City of Spies

by Mara Timon

  I slipped into the cool, fragrant water. Closed my eyes and began to relax. The bath smelt of flowers and spices, the evening air of jasmine and the sea, carrying with its scent the sorrowful sounds of a distant guitar.

  Matthew’s offer wasn’t philanthropic. He wasn’t looking out for me; he was looking out for himself and his country. And as long as I remembered that, and worked for the same things he stood for, he’d look out for me as well, as much as he was capable of. His attention came at a price. It always had.

  When my fingertips were sufficiently wrinkled, I towelled myself dry, wrapped myself in a piece of flannel, and padded down the hall to the master bedroom. It was lovely, hung in shades of cream and beige. A large vase of flowers stood on the dressing table opposite an enormous bed.

  My case and bag lay just inside the door. Across the room, the cupboard cracked open, and I cursed myself for not doing a better job securing my home. I reached into my bag for my pistol, feeling its familiar weight. On silent feet I moved to the wardrobe. I took a deep breath before allowing the gun’s muzzle to widen the gap.

  What greeted me took that breath away. Instead of a person lying in wait, there hung a glorious array of colours. One side contained stylish yet sensible clothing for everyday – but the other made me want to weep. Tentative fingers brushed across silks and satins, the like of which I hadn’t worn since before the war. I held an emerald green Balenciaga gown to my chest and I felt my knees go weak.

  I’d play his game. And I’d play it on my own terms.

  Operation Black Cat. I liked the sound of that.

  Chapter Eleven

  M

  atthew had set up my new identity, supported by all the required documentation. Solange Verin was a widowed Frenchwoman of independent means and vague political allegiance. She had a housekeeper – appropriately vetted by Matthew’s people – a required accessory for someone of Madame Verin’s stature, but I drew the line at a chauffeur. From what the taxi driver said, there were enough bufos around to track a person’s whereabouts. I didn’t need to make it too easy for them.

  With a growing understanding of how the city worked, I began to establish Madame Verin, finding an odd exhilaration in allowing rumour to work in my own favour as for the first time for years, I became the hunter instead of the hunted.

  At the chemist in Estoril, two fashionable Italian women gossiped about an event at the Hotel Aviz. I made a mental note to have a drink there later.

  My manicurist, gesturing to a frumpy blonde, whispered that the Abwehr were better known for their sexual exploits than for any intelligence, either gathered or innate. Barring one or two, she added.

  That wasn’t comforting – it only took one man, one person to find out my secrets.

  The milliner revealed the Portuguese obsession with French designs, even as they were frowned upon by the state. This supported Matthew’s political assessment, although Estoril, inhabited by a strange mix of exiled royalty, aristocrats and officers, refugees and spies from at least a dozen different countries, seemed to play by a different set of rules. The capital was farther up the river, but based on the bored look of the bank teller when I exchanged rather a large amount of French francs into Portuguese escudos, in this suburb lay the real power.

  By mid-afternoon, I’d dropped my parcels at the villa and applied another dose of brown dye to my hair. Finally groomed to a state that even Lady Anne wouldn’t be able to find fault with, I followed the hordes down the hill towards the beach. It was enough for the first day. I would secure a safe house in another part of town and a few disguises later in the week.

  Graceful hotels lined the street, and at the base, a small castle stood behind arches that reminded me of the ruins I’d seen on Rome’s Palatine. Beyond that, a large garden led up to a casino. I meandered along the beach before stopping for lunch at a yellow building with a steeple reminiscent of a dunce’s cap. The Tamariz.

  Smiling, I followed the maître d’ past a group of Germans at the bar and a table of Englishmen, their suits still crisp despite the heat. I sat under a large umbrella on the terrace, acclimatising to the warmth and the seemingly comfortable way the nationalities interacted with each other here. I ordered lunch in French, allowing my voice to carry.

  ‘One of ours,’ a women at the next table murmured, approving.

  ‘But supporting who?’ another asked.

  There were three of them: middle-aged Parisiennes with an impressive range of diamonds and double chins. Over the low din of clicking crystal and silverware on porcelain, the wheels of Estoril’s rumour mill began to churn.

