A Game of Spies

by John Altman

  “Well,” Paula said.

  Hobbs turned over, away from her, and closed his eyes.

  Presently, he was aware of her getting out of bed and moving into the other room. A moment after that, the sound of a door opening, furtively. It closed with a quiet click.

  He sat up, suddenly wide awake.

  On her way out, Paula took her car keys.

  She had the quilt from the sofa wrapped around her shoulders. She stood for an instant, her teeth chattering in the night, and then ran for the neighbor’s house.

  Lights were still on inside. Emmy Hetzler answered her knock. Emmy, the local seamstress, took one look at Paula, blinked stupidly, and then took another, slower look.

  Behind her, Hermann Hetzler, Emmy’s husband, was talking.

  “Friedburg, the old fool, says it can’t be done. But he’s just lazy. Two good strong horses and a rope, and we’ll bring the place right to the ground.”

  The old Scheppel place, Paula thought. Over the past month alone, two children from town had been hurt playing around the old ruins. Fire had taken the place almost three years before; the Scheppels had deserted it. Any day now, the whole thing would come crashing down, and whatever children were playing inside when that happened would be worse than hurt.

  In recent weeks, the townsfolk had been debating the matter of what to do about the ruins with ever-increasing exigency. Some felt that the Scheppels, who had since relocated in Hamburg, should come back and solve the problem themselves. Others, like the tailor Friedburg, felt that the Gestapo, once notified, would be glad to remove the debris. But Hermann Hetzler and his contingent felt that it was a town problem, and that town problems should remain town problems.

  “Tomorrow I’m going to get some boys together and go have another look. Two horses, I’m telling you; that’s all it’s going to take. Then Friedburg can eat his words. The lazy old fool.”

  “My God,” Emmy said. “What happened to you?”

  Paula moved into the house, shivering.

  “Town business belongs to the town,” Hermann said decisively. “Once you let those Hitler-Heilers get their foot in the door, they never let you forget. Mark my words. They come back the next week and expect—”

  “Hermann. Look at this.”

  The man looked up from his table, saw Paula with the quilt wrapped around her shoulders, and came out of his seat.

  “What happened?” Emmy asked again, leading Paula to the couch.

  “A man,” Paula said. “He’s in my house.”

  “What man?”

  “An Engländer. He … he took liberties with me.”

  “Gott im Himmel,” Emmy breathed. “You poor dear.”

  “An Engländer?” Hermann said. “Where is he now?”

  “Still there.”

  Hermann turned and stalked deeper into the cottage. Emmy stroked Paula’s hair, brushing it off her forehead.

  “You poor dear. Are you all right? Has he hurt you?”

  “No … just my pride. I’m all right.”

  “You poor dear. Come on, lie down. Cover yourself. We’ll take care of it.”

  Hermann appeared again, a rifle in his hands. His eyes locked with his wife’s.

  “Hermann,” Emmy said. “Don’t get any ideas. Call the Regierungsrat.”

  Hermann shook his head, checking the gun’s load. “Town business,” he said, “is town business.”

  “Hermann—”

  But he was already gone.

  Emmy looked after him for a few seconds, then frowned at Paula.

  “Will you be all right by yourself for two minutes? I’ve got to find the Regierungsrat before Hermann gets himself into trouble.”

  Paula nodded weakly.

  Hetzler kicked open the door without trying the knob.

  He strode into the house in a fury, then paused, taking in the fireplace, the empty plate on the low table, the old sofa, the space above the hearth. The Enfield was gone. The space where it had hung was noticeably lighter than the wall around it.

  He looked at the space above the mantel for a moment, then proceeded with a bit more caution. Before stepping into the bedroom, he cleared his throat. “There’s five of us out here,” he called. “Give it up now. Make it easy on yourself.”

  No answer.

  He summoned his courage and moved forward. The bedroom was empty, the blanket spilled in a heap on the floor. He moved outside again. Then bent, looking for tracks.

  After a minute, he straightened.

