Theoretically, this should make no difference in her case. Vogel had promised her she would be different. She would have different radio procedures, different rendezvous procedures, and different codes. Even if every other spy in England were arrested and hanged, they would have no way of getting at her.
Catherine wished she could share Vogel's confidence. He was hundreds of miles away, cut off from Britain by the Channel, flying blindly. The smallest mistake might get her arrested or killed. Like the rendezvous site, for example. It was a bitterly cold night; anyone loitering in Hyde Park would automatically come under suspicion. It was a silly mistake, so unlike Vogel. He must be under enormous pressure. It was understandable. There was an invasion coming; everyone knew it. The only question was when and where.
She was reluctant to make the rendezvous for another reason: she was frightened of being drawn into the game. She had grown comfortable--too comfortable, perhaps. Her life had assumed a structure and a routine. She had her warm flat, she had her volunteer work at the hospital, she had Vogel's money to support her. She was reluctant, at this late stage of the war, to put herself in danger. She did not regard herself as a German patriot by any means. Her cover seemed totally secure. She could wait out the war and then make her way back to Spain. Back to the grand estancia in the foothills. Back to Maria.
Catherine turned into Hyde Park. The evening traffic in Kensington Road faded to a pleasant hum.
She had two reasons for making the rendezvous.
The first was her father's safety. Catherine had not volunteered to work for the Abwehr as a spy, she had been forced to do it. Vogel's instrument of coercion was her father. He had made it clear her father would be harmed--arrested, thrown into a concentration camp, even killed--if she did not agree to go to Britain. If she refused to take an assignment now, her father's life would surely be in danger.
The second reason was more simple--she was desperately lonely. She had been cut off and isolated for six years. The normal agents were allowed to use their radios. They had some contact with Germany. She had been permitted almost no contact. She was curious; she wanted to talk to someone from her own side. She wanted to be able to drop her cover for just a few minutes, to shed the identity of Catherine Blake.
She thought, God, but I almost can't remember my real name.
She decided she would make the rendezvous.
She walked along the edge of the Serpentine, watching a fleet of ducks fishing the gaps in the ice. She followed the pathway toward the trees. The last light had faded; the sky was a mat of winking stars. One nice thing about the blackout, she thought: you could see the stars at night, even in the heart of the West End.
She reached inside her handbag and felt for the butt of her silenced pistol, a Mauser 6.35 automatic. It was there. If anything appeared out of the ordinary she would use it. She had made one vow--that she would never allow herself to be arrested. The thought of being locked up in some stinking British jail made her physically sick. She had nightmares about her own execution. She could see their laughing English faces before the hangman placed the black hood over her head and the rope around her neck. She would use her suicide pill or she would die fighting, but she would never let them touch her.
An American soldier passed in the other direction. A prostitute clung to his shoulder, was rubbing his cock and sticking her tongue in his ear. It was a common sight. The girls worked Piccadilly. Few wasted time or money on hotel rooms. Wall jobs, the soldiers called them. The girls just took their customers into alleyways or parks and raised their skirts. Some of the more naive girls thought fucking standing up would keep them from getting pregnant.
Catherine thought, Stupid English girls.
She entered the trees and waited for Vogel's agent to show.
The afternoon train from Hunstanton arrived at Liverpool Street Station a half hour late. Horst Neumann collected his small leather grip from the luggage rack and joined the line of passengers spilling onto the platform. The station was chaos. Knots of weary travelers wandered the terminus like victims of a natural disaster, faces blank, waiting for hopelessly delayed trains. Soldiers slept wherever they liked, heads pillowed on kit bags. A few uniformed railway policemen meandered about, trying to keep order. All the porters were women. Neumann stepped onto the platform. Small, agile, bright-eyed, he sliced his way through the dense crowd.