by John Altman
“Katarina Heinrich,” the man said yet again. His voice, warped by the acoustics of the tower, sounded hollow and otherworldly.
“That is your name, isn’t it?” he said. “Katarina Heinrich.”
How many more stairs to the top? She couldn’t bear to think about it. She pulled herself up again.
This time the dream was different. This time she was bounding up the stairs, whole again, capable, perfect, hiding in the vat of mercury. Deadly poison, mercury, but in the dream it was harmless; and in the dream she sank into it easily, like a bath. In the dream she killed the fat man when he stepped into the gallery, flinging the knife in her hand with deadly accuracy, skewering him through one eye.
The knife. Did she have it?
She opened her eyes. Looked at her hands. No, the knife was only a dream.
Thunder exploded again, farther away. The storm was moving off.
She decided, suddenly, that she was dying.
Not over yet, she thought. Not over yet, God damn it.
She managed another stair.
In the dream, it was the last stair. She had reached the gallery. The final dregs of the storm were beating at the windows. A slash of lightning illuminated old Rupert, facedown, floating in the mercury bath beneath the tremendous Fresnel lens. In the dream she dragged herself halfway across the floor and then collapsed, utterly spent. She could no longer feel the bullet in her arm. The arm had gone numb. Dying, she thought. She felt like a very little girl who had stumbled into a Grimm fairy tale, with the storm trailing off outside, the bogeyman coming up the stairs behind her, and nowhere left to run. It was cold up there. The middle of the summer, but somehow it was cold up there. Or perhaps the coldness was inside her. The numbness had spread from her arm to her chest. Perhaps it wouldn’t stop at the boundaries of her body. Perhaps her last act in this world would be to bring the coldness out, from her body to the world … Oh, but she had hoped for fire. She had hoped to bring atomic fire out into the world, instead of cold. But there was no fire to be found.
“Not … dreaming,” she muttered.
It was true. This was no dream; it was reality. And if she died now she would never bring fire to the world, only cold. And so she could not lie there on the floor. She needed to get moving. To find a weapon.
Her body was an instrument, and she was its master.
She tried to sit up, to get moving again, and her body, politely but firmly, refused.
She collapsed again, with a small sob.
In the dream, then, she rolled over onto her back to wait for him to come. He was directly behind her on the stairs, after all; probably being overcautious—he didn’t know how badly she was hurt. But any second now she would see his shadow looming on the wall as he reached the top of the stairs.… Why, there it was now … in the dream … he was coming for her … she wished for poison. If she had possessed a poison capsule she would have swallowed it. Better death than capture. Or would this man kill her?
He came into the gallery.
He looked as frightened as she felt. His eyes were darting into every crevice, as if she had some last trick, some last spectacular trick, hidden up here. He must have heard about Highgate, she thought. He must think I’m dangerous, even now.
But there was nothing she could do as he slowly came into the room, the pistol in his hand pointed at the crease between her eyes.
“Katarina Heinrich,” he said.
She nodded, or tried to.
In the dream, then, his finger was tightening on the trigger. Not going to arrest her after all. He was going to kill her, right there and then. Not weak, this man. Hard. Willing to do whatever it took. She could respect that.
In the dream, then, Hagen came to her rescue. He emerged from the staircase behind the man, the same old Hagen, gaunt and rangy and encased in sheer black, which he wore only when he was working. In the dream, Hagen was holding a Luger, which he pointed at the old fat man’s head. In the dream, Hagen said, “No, please.”
Which was a funny touch for a dream, she thought. Of course, Hagen’s English was not particularly good, and of course, that was pretty much the way he would speak, were he to speak in English at that moment. But since his role in this dream was as savior, as deus ex machina, she would have thought that he would have been forgiven his deficiencies in English. She would have thought that he would have spoken flawlessly.
The old fat man froze.
“Set down the gun,” Hagen commanded.
The old fat man bent, carefully, and set down his gun. He raised his hands over his head.
“Take two steps back, please,” Hagen said.
The man took two steps back, hands still raised. Katarina watched, bemused. Not such a bad dream, she thought. She wondered if she was dead yet. Not such a bad way to go out, with a nice dream like this. If only Hagen would shoot the old fat man in the head, everything would be perfect.
But Hagen wasn’t shooting him.
“Professor Winterbotham?”
The man nodded once, shortly.
“My name is Hagen,” Hagen said. “This is Gruber.”
Katarina saw, then, another man behind Hagen—a mousy little man who emerged from the shadows, looking excited.
“Professor,” Gruber said, mincingly. “On behalf of Admiral Wilhelm Canaris, please accept my invitation to return with us to Berlin immediately.”
Katarina closed her eyes. She felt confused, and extremely spent. What was going on? What was this odd turn her fantasy had taken? Who was this mousy little mincing man?
When she opened her eyes again, Hagen was crouching next to her, examining her shoulder. He saw her eyes open, and the ghost of a smile traced his lips.
“Katarina,” he said. “You came home.”
Katarina nodded.
“Rest,” he said.
She nodded again.
She closed her eyes.
And rested.
18
The car rumbled to a stop in the fog.
“What is it?” Taylor asked, leaning forward.
