The Winter Agent

by Gareth Rubin

  Klaussmann’s pupils enlarged as he watched. He saw the girl in pink fall away, more shards of glass tumble to the floor and the spy’s blade cut through dust suspended in sunbeams. To his eyes, it seemed to hold, somehow, in the air, before sweeping forward and forward, and then through the skin of Karl Schmidt’s throat. It sent, as Klaussmann watched, a thin line of blood spurting up the wall and on to the face of one of the soldiers. Then Schmidt’s body folded into itself and crashed backwards, knocking the guards away. His stomach turned.

  He had seen blood spilled before – it had run like a stream along the floor of interrogation rooms – but then it had been men and women in civilian clothes or naked, strapped to tables and chairs. Now it was a man in a leather greatcoat clutching his fingers to a red bubble bursting from his neck.

  Klaussmann kicked the girl aside and jumped up to better reach his gun. The spy’s back was to him and he would have a clear aim. He pulled his Luger from its holster, raised his arm and aimed for the back of the man’s head. His arm was trembling a little with the adrenalin as he touched the trigger, but the shot, he knew, was true.

  ‘Stop!’ he cried. ‘He’s mine!’ The two soldiers, raising their Spandaus to shoot, halted as ordered. Reece spun around and saw the arrow-shaped Luger now pointing at his chest. Klaussmann steadied his hand and breathed out, as he had been trained years ago.

  At first, he didn’t know why a bolt of pain as sharp and sickening as any he had ever felt was racing through his body, up from his pelvis. Then he looked down to see the girl’s black-shod foot retreating from his groin, where it had slammed into him. The shock flowed through, buckling his knees, but no electrical pulse of thought had told the muscle in his finger to cease squeezing the trigger. It pulled back until the metal met the metal behind it.

  CHAPTER 12

  The sound of the explosion passed Reece well after the bullet did. And by the time he heard it the round had grazed his hair, passing within a few millimetres of his skull, and smashed through the mouth of one of the soldiers, leaving a ragged and dirty hole in his cheek. The other soldier dived to his side.

  ‘Get out!’ It was the girl, shouting at Reece. Klaussmann was crumbling, but he still had his gun. ‘Get out!’ Even in the chaos, Reece was grateful to her for his life.

  As he scrambled to escape he felt the train slowing in its motion. More points or hasty repairs were forcing it to lose steam. He leaped over the body of the dying Schmidt, who was trying desperately, raspingly, to breathe, despite the air flowing out of his throat. One of the soldiers was holding his hands to his face and whimpering while the other crouched in the corner like a beaten animal. He made a feeble attempt to grab for Reece as he ran past along the corridor, then through a sliding door into a carriage chosen at random. He found five Frenchmen inside, carrying crates of wan vegetables.

  ‘The Boche!’ Reece shouted.

  After four years, everyone in France knew the story. One of the men tore off his pale blue overcoat and threw it around Reece’s shoulders, but it would hardly help; there was no hiding him. Only the land outside presented a possibility. The train was German territory but, in the countryside, he could hope to evade them. He stared through the window into the white gale. He could just make out that the train was crossing a bridge. Beneath it, a dirty brown river was flowing, barely visible between breaks in snow-covered ice.

  He heard two shots behind him, dulled by wood and glass. He guessed the girl’s life was gone. Silently, he thanked her again before grabbing the handle on the external door. He hesitated for a moment. It was a fraught escape.

  One of the Frenchmen closed the sliding door to the corridor, holding the handle as tightly as he could to slow any entrance, but almost immediately someone on the other side attempted to draw it open. A few centimetres of space opened up between the door and the frame and a black gun muzzle thrust through.

  No, there was no other way, Reece knew. He forced the door outward, the wind resisting his strength before wrenching it from his hand to slam against the outside of the train. Instantly, a surge of snow swept into the carriage, coating the floor and seats; it flew into Reece’s eyes and hair, scratching and freezing the skin of his cheeks.

