Solitaire

by Jane Thynne

  The two men had emigrated from Britain to the United States the previous year, to the disdain of their fellow countrymen.

  ‘Everyone assumes he’s gone to have a lovely time. Must be damned frustrating for him. Still, we all have our crosses to bear, some of them more arduous than others. And Angela’s talents clearly run in the family.’

  Fleming withdrew a slim silver case from his inside pocket, extracted two handmade cigarettes and a Dunhill lighter and lit first one for her, then himself.

  ‘You’ll like these. They’re a mixture of Balkan and Turkish tobacco. They hand-roll them for me at Morland’s in Grosvenor Street.’

  The remark made Clara smile. Ian Fleming was an odd mixture of a sophisticate and a schoolboy trying to impress. As if she’d care what cigarettes he smoked or which address they were rolled at. Yet she did relish the unfamiliar, rich tobacco and as she inhaled she could feel his eyes drilling into her, assessing her reaction, trying to probe her thoughts. Actually, she was thinking of Angela at the age of twelve in an Aertex shirt and cotton shorts, parting the laurel branches in the shrubbery in a game of hide and seek.

  Oh Clara. Is that the best you can do?

  Deception, like modelling and tennis, was just another skill at which Angela beat her hands down.

  ‘Do you know, I had no idea, until last year, that my sister was anything other than a Nazi sympathizer. She had me completely fooled. She is so much better at it than I am.’

  ‘Don’t do yourself down, Miss Vine. One thing I can tell about you is that you’re a listener. That’s a quality they look for. Someone who will sit back and watch, ask the right questions. A person who can lose themselves in a crowd.’

  She took another glance around the deserted bar.

  ‘Does Angela work in . . . wherever it is you work?’

  ‘Hardly.’ A throaty chuckle. ‘I suppose I should explain. I’m Lieutenant Fleming, as it happens. I was a humble stockbroker until I was invited to lunch at the Carlton Grill by a brace of admirals and conscripted into the Naval Intelligence Division.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘We call it the NID. It’s a glorious place. Based at the Admiralty. Full of tweedy types working out how to freeze clouds and build fortified icebergs in the north Atlantic. The department of daydreams and dirty tricks. They’re all going to blow up the iron gates of the Danube, parachute into Berlin and assassinate Hitler. I love it, but I’m not a desk man. I was desperate to escape and get some fresh air so they sent me out to help the British evacuation of Bordeaux. There were a large amount of aero engines and spare parts we needed to keep out of the hands of Goering and his merry men and as it happens, I was in the right spot to help King Zog of Albania board the last ship out. After that success with royalty, they sent me down here to do a spot of babysitting.’

  ‘If you don’t mind me saying, you don’t look the type.’

  ‘I’m very good at it actually. Though my charges run rings around me.’

  ‘Who are your charges exactly?’

  ‘A couple of our own. The Duke and Duchess of Windsor.’

  Clara started, recalling what Mary Harker had told her about the Duke and Duchess. Churchill is begging them to come home but word is they’re having a very enjoyable time in Europe. The Duchess is digging in her heels. She’s refusing to get dragged into the war.

  ‘So they’re here?’

  ‘Unfortunately. And they’re not behaving themselves.’

  ‘That seems an extraordinary way to talk about members of the Royal Family.’

  ‘Not sure I hold with all that royal business. In my mind, the only people I call sir are God and the King. Certainly not ex-Kings.’

  ‘So how are they not behaving?’

  ‘They won’t obey orders. They came down here in a hurry when the Germans took Paris and now the Prime Minister urgently wants them to leave. The prospect of the Duke and Duchess being here if Portugal falls to the Nazis is pretty grim. There’s an American Export Lines passenger ship called the Excalibur waiting for them in the harbour right now and all they have to do is pack up their things and get on it like good royals, but they’re not budging.’

  ‘Are they going back to London?’

  ‘’Fraid the Queen would take a very dim view of that. She’d rather not be in the same continent as them, let along the same city. No, they’re being sent to the Bahamas. They feel rather sorry for themselves, but I feel sorry for the Bahamas.’

