by Tom Gabbay
The body lay across the path, facedown, arms folded underneath the naked torso. If I had any doubts about who the dead man was, they were eliminated when I saw the black dress shoes. I pulled the car up close, bathing Fabio in light, then killed the engine. The sudden silence was a bit unnerving, causing me to peer out into the void as I stepped into the night air and approached the corpse.
His face was immersed in a deep pool of dark red blood. As I approached I could see why. His throat had been cut so deeply that his head was nearly severed from his body. I paused, tamped down my emotions, then crouched beside the body to get a closer look. He hadn’t been lying there long. Steam rose off the gaping wound and the blood was just starting to congeal around his ears. I noticed that the barrel of his shotgun was poking out from under his considerable frame. Stepping around to the other side, I took hold of it and pulled gently. It didn’t move. I tried with both hands, giving it a good yank, but still no movement.
Christ, I thought, I’m gonna have to roll him over.
I took a deep breath, shoved my hands under Fabio’s chest, and lifted. I almost had him over when I looked down and discovered that I was the object of his fixed gaze. It was disconcerting, to say the least, but I was able to hold on long enough to kick the shotgun out from under him.
It was a relic of the nineteenth century—two rusty twelve-gauge barrels fired with external hammers, and a handle that was held together with electrical tape. It would probably blow up in my face if I tried to use it, but it was better than nothing. I turned toward the house and steeled myself for what I might find.
The door was open. As I stepped into the murky stillness, a dim, flickering light drew me through the front room, where I’d spent the previous night, toward the back of the house. The light grew in intensity as I approached, a soft orange glow emanating from inside the bedroom, dancing across the undulating gray plaster of the back wall. I went slowly, listening for any sound, any movement. There was none.
As I rounded the corner, her blood-splattered hand came into view. She was reaching out, pleading—maybe begging for mercy from her killer, or perhaps attempting to call her husband, who already lay naked and dead on the road. Or maybe it was Rosalina’s last desperate plea to God that He not let her die there, in wretched anguish, on the cold, hard tiles.
The flame in the oil lamp hovered over the scene, flitting and jumping behind its glass casing, casting a nervous illumination onto the horror that I faced. An innocent young woman had been sliced open—not with cool precision, but with a savage brutality that made every fiber in my body contract in revulsion until I could scarcely draw a breath. I fell back against the door. The sheets were smeared with deep crimson, her cotton nightgown saturated with blood emanating from her stomach, where the blade had penetrated, and there were bloody handprints across the white walls. She’d been attacked in the bed, then tried to make it out of the room, using the wall for support. She hadn’t made it, collapsing before she reached the door. That’s where she’d realized that she was going to die, and all she could do was beg for help. From her husband, her executioner, or from God, it didn’t matter. None came.
All the constricting pain I felt suddenly came together to form a ball of agony in the pit of my stomach. I doubled over, and in my body’s attempt to expel the ache, I retched everything I had, coughing and sputtering until I was empty and gagging on my own bile.
I straightened up and took a shaky breath. It was impossible to avoid looking at the poor girl’s face again. I hadn’t exchanged more than a polite smile with this gentle soul, but seeing her there in that state was enough to make me want to cry like a baby. My physical reaction to the grisly scene was certainly understandable, but it wasn’t just the blood that had made me sick. It was the fact that this was a case of mistaken identity. It was the thought that this could have been Eva.
CHAPTER 19
The dawn’s silky light seeped into the night sky, lifting the black veil that had draped the mountain in darkness. The world was taking shape again. I leaned into the doorway, absorbing it all as I lit a smoke and tried to get my bearings. I knew now who had sold us out, but that was for later. First, there was Eva. Where the hell was Eva?
Something caught my eye and made my stomach tense up again. About thirty yards from the house, a dark object, in the grass. The light was too faint yet to give it definition, but something was definitely there, something of substance. I tossed my cigarette aside, picked up the shotgun, and ran. My legs felt heavy and numb, as if I was running in one of those dreams where you have to get away from something, but you’re weighed down by some invisible force of nature, and the more effort you make, the harder it is to break free.
As I neared the object, it began to take on the form of a human. A man, flat on his belly, limbs fixed in a crawling position. I stood over him, breathing harder than I should’ve been for such a short sprint, feeling sorry that the bastard was beyond the pain that I would’ve liked to inflict on him, and that he deserved. It was some comfort to know that he hadn’t died quickly. I counted three places where the bullets had torn through the black leather jacket before they ripped into his lungs. Behind him was a twenty-foot trail of matted grass that showed the path he’d crawled in his escape attempt, starting where the first shots felled him, finishing where his life had been ended with at least one point-blank bullet to the brain. The top right side of his head was pretty well missing.
I kicked him over onto his back. The lifeless face of an assassin. It didn’t say much. Just that I’d never seen him before. That didn’t matter, though. I already knew where he’d come from and why he’d been sent.
“Don’t turn around.”
Eva’s voice was muted, flat and cold.
“Okay,” I said.
“I’ve killed three men. A fourth won’t make any difference to me.”
“If you thought there was a reason to do that, you would’ve already done it,” I said, hoping like hell that I was right.
