she should have been stringing the line across the stairs—how much noise were they making?—God
damn
it, he was punching her again, connecting more solidly this time, and she could suddenly taste her own blood mingled with the blood of the man at the door.

You're panicking
, she thought.

She turned off her mind. Let the body take over; let the training take hold. The man on top of her outweighed her by a hundred pounds. She had lost both knives now, somehow, and she was blind with blood. They were making noise, and her chances of penetrating the house successfully had gone down a thousandfold. But none of it mattered.

Panic is your worst enemy
.

The man was holding her down with his left arm while his right rose to land another punch. Katarina waited until the blow was moving downward, then delivered an out-to-in cross block, openhanded, just as Hagen had taught her, catching the man on the inside of the right elbow. The blow was deflected; his arm buckled, and his own momentum sent him reeling forward. His hand struck the floor to the right of her head with a sharp
crunch
. She pretended for a moment that she was trying to wriggle out from under him. Instead of fixing his own balance, he threw his weight behind his base arm—the one holding her down—determined to keep her pinned.

It was his last mistake.

She struck three vital points in quick succession: throat, nose, temple.

The man was off her, then, lying on the floor and moaning. She grabbed his torch and swept it around until she had found one of her knives. She picked up the knife and killed the man on the floor.

She switched off the torch.

Breathing raggedly, now. They had made noise. The others would be coming to investigate.

Abort
, she thought.
Abort
.

No. Now or never.

She reached the staircase with four huge strides. The cord around her waist came off. She had already tied slipknots on the ends; now she drew the cord tight across the highest step she could easily reach, the sixth step from the bottom, fastening it quickly to the banister supports, operating by touch.

A light flashed at the top of the stairs. She quickly retreated, found the man she had just killed, and patted him down until she found the gun in the breast holster. She held it in her right hand, switching the knife to her left. Her thumb clicked off the safety.

Footsteps coming down the stairs, now. Two pairs. Not calling out; they were being cautious.

This is not according to plan
, she thought—she was thinking clearly, coolly, distantly.
This is not according to plan, but we will make do
.

The first one hit the tripwire and came down hard, crying out.

Katarina emptied the chamber, sweeping the gun from left to right, from the middle of the staircase down to the base. In the stuttering powder flashes she could see the man caught on the stairs dancing a crazy jig—hit twice, chest and shoulder, which would probably do the trick—and the one on the floor ducking and covering, his feet up over his head, reaching into his coat, upside down, until a bullet opened the top of his head and splattered his brains against the front door.

She vaulted toward the stairs.

At least three more. She couldn't wait for them to come to her; she needed to take the initiative. Her most vulnerable moments would be spent climbing the staircase. This was supposed to have happened before they knew she was here. No helping it. She stepped over a body, slippery with blood, and then another one, which was still moving, making a thick sound in the throat—she would take care of him later—and then, thank God, she reached the top riser. There were no lights up there. Her side was stitching painfully—just a cramp, she didn't think she had been hit. Back to the wall, silent, breath wanting to rasp in and out, but no, silent, they were there—somewhere in the darkness—in front of her …

There.

A small sound three feet in front of her, one foot to the right.