The driver cleared his throat before answering. “I believe this is it, sir,” he said.
“This is what, Fitz?”
“It, sir. As near as I can guess.”
“The lighthouse?”
Fitz nodded.
Taylor leaned forward even farther, trying to peer through the windshield. “Can’t see a bloody thing,” he murmured.
“The road ends just ahead.”
“Can’t you pull up a bit?”
“There’s no road, sir. I can drive on the grass, if you like.”
“Hold on,” Taylor said.
He threw open his door and marched past all four cars in line, rapping on the windows. They formed a huddle in the misty night: Taylor, Kendall, Colonel Fredricks, and two men from the Criminal Investigation Division of Scotland Yard, called CID.
“We’re here,” Taylor said. “We just don’t know it yet.”
Colonel Fredricks was frowning into the night around them.
“Bloody hard to see anything in this soup.”
“I’m aware of that, Colonel. Unfortunately we’ve no time to spare waiting for it to lift. Does everybody have a sidearm?”
They all had.
“We’ll make straight for the beach,” Taylor said. “Once the beach is secure, we’ll send a party back to the lighthouse. By the time our contingent arrives from Whitley Bay, we’ll either have them in the lock or cut off with their escape route blocked.”
“Sir?” Fredricks said.
“Colonel?”
“What about Winterbotham?”
“What about him?”
“What are we to do if we run into him, sir?”
“What do you think?” Taylor said, checking the load in his pistol.
“But …”
“Any sensible questions?”
There was none.
“God be with us all,” Taylor said.
They struck off toward the beach in t
wo groups.
Taylor led the first, with Colonel Fredricks on one side and Kendall on the other. They passed an abandoned Sunbeam Talbot—Winterbotham’s car, Taylor realized suddenly, although he hadn’t seen it for years—and then angled left, away from the lighthouse.
The two from CID went to the right, around the lighthouse’s other side.
The ground was marshy and wet. It squelched softly with their footsteps. The fog stole the sound as soon as it was made, spreading it thin. When Kendall spoke, the same thing happened to his voice: “Sir,” he whispered, “a path. Leading down the cliffs.”
It seemed to Taylor as if the voice was coming from all around him. When he tried to look at Kendall, he could see nothing but a smudge among the rest of the haze.
“Where?” he whispered back.
A hand touched his.
“Come on,” Kendall said. “I’ll lead you.”
Taylor reached out to his left, to take Fredricks’s hand. He found himself grasping at air.
“Fredricks,” he hissed.
There was no answer.
“Fredricks!”
Nothing.
“I’ve lost Fredricks,” he said.
After a moment, they went on anyway, Kendall leading the way, Taylor holding his hand like a schoolgirl. The path led down a rough, steep cliff that Taylor would not have cared to negotiate even under good circumstances. As they descended, however, they began to get beneath the fog. Soon Taylor could see Kendall in front of him; he let go of his hand. Soon after, they were stepping onto the rocky beach itself, grateful to have avoided sprained ankles or worse. Far out above the black sea, Taylor could see a loose toss of stars very low to the horizon, very distant, in a place the storm had not touched.
The beach was deserted—except for the shadow of an empty dinghy resting on the sand.
Taylor and Kendall exchanged a glance without speaking. Then Taylor turned and looked back up the cliff. The fog thickened as his eyes moved higher; but from there he was able to make out the lighthouse, a black blur behind the mist. The occupants of the dinghy, he supposed, were up there.
If that was the case, they soon would be back.
He indicated, with a gesture, that Kendall should take cover farther down the beach. Then he himself crept back, silently, to the path leading up the cliff. He positioned himself about a dozen feet from the base in such a way that he would not be visible to anyone coming down until they were directly beside him.
He checked his gun again.
He considered lighting a cigarette, and decided he couldn’t risk it.
He waited.
As soon as Hagen heard the engines burring softly over the distant sound of the surf, he silenced his companions by raising a hand. They were just coming off the foot of the spiral staircase—Hagen in the lead, Gruber behind him, Katarina supported between them, the British traitor bringing up the rear.
He cocked his head, listening. Although his hearing had deteriorated a bit, lately, it was still sharp. At least three cars, he decided, and possibly more.
Schmidt would not wait for them any longer than he deemed safe. In fact, he would probably relish the opportunity to strand Hagen there, in the heart of enemy territory.
He waved the men in close, and spoke in a whisper.
“I will lead,” he said, “and clear the path. You follow behind with Katarina. Keep off the beach until I have given my signal. And protect her at all costs. Your lives are valuable only as long as she remains alive.”
“Signal?” Gruber said. He was breathing hard, winded from the menial task of carrying Katarina down the stairs. Hagen felt a flash of disdain for this sallow little man, so soft and weak, such an apt emissary for the traitor Canaris. He dismissed it.
“A whistle. Wait two minutes before following me.”
He put Winterbotham’s pistol into Winterbotham’s hand, then vanished.
Gruber and Winterbotham looked at each other.
“Can he do it?” Winterbotham asked.
Gruber nodded. Winterbotham could smell his fear, ripe and sour.
“He can do it,” Gruber said.
Hagen listened.
