Neumann went inside the barn. Catherine had covered the bodies with some old sacking. Mary was sitting in a chair, shaking violently. Neumann avoided her gaze.

"We have a problem," Neumann said. He gestured at the covered body of Martin Colville. "I found his daughter's bicycle. We have to assume she's here somewhere and knows what happened. We also have to assume she'll try to get help."

"Then go find her," Catherine said.

Neumann nodded. "Take Mary in the house. Tie her up. Gag her. I have an idea where Jenny might be going."

Neumann went outside and hurried through the rain to the van. He started the motor, reversed down the drive, and headed toward the beach.

Catherine finished tying Mary to a wooden chair in the kitchen. She tore a tea cloth in two and wadded one half into a ball. She stuffed it into Mary's mouth, then tied the other half around her face in a tight gag. If she had her way Catherine would kill her now; she did not like leaving a trail for the police to follow. But Neumann obviously felt some attachment to the woman. Besides, it would probably be many hours before anyone found her, perhaps longer. The cottage was isolated, nearly a mile from the village; it might be a day or two before anyone noticed that Sean, Mary, Colville, and the girl were missing. Still, every survival instinct told her it was best to kill her and be done with it. Neumann would never know. She would lie to him, tell him Mary was unharmed, and he would never find out.

Catherine checked the knots one last time. Then she removed her Mauser from her coat pocket. She took hold of it, wrapped her index finger around the trigger, and touched the barrel to Mary's temple. Mary kept very still and stared defiantly at Catherine.

"Remember, Jenny is coming with us," Catherine said. "If you tell the police, we'll know. And then we'll kill her. Do you understand what I'm saying to you, Mary?"

Mary nodded once. Catherine took hold of the Mauser by the barrel, raised it into the air, and brought it down on the top of Mary's head. She slumped forward, unconscious, blood trickling through her hair toward her eyes. Catherine stood in front of the dying embers of the fire, waiting for Neumann and the girl, waiting to go home.

54.

LONDON.

At that moment, a taxi braked to a halt in a driving rain outside a stubby, ivy-covered blockhouse beneath Admiralty Arch. The door opened and a small, rather ugly man emerged, leaning heavily on a walking stick. He did not bother with an umbrella. It was only a few feet to the doorway, where a Royal Marine guard stood watch. The guard saluted smartly, which the ugly man did not bother returning, for it would have meant switching his stick from his right hand to his left, a troublesome task. Besides, five years after being commissioned as an officer in the Royal Navy, Arthur Braithwaite still was uncomfortable with the customs and traditions of military life.

Officially, Braithwaite was not on duty for another hour. But, as was his daily habit, he arrived at the Citadel one hour early to give himself more time to prepare. Braithwaite, crippled in one leg since childhood, knew that to succeed he always had to be better prepared than those around him. It was a commitment that had paid dividends.

The Submarine Tracking Room--down a warren of narrow, winding staircases--was not easily reached by a man with a badly deformed leg. He crossed the Main Trade Plot and entered the Tracking Room through a guarded door.

The energy and excitement of the place took hold of him immediately, just as it did every night. The windowless walls were the color of clotted cream and covered with maps, charts, and photographs of U-boats and their crews. Several dozen officers and typists worked at tables around the edges of the room. In the center stood the main North Atlantic plotting table, where colored pins depicted the location of every warship, freighter, and submarine from the Baltic Sea to Cape Cod.

A large photograph of Admiral Karl Donitz, commander of the Kriegsmarine, glowered down from one wall. Braithwaite, as he did every morning, winked and said, "Good morning, Herr Admiral." Then he pushed back the door of his glass cubicle, removed his coat, and sat down at his desk.

He reached for the stack of decodes that awaited him each morning, thinking, A far cry from 1939, old son.

Back in 1939 he had degrees in law and psychology from Cambridge and Yale and was looking for something to do with them. When war broke out he tried to put his fluent German to good use by volunteering to interrogate German POWs. So impressed were his superiors they recommended a transfer to the Citadel, where he was assigned to the Submarine Tracking Room as a civilian volunteer at the height of the Battle of the Atlantic. Braithwaite's intellect and drive quickly set him apart. He threw himself into his work, volunteered for extra duty, and read every book he could find on German naval history and tactics. Equipped with near-perfect recall, he memorized the biographies of every Kapitanleutnant of the Ubootwaffe. Ubootwaffe. Within months he developed a remarkable ability to forecast U-boat movements. None of this went unnoticed. He was given the rank of temporary commander and placed in charge of submarine tracking, a stunning achievement for someone who had not passed through the Dartmouth Naval College. Within months he developed a remarkable ability to forecast U-boat movements. None of this went unnoticed. He was given the rank of temporary commander and placed in charge of submarine tracking, a stunning achievement for someone who had not passed through the Dartmouth Naval College.