  *

  The black lace mantilla swept across my shoulders, secured by a large marcasite cat at the cleavage of the Balenciaga gown. If it concealed the dress’s neckline, it also hid the puckered bullet hole the Germans had left on my shoulder last winter. Walking into the casino by myself would be bad enough, but that was the sort of gossip I wasn’t prepared to deal with yet.

  The doorman held open the doors and for a moment, I was back in London. Before. The air was scented with a familiar mix of French perfume, cigarette smoke and sweat. The colours of the gowns and uniforms were as blinding as the light refracting off the heavy chandeliers. Walking through the doors, I entered a warped version of the world I’d deserted five years before.

  With a small clutch bag in one hand and a glass of champagne in the other, I exchanged a handful of notes for chips, trying not to smirk as a man, hair combed back from an Eastern European face, swanned past, a woman clinging to each arm. There was something horribly clichéd about him, giving me more than an inkling about the games being played here.

  Perspiration beaded more than one brow, as much from the heat as from the games. A man with silvering hair and a long Gallic nose sat at one of the tables, surrounded by a group of unsmiling men. He rubbed his pencil moustache and threw in a few chips. It wasn’t difficult to gather that he was out of his depth. I turned away, taking no comfort from his situation.

  The atmosphere was almost surreal, with warring factions politely moving past one another. That being said, they did appear to keep to tables with other like-minded individuals.

  At the roulette table, a slim, pale man in a white dinner jacket stood with a group of uniformed Germans. While his posture wasn’t ramrod straight, nor was it the deliberate slouch of a British aristocrat. The ironic twist of his lips made it clear he wasn’t above having a laugh at Jerry’s expense.

  I moved past to the next table and placed a small stack of chips on Black 22. The silver ball whirled as I took a small sip of the first champagne I had drunk for years. If people thought conventional forms of gambling were exciting, they should try jumping out of a plane into occupied territory. I grinned widely when the croupier pushed a stack of chips towards me. Held back part of the winnings and pushed the remainder to Red 12. The silver ball again danced along, dipping into the red pocket.

  ‘Mein Gott,’ a man with sun-bleached hair murmured. His face was tanned, but fleshy, with the soft look of a diplomat rather than a front-line soldier. ‘Lucky and good-looking.’

  ‘Try your luck,’ an older, elegant man laughed. Unlike his younger companion, this man, perhaps in his late fifties, exuded both confidence and charisma.

  He tipped his head at me as the younger man approached.

  ‘Good evening, Fräulein . . .’

  ‘Frau,’ I corrected, focusing my attention on the spinning ball.

  ‘You speak German!’ he exclaimed. ‘Splendid! Can I buy you a drink?’

  ‘I already have one.’

  ‘Then finish it and I’ll buy you the next one. Perhaps you can share your luck with a simple soldier.’

  I raised an eyebrow to let him know I was unimpressed.

  ‘You make your own luck, sir.’

  ‘Please. My name is Jurgen Kuhne. And you are?’

  ‘Too old for you.’ I moved my winnings to another square.

  ‘You’re French, aren’t you?’
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  The puppy placed his chips next to mine, his hand grazing my wrist. The shudder was hard to stifle. And in Portugal, maybe I didn’t have to. I gave him a pointed glare.

  ‘And?’

  ‘And I have not seen you here before. You’re new to Estoril?’

  I looked over his shoulder to glare at the other man. He’d moved, and was now speaking with two other men: a German major, and a taller man, perhaps half a head above the others. He wore a dark dinner jacket, but everything about him screamed Military – his straight posture, the dark hair cropped close. His eyes crinkled at something the suave older man said.

  Clinically speaking, the major was more attractive, with a square jaw and bright blue eyes that slanted like a cat’s. But where all three men emanated confidence, Cat-eyes bordered on arrogance.

  As if sensing my attention, the tall man looked straight at me. His face was arresting, with high Teutonic cheekbones, a nose that was a touch long, and dark, deep-set eyes that seemed to miss little. His half-smile faded as he studied me. I held myself still, unable to move. Unable to fathom my reaction to a complete stranger, and a German one at that.

  When a striking brunette in a diaphanous yellow gown linked her arm in his, a surprising disappointment hit me.