“Did you come with him?”
“No.”
“Why did you come?”
I needed to talk to her face-to-face, so I didn’t answer. “I’m going to drop the shotgun, Eva,” I said calmly. “Then I’m going to turn around. Okay?” I waited for a response, but none came, so I let the gun fall out of my hand, put my arms in the air, and started rotating around.
I could see that Eva was on the edge. She held the Luger tightly in both hands and stood firm, ready to absorb the kick when she pulled the trigger. I considered myself lucky that my skull was still intact.
We stared at each other for a moment.
“I thought they’d killed you,” I said, but she ignored the implication.
“You weren’t supposed to be here until later. Why did you come?”
“I saw Ritter last night.”
“And?”
“He was drinking champagne and talking too much.”
“What was he saying?”
“That he knew you were still alive. Somebody sold us out.”
Eva laughed. “I’m still not sure that it wasn’t you, Jack.”
“I think you know better,” I said.
She stared at me for what seemed a very long time, then she dropped her arm to her side, as if the pistol was too heavy for her to support any longer. She shook her head.
“Why, Jack?” I wasn’t sure what she meant, and I don’t know that she did, either.
“You said you’ve killed three men…”
“There’s another one over there.” She gestured up the field. “The same as this one. Gestapo.”
“There’s nothing we can do here,” I said. “My car’s on the drive.”
She nodded and slung her handbag over her shoulder. I didn’t feel right about leaving Rosa and Fabio, but it would have to wait. Eva glanced back at the house as we walked toward the car and I thought she was thinking the same thing. But neither of us said anything.
I slowly reversed down the drive, passing the
killers’ vehicle, which was stowed in the brush just a few yards from where I’d stopped. I guessed that the driver had pulled up to keep Fabio busy, allowing his partner to come up from behind, then they’d gone on to the house on foot.
We hit the main road at the bottom of the mountain. Lisbon to the left, Estoril and the Palacio to the right. I turned right.
Alberto was in his pajamas, watering the line of potted plants that sat on the doorstep of his two-room stucco home. He smiled as I pulled up, put down the watering can, and came toward the car. Then he saw my face and froze.
“Senhor…What a big surprise. Why—?” When Eva stepped out of the car, he went quiet and pale.
“Maybe we should do this inside,” I said. There were a number of similar dwellings scattered along the dusty road and I didn’t want to wake the neighbors.
“I…I don’t understand. Has something happened?”
“Yes, Alberto. Something’s happened.”
He started backing away and stumbled over the watering can, hitting the ground squarely on his back. He flailed around for a moment, trying to find his legs, then resorted to covering his head when I leaned in. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do with him, but I started by grabbing him by the collar and dragging him to his feet. I pushed him up against the wall of the house, my clenched fists pressing hard against his throat. He tried to say something, but couldn’t get it past his windpipe, so I eased up slightly. I didn’t want him passing out on me.
Before I could open my mouth, Alberto’s extra-large wife came barreling through the ceramic beads that hung in the doorway, launched herself onto my back, and started pummeling me, while screeching the Portuguese equivalent of Help! Killer! at the top of her lungs. Anyone within a half mile who wasn’t deaf would’ve heard it, but the locals all decided against playing hero.
Eva got the big lady’s attention by pressing the Luger up against her cheek. The screams ended abruptly, replaced by a series of long, equally annoying moans. Then the tears started. I was half hoping that Eva would just go ahead and pull the trigger when I noticed the young twins standing in the doorway, two looks of identical terror on their bookend faces.
“Tell her to take the kids inside,” I said to Alberto. He relayed the message with a nod, and his wife didn’t argue. She scooped the girls up and retreated into the house to await her husband’s fate.
“Let me see the gun,” I said, and Eva handed it over without comment. Alberto was starting to sweat, but staring a bullet down kept him focused.
“I am innocent,” he said defiantly.
“Of what?”
He frowned. “Have you come to kill me?”
“I’m not sure yet,” I said. “But it’s a possibility.”
He swallowed hard, and I pushed the pistol up under his chin. I wanted him to feel the metal.
“I’ll count to three before I pull the trigger,” I said. “Ready?…One…two…”
“They make me do it!”
“Do what?”
He was hyperventilating and got stuck. I removed the Luger and gave him a moment to catch his breath, but it didn’t help much.
“They have made me to tell…”—he panted—“…about the senhorita Eva…They want to know…where is she.”
“Who wanted to know?”
“The Guarda…Catela…He comes in the night and he says if I don’t tell, he takes me to jail…Please, senhor…I have my family…When I go to jail they don’t see me again…What happens for them?” He waited for a sign of understanding, but got none. “But is okay, yes?!” He tried to lighten things up. “The senhorita, she is okay! They don’t find her…Good! Good! To hell with them!”
I’d had enough. I cocked my arm and whipped the butt of the pistol hard across his head. There was a loud crack! and he went down again. I think even Eva was startled. Alberto cried out and held the wound, which wasn’t producing much more than a trickle of blood, but it was already starting to swell up.
“Bastardo!”