His aide rapped on the glass door, waited for Braithwaite's nod, and let himself inside. "Good morning, sir," he said, setting down a tray with a pot of tea and biscuits.

"Morning, Patrick."

"The weather kept things fairly quiet last night, sir. No U-boat surface sightings anywhere. The storm's moved off the western approaches. The east's bearing the brunt of it now, from Yorkshire to Suffolk."

Braithwaite nodded, and the aide went out. The first items were conventional stuff, intercepts of routine communications between U-boats and BdU. The fifth caught his attention. It was an alert issued by a Major Alfred Vicary of the War Office. It said the authorities were pursuing two individuals, a man and a woman, who might be trying to leave the country. Braithwaite smiled at Vicary's guarded understatement. Vicary was obviously from MI5. The man and woman were obviously German agents of some kind and whatever they were up to must be damned important; otherwise the alert wouldn't have crossed his desk. He put Vicary's alert aside and continued reading.

After a few more routine items Braithwaite came upon something else that caught his attention. A Wren at the Scarborough Y Service station had intercepted what she believed was a communication between a U-boat and a wireless onshore. Huff Duff had pinpointed the transmitter to somewhere along the east coast--somewhere from Lincolnshire to Suffolk. Braithwaite pulled the item out of his stack and set it next to Vicary's alert.

He rose and limped out of his office into the main room, stopping at the North Atlantic plotting table. Two members of his staff were repositioning some of the colored pins to reflect overnight movements. Braithwaite seemed not to notice them. He fixed his gaze on the waters off Britain's east coast, face grave.

After a moment he said quietly, "Patrick, bring me the file on U-509. U-509."

55.

HAMPTON SANDS, NORFOLK.

Jenny reached the grove of pines at the base of the dunes and collapsed with exhaustion. She had run by instinct, like a frightened animal. She had stayed off the road, keeping instead to the meadows and the marshes, flooded with rain. She had fallen more times than she could remember. She was covered with mud, smelled of rotting earth and the sea. Her face, beaten by the rain and the wind, felt as if it had been slapped. And she was cold--colder than she had ever been in her life. Her oilskin felt as if it weighed a hundred pounds. Her Wellington boots were filled with water, her feet were freezing. Then she remembered she had run from the cottage with no socks. She fell to her hands and knees, gasping for breath. Her throat was raw and tasted of rust.

She stayed that way for a moment until her breathing evened out, then forced herself to stand and enter the trees. It was pitch-dark, so dark she had to walk with her hands outstretched before her like a blind person groping through an unfamiliar place. She was cross with herself for not bringing her torch.

The air was filled with the sound of the wind and the pounding of the breakers on the beach. The trees seemed to be in a familiar pattern now. Jenny walked by memory, like someone shuffling through their own home in the dark.

The trees fell away; her secret hiding place appeared before her.

She slipped down the side and sat down with her back against the large rock. Overhead the pines writhed with the wind, but Jenny was sheltered from the worst of it. She wished she could make a fire but the smoke would be visible from a long way off. She dug out her case from the bed of pine needles, took out the old woolen blanket, and wrapped herself tightly.

The warmth took hold of her. Then she started to cry. She wondered how long she would have to wait here until going for help. Ten minutes? Twenty minutes? A half hour? She wondered if Mary would still be at the cottage when she returned. She wondered if she would be hurt. A horrid vision of her father's dead body flashed before her eyes. She shook her head and tried to make it go away. She shivered, then clutched the blanket more tightly to her body.

Thirty minutes. She would wait thirty minutes. They would leave by then and it would be safe to return.

Neumann parked at the end of the track, grabbed his torch from the seat next to him, and climbed out. He switched on the light and walked quickly through the trees. He scaled the dunes and scrambled down the other side. He switched off the torch as he walked across the beach to the water's edge. When he reached the flat hard sand where the breakers met the beach he broke into a light run, head down to push through the wind.

He thought of the morning he was running on the beach and saw Jenny, emerging from the dunes. He remembered how she looked, as though she had slept on the beach that night. He felt certain she had some kind of hiding place nearby where she went when things were bad at home. She was frightened, on the run, and alone. She would flee to the place she knew best, the way children do. Neumann went to the spot on the beach that served as his imaginary finish line, then stopped and walked toward the dunes.

