City of Spies

by Mara Timon

  ‘I don’t believe I invited you to join me, sir.’

  He indicated the cup of coffee, cooling in front of him. ‘Have you not, Senhora Verin?’

  ‘Who are you? How do you know who I am?

  He nodded, expecting this reaction. ‘My name is Adriano de Rios Vilar. You have heard my name?’

  There was no point in feigning ignorance. Not yet.

  ‘I believe you were the officer who informed Madame Billiot of her husband’s demise?’

  ‘Ah, yes. It was an unfortunate accident,’ he said. ‘And avoidable.’

  ‘How does one avoid an accident?’

  ‘He indicated that he was travelling in one direction, when in fact his intention was otherwise.’ Little effort was made to veil the warning, and his forthright expression dared me to challenge him. ‘Most regrettable.’

  ‘Regrettable? For whom?’

  The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them. What was I thinking of, toying with the PVDE?

  A glimmer of amusement lit his eyes. ‘For Senhora Billiot. And her husband, naturally.’

  He raised the cup and took a small sip of the coffee, his gaze never leaving mine.

  ‘Naturally,’ I echoed. ‘So, what is your interest in me?’

  An elegant eyebrow rose as the cup was replaced in its saucer.

  ‘Straight to the point, senhora? I admire that.’ He threw a note on the table. ‘Come. Walk with me.’

  Despite his polite smile and cordial tone, his words weren’t a request. My right hand dropped to my lap, brushing against the hilt of the sgian dubh, hidden beneath my skirt. It was scant reassurance, but all I had.

  I forced a smile and followed him out of the café into the humid Portuguese twilight.

  Chapter Eighteen

  ‘A

  re you arresting me?’ I asked as soon as we were far enough from the crowded café.

  ‘Do I have a reason to?’ he asked.

  ‘In France, a reason wasn’t required. People inform on friends and neighbours. Rivals. Do you want to know why I’m here? I know there are rumours, some of them quite colourful. The truth is, I’m here because a nasty little man couldn’t take rejection. He pursued me from the start. And when he learnt of my husband’s death, he was relentless. When he finally realised that his efforts were futile, he informed on me. So it was either be detained by the Gestapo, or flee. I chose to flee.’

  It made for a good story, even more because every damned word of it was true. I hoped Madame Renaud and the rest of the Resistance had caught up with Jean-Roger Demarque.

  ‘Were you? Part of the Resistance?’

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ I snapped, then continued in a more amused tone. ‘If I was part of the Resistance, do you really think I’d go to Portugal and spend my time with the Germans?’ After another few steps, I turned to face him with my hands on my hips. ‘And that’s my rather dull, rather common story. I can’t believe you shower this much attention on all émigrés.’

  ‘I do not, no.’

  For a moment, his expressive eyes betrayed his intelligence and determination. We walked for a minute or two in silence.

  ‘Portugal is a small country. A neutral country, senhora. To maintain that neutrality, we must walk a delicate line . Before the war, we had few tourists, much less immigrants. And now you see, we are inundated with immigrants. Refugees. Some are desirable, they adapt to our climate, our culture. They add to our economy, and our society. Others, less so.’

  Like Monsieur Billiot.

  ‘And you think I’m . . . ?’

  ‘That remains to be seen, senhora, and you have an uncanny ability to escape notice when, I think, it is convenient for you.’ Before I could voice a protest, he gestured to a pair of shopfronts. Side by side, they held similar propaganda, but each supporting different sides. Rios Vilar stopped in front of the German one. ‘They say he is the last bastion, keeping the communists at bay.’

  ‘So you . . .?’

  ‘I do not care. Let me be clear – my interest is neither with the Germans, nor the British. It is Portugal. Only Portugal.’ He held up a hand to still any comment. ‘And, as with the other internationals here, as long as you keep your business to yourself and do not trip the delicate balance, I do not care what you do. But the moment that balance is tripped, Senhora Verin, you will have more than my interest to contend with.’

  There was only one answer, accompanied by a polite smile.

  ‘Then neither of us have anything to worry about, Senhor Rios Vilar.’

  Rios Vilar consulted his wristwatch, and murmured a polite goodbye, leaving me in front of the shopfront with a photograph of the Führer staring out at me.