He spat on the ground, but it was meant for me. I stepped up and, straddling him, placed the gun next to his ear and calmly fired off a shot. Alberto cried out and rolled himself up into into a fetal ball. I shoved the gun into his ribs.
“Tell me the truth, Alberto!”
“I have told to you—!”
“The truth, Alberto! How much did the Gestapo pay you?!”
“It’s not like this! I swear!”
“The truth!” I prodded him. “No one came in the night and threatened you, did they?!”
“Yes! They came—! Capitão Catela—”
“Why would Catela come looking for Eva when he thought she was dead? Everyone thought she was dead—until you told them otherwise!”
“No…!”
“You saw a chance for some money, and you took it! That’s right, isn’t it?! You went to the German embassy and you told Ritter!”
“No!” I fired off another round.
“Didn’t you?!”
“Please, senhor…!”
“DIDN’T YOU…?!”
“YES!…Yes…I did…”
He looked up at me, wondering what I would do now. I stood there for moment, unsure myself. In spite of everything, I guess I pitied the poor bastard. He didn’t deserve it, but I did anyway.
“How much did they pay you, Alberto?” I said, softly now. “What’s the going rate in Lisbon for betrayal?”
He sighed, shook his head slowly back and forth, then looked to Eva for absolution. “I have to take care for my family…”
Eva gave him a steely look. “Go see Fabio and Rosa. You’ll see exactly how well you took care of your family.”
“What—?” Alberto looked from Eva to me and back to Eva again. “Is something happen to my cousins?”
I took Eva’s arm and led her back to the car. Alberto pulled himself to his feet and followed.
“Please, senhor…!” He called after us. “I was wrong to do it. But please tell me…Nothing has happened to Fabio and Rosalina! They are innocent…!”
I gave him a look that stopped him in his tracks. He knew what it meant. As Eva and I pulled away, I looked into the wing mirror and saw that Alberto had fallen to his knees.
But it was too late for praying.
CHAPTER 20
The persistent clackety-clack of the wheels bouncing along the track, accompanied by the gentle rocking of the carriage, should’ve been enough to lull me into a much-needed slumber, but I had too many thoughts knocking around in my head to allow for sleep. Paris was still fourteen hours away—plenty of time to do what I had to do—but I’d have to make my move soon, in the early hours of the morning, after we’d crossed the Spanish border. There would be no room for mistakes.
I was pretty sure that “The Angel of Darkness” hadn’t spotted us at the station. He’d been too busy watching Madame Moulichon waddle aboard and settle herself into the compartment she occupied three cars behind the first-class accommodation that Eva and I were sharing. The German had a face that would be striking under any circumstances—the boyish Mickey Rooney looks, spoiled by the permanent scowl that somebody’s knife had carved into the right profile—but the black eye and the bandage across his left cheek, courtesy of Eva’s boot, made him impossible to miss. I’d watched him from behind the glass as he loitered on the platform, waiting until the very last moment to jump onto the train as it pulled out of Lisbon’s main station.
I didn’t like what lay ahead, but there was no other choice. Even if the Gestapo didn’t yet know the importance of the mission that had been entrusted to the duchess’s housekeeper, they’d figure it out once we hit Paris. We’d have to be very thorough with the cleanup, though. The German would have to simply disappear, with no tell-tale traces of blood left behind.
Eva murmured something unintelligible, slid her arm across my bare chest, and nestled onto my shoulder. I could feel the soft warmth of her breast through the thin cotton T-shirt she’d worn to bed, and the steady pulse of her heart see
med to match mine, beat for beat. An unfamiliar sense of sublime contentment engulfed me for a moment, but it was soon replaced by a foreboding for what was to come. I stared into the darkness and turned my thoughts back, toward the events of the last forty-eight hours.
“What a lovely surprise…”
Harry Thompson displayed a perplexed smile, looked over to me, and nervously cleared his throat. “You didn’t tell me that you’d be bringing Mademoiselle Foquet, Jack…Er, perhaps she’d like to wait for you out here?” He made a sweeping gesture around the empty bar. “Inasmuch as we have a variety of matters to—”
“This is Eva Lange, Harry,” I said, stopping him midsentence. He stood there, staring at me for a beat, then had another look at Eva.
“I see,” he said. “Then she’s not dead, after all.”
“Harry’s a reporter,” I explained. “Nothing gets by him.”
“So I see.” Eva smiled.
“Yes, well…” Harry fumbled. “This is unexpected.”
“Is he here?” I said.
Harry nodded and ushered us into a back room, where Stropford was seated at a small wooden table, plunging a tea bag in and out of a cup of tepid water. He looked up as we entered, broke into a broad smile as he rose to his feet.
“Hello, Jack,” he said warmly, offering a hand. “Good to see you again. Glad we could make this work.”
He stole a glance at Eva and didn’t skip a beat when I introduced her. “Yes, I’ve heard all about you, of course,” he said. “Please, sit down. Can’t say as I can recommend the tea, I’m afraid. These wretched bags—another laborsaving device from America, I fear. It wouldn’t be so bad, I suppose, if they’d just allow it to brew in a proper pot, but they seem to think it a good idea to allow one to do one’s own dunking. Perhaps you’d like something with a bit more bite?”