To Catch a King

by Jack Higgins

  “Thanks to Captain Mota?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Who expects his cash in advance?”

  “I'm afraid so.”

  Jackson went to the large old-fashioned safe in the corner, unlocked it, brought a cash box to the desk, and counted out ten one-hundred-dollar bills.

  “One more thing,” Taniguchi said. “The young lady goes in alone.”

  “Now look here,” Jackson began.

  “Part of the deal, Joe. Either you agree, or it's all off. She leaves the car halfway down the hill and walks the rest of the way. That's so the gate sentry doesn't hear her.”

  Jackson shrugged. “Okay,” he said reluctantly. “But I expect service for this little lot, old buddy, and if I don't get it…”

  “Trust, Joe, another of this world's more salable commodities. You must learn to value it.”

  Taniguchi was smiling as he went out of the door.

  Huene placed an office at Schellenberg's disposal, small but perfectly adequate. He was working at the desk when there was a knock at the door and Kleiber entered. He was still very pale and now carried his right arm in a sling made from a silk scarf.

  “Well, what do you want?” Schellenberg asked.

  “I assumed there would be work to do.”

  “As I understood it, your task was to act as my bodyguard,” Schellenberg told him. “You're obviously totally unfit for that at the moment, so my orders are that you go to bed until fully recovered.”

  “And Sindermann?”

  “Is of no use to me whatsoever.”

  “But the Duke of Windsor, General?”

  “Is none of your affair, so do as I order. Do you understand?”

  “Jawohl, Brigadeführer,” Kleiber said, but when he turned to the door there was murder in his eyes.

  Five minutes later he entered Egger's office without ceremony, Sindermann at his heels.

  “Sturmbannführer?” Egger said in alarm.

  Kleiber sat down. “In the matter of General Schellenberg, my worst fears have been realized. There can be little doubt that he is not pursuing his orders as regards this Windsor affair with anything like the vigor he should. Have you anything to report to me?”

  Egger looked hunted, but replied in a low voice, “Yes, I think so. No more than an hour ago he received a brief visit from Captain Jose Mota of the Security Police, the officer in charge of the detachment at the villa.”

  “Here?” Kleiber said. “He actually came here?”

  “Nothing unusual in that, Sturmbannführer. He often calls here to see me to discuss matters where police cooperation is required.”

  “You know him socially?”

  “Yes, Sturmbannführer.”

  “I see. Have you any idea of the substance of his talk with General Schellenberg?”

  “No.”

  “But you could find out from your friend Mota, I'm sure?”

  “I could try, Sturmbannführer.”

  “Then do so, by all means,” Kleiber told him. “And as soon as possible.”

  * * *

  It was just before ten when Hannah turned into the hill road leading up to the villa. Following Taniguchi's instructions, she pulled into the grass shoulder under the trees halfway up the hill, parked, and started to walk the rest of the way.

  A couple of minutes later, there was the softest of clicks as the passenger door opened and Joe Jackson, who had been crouched on the floor, slid out. He wore black pants and sweater, a balaclava helmet pulled over his face so that only his eyes showed. The Browning was tucked into his belt at the rear.

  He went after her, keeping to the trees. The gate in the wall was clearly visible because there was a small light above it. He saw her pause, then tentatively try the handle. The door opened to her touch. She passed inside.

  Some distance further along there was a tree conveniently close to the wall, its branches spreading across. Jackson climbed up quickly, poised on top of the wall to slide over, then saw the dim bulk of the summer-house only four or five yards away. There was a lantern on the inside of the door also, and in its light, he could see Hannah approaching. He reached for the Browning at his back and held it ready. The girl hesitated and stepped up on to the veranda.

  She could see the glow in the darkness, smell the aroma of good Havana. “Your Royal Highness,” she whispered. “Please—I must speak with you. My name is …”

  “Hannah Winter,” Walter Schellenberg said.

  He moved out of the shadows and stood on the porch. “Oh, my God,” she said and turned to run, only to find her way blocked by a young police officer.