  He stood on the threshold to the open air, looking down through the swirling sea-like white mass. The bridge was lined with a low brick wall running no more than a metre from the train. Beyond it was the sleet-filled air and the surging river.

  ‘Go!’ growled the man holding the door as one of his friends rushed to help him keep it closed. The gun barrel flashed and the window to Reece’s side immediately shattered outwards.

  ‘Good luck!’ one of the Frenchmen shouted in heavily accented English. Reece caught his breath, charged forward and leaped as far and fast as he could, lifting his feet like a long jumper to clear the wall, with nothing but hope to lift him over it. He trusted his life to the wind and the snow. For a moment he was in a white world without form, his shoes scraping the edge of the bricks as he passed over them.

  And as he twisted in the air he saw someone at the open doorway: a figure in SS uniform framed by the wood. Klaussmann was levelling his gun once more. Reece saw another flash from the muzzle.

  Clouds seemed to slip past him, and time stretched like gossamer as he dropped through the gale-whipped white ocean, down towards the river.

  Daniel Delaney’s staff car rolled through oily puddles on a narrow road deep in the Essex countryside. The window was partly open and heavy winter mist was condensing on the wool of his jacket.

  He was tired of uniforms. He had been nineteen when he was first commissioned into the army. It was the last year of the Great War and he had seen action, although not the worst of it. In 1920 he had emerged from the armed forces and matriculated at King’s College London, to read French. One of his classmates was an Austrian named Elena and he had fallen in love with her for the best part of a year, during which time she tried, and failed, to make him a Communist. After that they had remained close friends and when she had returned home they had continued to write long letters to each other. After the Anschluss the Gestapo had beaten her to death.

  Delaney read the news in a letter that Elena’s brother had written. It had watery blotches through the ink. Delaney had despised the Nazis before that, but an hour after slipping the letter back into its envelope and placing it gently into the bottom drawer of his writing desk he had re-enlisted with the aim of ending the lives of as many of them as he possibly could. He hoped they would feel more pain than she had over the hours and days it had taken to kill her. After time in Army Intelligence, he had been approached to join the nascent Special Operations Executive as deputy director of the France section.

  Thoughts of Elena came into his head from time to time, unannounced, and – truth be told – unwanted. He had a job to do and the anger that still smarted impeded him. They came now as he climbed out of the back of his car and he had to remind himself of the day’s purpose. In front of him, American military police sentries guarded a gate through a wire fence topped with barbed wire. Also at the gate, waiting for him, was an American lieutenant from the combat engineers.

  ‘Major Delaney, please show your identification to these men and then follow me,’ he said. Delaney did as he was asked, returned the guards’ salute and followed the eager young man through a second fence, one bedecked with camouflage drapes that made it difficult to see clearly into the camp. ‘Welcome to the First United States Army Group.’

  In the distance he saw rows of tanks, all neatly assembled. Scores of barracks huts could have held many thousands of men. A company-sized number were drilling on the central parade ground at the heart of the camp. Like the tanks, the men were just about visible from the road, but only at some distance.

  A small party was watching the company march and wheel. An American general with short, neat white hair, a British brigadier in a beret and a third, who wore his preferred army uniform – that of a colonel of the Queen’s Own Hussars – puffi
ng on a fat Cuban cigar. ‘Glad I’m not taking them into battle,’ the latter said to the other two, receiving chuckles in return.

  ‘I’m glad no one is,’ added the general.

