A Gathering of Spies

by John Altman

  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.

  She tossed the empty gun down the hallway.

  As soon as it landed, the man in the hallway opened fire—men in the hallway, she saw, two of them. They immediately fired eight bullets at the empty gun sitting on the floor. By then she had moved close to the nearer one. She kept his body oriented between herself and the other one, a human shield, and damn it, this was not looking so good, not if the two on the top floor were on their way down, but what was there to do? It was too late to turn back.

  Katarina stayed in-tight, as Hagen had taught her, in-tight, drilling it into her head over and over again, stay in-tight, so the gun in the man’s hand was useless. Her upper, middle, and lower quadrants moved in harmony; her free hand was pressed tightly to her chest, out of harm’s way; she feinted, baiting him, classic knife-fighting, brought the knife back around all in one flowing movement, felt his arm in the way to block it, kept the knife moving, economy of motion, staying in-tight; he blocked again, and she salvaged the thrust, hitting his pectoral tendon and slicing through it; he cried out, and she opened his brachial artery; then she delivered six horizontal cuts to his face, throat, and forehead. By then she was backing up, and he was going down, and there was a problem here, a genuine problem, because her human shield was down and there was an armed man in the hallway with a gun pointed at her and nothing between her and him—

  A door opened. She heard the thud of wood against flesh.

  Fritz.

  “Fritz!” she cried.

  “Katarina?”

  “Rückzug!”

  She heard the door close. She could see nothing except the flickering afterimages of the gunshots. She put her back to the wall and moved down the hall. A warm mass on the floor. The man Fritz had hit. Alive. Breathing. She knelt down, sent her fingers roaming across his rib cage—

  “Damn you,” the man said. “Damn your—”

  She put the knife between his fourth and fifth ribs. Twisted the blade. Stood up again. Light-headed. How many more? Two, she thought, the two on the top floor. What were they doing up there? Why weren’t they down here yet? Cowards.

  The tree, she remembered. They can come down, come around the outside, come up behind.

  She felt her way in the darkness, found an opening in the wall, felt the shape of narrow stairs. She quickly backed up again and then stood, waiting.

  Three minutes passed.

  A terrible silence descended on the house. She could feel her pulse thudding in her wrist, in the hollow of her throat. Would they never come down? Cowards. Or were they scaling down the tree right then, coming in through the front door, sneaking up behind? She strained to hear. Perhaps she should forget them. Get Fritz and run. But no. The AFU would be up there. She would need to climb the stairs in the darkness to fetch it. Suicide.

  Damn it, she thought. Damn it all.

  She backtracked, found the nearest corpse, and realized that the gun was not in the holster. Of course not; he had fired when she threw her empty pistol. It was not in his hand either. He had dropped it when Fritz opened the door. Finally she located it a few feet away, in a pool of blood. How many rounds were left inside? She fumbled it open and checked by feel. Three bullets.

  She listened. Were they still up there? Were they coming down? Or had they already come down, scaling down the tree? Were they coming up the stairs?

  She couldn’t stand there all night waiting.

  She moved to the door and said, “Fritz. I’m coming in.”

  The years had not been kind.

  She could see him in a shaft of moonlight: pale, emaciated, his hair thinning, his eyes small and frightened.

  “Katarina,” he said. He sounded awed. “You’ve come for me.”

  She stepped past him without answering and looked out the window. Half of the oak that led from the ground to the roof was visible, but no MI-5 agents were climbing down. She stepped back, casting her eyes around the dim room. Improvise. She spotted a glimmer: a bottle of vodka, mostly empty. She grabbed it.

  “Katarina,” he said again, “I thought that it was you they were waiting for. I prayed. But I never—”

  “Shut up,” she hissed.

  She stepped out of the bedroom, took a few steps toward the staircase that led down to the first floor. Her foot landed in a tacky puddle of blood; she slipped, then regained her balance. She smashed the vodka bottle on the top step. Let them sneak up on her, if that was what they intended. Let them try.

  She went back to Fritz’s room. When she stepped in, he took her by the shoulders.

  “I’ve missed you,” he said, and leaned forward to kiss her. His breath smelled of tobacco and vodka.