  “Schweinehund,” he said to no one, and trotted down the hill toward town.

  8

  GOTHMUND, LÜBECK

  Thomas Brandt walked along the length of the harbor, inspecting the fishing boats moored among the tall reeds, puffing out clouds of smoke that were promptly taken by the wind and dashed.

  After reaching the end of the harbor, he turned and began to retrace his steps along the waterfront, moving in the direction of the Fischerweg. Night was falling; along with it came a feeling of pregnant expectation. For some reason, Brandt had a feeling tonight. Soon, he thought, his visitor would arrive.

  Just where the feeling had come from, he couldn’t say. Possibly the date had something to do with it: only three days shy of the Ides of March. An infamous date; a date with a history. Or possibly it came from somewhere else, from the rustle of the wind or the rhythm of the waves. Brandt’s family had been fishermen here at Gothmund for five centuries, and the rhythm of the waves was deeply ingrained in their blood. Sometimes the rhythm seemed to be speaking to him, giving clues about the future.

  Superstition, of course. Silly old tales told by bored old fishwives.

  But still: he had that feeling.

  He hurried a bit faster toward his house. The feeling was strong, and was gaining force by the minute. If his visitor arrived and Brandt wasn’t there to meet him, his blackmailers might decide that he had failed to uphold his end of the bargain. Then the other residents of Gothmund might discover the truth about Thomas Brandt. And that was a thought he couldn’t bear to face.

  Back in his house, he lit a lamp, refilled his pipe, and then set up his easel facing the small window that looked out over the darkening harbor.

  He stood in front of the easel for a time, smoking and thinking, without reaching for his brushes. He thought of Noyce, the Englishman who had appeared on his doorstep fifteen years earlier under the guise of an historian researching the Hanseatic League. Brandt had spent a week with Noyce, talking late into the nights over marzipan and strong homebrewed beer, making his memories and scrapbooks available for the man’s perusal. Before the week had ended, their relationship had progressed beyond the professional. Then Noyce had vanished back to England; Brandt hadn’t heard from him again for eleven years.

  One day late in 1936, the letter had appeared.

  He remembered the feelings associated with, the letter’s arrival as clearly as if he had felt them just yesterday. First the guilty excitement, when he had realized the envelope’s origin. Then the rush to the lamp, so he could read it with his failing eyes. The way his hands had trembled when he opened it. The sinking feeling of despair as his eyes had moved over the words themselves.

  The feeling of utter desolation and betrayal, as he realized that Noyce intended to blackmail him.

  Had Noyce always been MI6? Or had he been a scholar, as he had represented himself—another hapless old degenerate, and a victim of blackmail himself? Brandt preferred to think it was the latter. He preferred to think that his relationship with Noyce had been genuine, and that when Noyce had put the screws to him, so to speak, he had done it under duress. But he had no way of knowing for sure.

  The letter had informed Thomas Brandt that he was, as of that moment, in the employ of MI6. It had given him a cover address in Lisbon to which he should send his reports, and a list of tasks that he must undertake immediately.

  Those early tasks had been slight ones: really just a test, Brandt had soon realized, to see if he could
be trusted. He had sent Noyce, as commanded, a prompt reply. In his reply, he had listed the residents of Gothmund, as close to the man as he had been able. He had selected a nearby field that would be appropriate for a secret landing, a harbor that would be appropriate for a secret launch. He had suggested two other men in town who might be vulnerable to blackmail of their own.

  For six months, a sort of long-distance dance had occurred between the two men. Eventually, Noyce had become satisfied that Brandt was appropriately under his thumb; and during the same period Brandt had come to understand that Noyce was really only grooming him for future use. If war came again, then the town of Lübeck, situated so near to the coast, could become of vast strategic importance. Until then, Brandt was just another asset, to be cultivated and then set aside.

  The final letter had come three years before. According to the letter there was to be no more communication between them. Brandt had become too valuable to risk losing. Instead, he was to wait. At some point, a visitor might arrive, identifying himself as Brandt’s cousin. Brandt was to provide sanctuary and deflect any questions raised by the townsfolk. And that was all.