  The colonel with the cigar turned to see Delaney’s approach. ‘Gentlemen, I have business to attend to,’ he said, before shambling away. Delaney followed him towards a line of tanks. They walked slowly. Churchill was a rock for the people of Britain, and he moved like one, as if each step he took were a defensive line to be dug. They were discreetly followed by two men in plain clothes who kept their distance but maintained a watchful eye on their charge. ‘Damn nuisance after a while,’ Churchill muttered, jerking his thumb at them. ‘Think I can’t take a bath without the Nazis attempting to kill me. Have you been here before?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Ah,’ chuckled the Prime Minister. ‘Then you must see the party trick.’ He beckoned to a pair of American sergeants who were comparing lists on clipboards. They dutifully walked over. ‘Gentlemen. Would you show the major here just how manoeuvrable your tanks are?’ The men grinned and went to the nearest vehicle. They lifted metal weights from its tracks, took hold of opposite ends of the tank and lifted it into the air. They threw it up and let it fall to the ground and bounce a few times before gently wafting in the breeze. They replaced the weights. Delaney went over and stroked the rubber-plastic. ‘Don’t think about poking it with a pin. It will create the most almighty bang,’ Churchill said. ‘A thousand of them here now. Inflate in five minutes, you know, and each one packs down into a single crate. We can move an entire mechanized division on a lorry. A most excellent game.’ His voice fell and a more serious look appeared on his face. ‘Nothing is without cost, of course.’

  Delaney understood. Somewhere along the line, someone was paying for the ruse. ‘Who are the men?’ Delaney asked, indicating the troops who were still drilling, although their movements were ragged.

  ‘Medically unfit. And have you seen those?’ The Prime Minister pointed to a line of jeeps. Delaney approached the closest. It was a shell of plywood and painted cardboard. ‘The RAF has obligingly allowed one or two Luftwaffe reconnaissance flights to briefly penetrate. Just long enough to catch a glimpse.’

  Delaney thought it over before returning. There was always a danger of overplaying the hand, which would result not only in the Germans discovering the trick but realizing the reason for it. ‘Have they taken the bait?’

  Churchill dropped his voice to a near-whisper. ‘Indications from Bletchley suggest so. Herr Hitler is focusing all their attention on where our ghosts are heading.’ He prodded his toe into the ground and dug up a little soil. ‘“All warfare is based on deception.” Do you know who once said that?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘A Chinese general. Long ago. Five hundred years before the Romans even set foot on this land. Nothing changes in time.’ The men finished their drill and the American general and the British brigadier walked towards one of the huts. Churchill settled himself on to an empty packing case. He sat uncomfortably, as if he wanted a backrest. ‘Right, what do you have for me?’

  ‘Maxime reports that the stolen document refers to a German spy in London with high-level access,’ Delaney said. He said it directly and simply, as he knew Churchill demanded.

  ‘Does Maxime, by God,’ the Prime Minister growled. ‘The game’s afoot, then. What about 5?’

  ‘MI5 will take any opportunity to turn London upside down. They’re ready.’

  ‘Hmmm. No doubt. And I suppose Himmler will hear the commotion if they do,’ Churchill mused. ‘Though if there really are any bad apples in our barrel, the clamour might make them so frightened they call home and we can pick up their transmissions. Dirty business.’

  ‘It is, sir.’

  Churchill stared at the ersatz tanks and jeeps. ‘Well, then, I suppose it’s time to unleash the dogs.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Churchill glanced over Delaney’s shoulder. ‘Well, that was quick.’

  Delaney looked around to see a tall, slim man wearing a pinstripe suit. ‘Hello, Evans,’ he said. Huw Evans was MI5’s main liaison officer with SOE and MI6, which ran its own intelligence-gathering operations throughout Europe. It couldn’t have been an easy role to play and Delaney respected him for it.

  ‘Delaney. Prime Minister,’ Evans said as he came close.

  ‘All warfare is based on deception, did you know that, Mr Evans?’ Churchill asked, puffing out another acrid cloud from his cigar.

  ‘I didn’t, sir. But I think that’s a wise thing to say.’

  ‘Hmmm. Yes, perhaps it is. But wisdom tends to be forgotten the second the balloon goes up.’

  ‘I saw Maxime’s report. Time for us to swing into action, I would say.’

  ‘I would say so too.’

  No flowing water met Reece’s feet as he crashed into the river, but something solid. As the shock of the impact buckled his knees he believed he had somehow missed the river and fallen on to hard land. Then he plunged through the snow-covered ice into the depths below. And the world disappeared from his vision. The freezing water choked from him what breath he had, the air blasting out as bubbles that he couldn’t see – it would have been a yell had it not been smothered by the dark water. As his panicked senses adjusted to this new world, he realized what had happened and, with only the barest of thought, a primeval desire to live took over. He told himself to stay alive.