  Schellenberg said, “It's all right, Mota, I'll return the young lady to her car now. Better lock the door after us.”

  He had a hand on her elbow, taking her back down the path to the door. They went out, and Mota closed it behind them.

  Flat on the wall, Jackson heard Schellenberg say to the girl, “I'm afraid Taniguchi wasn't exactly honest with your friend, Mr. Jackson. The Duke doesn't turn up for another half hour yet. What am I going to do with you, Hannah? Didn't I tell you to stay out of this thing?”

  Jackson would have slipped off the wall to follow then, but Mota had paused only a few yards away to light a cigarette. The match flared, illuminating a handsome, rather weak face.

  He peered around furtively, then whispered in Portuguese, “All right, you can come out now.”

  Kleiber and Sindermann emerged from the bushes.

  “You saw what you wanted?” Mota asked.

  “Oh, yes,” Kleiber answered in Portuguese. “The General is certainly going to have some explaining to do when we return to Berlin. However, let us discuss tomorrow's events. When do you leave for this bull farm?”

  “Nine-thirty. The Duke and Duchess with the Marques de Estella and their driver in the Buick. Two police motorcyclists lead the way one mile in advance. I follow with half a dozen men in a police truck; the Buick is last in line.”

  “So?”

  “Three miles before you reach Nina there is a village called Rosario. An inn and a few houses—nothing more. They don't even have a telephone. I'll arrange for the truck to break down. No problem there—the driver is very much my man. When the Buick reaches us, I'll tell them to carry on and wait for us at Rosario.”

  “Where the motorcyclists will already have passed through?”

  “Exactly. Eleven, give or take a few minutes, is the time I estimate the Buick should arrive and if you and your man here are waiting.” He shrugged. “A simple matter to take over at pistol point and drive to the border. Twenty minutes and you'll be in Spain.”

  “Excellent,” Kleiber said. “You've done well.”

  “And General Schellenberg?”

  “Is to know nothing.”

  “So what about my money?”

  “You'll get it, you have my word on that. Twenty thousand American dollars, just as we agreed.”

  Jackson didn't wait to hear any more, but allowed himself to slide gently over the wall and dropped into the damp grass. He started back down the hill where Hannah had left the Mercedes, but it had gone.

  The contingency plan had been simple: if they lost touch, to try and rendezvous at the beach house at Cascais, which was almost two miles away. As he started to trot along the grass verge at the side of the road, it began to rain.

  When Hannah and Schellenberg reached the Mercedes, he held open the door for her, then went around to the other side and got into the passenger seat.

  “I came by cab myself. You don't mind giving me a lift back into Lisbon, do you?”

  She started the car and drove away, thinking of Joe Jackson back there at the villa. “As far as the first cab rank.”

  He lit two cigarettes and passed one over to her. “You must see now what nonsense it is for you to continue to interfere in this business. The fact that you found me waiting for you in the summerhouse tonight, instead of the Duke, must surely prove to you that I have more influence in Lisbon than even your Mr
. Jackson.”

  As they neared the Tower of Belem they came to a night club with a neon sign flashing on and off in the dark. A couple of cabs were drawn up in front and she pulled in at the curb.

  She didn't say a word and Schellenberg got out, closed the door, then leaned in at the window and smiled. “We really can't go on meeting this way, you realize that, don't you?”

  She swung the Mercedes around in a U-turn and drove away rapidly.

  Lights were on in the house when she stopped in the courtyard. As she went up the steps to the veranda, the door opened and Jackson appeared. He was stripped to the waist and toweling himself down.

  “What happened?”

  She told him.

  “You missed the best part of the show,” he said, as she followed him inside. “After you'd gone, your two friends from the wharf turned up—Kleiber and Sindermann. Seems they don't exactly see eye to eye with Schellenberg. They've cooked up a plot with Captain Mota to snatch the Duke and Duchess on the way to the bull farm at Nina tomorrow. That young man is certainly in the market for corruption. Seems to be holding his hand out to everyone.”

