Clive Roach spotted Rudolf and saw the exchange. He thought, Smooth bastards, aren't you? He watched as Rudolf paused, then turned and walked in the same direction as Catherine Blake. Roach had witnessed many meetings by German agents since 1939, but never had he seen one agent turn and follow the other. Usually, they went their separate ways. Roach turned the collar of his oilskin up around his ears and floated carefully behind them.

Catherine Blake walked eastward along the Strand, then down to Victoria Embankment. It was then she spotted Neumann behind her. Her first reaction was anger. Standard rendezvous procedure was to part company--and quickly--as soon as the handover was complete. Neumann knew the procedure and had executed it faultlessly every time. She thought, Why is he following me now?

Vogel must have ordered him to do it.

But why? She could think of two possible explanations: He had lost faith in her and wanted to see where she was going, or he wanted to determine whether she was under surveillance by the other side. She looked out at the Thames, then turned and glanced down the Embankment. Neumann made no attempt to conceal his presence. Catherine turned and continued walking.

She thought of the endless training lectures at Vogel's secret Bavarian camp. He had called it countersurveillance, one agent following another to make certain the agent was not being followed by the opposition. She wondered why Vogel would make such a move now. Perhaps Vogel wanted to verify that the information she was receiving was good by making certain she was not being followed by the other side. Just to contemplate the second explanation made her stomach burn with anxiety. Neumann was following her because Vogel suspected suspected she was under MI5 surveillance. she was under MI5 surveillance.

She paused again and stared out at the river, forcing herself to remain calm. To think clearly. She turned and looked down the Embankment. Neumann still was there. He was intentionally avoiding her gaze, that was clear to her. He was looking out at the river or back up the Embankment, anywhere but in her direction.

She turned and started walking again. She could feel her heart pounding in her chest. She walked to Blackfriars underground station, went inside, and purchased a ticket for Victoria. Neumann followed her and did the same, except the ticket he purchased was for the next stop, South Kensington.

She walked quickly toward the platform. Neumann purchased a newspaper and followed her. She stood, waiting for the train. Neumann stood twenty feet away, reading the paper. When the train came, Catherine waited for the doors to open, then stepped into the carriage. Neumann stepped into the same carriage, but through the second set of doors.

She sat down. Neumann remained standing at the opposite end of the carriage. Catherine did not like the look on his face. She looked down, opened her handbag, and peered inside--a wallet filled with cash, a stiletto, and a loaded, silenced Mauser pistol with extra ammunition clips. She closed the bag and waited for Neumann to make the next move.

For two hours Neumann followed her as she moved through the West End, from Kensington to Chelsea, from Chelsea to Brompton, from Brompton to Belgravia, from Belgravia to Mayfair. By the time they reached Berkeley Square, he was convinced. They were good--damned good--but time and patience had finally depleted their resources and forced them to make a mistake. It was the man in the mackintosh walking fifty feet behind him. Five minutes earlier Neumann had been able to get a very good look at his face. It was the same face he had seen on the Strand nearly three hours earlier--when he had taken the film from Catherine--only then the man had been wearing a green oilskin coat and woolen cap.

Neumann felt desperately alone. He had survived the worst of the war--Poland, Russia, Crete--but none of the skills that helped him through those battles would come into play here. He thought of the man behind him--reedy, pasty, probably very weak. Neumann could kill him in an instant if he wanted. But the old rules didn't apply to this game. He could not radio for reinforcements, he could not count on the support of his comrades. He kept walking, surprised at how calm he was. He thought, They've been following us for hours; why haven't they arrested us both? He thought he knew the answer. They obviously wanted to know more. Where was the film to be dropped? Where was Neumann staying? Were there other agents in the network? As long as he didn't give them the answers to those questions, they were safe. It was a very weak hand but, if played skillfully, Neumann might be able to give them a chance to escape.

Neumann quickened his pace. Catherine, several feet in front of him, turned onto Bond Street. She stopped to flag a taxi. Neumann walked faster, then broke into a light run. He called out. "Catherine! My God--it's been ages. How have you been?"

She glanced up, alarm on her face. Neumann took her by the arm.

"We need to talk," Neumann said. "Let's find a place to have some tea and do some catching up."

