Her taxi stopped outside Peter Jordan's house at five minutes after eleven. Catherine could see him standing on the pavement outside his front door, blackout torch in hand. She climbed out and paid the driver. An engine started somewhere down the street. The taxi drove off. She took a step toward Jordan and heard the roar of an engine, the sound of tires spinning on the wet street. She turned her head in the direction of the sound and saw a van bearing down on her. It was just a few feet off, too close to get out of the way. She closed her eyes and waited to die.
Dicky Dobbs had never actually killed anyone before. Sure, he had broken his share of bones, ruined his share of faces. He'd even crippled one bloke who refused to cough up protection money. But he had never actually taken a human life. I should enjoy killing the bitch. She had murdered Vernon and Vivie. She had given him the slip so many times he had lost count. And God knows what she was doing with the American officer. The taxi turned onto the darkened street. Dicky gently turned the key, igniting the van's engine. He opened the throttle a bit, feeding fuel to the motor. Then he placed his hand on the gearshift and waited. The taxi drove off. The woman started across the street. Dicky dropped the van into gear and opened the throttle full.
A soft, warm darkness surrounded her. She was aware of nothing, only a distant ringing in her ears. She tried to open her eyes but could not. She tried to breathe but could not. She thought of her father and mother. She thought of Maria and she dreamed she was in Spain again, lying on a warm rock beside the stream. There had never been a war; Kurt Vogel had never entered her life. Then, slowly, she became aware of a sharp pain at the back of her head and a great weight pressing down on her body. Her lungs cried out for oxygen. Her body retched but she still could not breathe. She saw bright lights, like comets, shooting across a vast black emptiness. Something was shaking her. Someone was calling her name. And quite suddenly she realized she was not dead after all. The retching stopped and she was finally able to draw a breath. Then she opened her eyes and saw Peter Jordan's face. Catherine, can you hear me, darling? Are you all right? Jesus Christ, I think he was trying to kill you! Catherine, can you hear me?
Neither of them felt much like eating. Both of them wanted something to drink. Jordan had a briefcase chained to his wrist--it was the first time he had brought one home with him like that. He went to the study and unlocked it. Catherine heard him working the combination of the safe, pulling open the heavy door, then closing it again. He came out and went into the drawing room. He poured two very large glasses of brandy and carried them upstairs to the bedroom.
They undressed slowly while they drank the brandy. Catherine was having trouble holding on to her glass. Her hands shook, her heart was pounding inside her chest, she felt as if she were about to be sick. She forced herself to drink some of the brandy. The warmth of it took hold of her, and she felt herself begin to relax.
She had made a terrible miscalculation. She should never have gone to the Popes. She should have thought of some other way. But she had made one other mistake. She should have killed Robert Pope and Dicky Dobbs too, when she had the chance.
Jordan sat down on the bed next to her. "I don't know how you can be so calm about this," he said. "After all, you were almost killed just now. You're allowed to show some emotion."
Another mistake. She should be acting more frightened. She should be asking him to hold her and tell her everything was all right. She should be thanking him for saving her life. She was no longer thinking clearly. It was spinning out of control, she could feel it. Rose Morely . . . the Popes. . . . She thought of the briefcase Jordan just locked away in his safe. She thought about the contents. She thought about the fact that he had brought it home chained to his wrist. The most important secret of the war--the secret of the invasion--might very well be within her grasp. And if it was really there? If she could really steal it? She wanted to come out. She no longer felt safe. No longer capable of living the double life she had lived for six years. No longer capable of carrying on this affair with Peter Jordan. No longer capable of giving him her body each night and then sneaking into his study. One assignment, then out. Vogel had promised. She would hold him to it.
Catherine finished undressing and lay down on the bed. Jordan was still sitting on the edge, drinking his brandy, staring into the darkness.
"It's called English reserve," she said. "We're not allowed to show our emotions, even when we're nearly run over in the blackout."
"When are you allowed to show your emotions?" he said, still staring away.