Free A Game of Spies by John Altman

over the keys, found slippery purchase. He raised them, jammed them into the ignition, and fired it.
    When he looked into the rearview mirror, he saw the two Gestapo directly behind the car: one taking aim again, patiently; the other still blowing his damned whistle.
    He threw the car into reverse and jammed his foot down onto the accelerator.
    The double thump brought a lunatic grin to his lips.
    His hands moved for the gearshift again. The gears gnashed as he tried to find first. Then it had clicked into place; the Talta was lurching forward. A moment later, he was half a block away, gaining speed.
    The Gehls, he thought. They would need to extend themselves one final time before they were rid of him. They would need to help him patch the leg, or he would have little chance of making it to the extraction site.
    William, he thought. You bollixed that up, but good.
    But perhaps Eva would still have a chance. If she read the letter … if she moved quickly enough …
    He forced the thought from his mind. Time for it later. But it kept nagging. He had sealed her fate. For the second time in his life, he had put Eva in danger.
    His chest felt hollow. His mind was spinning in strange, nightmarish directions. The bullet in his leg. Christ, it hurt.
    He pushed it all away. Focus, he thought.
    He focused. And drove.
    Eva heard the shots as she was stepping around the corner farthest from her apartment.
    She cocked her head, listening. The letter that the old man had forced on her was clutched tightly inside her pocket. She wondered if the shots had anything to do with the old man. They probably did. She did not know who he was—but she knew he meant trouble.
    She was probably minutes from being arrested.
    She was probably about to die.
    After a moment, she made herself continue walking.
    Her fingers worked at the letter in her pocket. She wanted to open and read it right now, right here in the street. Perhaps it would explain something. But there were too many eyes out here. No, the letter needed to wait until she had reached her apartment again.
    If she reached her apartment again.
    She kept walking, with an effort, at a normal pace. Acting again, she suddenly realized, as she had been at the Hotel Adlon with Klinger. Her role tonight was that of Eva Bernhardt, sleepwalker. Calm, content with her lot, on a simple evening stroll.
    Something to do with Klinger, she thought. Something to do with the word he had whispered: Schlieffen. Perhaps they had arrested him, and he had confessed telling her the word. But if that was the case, why was she still at liberty? And who was the old man?
    She turned the third corner, and headed back toward her apartment.
    Halfway down the block, a corpse lay sprawled on the sidewalk.
    Three policemen were clustered around the dead man. Eva crossed the street, averting her eyes. How would she have felt, in this situation, had she been innocent? Nervous, focused on herself, trying to avoid becoming involved. She portrayed these feelings in her walk and her demeanor, and none of the men glanced in her direction.
    When she turned the last corner, she saw another cluster of policemen, surrounding the little newspaper and book stand across from her building. A few Gestapo agents mingled with them. They were looking down at something inside the stand, speaking in low voices.
    She closed the distance to her apartment. Nobody moved to stop her.
    She let herself in, descending the four steps, and opened the three locks. Then she was safe inside her own apartment—except that she didn’t feel safe. The mask of impassivity dissolved; her face contorted like a child’s on the verge of a crying fit.
    She took the envelope from her pocket, tore it open, and began to read.
    Dearest Eva, the letter began.
    She recognized the handwriting immediately: a spiky, nearly illegible scrawl. The old man’s face clicked back into her mind’s eye. That tremendous, ridiculous white mustache. A fake