  Clara couldn’t help smiling.

  ‘They’re probably the only refugees in the whole of Lisbon who have the opportunity to leave and won’t.’

  ‘Precisely. Or at least, if they do intend to leave they’re in no hurry about it. It’s almost as if they’re waiting for something.’

  Fleming frowned and leaned forward, elbows on knees, as if trying to puzzle out a problem.

  ‘He’s a tricky devil, the Duke. He’s a man who was born with three aces in his hand and spends most of his time complaining about not being given a fourth. Can’t say I warm to him one bit. He’s dangerously sympathetic to Herr Hitler. Practically a Fifth Columnist. And he seems to bear a deep grudge against his brother.’

  ‘Bitterness runs deep. Anyone who’s ever had a family knows that.’

  ‘Perhaps. He insists he’ll only accept this Bahamas posting if his wife is given the title HRH and treated the same as other members of his family. She must be received at Buckingham Palace and paid by the civil list. And that’s never going to happen.’

  ‘You’re saying he won’t go just because of his wife’s title?’

  ‘Could be. But it’s my sense that it’s something else that’s keeping him. And I’m damned if I know what it is. In the meantime, they’re at the casino until four in the morning, and they require a whole team of watchers to protect them.’

  ‘Protect them from who?’

  He arched an eyebrow at her. ‘I’m surprised you could even ask that. Have you not noticed there are Gestapo everywhere? The street outside the Duke’s residence is crawling with them. Not to mention the swarms of informers. They’ve bugged the Foreign Ministry, they bribe all the officials, and they have an extensive network of spies. They’ve bought up everyone we couldn’t get to first – bartenders, policemen, waiters. They probably have listening devices in the Duke’s bedside table. Fortunately we do have some valuable people – I’ve cultivated a man at the casino, a German by heritage, name of Hertz. He manages the salle privée where the Duke likes to play. Pretty silent sort of fellow with a wonky eye, but utterly trustworthy.’

  ‘Surely the Windsors . . .?’

  ‘Unfortunately, the happy couple won’t believe a word we say. They take everything the British tell them as lies. It doesn’t help that the Nazis have informed them that Churchill wants them murdered.’

  ‘They can’t believe that.’

  ‘The bitterness, as you said, goes very deep.’ Fleming exhaled a jet of cigarette fume and studied its upward drift abstractedly, like a smoke signal. ‘But their behaviour is odd. It’s not just a case of spending too much at the casino, or drinking too much, though they’re guilty of both of those sins. But frankly, aren’t we all . . .’

  He glanced at Clara’s single Martini lined up against his own three empty glasses and corrected himself.

  ‘Well, perhaps not all of us. But I’m convinced there’s something else keeping them here and I’m damned if I know what it is. In the meantime, I’m devoting myself to keeping tabs on the enemy. Only the other day I noticed a new character keeping an eye on them.’

  ‘Gestapo?’

  ‘Not entirely sure. It’s a girl. I saw her at the casino the other night. A long way from your standard-issue shifty-eyed German goon in a raincoat. She was distinctly attractive. Practically radioactive. I realized I’d seen her before in one of the nightclubs here, singing a rather catchy song. Something about a woman under a lamp post. Ever heard it?’

  ‘You must mean Lili Marlene.’ Clara had first heard
the song the previous year at the Kabarett der Komiker in Berlin and it had transfixed her. The girl’s voice, half choked with emotion, had lingered in her mind long after the last notes had died away. ‘But seeing a nightclub singer at the casino is hardly unusual.’

  ‘Except that she was shadowing the Duke, I’m sure of it. And it wouldn’t be the first time they’ve used a nightclub singer to spy. I know for a fact that Joey Goebbels keeps a file of all the artists he can use as agents in foreign countries and there are plenty of little cabaret artistes in second-rate bars who fit the bill. Only a few months ago three cabaret singers were arrested in Antwerp for transmitting information to the Germans. When I saw this young lady, sheathed in satin and nervous as a cat on a hot tin roof, I guessed she was more of the same so I tipped off a couple of Portuguese policemen and they rounded her up. If she is working for the Nazis, as I suspect, they’ll let her go soon enough. But I like to keep them on their toes.’