Neumann's sudden move landed on the command post in West Halkin Street with the impact of a thousand-pound bomb. Basil Boothby was pacing and talking tensely to the director-general by telephone. The director-general was in contact with the Twenty Committee and with the prime minister's staff in the Underground War Rooms. Vicary had made a patch of quiet around himself and was staring at the wall, hands bunched beneath his chin. Boothby slammed down the telephone and said, "The Twenty Committee says let them run."

"I don't like it," Vicary said, still staring at the wall. "They've obviously spotted the surveillance. They're sitting there now trying to figure out what to do."

"You don't know that for certain."

Vicary looked up. "We've never observed her meeting with another agent before. And now she's suddenly sitting in a Mayfair cafe having tea and toast with Rudolf?"

"We only had her under surveillance a short time. For all we know she and Rudolf have been meeting like this regularly."

"Something's not right. I think they've spotted the tail. What's more, I think Rudolf was looking for it. That's why he followed her after making the rendezvous in the Strand."

"The Twenty Committee has made its decision. They say let them run, so we let them run."

"If they've spotted the surveillance, it makes no sense to let them run. Rudolf is not going to make the drop, and he'll stay clear of any other agents in the network. Following them now does us no good whatsoever. It's over, Sir Basil."

"What do you suggest?"

"Move in now. Arrest them the moment they leave that cafe."

Boothby looked at Vicary as though he had uttered heresy. "Getting cold feet now, are you, Alfred?"

"What do you mean by that?"

"I mean this was your idea in the first place. You conceived it, you sold it to the prime minister. The director-general signed off on it, the Twenty Committee approved it. For weeks a group of officers has toiled night and day to provide the material for that briefcase. And now you want to shut it all down, just like that"--Sir Basil snapped his thick fingers so loudly it sounded like a gunshot--"because you have a hunch."

"It's more than a hunch, Sir Basil. Read the bloody watch reports. It's all there."

Boothby was pacing again, hands clasped behind his back, head raised slightly as if straining to hear something annoying in the distance. "They'll say he was good at the wireless game but he didn't have the nerve to play with live agents--that's what they'll say about you when this is all over: 'Not surprising, really. He was an amateur, after all. Just a university bright boy who did his bit during the war, then turned to dust when it was all over. He was good--very good--but he didn't have the balls to play in the high-stakes game.' Is that what you want them to say about you? Because if it is, pick up the telephone and tell the DG you think we should roll this all up now."

Vicary stared at Boothby. Boothby the agent runner; Boothby, patrician-cool under fire. He wondered why Boothby was dying to shame him into going forward when a blind man could see they were blown.

"It's over," Vicary said in a dull monotone. "They've spotted the surveillance. They're sitting there planning their next move. Catherine Blake knows she's been deceived, and she's going to tell Kurt Vogel about it. Vogel will conclude that Mulberry is exactly the opposite of what we told him. And then we're dead."

"They're everywhere," Neumann said. "The man in the mackintosh, the girl waiting for the bus, the man walking into the chemist's shop across the square. They've used different faces, different combinations, different clothing. But they've been following us from the moment we left the Strand."

A waitress brought tea. Catherine waited until she left before she spoke. "Did Vogel order you to follow me?"

"Yes."

"I don't suppose he said why?"

Neumann shook his head.

Catherine picked up her cup of tea, her hand trembling. She used her other hand to steady the cup and forced herself to drink.

"What happened to your face?"

"I had a little trouble in the village. Nothing serious."

Catherine looked at him doubtfully and said, "Why haven't they arrested us?"

"Any number of reasons. They've probably known about you for a very long time. They've probably been following you for a very long time. If that's true, then all the information you've been receiving from Commander Jordan is false--smoke put together by the British. And we've been funneling it back to Berlin for them."

She put down her cup. She glanced into the street, then looked back at Neumann, forcing herself not to look at the watchers. "If Jordan is working with British Intelligence, we can assume everything in his briefcase is false--information they wanted me to see, information designed to mislead the Abwehr about the Allied plans for the invasion. Vogel needs to know this." She managed a smile. "It's possible those bastards have just handed us the secret of the invasion."

"I suspect you're right. But there's just one problem. We need to tell Vogel in person. We have to assume the Portuguese embassy route is now compromised. We also have to assume that we cannot use our radios. Vogel thinks all the old Abwehr codes have been broken. That's why he uses the radio so sparingly. If we broadcast what we know to Vogel over the air, the British will know it too."