On the other side he switched on the torch, found a trampled footpath, and followed it. It led to a small depression, sheltered from the wind by the trees and a pair of large boulders. He shined his torch into the depression; the beam caught Jenny Colville's face.

"What's your real name?" Jenny said as they drove back to the Doghertys' cottage.

"My real name is Lieutenant Horst Neumann."

"Why do you speak English so well?"

"My father was English and I was born in London. My mother and I moved to Germany when he died."

"Are you a German spy?"

"Something like that."

"What happened to Sean and my father?"

"We were using the radio in Sean's barn when your father burst in on us. Sean tried to stop him and your father killed him. Catherine and I killed your father. I'm sorry, Jenny. It all happened very fast."

"Shut up! I don't want you to tell me you're sorry!"

Neumann said nothing.

Jenny said, "What happens now?"

"We're going on a trip up the coast to the River Humber. From there we take a small boat out to sea to meet a U-boat."

"I hope they catch you. And I hope they kill you."

"I'd say that's a very distinct possibility."

"You're a bastard! Why did you get in that fight with my father over me?"

"Because I like you very much, Jenny Colville. I've lied to you about everything else, but that's the truth. Now just do exactly as I tell you and nothing bad will happen to you. Do you understand me?"

Jenny nodded her head. Neumann turned into the Doghertys' cottage. The door opened and Catherine came outside. She walked to the van and looked inside at Jenny. Then she looked at Neumann and said in German, "Tie her up and put her in the back. We're going to take her with us. You never know when a hostage might come in handy."

Neumann shook his head, and replied in the same language. "Just leave her here. She's no use to us, and she might get hurt."

"Are you forgetting I outrank you, Lieutenant?"

"No, Major," Neumann said, his voice tinged with sarcasm.

"Good. Now tie her up and let's get the hell out of this godforsaken place."

Neumann walked back to the barn to find a length of rope. He found some, picked up the lamp, and started out. He took one last look at Sean Dogherty's body, lying on the ground, covered by the old sacking. Neumann couldn't help but feel responsible for the chain of events that led to Sean's death. If he hadn't fought with Martin, Martin wouldn't have come to the barn with a shotgun tonight. Sean would be going with them to Germany, not lying on the floor of his barn with half his chest blown away. He doused the lamp, leaving the bodies in darkness, and went out, closing the door behind him.

Jenny did not resist, nor did she speak a single word to him. Neumann bound her hands in front of her so she could sit more comfortably. He checked to make sure the knot was not too tight. Then he bound her feet. When he finished he carried her to the rear of the van, opened the doors, and lifted her inside.

He added another jerry can of petrol to the tank and tossed the empty container into the meadow.

There was no sign of life on the track between the cottage and the village. Obviously the gunshots had gone unnoticed in Hampton Sands. They crossed the bridge, swept past the spire of St. John's, and drove along the darkened street. The place was so quiet it might have been evacuated.

Catherine sat next to him, silent, reloading her Mauser.

Neumann opened the throttle, and Hampton Sands disappeared behind them.

56.

LONDON.

Arthur Braithwaite's gaze settled on the plotting table while he waited for the file on U-509. U-509. Not that Braithwaite had much need for it--he thought he knew everything there was to know about the submarine's commanding officer and could probably recite every patrol the boat had ever made. He just wanted a couple of things confirmed before he telephoned MI5. Not that Braithwaite had much need for it--he thought he knew everything there was to know about the submarine's commanding officer and could probably recite every patrol the boat had ever made. He just wanted a couple of things confirmed before he telephoned MI5.

U-509's movements had been puzzling him for weeks. The boat seemed to be on an aimless patrol of the North Sea, sailing nowhere in particular, going for long periods of time without contacting BdU. When it did check in it reported a position off the British coastline near Spurn Head. It had also been spotted in aerial photographs at a U-boat pen in southern Norway. No surface sightings, no attacks on Allied warships or merchantmen.

Braithwaite thought, You're just lurking around out there up to nothing at all. Well, I don't believe it, Kapitanleutnant Hoffman.

He looked up at the dour face of Donitz and murmured, "Why would you let a perfectly good boat and crew go to waste like that?"

The aide returned with the file a moment later. "Here we are, sir."

Braithwaite didn't take the file; instead, he began to recite the contents.

"Captain's name is Max Hoffman, if I remember correctly."

"Right, sir."

"Knight's Cross in 1942. Oak Leaves a year later."

"Pinned on by the Fuhrer himself."

"Now, here's the important part. I believe he served on Canaris's staff at the Abwehr for a brief period before the war."