  Reece had learned to swim as a child in a country river just like this, but then it had been a summer holiday at his grandparents’ home on Long Island and the flow had been nothing compared to the torrent that now dragged him along. Even as he struggled to work out which way led to the air, he kicked with his feet, emulating the strokes he had practised when younger, and he windmilled his arms, desperate for movement.

  At first his movements were too chaotic to propel him in any direction. But then his actions seemed to unconsciously unite in purpose and he felt himself moving, slowly rising up. As he drifted through the dirt he felt sure that there was air within reach, if he could just stretch his arms to it. They lifted above his head, higher and higher. But then, just as he felt certain he was about to make it out, his searching fingers were stopped by a layer of ice, filtering the grey light and keeping him from the air he needed.

  As his lungs burned he thrust both his palms up and pushed, trying to force his way to the sky. But the solid ice wouldn’t crack or yield. He felt all around, further along towards the bank, where it was mottled with vegetation frozen into it, but it was just as hard. Desperate now, feeling his life slipping from him, knowing he had only seconds left before consciousness would leave him, he formed his right hand into a fist and punched upwards as hard as he could. But it failed to break through.

  He punched again. And again, with all the strength he had left. And that time, hard enough to fracture the bones in his hand, he felt cracks threading through the ice. One more strike and shards of the ice came away from his knuckles, and then, with both hands, he reached up and grabbed hold of the broken edges of the glassy sheet, wrenching himself upwards and throwing his head through the surface.

  He gulped down air and falling snowflakes. It seemed as if he had burst from one world into another. He spluttered as he sucked in as much air as he could, giving himself seven or eight lungfuls before resting then tearing away more ice, clearing and scrabbling a path through it towards the weed-tangled riverbank.

  He dragged himself through a crowd of reeds, shivering, up the mud and filth of the bank, his body numb and his heart thudding like a marching army, until he collapsed on the hard earth, thankful for whatever bestial part of his mind had saved him from drowning in a freezing river.

  Slowly, as he lay there, his vision turned into colours and lines. The sky became a cream-hued sheet peppered with dark treetops. The mud between his fingers sopped to the ground and his body shook all over as snow drifted over him and settled on his chest.

  Barely conscious as he wa
s, he knew he had to check for pursuit. He scanned all around: no, the train had disappeared and no one was in sight.

  He pulled off his jacket and shirt, wrung them out then pulled them back on as some protection against the chill before slumping back down, trying to recover. Little by little, his lungs returned to normal and he checked himself all over. Klaussmann’s bullet had missed him. It was a reprieve he hadn’t expected but for which he was thankful.

  The leather shortage meant that most wallets were nowadays made from cardboard. It was luck that Reece had kept one made from leather because as the river had closed over him the water had soaked the material to seal in its contents, keeping his identity card intact.

  He drew it out as he approached the checkpoint into north-western Paris some hours later. It had been a hard, bitingly cold tramp for a while, and he had had to keep moving or risk hypothermia from his wet clothes. But the snow had ceased and then a delivery van caked in dirt had given him a lift for most of the distance from the small town in which he had found himself. The driver had let him out a couple of hours’ walk from Paris and now he was approaching on foot. He wasn’t the only one – there was a constant stream of men and women in and out as the townsfolk made journeys by any means they could to country cousins in order to scavenge some fresh food. They returned with pork, butter and eggs and Reece let the swell of sated bodies swallow him up and bear him along.

  It felt good to be lost in that melee for a while. The occupation had set so many against each other as they fought over scraps, but even in the cold, these people coming back to town with full bellies were happy and there was an air of camaraderie that he had missed. Life in the circuit was a strange, divided one – bound hard to the other agents and yet rarely seeing them in order to maintain security. Charlotte had been an exception – and, he feared, a lapse.