  A couple of German businessmen entered the bar and Fleming offered them a beaming smile.

  ‘Shall we walk?’

  They moved outside and continued along to the Rossio, the city’s grandest square with its lush, colourful vegetation, ornate façades, bronze fountains and intricate Portuguese paving. At this hour it was thronged with people spilling out from the bars, relaxing in the way they had for centuries with a stroll in the cool of the evening. All the cafés and bars were open, and the nightlife was peppered with the language of every imaginable nationality. French, Dutch and German tangled in the air, intersected by the occasional strident American voice, loudly demanding service with the assurance that money, and an American passport, were enough to secure any conceivable object in life. Lisbon was like one long party whose guests might intend to leave but showed absolutely no signs of departing. Yet in the side alleys and along the steps of the National Theatre shadowy forms were congregating and laying out their bags. The first rough sleepers were settling down for the night.

  Fleming led the way and they strolled for a while, as comfortably as all the citizens around. Clara breathed the balmy, blossom-scented air and tried to imagine, for one futile moment, that she was on holiday. It was a pleasant experience to walk through a city at a gentle pace alongside a companionable Englishman. She wished she could properly relax and enjoy the novelty of the situation, but like the little stray cat at home, her desire for companionship was always overcome by her instinctive caution.

  ‘So, as they say in nightclubs, what’s a girl like you doing in a place like this?’

  She paused for a heartbeat, then said, ‘I’ve been summoned to the German Embassy.’

  She had, at last, succeeded in surprising him. The expression of urbane irony remained intact, but a flicker of the muscle in Fleming’s cheek told her that this information took him aback.

  ‘Can I ask why?’

  ‘Have you heard of a man called Walter Schellenberg?’

  ‘Course I’ve heard of him. Head of counter-espionage. Iron Cross first class.’

  ‘He’s asked to see me. He has suspicions about an actor. A man called Hans Reuber. He wants me to report on him.’

  Even as she spoke Clara was still turning the problem over in her head, trying to probe her own instincts, dreading what lay ahead.

  ‘If you live in Berlin, why not get you to call in on him there? Why drag you all the way here?’

  ‘That’s what I don’t understand.’

  ‘You can’t imagine Germany’s chief spymaster invited you here for a seaside holiday.’

  ‘Lieutenant Fleming, do you really think I’d have survived as long as I have in Nazi Germany if I didn’t ask myself questions like this? If Schellenberg wanted to arrest me, it would be much more convenient to do it in Berlin. He has plenty of cells at his disposal at Gestapo headquarters. No. I think it’s something else, but I honestly don’t know what.’

  Fleming’s face was set, calculating.

  ‘He’s an interesting character, Schellenberg. He has us all puzzled. He’s had a brilliant career, he’s climbed the Nazi ladder and he’s Heydrich’s man all right, but he’s far more cultured than most of them. Loves travel, art, literature, music. He must know what swine those SD brutes are – he could hardly be a soulmate of a man like Heinrich Himmler – and he’s clever enough to keep his distance. It’s significant that he’s taken an office in Dahlem, well away from Gestapo HQ. I often wonder if he keeps a locker at the Hauptbahnhof with a complete change of clothes in case he needs a quick getaway when the music stops.’

  ‘You seem to know a lot about him.’

  ‘It’s my job.’ He turned to her purposefully.

  ‘A session with him won’t be easy. Do you understand what you’re up against? Do you have any idea how to withstand interrogation?’

  ‘I’ve done it before.’

  ‘Do you have a gun?’

  Clara laughed.

  ‘I don’t think you understand. Walter Schellenberg is accompanied at all times by a squad of armed men. If he’s intending to arrest me, there’ll be no shortage of guards to help him.’