  The feeling returned: a nagging premonition.

  Tonight, he thought.

  But no; he was being fanciful. At his age, one’s defenses against fanciful thinking began to crumble. As a child, one believed fantastic things; as a man, one turned away. But with old age the lure of superstition grew again. One wanted to believe there was more, in this world, than what met the eye.

  Eventually his mind drifted back further, to more pleasant times. He pictured the town the way it had looked circa 1400, when his family had first settled here. There had been vibrant trade in those days: furs, tars, amber, and honey exchanged for copper, wool, and tin. Those had been the best days for the town, which had recently been given the honor of being declared a free imperial city. These days, by contrast, were not the best days for the town. The honor of free imperial city status had been revoked by the Nazis. Perhaps now the good days of Lübeck were finished forever. Perhaps the days of the Brandt clan were also finished.

  Usually, Brandt didn’t even bother to wonder about such questions—but he was in a bittersweet mood tonight. The date, he thought. The Ides of March.

  His eyes moved back to the blank canvas. A picture occurred to him: the town as it had once been, with its seven church spires rising majestically into the sky and trade flourishing in every corner.

  He reached for his brush and began to paint.

  PRINZ ALBRECHT STRASSE

  When the sun rose, Frick blinked awake.

  He had been deep inside a dream—and at first he thought that this was still another part of the dream. An instant before he had been crouching down in the barnyard near Kielce, touching the dancing flame of his lighter to a patch of scrubby brush. Now he was in his office, but he could still hear the cries of the rabble trapped inside the barn, the crackle of fire and the stamping of horses.

  But no; the office was real.

  He sat up, rubbing at his eyes, and the mundane facts of his surroundings slowly pressed themselves upon him. He had returned to Number 8 Prinz Albrecht Strasse after losing the man’s trail by the abandoned Talta. Sat behind his desk long into the night, waiting for the phone to ring. Then taken a catnap on the sofa, using his coat as a pillow—and now it was morning already. The fourteenth of March.

  He stood and stretched languorously. His eyes moved to his boots, set on the floor by the sofa, and then to his desk. There they paused, and lingered.

  He should have found a way to stay on the front.

  Life had been much better there, after all. When a man awoke on the front, the first thing he saw each morning was sky. When he broke his fast, he was fueling himself for meaningful work, active work. And each new day in the field had promised a chance to explore the brave new frontiers of National Socialism, instead of embracing the old ways: the paperwork, the passivity, the waiting.

  He scratched absently at one ear, looked away from the desk, and padded to the window. Early sunlight lit the streets, pure and golden. How odd, he thought, that man constructed these concrete canyons in which to contain himself. How odd that man turned away from the lure of nature. It was men who were afraid to truly look within themselves who needed these narrow streets to contain them.…

  The radiator gave a hissing squeal. He yawned, turned from the window, and groggily left the office to find coffee.

  Ten minutes later, he was behind the desk again, trying to make himself concentrate.

  The Talta had been deserted not far outside Berlin. And it had indeed contained the Engländer—when Frick had gone there with his dogs, the previous day, they had caught the man’s scent. After following the trail for a mile, however, it had abruptly disappeared. Reconstructing the train of events was not difficult. Hobbs had proceeded on foot after leaving the Talta. But he was wounded; he would be in no mood for a vigorous constitutional. And the trail had vanished into thin air. So he had found a car.

  But why had no report yet come in?

  Because he had killed the driver, Frick thought. So perhaps it was someone who lived alone, who would not quickly be missed. Perhaps—

  Someone was looking at him.

  His eyes moved up from the desk. They fell on the photograph of his mother. Her eyes, dark and intense, seemed to bore into him. He reached out and turned the frame so that she was looking across the office instead. Then he ran a hand over his mouth, and looked back down at the documents on his blotter.