  ‘Beautiful, lucky, and, apparently, quite rich,’ a French voice drawled from behind me.

  ‘Who?’ I asked absently.

  The Frenchman in the white dinner jacket chuckled. ‘Why, you, my dear. Haven’t you noticed?’

  He cleared his throat and indicated a rather large stack of chips that had replaced the handful I’d thrown there some minutes before. The Frenchman was right. In less than an hour, I had done very well.

  ‘Have you had enough of the child’s attention already?’ The Frenchman was perhaps thirty or thirty-five, with fair hair that waved back from a high forehead. His voice held the slightest of slurs, but his eyes were clear, regarding me with lazy curiosity. ‘Dreadful bore that he is.’

  ‘That isn’t a very nice thing to say.’

  ‘Never claimed to be nice. Don’t worry, he doesn’t speak a word of French, the ignorant bastard. Not many of their lot do. Julian Reilly is my name. At your service.’

  He grabbed my hand and bowed over it, while the young Herr Kuhne looked unhappy. While Reilly’s French was flawless, his name was Irish.

  ‘Citizen of the world,’ he corrected, although I hadn’t spoken aloud. ‘But if you tell me your name, madame, I shall rescue you from the attentions of the barbarians.’

  ‘That seems a fair deal.’ Despite myself, I was amused at his outrageousness. ‘I am Solange Verin.’

  ‘Then come with me, Madame Verin, and I’ll introduce you to all the wrong people.’

  He held his arm out to me.

  ‘And won’t that ruin my reputation?’

  ‘You have a reputation? How delightful!’

  His devil-may-care grin exposed crooked teeth and dimples. He opened his mouth to speak when the hubbub in the room suddenly muted. Nervous glances swept to the door and the young lieutenant who entered. He paused, scanning the room, and made his way slowly towards the tall man. It was a painful procession; he didn’t limp so much as force one leg in front of the other. His gaze was fixed straight ahead, refusing to acknowledge the hostile stares that followed his progress.

  ‘Who is that?’ I asked.

  ‘Ah. That poor sod is the Herr Leutnant Andreas Neumann.’

  ‘What happened? Why does everyone dislike him?’

  ‘Dislike? Nothing of the sort.’ Julian looked uncomfortable. ‘We don’t dislike him. What is hard to bear is that he reminds us of our own mortality.’

  As the lieutenant passed, the woman in yellow joined a pair of women, watching the young man exchange words with the major and the tall man. I edged closer, curious. How he could remind them of their own mortality? So he limped. A lot of soldiers did.

  ‘I don’t understand how Eduard can bear to talk to that man. Much less look at him.’

  The Canary didn’t bother to lower her voice and her Spanish-accented syllables were clear in the almost-still room. I blinked. The young lieutenant may have moved awkwardly, but he was beyond beautiful, with a face as finely drawn as a Botticelli angel. The lieutenant stiffened, but otherwise showed no emotion, waiting for a reaction from the major and his colleague. When I met the Spanish woman’s eyes, she sneered.

  ‘Well, look at him, will you?’

  ‘I have.’

  The lieutenant’s expression was stony when he turned towards us. If the right side of his face was hauntingly beautiful, the left side was something out of a horror movie. Scar tissue radiated up from his collar, drawing down his eye fractionally, giving the impression that half his face was melting off. All signs of life faded from that hideous mask, except for a tiny spark in his piercing eyes, that otherwise would have been chilling. He didn’t respond to their jeers, holding himself with an unapologetic honour that made me respect him, in spite of the side he fought for.

  ‘I have looked.’ This time my voice carried. It was foolish to draw attention to myself, but for my own honour, I couldn’t allow the Canary’s bad manners to go unchecked. ‘And I hope that if you ever must endure whatever that man went through, that you will be shown the compassion that you deny him.’

  The lieutenant didn’t respond, maintaining his rigid posture, the beautiful side of his face showing no emotion. He saluted the tall man and limped to the door. Just before he exited, he looked at me. I met his eyes without flinching and smiled.

  ‘Well, if you didn’t have a reputation before, you do now.’ Julian’s droll voice sounded impressed. He pressed a glass of champagne into my hand. ‘You find all the wrong people all on your own.’