  “Can we stop it?”

  “Oh, yes, I think so. I've already found out who is putting on the show in the ring at Nina tomorrow. I rang the union.”

  “The union?”

  “Sure—bullfighters have a union, just like anyone else. You know, I'm beginning to think this whole business this evening could turn out to be to our advantage.”

  “How?”

  “Never mind that now. I'll explain on the way into town. Make me some coffee while I change.”

  When he reappeared five minutes later he was wearing black tie and white tuxedo. “Working clothes,” he told her. “After all, I am a saloonkeeper.”

  She handed him his coffee. “I've been thinking. The friend of yours who laid things on for us at the villa didn't exactly come up with value for money.”

  “Oh, I don't know,” Jackson said. “The Nazis have not only been printing their own money lately, but other people's as well. Their British five-pound notes are excellent and their American one-hundred-dollar bills aren't bad. As long as you don't look at them too closely, that is. Someone tried to pass a few off at my gaming tables the other month. I confiscated them, naturally, and tossed him out on his ear. Not worth bothering the police, and it did seem a use might turn up for them some time.”

  “You bastard,” she said in awe.

  “I like to think so.”

  The café they stopped at was on the edge of the Alfama district and fronting on the river. It had no name. She could hear singing and guitar music.

  “Shouldn't I be asking myself what a young girl like me is doing in a place like this?”

  “This is no ordinary bar,” he said. “More like a club.”

  When they went in, she saw at once what he meant. The walls were covered with posters advertising various bullfights, and several bulls' heads were mounted behind the bar.

  It was not particularly busy. A young man leaned against the wall, chair tilted, playing a guitar and singing a fado softly. Four men played cards at another table. One of them was a small, dark, fierce-looking man with a dreadful scar on one cheek running into the eye.

  He called cheerfully, “Ola, Senhor Joe! Five minutes only. I have the hand of a lifetime here.”

  “I told you I phoned the union,” Jackson said. “And this is it. That's Jose Borges, local union president. He used to be one of the greatest toureiros in the game until he took a horn in the face and lost an eye. Lot of gypsy blood in him.”

  The barkeeper brought coffee in heavy glasses and brandy, without being told, and went away again.

  There was a cry of joy at the card table, general laughter, and Jose Borges got up and crossed to join them.

  There was a patch over his right eye, she saw that now as Jackson said, “Senhorita Winter—Jose Borges. Little Jose to every lover of the bulls in Portugal, for twenty-two years now.”

  “Senhorita.” He took her hand and bowed gravely.

  Jackson said, “I hear Oliveira has hired you to put on the show at his farm at Nina tomorrow for the Duke of Windsor and the Marques de Estella. A proud day for you.”

  “There have been others,” Borges said modestly and lit a long black cheroot.

  “I was wondering whether we can join you? Senhorita Winter, who is an American like myself, has never seen a bullfight. That being so, it seems to me she should see the best, and as you fight so seldom these days, Jose, tomorrow would really be a unique opportunity.”

  Borges turned with interest to Hannah. “So, you have a love for the bulls, senhorita?”

  “I'm not sure,” she said. “I'll have to see. It's the killing part of it that worries me.”

  He roared with laughter. “This is Portugal, not Spain. Here, the only one to get killed is the toureiro if he is unlucky. Once, many years ago, the Count of Arcos was torn to pieces by a bull before the eyes of the whole court. The Queen declared that Portugal was too weak to risk the life of a man against that of a bull. Since that day, the putting of the bull to death has been prohibited.”

  “The tips of the horns are covered with leather,” Jackson said. “Leather sheaths. But often, in the middle of a fight, they come off.”

  “And then, senhorita,” said Borges, running a finger along his scar. “You're in trouble.”

  “So, you'll take us tomorrow?” Jackson asked.

  “All right. We leave at eight.”

  “We'll come with you in the truck, if that's all right.”

  “Fine.”

  “Good.” Jackson got up. “We'd better get moving. I've got a club to run.”