  Someone who lived alone, he thought again, who would not quickly be missed. He decided to assign Hauptmann the task of assembling a list: private car owners who would have reason to travel that remote stretch of road. Unmarried private car owners who would have reason to travel that remote stretch of road. Except it was a gargantuan task. There was no guarantee of quick results, and he was loath to wait too long.

  There was doubtless a better way to go about the hunt. It was simply a matter of finding it.

  He leaned back in his chair. The dream occurred to him again: the whisk of his thumb against the lighter’s wheel. The phone rang, and he snatched it to his ear. “Frick,” he said.

  It was the Wismar Regierungsrat. The man had the air of a petty dictator about him; he took his time in explaining himself.

  “I have on my desk,” the man said, “a copy of a report. I believe it has originated from your office?”

  Frick looked at his mother, gazing placidly toward the window, and didn’t answer.

  “You are searching for a man, yes? An Engländer. We have a description here. Let me see. Heavy build. Hair, light brown. Eyes, light brown. Distinguishing—”

  From his voice, Frick could tell many things. The man was a smoker, with a deposit of congestion in his lungs. But there was something worse down there. A sickness. That was what came from living in the environs that man built for himself, he thought. They were filled with poisons. Perhaps the sickness was the reason the man cultivated the air of the petty dictator. He strove to create control, where in reality there was none.

  “—in the right leg.”

  “Yes,” Frick said calmly. “That is the man.”

  “There has been an incident, Herr Kriminal Inspector, in my territory. That is Wismar, of course. But then, I’ve already told you that.”

  “Yes,” Frick said. “You have.”

  “The incident occurred just last night. A local woman—her name is Kahr—had given a ride to a man, on her way home from visiting a sister in Berlin. The man fits this description. Heavy build. Hair, light brown. Eyes—”

  “Go on,” Frick said.

  “Let me see. A ride, yes. She found the man on a back road not far outside of Berlin. His car had failed, he claimed. He claimed to be a German. But his command of the language, according to the woman, was weak. He threatened her—forced her to bring him to her home. In Wismar, as I said. That is my territory.”

  Hauptmann was passing by the open do
or, holding a breakfast Käsesemmel in one hand. Frick snapped his fingers. “Where is the man now?” he asked, waving Hauptmann into the office.

  “Ah—hold on a moment, Herr Kriminal Inspektor.”

  A hand covered the telephone; Frick could hear the man talking to someone.

  Hauptmann smelled of two kinds of perfume. And below that, his own cologne. Was he cheating on his wife? It seemed a fair conclusion. But how could he think that no one would notice the various scents? Because Hauptmann, like the rest of these men, was living in a world of halftones. Nobody did notice these things. They had trained themselves not to.

  “Here we are,” the Regierungsrat said. “The woman managed to escape from the Engländer—but only, I am afraid, after he had taken liberties with her. Now we are not quite certain where he is. But we believe he is on foot. A contingent of brave men have taken it upon themselves to track him. They have been following since last night.”

  “Moving in what direction?”

  “West, Herr Kriminal Inspektor. I would be willing—”

  Frick hung up the telephone.

  “Dogs,” he said to Hauptmann, and went to retrieve his Luger from his jacket on the couch.

  GOTHMUND

  Thomas Brandt followed his usual path on his morning walk, inspecting the fishing boats along the harbor as if he might be taking one out himself today, as if his days of fishing were not long in the past. But he moved at a slightly faster clip than usual, for the feeling was still with him—his guest would be arriving soon; if he wasn’t there to meet the man, then questions might be raised.

  When he neared his cottage again, puffing slightly from the exertion of the walk, he saw Katie Ilgner sitting on the hillock in front of her aunt’s house, reading a book with intense concentration. Brandt slowed, hoping to exchange a friendly word. Relations between himself and the Ilgners had been shaky over the past few months, thanks to a series of petty disputes: an incident in which Katie’s dog had chewed up Brandt’s paintbrushes when he had left them outside overnight, an argument about overgrown devil grass in Brandt’s yard, and—most significantly—Frau Ilgner’s ever-growing resentment over providing Brandt with hot meals twice a week.