A gray dawn was leaking through thick clouds as Horst Neumann crossed the pine grove and climbed to the top of the dunes. The sea opened before him, gray and still in the windless morning, small breakers collapsing onto the seemingly endless expanse of beach. Neumann wore a gray tracksuit, a rollneck sweater beneath for warmth, and a pair of soft black leather running shoes. He breathed deeply of the cold crisp air and then scrambled down the dunes and walked across the soft sand. The tide was going out and there was a wide swath of hard flat sand, perfect for running. He stretched his legs, blew on his hands, and set out at an easy pace. Terns and gulls squawked in protest and moved away.
He had received a message from Hamburg earlier that morning instructing him to begin regular pickups of material from Catherine Blake in London. It was to be done on the schedule Kurt Vogel had given him at the farm outside Berlin. The material was to be placed through a doorway in Cavendish Square, where it would be collected by a man from the Portuguese embassy and sent to Lisbon inside the diplomatic pouch. It sounded simple. But Neumann understood that courier work on the streets of London would take him straight into the teeth of the British security forces. He would be carrying information that would guarantee him a trip to the gallows if he was arrested. In combat he always knew where the enemy was. In espionage work the enemy could be anywhere. He could be in the next seat in a cafe or on a bus, and Neumann might never know.
It took several minutes for Neumann to feel warm and for the first beads of sweat to appear on his forehead. The running worked its magic, the same magic it had worked on him since he was a boy. He was taken with a pleasant floating sensation, almost flight. His breathing was regular and relaxed, and he could feel the tension melting out of his body. He picked out an imaginary finish line about a half mile down the beach and increased his pace.
The first quarter mile was good. He glided along the beach, his long stride eating up the ground, shoulders and arms loose and relaxed. The last quarter mile was tougher. Neumann's breath grew harsh and ragged. The cold air tore at his throat. His arms felt as though he were carrying lead weights. His imaginary finish line loomed two hundred yards ahead. The backs of his thighs tightened suddenly, and his stride shortened. He pretended it was the homestretch of the 1,500-meter final of the Olympic Games--the games I missed because I was sent off to kill Poles and Russians and Greeks and French! He imagined there was just one man in front of him, and he was gaining ground excruciatingly slowly. The finish line was fifty yards away. It was a clump of sea grass stranded by the high tide, but in Neumann's imagination it was a real finish line with a tape and men in white jackets with stopwatches and the Olympic banner flapping over the stadium in a gentle breeze. He pounded his feet savagely against the hard sand and leaned across the sea grass, stumbled to a halt, and struggled to catch his breath.
It was a silly game--a game he had played with himself since he was a child--but it served a purpose. He had proved to himself that he was finally fit again. It had taken him months to recover from the beating he suffered at the hands of the SS men, but he had finally done it. He felt he was physically ready for anything he might be confronted with. Neumann walked for a moment before breaking into a light jog. It was then that he noticed Jenny Colville, watching him from atop the dunes.
Neumann smiled at her as she approached. She was more attractive than he remembered--a wide, mobile mouth, eyes large and blue, her pale complexion flushed from the morning cold. She wore a heavy wool sweater, a woolen cap, an oilskin coat, trousers haphazardly tucked inside Wellington boots. Behind her, beyond the dunes, Neumann could see white smoke from a doused fire drifting through the pine trees. Jenny drew nearer. She looked tired and her clothes appeared slept in. Yet she smiled with considerable charm as she stood, arms akimbo, and examined him.
"Very impressive, Mr. Porter," she said. Neumann always found her broad, singsong Norfolk accent difficult to comprehend. "If I didn't know better I'd say you were in training for something."
"Old habits are hard to break. Besides, it's good for the body and the soul. You should try it sometime. It would take those extra pounds off you."
"Ah!" She pushed him playfully. "I'm too skinny as it is now. All the boys in the village say so. They like Eleanor Carrick because she has big--well, you know. She goes down to the beach with them and they give her money to unbutton her blouse."
"I saw her in the village yesterday," Neumann said. "She's a fat cow. You're twice as pretty as Eleanor Carrick."
"You think so?"
"I do indeed." Neumann rubbed his arms briskly and stamped his feet. "I need to walk. Otherwise I'm going to be stiff as a board."