  The sign Joe Jackson’s American Bar was bright in the night and there were a great many cars parked outside. He left the Mercedes on the wharf and took her in the side entrance and up the back stairs to his office.

  When he slid back a panel in the wall, it revealed a black grill through which they could look down into the gaming room. Dice, blackjack, poker—they were all doing well, but the crowd around the roulette wheel was particularly heavy.

  Jackson said, “Good, there he is. You wait here.”

  Colonel Fernandes da Cunha was not doing particularly well. Jackson said, “Hello, Fernandes. I always thought twelve was your lucky number.”

  “Did you, Joe?” Da Cunha smiled. “Then twelve it is, by all means.”

  As the wheel stopped, the ball slotted neatly into place. Jackson said, “I'd let it ride, if I were you.”

  “Who am I to argue with the proprietor.”

  This time, when twelve came up again, he picked up the chips the croupier pushed toward him. “You're being excessively generous tonight, Joe, I wonder why.”

  “Oh, I haven't even started yet,” Jackson told him. “Come upstairs and have a drink. You might find it interesting.”

  Hannah was standing at the grill looking down into the gaming room as they entered. She turned and Jackson said. “Fernandes, I'd like to introduce Miss Hannah Winter. Now, you could arrest her. On the other hand, if you're as smart as I think you are, you'll listen to what we've got to say first.”

  13

  It was a fine bright morning as the old truck rolled along the dusty road between the olive trees, women in black dresses and straw hats already at work in the fields.

  Hannah and Jackson were up front in the cab beside Borges, who was driving himself. The other members of his team were in the rear.

  Hannah was in a peasant dress and headscarf which Jackson had procured for her. He wore a tweed cap, a collarless shirt and an old jacket many times patched. It interested her that Borges had made no comment on their appearance.

  At one point, he fished out a packet of cheap local cigarettes with one hand. She got one out for him, lit it and put it into his mouth.

  “My thanks.”

  “You and Joe—you've known each other long?”

  “Since Spain, senhorita. We fought together against
Franco. Starved together. It was a bad time, I can tell you. A few drops of olive oil in water, a handful of grapes. Sometimes we didn't see a loaf of bread for weeks.”

  Jackson was dozing in the corner. She looked at him and said, “Hardly worth the money, I should have thought.”

  “Money?” he laughed hoarsely. “For the last year of the war we didn't get a peso—not any of us.”

  Hannah glanced again at Jackson, perplexed. “But I thought…”

  “That we fought for money, Joe and I? But you are wrong.”

  “Then why did you fight?”

  “I ask him that question myself once. For me, it's simple. I'm a Communist, but Joe just said he didn't like Franco.” At that moment, they rumbled past a small inn with tables outside and half a dozen houses. “Ah, Rosario. We'll soon be there.”

  “You know something?” Joe Jackson said, without opening his eyes. “You talk too much.”

  In the rear of the Buick, Primo de Rivera was seated opposite the Duke and Duchess.

  The Duke said, “It really is too much. Wallis received a bunch of flowers this morning. Anonymous, mind you. The card said: Beware of the machinations of the British Secret Service. A Portuguese friend who has your interests at heart. Have you ever heard such rot?”

  “Such talk is common in Madrid,” De Rivera said.

  “Good God, Primo, it's absolutely bloody nonsense. I mean, there is no British Secret Service in Lisbon at the moment. Well, hardly anything worth speaking about. I know, believe me.”

  The Buick slowed as they came alongside the police truck parked at the side of the road. Captain Mota approached and saluted. “I regret the inconvenience, Your Royal Highness. A minor breakdown and soon rectified. If you would continue to Rosario and wait for us there.”

  “Very well,” said the Duke and nodded to the chauffeur. “Drive on.”

  Kleiber and Sindermann arrived at the inn at Rosario at ten-thirty in a rented car from Lisbon. Kleiber paid the driver off and they went inside. It was a poor place—rough-cast walls, stone floor, and wooden tables—and there were no other customers.