Catherine lit a cigarette, her hands still trembling. More than anything else, she was angry at herself. For years, she had gone to extraordinary lengths to make certain she was not being watched by the other side. Then, when it finally happened, she had missed it. She said, "How in the world are we going to get out of London?"

"We have a couple of things we can use to our advantage. Number one, this." Neumann tapped his pocket containing the film. "I could be wrong, but I don't think I've ever been followed. Vogel trained me well, and I'm very careful. I don't think they know how I deliver the film to the Portuguese: where it's done, whether there's a patter or any other recognition signal. Also, I'm certain I've not been followed to Hampton Sands. The village is so small I'd know if I was under surveillance. They don't know where I'm staying or whether I'm working with any other agents. Standard procedure is to find out all the components of a network and then roll it up all at once. That's how the Gestapo deals with the Resistance in France, and that's how MI-Five would do it in London."

"That all sounds logical. What are you suggesting?"

"Are you seeing Jordan tonight?"

"Yes."

"What time?"

"I'm meeting him at seven o'clock for dinner."

"Perfect," Neumann said. "Here's what I want you to do."

Neumann spent the next five minutes explaining in detail his plan for their escape. Catherine listened carefully, never taking her eyes off him, resisting all temptation to look at the watchers waiting outside the cafe. When Neumann finished he said, "Whatever you do, you must do nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing that would make them suspect that you know you're under surveillance. Stay on the move until it's time. Shop, go to a cinema, stay in the open. As long as I don't drop this film, you'll be safe. When it's time, go to your flat and get your radio. I'll be there at five o'clock--exactly five o'clock--and I'll come through the rear entrance. Do you understand?"

Catherine nodded.

"There's just one problem. Do you have any idea where I can lay my hands on a car and some extra petrol?"

Catherine laughed in spite of herself. "Actually, I know just the place. But I wouldn't suggest using my name."

Neumann left the cafe first. He drifted in Mayfair for half an hour, followed by at least two men--the oilskin coat and the mackintosh.

The rain fell harder, the wind picked up. He was cold, soaked to the skin, and tired. He needed to go somewhere to rest, someplace where he could be warm for a while, get off his feet, and keep an eye on his friends Mackintosh and Oilskin. He walked toward Portman Square. He felt bad about involving her, but when it was over they would question her and determine she knew nothing.

He stopped outside the bookshop and peered through the glass. Sarah was on her ladder, dark hair pulled back severely. He rapped gently on the glass so as not to startle her. She turned, and her face brightened into an instant smile. She set down her books and waved enthusiastically for him to come inside. She took one look at him and said, "My God, you look terrible. What happened to you?"

Neumann hesitated; he realized he had no explanation for the bandage across his cheekbone. He mumbled something about taking a fall in the blackout, and she seemed to accept his story. She helped him off with his coat and hung it over the radiator to dry. He stayed with her for two hours, keeping her company, helping her put new books on the shelves, taking tea with her at the cafe next door when her break came. He noticed the old watchers leaving and new ones taking their place. He noticed a black van parked at the corner and assumed the men in the front seat were from the other side.

At four thirty, when the last light was gone and the blackout had taken hold, he took his coat from the radiator and pulled it on. She made a playful sad face, then took him by the hand and led him into the stockroom. There, she leaned against the wall, pulled his body to hers, and kissed him. "I don't know the first thing about you, James Porter, but I like you very much. You're sad about something. I like that."

Neumann went out, knowing he would never see her again. From Portman Square he walked north to the Baker Street underground station, followed by at least two people on foot as well as the black van. He entered the station, purchased a ticket for Charing Cross, and caught the next train there. At Charing Cross he changed trains and headed for Euston Station. With two men in pursuit, he walked through the tunnel connecting the underground station to the railway terminus. Neumann waited fifteen minutes at a ticket window and then purchased a ticket for Liverpool. The train was already boarding by the time he reached the platform. The carriage was crowded. He searched for a compartment with one free seat. He finally found one, opened the door, went inside, and sat down.

He looked at his wristwatch: three minutes until departure. Outside his compartment, the corridor was rapidly filling with passengers. It was not uncommon for some unlucky travelers to spend their entire journey standing or sitting in the corridor. Neumann stood and squeezed out of the compartment, muttering about an upset stomach. He walked toward the lavatory at the end of the carriage. He knocked on the door. There was no answer. Knocking a second time, he glanced over his shoulder; the man who had followed him onto the train was cut off from view by the other passengers standing in the corridor.