Two groups, he decided. One directly in front of him moving through the fog toward the water. Three men in that group. Amateurs, whispering among themselves, squelching through the damp grass. The second group was behind him, circling around the back of the lighthouse. Professionals, or at least men with experience not limited to desks. He couldn’t immediately know how many they were; they trod softly.
The three in front of him, however, would be easy.
He holstered the Luger before moving forward. If he could take the three silently, it would make the second group that much easier.
He fell into step behind the amateurs. He could see nothing, but he could feel them, feel their energy on the fog. Two were drifting off to the right. As a result, the other, continuing straight, was separating himself from his companions. None of them seemed to realize what was happening. Hagen followed the one who was continuing straight. The man was nervous, very nervous. Hagen could feel his nervousness crackling like electricity. He would have his gun in his hand, this nervous amateur, and he could not be given a chance to squeeze the trigger. But Hagen did not think that would be a problem.
He waited until the man in front of him had paused, perhaps realizing for the first time that he had become separated from his companions. Then he stepped forward, slipping his arm around the man’s throat, inserting his fingers into the man’s mouth. At the same time, he took the man’s other hand, the one holding the gun, and applied sharp pressure to the inside of the wrist with his thumb until he heard the gun fall into the grass with a soft flumph. The man was beginning to choke. Hagen adjusted his balance, planted a strong grounding foot, and then bent the man over his knee, holding the head steady with one arm, and twisted.
He lay the corpse down soundlessly.
He drew a knife in case one of the man’s companions had heard the short scuffle.
“Sir,” one of the other amateurs said. Perhaps ten feet away, perhaps fifteen, directly to his right, “a path. Leading down the cliffs.”
“Where?”
“Come on. I’ll lead you.”
“Fredricks,” the other hissed.
Hagen froze.
“Fredricks!”
Hagen raised the knife, preparing to throw it.
“I’ve lost Fredricks,” the voice said.
A moment later, they were moving away down the cliff, scrabbling, making so much noise that it almost seemed as if they were making noise on purpose. Hagen let out his breath. He would let these two stay on the beach, he decided, where he knew their location, until he had finished dealing with the professionals.
He began to proceed forward, keeping near the edge of the cliff. He moved slowly, pausing after every two steps to listen. The professionals must have been somewhere in front of him, coming in his direction.
Unless, he thought suddenly, they had gone to the lighthouse instead.
No. He had heard them moving around the outside of the lighthouse, coming toward the beach.
But if he had made a mistake, Katarina would be the one to pay the price.
The thought made him frantic. He knew very well that panic was his worst enemy, but at that moment he gave himself over to it—after all of this, he had left Katarina behind, guarded by an idiot and a traitor. After all of this, after finally being reunited with her after more than ten years apart, he had immediately let her out of his sight. But it was not too late to correct his mistake.
He began to walk briskly toward the lighthouse, reminding himself to move silently, telling himself at the same time that as soon as he had satisfied himself that Katarina was out of harm’s way, he would move silently, but for the time being—
“Scotland Yard!” someone cried.
In the next instant, somebody fired a gun.
Hagen cursed himself even as he dropped to the ground, even as he
pulled free the Luger. He was old; that was the problem. He had decided that the men had been moving around the lighthouse and he had then doubted that decision, for no good reason at all. These men were professionals—Scotland Yard, as they had so considerately informed him. They had taken advantage of his mistake.
Another report sounded. A bullet whizzed close past his ear. Hagen rolled to his right, keeping the Luger close to his body, in-tight. How many? Now his own heart was pounding too loudly in his ears for him to be sure. He rolled four times and then sprung into a crouch, bringing the gun up, oscillating the barrel back and forth, still cursing himself. The knife had fallen somewhere. He forced himself to set aside the recriminations—there would be time for those later. He listened, extending his senses past his own thudding heart.
One, at least one, in front and to his right. His Luger was immediately trained on the man. But until he knew how many he faced, Hagen would not fire. He would not make the amateur’s mistake and give away his own position by firing.
Instead, he began to backpedal.
Vanish, he was thinking. Vanish, then reappear. Seize the—
“There!” someone cried.
Three more shots thundered in the night. Hagen gave up any pretense of backpedaling.
He turned and ran.
Gruber was standing in the narrow front hall of the lighthouse, peering outside through a small window. When the sound of the first shot came, he uttered a surprised yelp.
“Hörst du das?” he cried.
He kept looking out the window, licking his lips compulsively. Another shot sounded, and then, a moment later, three more in rapid succession.
“Lass die Frau hier und beeile dich,” Gruber said. “Komm mit verstärkung von dem Boot zurück.” He turned toward Winterbotham. “Komm mit verstärkung…” He trailed off.
He began to raise his hands over his head.
Winterbotham fired.
Taylor heard one shot, a second, three more; then, distantly, a sixth.
“Stay here!” he called to Kendall.
He began to charge up the slope without waiting for acknowledgment. The soil under his feet seemed looser going up, somehow, than it had coming down. He found himself having trouble finding dependable footholds. Perhaps he needed somebody’s hand to hold, he thought. He kept moving anyway, doggedly, until his breath was rasping through his lungs.