  ‘You don’t know how true that is,’ I murmured.

  ‘Don’t listen to Julian, my dear.’ A woman appeared, linking her arm in Julian’s. She leant her head against his shoulder and watched me with savvy eyes. She was a few years older than I, but pretty, with chestnut curls set off by a deep violet silk frock. ‘What you did was very brave.’

  ‘Why brave? He wasn’t going to attack me.’

  ‘No, my dear. Brave to antagonise our Spanish friend. Laura can be a right bitch.’

  ‘Claudine!’

  ‘She can, and you know it, Julian. Why her husband puts up with her, or her philandering, is anyone’s guess. It’s not as if she’s even subtle about it. He –’ she indicated the tall man – ‘is only the latest in a very long line.’

  Claudine ignored Julian’s rude suggestion and tilted her head to the side, long earrings catching in the heavy jewelled torque at her neck. One hand idly released it as she stared at me.

  ‘I know you.’

  ‘I really don’t think so.’

  Mild panic had me push away the thought of the tall man with the Canary, mentally flicking through the catalogue of my contacts. And coming up blank.

  She tapped one fingernail against her teeth, dark eyes narrowing.

  ‘Yes, I believe it’s you. You moved in to the cottage across the way from me yesterday. I’ve seen the deliveries to your door all week. I meant to stop by earlier to introduce myself but completely forgot.’ She reached out a hand for mine, her ankle wobbling as she moved from Reilly’s arm. ‘I am Claudine Deschamps.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Madame Deschamps.’

  ‘No, you’re not,’ Reilly interrupted. The words were rude, but his tone affectionate. ‘She’s one of the people you really don’t want to know. Go away, Claudine.’

  She made a little moue with her mouth. ‘Don’t be nasty, Julian. Christophe is losing at the tables again, and I will have an unhappy enough time when I get home.’

  ‘I fail to understand how that’s my problem.’

  ‘I can make it your problem, if you wish.’ She linked her arm back in Julian’s. ‘So how are you finding our city? Other than the obnoxious Spanish countesses, irritating Irish novelists and little German lapdogs, that is.’


  ‘That’s quite a list, Madame Deschamps,’ I smiled. ‘And despite that, Lisbon seems quite lovely.’

  ‘It can be catty as hell. Get used to it.’ Using her champagne flute, she gestured around the room. ‘Anyone who’s anyone is here. From all sides of the conflict, and some people representing more than what you’d first think. But good – I like you, Madame Verin.’ She shook my hand. ‘I’m about to collect my husband from the tables. It’ll be quite a messy scene for which I’ll apologise in advance, but if you’d like us to drop you off at home, do let me know.’

  ‘Thank you. I appreciate it.’

  She blew a kiss at Julian and sashayed across the room with a deliberate grace, attracting enough attention that people might not notice how drunk she was. She paused once or twice along the way, kissing a cheek or shaking a hand before stopping at the blackjack table in front of the man with the pencil moustache and losing streak. Voices were raised as the man and woman stood nose to nose, animosity pulsing between them.

  ‘Foolish man,’ Reilly murmured, watching them over the top of his drink. ‘She’s a good girl, loves him desperately. He, on the other hand, loves the cards.’

  Reilly reached into a pocket for a gold case and a monogrammed Zippo. He lit two cigarettes and handed one to me. The voices on the other side of the room rose, and Claudine’s hand flashed out to slap her husband’s face. She reached into her handbag and threw down a combination of chips and notes. Stormed away, brushing tears from her face. Her husband sat down. Piled the stack neatly in front of him, and slipped the notes into his breast pocket. Gestured to the dealer for another card. Julian jammed the cigarette into his mouth. He exhaled a great cloud of smoke and downed the rest of his whiskey.

  ‘Well, Madame Verin. There goes the rest of the night as I find myself once again your neighbour’s chaperon,’ he said. ‘You might just have lost your ride home, unless you’re willing to share a seat with Claudine?’

  Matthew had suggested that I move in the German circles, but accessing them via the German-sympathising French would be more convincing. I tucked my clutch bag under my arm and smiled.