Perfect. The train started to move. Neumann waited outside the lavatory as the train slowly gathered speed. It already was traveling faster than most people would consider safe to jump. Neumann waited a few more seconds, then stepped toward the door, threw it open, and leapt down onto the platform.

He landed smoothly, trotting a few steps before settling into a brisk walk. He looked up in time to spot an annoyed ticket collector pulling the door closed. He walked quickly toward the exit and headed out into the blackout.

Euston Road was crowded with the evening rush. He hailed a taxi and hopped inside. He gave the driver an address in the East End and settled in for the ride.

48.

HAMPTON SANDS, NORFOLK.

Mary Dogherty waited alone at the cottage. She had always thought it was a sweet little place--warm, light, airy--but now it felt claustrophobic and cramped as a catacomb. She paced restlessly. Outside, the big storm that had been forecast had finally moved in over the Norfolk coast. Rain lashed against the windows, rattling the panes. The wind gusted relentlessly, moaning through the eaves. She heard the scrape of one of the tiles giving way on the roof.

Sean was away, gone to Hunstanton to collect Neumann from the train. Mary turned from the window and resumed her pacing. Snatches of their conversation of that morning played over and over in her head like a gramophone record stuck in a groove: submarine to France . . . stay in Berlin for a while . . . passage to a third country . . . make my way back to Ireland . . . join me there when the war is over. . . . submarine to France . . . stay in Berlin for a while . . . passage to a third country . . . make my way back to Ireland . . . join me there when the war is over. . . .

It was like a nightmare--as if she were listening to someone else's conversation or watching it in a film or reading it in a book. The idea was ludicrous: Sean Dogherty, derelict Norfolk-coast farmer and IRA sympathizer, was going to take a U-boat to Germany. She supposed it was the logical culmination of Sean's spying. She had been foolish to hope that everything would return to normal when the war was over. She had deluded herself. Sean was going to flee and leave her behind to face the consequences. What would the authorities do? Just tell them you knew nothing about it, Mary. Just tell them you knew nothing about it, Mary. And what if they didn't believe her? What would they do then? How could she stay in the village if everyone knew Sean had been a spy? She would be run off the Norfolk coast. She would be run out of every English village where she tried to settle. She would have to leave Hampton Sands. She would have to leave Jenny Colville. She would have to go back to Ireland, back to the barren village she had fled thirty years ago. She still had family there, family that would take her in. The thought was utterly appalling but she would have no choice--not after everyone learned that Sean had spied for the Germans. And what if they didn't believe her? What would they do then? How could she stay in the village if everyone knew Sean had been a spy? She would be run off the Norfolk coast. She would be run out of every English village where she tried to settle. She would have to leave Hampton Sands. She would have to leave Jenny Colville. She would have to go back to Ireland, back to the barren village she had fled thirty years ago. She still had family there, family that would take her in. The thought was utterly appalling but she would have no choice--not after everyone learned that Sean had spied for the Germans.

She began to weep. She thought, Damn you, Sean Dogherty! How could you have been such a damned fool?

Mary went back to the window. On the track, in the direction of the village, she saw a pinprick of light, bobbing in the downpour. A moment later she saw the shine of a wet oilskin and the faint outline of a figure on a bicycle, body hunched forward into the wind, elbows thrust out, knees pumping. It was Jenny Colville. She dismounted at the gate and pushed the bicycle up the pathway. Mary opened the door to her. The wind gusted, hurling rain inside the cottage. Mary pulled Jenny inside and helped her out of her wet coat and hat.

"My God, Jenny, what are you doing out in weather like this?"

"Oh, Mary, it's marvelous. So windy. So beautiful."

"You've obviously lost your mind, child. Sit down by the fire. I'll make you some hot tea."

Jenny warmed herself in front of the log fire. "Where's James?" she asked.

"He's not here now," Mary called from the kitchen. "He's out with Sean somewhere."

"Oh," Jenny said, and Mary could hear the disappointment in her voice. "Will he be back soon?"

Mary stopped what she was doing and went back into the living room. She looked at Jenny and said, "Why are you so concerned about James all of a sudden?"

"I just wanted to see him. Say hello. Spend some time with him. That's all."

"That's all? What in the world has got into you, Jenny?"

"I just like him, Mary. I like him very much. And he likes me."

"You like him and he likes you? Where did you get an idea like that?"

"I know, Mary, believe me. Don't ask me how I know it, but I do."