  Fleming had steered her into a dimly lit alley, leading away from the square to the maze of winding streets beyond. He leaned back against a wall, an arrow of shadow bisecting his face.

  ‘Nonetheless, he’s extremely cunning. It doesn’t do to underestimate Herr Schellenberg.’

  ‘You think I don’t realize that? Knowing how clever he is is hardly reassuring. If you want the truth, the idea of meeting him terrifies me.’

  ‘Oh come!’ Fleming wheeled round, his face suddenly alight. ‘You’re looking forward to it! It’s a challenge. This world of ours suits a certain type. Those of us who are good at keeping our feelings under control. Who know how to keep our lives in compartments.’

  ‘That’s not me.’

  ‘Of course it’s you. You’re quick-witted, and most of all you’re alone. You actually like being solitary.’

  ‘What on earth qualifies you to say that?’

  ‘It takes one loner to know another. And believe me, it’s useful in our line of work. Married people are security risks. If you’re single it means you can’t be manipulated. You’re your own person. We have a lot in common, you and I. We’re both alone.’

  There was a flare of attraction in his eyes, as though Narcissus had glimpsed his reflection in the mirrored lake, and liked what he saw.

  ‘Perhaps,’ he placed a hand on her waist and drew her towards him, ‘you’d like to see my apartment. It’s above Amigos bar in the old fishermen’s quarter. The embassy keeps it as a safe house so suffice to say that no one’s splashed out on décor, but it’s comfortable enough.’

  He obviously expected her to agree. Clara sensed that Fleming was accustomed to women finding him attractive. Maybe he was the kind of man who seduced women because he had no idea how else to get on with them.

  ‘As far as discretion goes, you needn’t worry. Officially, I don’t exist.’

  In the half-light of the alleyway he did for a moment resemble some kind of phantom, an Englishman conjured up from her own exhausted imagination. A man whose background matched hers, who was as familiar as Clara with the streets and squares of her own childhood. Who knew her sister and her secrets. A man with whom she could feel momentarily secure. The comfort of the known and understood ran deep within Clara and, added to Ian Fleming’s animal magnetism, it was a combination almost impossible to resist.

  But she had already made enough rash decisions for one day and had no intention of making another.

  ‘Sometimes even loners like us can offer a little comfort to each other,’ he murmured. He was close enough for her to smell a spicy Jermyn Street cologne, vetiver and sandalwood, mingled with sweat and warm skin.

  ‘I’m rather tired.’

  Fleming leaned closer, and stroked a single finger down the length of her neck, ending at the swell of her cleavage.

  ‘I’m sure we could wake you up a little.’

  Suddenly her
back was against the wall and his hands were on her arms, infinitely soft and caressing.

  ‘Wouldn’t it be nice to slip out of these clothes and into another cocktail?’

  His mouth moved to kiss her but she turned her face away. Did he really imagine she would come with him after so short an acquaintance and allow him to peel the dress from her like an orange? Almost certainly he did. War had that effect on people. And she felt herself respond. War had that effect on people too.

  ‘It’s a bad idea.’

  ‘Why? Am I too English for you? Have your tastes changed after all your years away?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Some chap back in Germany?’

  ‘There’s no one. I’m just not interested.’

  With surprising pressure he pushed her harder against the wall, pressing his entire six foot two inches against her, his breath hot on her cheek. He was kissing her roughly now, and the weight of him on her was almost suffocating. She could not tear her mouth away to breathe.

  ‘I’m not sure I believe you. You’re a spy, after all, so you like pretending.’

  She stiffened and yanked her head back. The wild idea went through her that this was some kind of test.

  ‘I’m not pretending.’

  His thigh wedged between her legs.

  ‘Aren’t you? In my experience all girls prefer the door to be forced.’

  She couldn’t risk crying out; it would compromise both of them and any attention they attracted was sure to be unwelcome. What was the point of landing them both in a Portuguese prison? As Fleming’s arm moved down to caress her hip, she raised a knee and found his groin.