A Game of Spies by John Altman

betrayed herself?
    She ran back over the conversation in her mind. No, she decided, she had not betrayed herself. He had been testing her, perhaps—and she had not betrayed herself. But nor had she taken advantage of the opportunity. He had confessed about his wife, even about his father. It would have been a fine chance to suggest something, to make some inroads toward her ultimate goal. But she had let the chance pass.
    She let out a long, shuddering sigh. The temptation to burrow into bed returned. In bed nothing could get to her. Ridiculous, of course; but a soothing thought nevertheless.
    She peeled off her robe, trailing it across the floor, and crawled into bed without even brushing her teeth. She felt suddenly exhausted.
    She was not cut out for this. It had started as a game—years before, miles away. But now it was no game.
    A traitor and a spy.
    They will know.
    Who would know? The Nazis? Did they suspect him? Were they watching her?
    The old temptation returned, to blame Hobbs. If Hobbs had been a more honorable man—if Hobbs had not misrepresented himself to her from the very beginning—she would not have found herself in this position. Then the old rejoinder: she had made the choice herself; she had followed a higher purpose. She was doing the right thing, for the right reasons.
    But she had been so young when she had agreed to it—only twenty. Was it fair for a girl of twenty to make decisions that would affect the rest of her life?
    She doused the lamp. One came to important junctures without even realizing at the time, she thought, just how important they were. If she had stayed on her parents’ farm in Saxony, she would be living a simple life today. Riding horses, cooking, and probably married by now. She would have her own family; simple pleasures. But she had been anxious to leave the farm, to study in England—to do something more with her life.
    She only wished she’d realized at the time what she was getting herself into.
    She closed her eyes. Were all spies so confused? It seemed unlikely.
    Schlieffen.
    They will know.
    Her eyes opened.
    Not the Nazis, she thought. The British, Klinger had meant. The British would know. Schlieffen. He had told her something. But what?
    She would have to find out. She would have to see him again.
    A traitor and a spy.
    Sleep, that night, was a long time coming.
    PRINZ ALBRECHT STRASSE
    â€œHerr Kriminal Inspektor,” Hauptmann said. “Have you got a moment?”
    Frick glanced up. Hauptmann was standing in the doorway, holding a thin sheaf of papers under one arm. He hoped, no doubt, to add the papers to the already formidable pile sitting on Frick’s desk.
    â€œNot if those are for me,” Frick said.
    Hauptmann smiled, and came farther into the office. He was a stocky man with coarse chestnut hair and an offbeat sense of humor that was well known around Gestapo headquarters. “Too much paperwork, Herr Inspektor ?”
    â€œFar too much, Hauptmann. Far too much.”
    â€œI seem to remember that you used to be fond of paperwork—before your time spent in the field.”
    Frick frowned. To the best of his recollection, he had never been particularly fond of paperwork. But then, he always had been fond of organization. And his powers of recollection had faltered since his return from the front. He had more and more trouble, these days, keeping his mind focused.
    Or perhaps it was just Hauptmann’s idea of a joke.
    Hauptmann waved the papers in his hand. “You’ll want to take a look at this,” he said. “It might cheer you up.”
    â€œWhat is it?”
    â€œA report, Herr Inspektor, from a Blockwart in Wilmersdorf. I’d be glad to follow it up myself, if you like, this very evening.”
    Hauptmann was glowing with barely contained self-satisfaction. The workday was already finished; the man’s offer to follow up himself seemed strange. Frick held out his hand.
    â€œIf