  “For God’s sake,” she said, pushing him away. “Keep your hands off me. Verrat!”

  He shook his head.

  “Ich bin ein Gefangener,” he said.

  “A traitor!”

  “No, Katarina, it’s not so. I had no choice.”

  “The junk,” she said—the klamotten. “Is it here?”

  “Upstairs, in the attic. They’ve forced me to—”

  Something crunched in the hallway. Katarina pushed open the door, brought the gun up, aimed it at the staircase, squeezed the trigger. Her first bullet went high; the agent was crouched near the floor. Her second took him in the throat. She saw a gout of blood in the momentary illumination of the powder flash. Then darkness and the soft pattering of liquid onto the floor.

  One man left. Upstairs?

  She spun around again to face Fritz.

  “Show me,” she said.

  “Up—”

  “Show me.”

  He stepped out of the room, then hesitated.

  “They’re waiting up there,” he said.

  “No, they’re all dead. Hurry!”

  She could sense him moving off in the gloom toward the narrow stairs leading to the third floor. She moved up close behind him. He began to climb the stairs. She followed, two steps behind. One bullet left in the gun. She held it in her right hand. In her left hand she turned the knife around so that she was holding the tip between her thumb and forefinger, ready to throw. Not a well-balanced knife, but the only knife she had. Fritz had climbed four stairs now. Five. His head would be coming into the attic—

  A gunshot.

  Fritz was falling back onto her. She shoved him rudely up the stairs, and two more shots followed. His body jerked twice.

  She slipped under him, past him, swiveling, finding her target, firing. At the same time, her left arm came around in an arc and the knife whistled out, following the bullet, thunking into a man’s chest.

  Fritz was making a gurgling sound.

  She frowned down at him dispassionately.

  He had turned weak. And he was a traitor.

  But she waited for a few seconds until he was still before climbing the rest of the way into the attic. Somehow she felt she owed him that.

  For old times’ sake.

  THE WAR OFFICE, WHITEHALL

  Taylor finished speaking, paused for a moment, and then lit the cigarette he’d been holding. Cold morning light streamed in through the window behind him, pinning the smoke, freezing it.

  Presently, Winterbotham said: “How far can she get?”

  Taylor looked distressed. “Not as far as she already has, I would say. But her luck’s finished now, Harry. We’ve got CID
going door to door, barricades on every road out of the city, and agents watching every railway station in London.”

  “Have you spoken with the neighbors?”

  “Nobody saw a thing, naturally, so we’ve still got no description since Los Alamos. OSS is working on getting a photograph from New York.”

  Winterbotham leaned forward. “Andrew,” he said, “I was in that house yesterday. I was probably the last one to see those poor blokes alive.” He hesitated. “A woman came to the door just before I left.”

  Taylor blinked. “You saw her?”

  “No.”

  “You heard her?”

  “No. But Dickens said she was a volunteer nurse looking for clean linen.”

  “Bloody hell. That’s our bird.”

  The telephone on the desk chimed. Taylor picked it up, listened, swore, and hung up.

  “CID found a corpse in the flat across the way. A man. Knifed.”

  Winterbotham nodded.

  “Perhaps we can trace the path she followed,” Taylor said, thinking aloud. “Find out where she met the man, follow her back from there …”

  He stubbed out his cigarette.

  “You understand, Harry, that this means the end of your assignment, at least for the time being. Now that she’s seen Meissner in his safe house, the stakes are even higher. She must have gathered some idea of what we’re up to here. If she gets in touch with Germany … Harry, we need Double Cross. We’ve already started planning the invasion. It depends entirely on deceiving the Nazis.”

  “So I won’t be allowed to complete my assignment.”

  “Not while she’s at liberty, no. I warned you of that before.”

  Winterbotham paused. Then he said, “How will she get her information to Germany?”

  “She’ll have to take it there herself. Oh, she could try to wire it with the AFU, but not if she’s smart—and she is smart. She must know that if she stays on the air too long, we’ll be able to track the signal. No, she would never try to wire everything she has. She’ll make a brief contact and set up a meeting of her own.”

  “You’ve broken their codes. Can’t you intercept her signal, find out where they’ll be meeting?”