"What are you going to do?"
"Meet with Vogel, make certain my father is still alive, then collect my payment and leave. Vogel can create another one of his false identities for me. I can pass for about five different nationalities. That's what landed me in the game to begin with. It's all a big game, isn't it? One big game."
"Where are you going to go?"
"Back to Spain," she said. "Back to the place where it all started."
"Tell me about it," Neumann said. "I need to think about something besides this godforsaken road."
"It's in the foothills of the Pyrenees. In the morning we go hunting, and in the afternoon we ride up into the mountains. There's a wonderful stream with deep, cold pools and we stay there all afternoon, drinking icy white wine and smelling the eucalyptus trees. I used to think about it all the time when the loneliness got to me. I thought I was going to go crazy sometimes."
"It sounds wonderful. If you need a stable hand, let me know."
She looked at him and smiled. "You've been wonderful. If it weren't for you--" She hesitated. "God, I can't even imagine."
"Don't mention it. Glad I could be of assistance. I don't mean to rain on our parade, but we're not out of danger yet."
"Believe me, I realize that."
She finished her cigarette, opened the window a crack, and tossed the butt into the night. It hit the roadway and exploded into sparks. She sat back and closed her eyes. She had been running on adrenaline and fear for too long. Exhaustion stalked her. The gentle rocking of the van lulled her into a light half sleep.
Neumann said, "Vogel never told me your real name. What is it?"
"My real name was Anna Katarina von Steiner," she said, sleep creeping into her voice. "But I would prefer it if you continue to call me Catherine. You see, Kurt Vogel killed Anna before he sent her to England. I'm afraid Anna no longer exists. Anna is dead."
Neumann's voice, when he spoke again, was far away, at the end of a long tunnel.
"How did a beautiful and intelligent woman like Anna Katarina von Steiner end up here--like this?"
"That's a very good question," she said, and then fatigue overtook her and she was asleep.
The dream is her only memory of it: it was driven benevolently from her conscious thoughts long ago. She sees it now in flash bursts--stolen glimpses. Sometimes she sees it with her own eyes, as though she is reliving it, and sometimes the dream makes her watch it again like a spectator in a grandstand.
Tonight she is reliving it.
She is living beside the lake; Papa lets her go alone. He knows she will not go near the water--it is too chilly for swimming--and he knows she likes to be by herself to think about her mother.
It is autumn. She has brought a blanket. The tall grass at the edge of the lake is damp with the morning's rain. The wind moves in the trees. A flock of rooks scatter and wheel noisily overhead. The trees weep flaming leaves of orange and red. She watches the leaves float gently downward, like tiny hot-air balloons, and settle on the rippled surface of the lake.
It is then, as her eye follows the descent of the leaves, that she sees the man, standing in the trees across the lake.
He is very still for a long time, watching her; then he moves toward her. He is wearing knee-high boots and a thigh-length coat. A shotgun, broken at the breech, is cradled over his right arm. His hair and beard are too long, his eyes are red and damp. As he moves closer she can see something hanging from his belt. She realizes it is a pair of bloody rabbits. Limp with death, they seem absurdly long and thin.
Papa has a word for men like him: poachers. They come onto other people's land and kill the animals--deer and rabbit and pheasant. She thinks it is a funny word, poachers. It sounds like someone who prepares eggs in the morning. She thinks about that now as he approaches, and it makes her smile.
The poacher asks if he can sit next to her and she tells him yes.
He squats and lays the shotgun in the grass.
"Are you here alone?" he asks.
"Yes. My father says it's all right."
"Where is your father now?"
"He's in the house."
"And he's not coming here?"
"No."
"I want to show you something," he says. "Something that will make you feel wonderful."
His eyes are very damp now. He is smiling; his teeth are black and rotten. She becomes frightened for the first time. She tries to stand up but he grabs her by the shoulders and forces her down onto the blanket. She tries to scream but he smothers the sound with a big, hairy hand. Suddenly he is on top of her; she is paralyzed beneath the weight of him. He is reaching up her dress and pulling at her underwear.