  ‘Last bastion against communism, my foot,’ I muttered, refraining from giving it the two-fingered salute.

  Rios Vilar and his men had been watching me, but what had they seen? Had they come with me to Sagres, or had I lost them by then? And how much of the smuggling were they aware of – or worse, sanctioned?

  He said he didn’t care who I was and what I did, as long as it didn’t tip the balance, but of course it would. That was what Matthew wanted, what I had been determined to do from the time I walked into Special Operations’ office at Orchard Court and agreed to work for them. Did he know that? Did he know who and what I was?

  And if so, was he friend or foe?

  Chapter Nineteen

  W

  ary of Rios Vilar’s bufos, I took my time, ensuring they saw Solange in the crowds at the Rossio, before donning a blonde wig and a pair of dark sunglasses in a café’s lavatory. It was a rudimentary disguise, but people often saw what they wanted.

  I took two trams and walked along the Rua de São Bernardo, noting again how incongruous it was that the German embassy was virtually across the street from the British embassy. Continued down a handful of side streets to the address Matthew had given me. It was an office building, rather than a house per se. The sort favoured by small organisations that couldn’t afford exclusive premises. The people coming in and out of the building were remarkably unremarkable. Much like the people who worked for Special Operations, who did a fair share of work at the flat in Orchard Court instead of Baker Street. It provided deniability, anonymity, and a venue away from the prying eyes of their neighbours.

  At half past one, the lunch crowd returned to their respective buildings and I fell into step behind a pair of middle-aged men with the slightly glazed look that comes with one too many lunchtime martinis. I tucked a long blonde lock behind my ear, hoping no one noticed one more secretary returning to work. The man at the reception desk gave me a cursory glance as I swapped the sunglasses for a pair with clear lenses and tortoiseshell frames. Sweat trickled down his forehead as he fanned himself with a large envelope.

  A small statue of Christ stood on top of a stack of folders on a table of an unoccupied office on the first floor, proving itself an unusual and rather ineffective guard. I slid the top file out from under him and tucked it under my arm. Cruised the halls until I glimpsed my godfather sliding into an office at the end.

  ‘May I help you?’

  An older woman with the face of a bulldog blocked my way.

  ‘I have a file for Sir Matthew.’ I held it up for inspection.

  ‘He’s not in his office.’

  She folded her arms over her ample bosom, daring me to pass.

  ‘I think I just saw him, but if he’s not in, may I leave it with you?’ I asked. ‘I haven’t had time to eat yet and I’m absolutely famished.’

  ‘You really shouldn’t.’ She eyed the folder hungrily.

  For all I knew, it was someone’s expenses, but drew it close to my chest.

  ‘I suppose you’re right.’

  The bulldog’s lips rose in a parody of a smile. ‘Nonsense, I was only joshing. It’s fine. We’re on the same side, aren’t we?’

  I wasn’t so sure, but I gave her a tentative smile. ‘Of course. But, look, there he is.’

  Wh
en she turned to look, I navigated around her, and slipped through the door Matthew had just entered. He was sitting at his desk with a set of files open in front of him. A few photographs were pushed aside as he rummaged through the papers.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said without looking up. ‘Put it over there, will you?’

  I raised my eyebrows and complied, but instead of leaving, I leant against the wall. The office was spacious, panelled in walnut, with a matching desk and green leather visitors’ chairs. The third shelf of the bookcase held photographs, and I was drawn to it like a magnet. There had been no photographs in Special Operations’ offices. There was some sense in that, although Matthew wasn’t often one to take unnecessary risks.

  ‘You may go,’ he said, his voice sing-song.

  ‘And I thought you’d invited me here,’ I said, tossing my hat on top of the file.

  His head snapped up, surprised. He blinked.

  ‘Cat got your tongue?’ I asked, pulling off my spectacles.

  He laughed and stood up; closed the door on his way to me. He kissed my check before holding me back at arm’s length.

  ‘I was right. Blonde hair and you are a dead ringer for Veronica Lake.’

  ‘Veronica Lake is just shy of five feet tall,’ I reminded him.

  ‘A taller version, then.’ Smiling, he reached for the folder. ‘No trouble getting in?’

  ‘Disappointingly, no. It was harder to lose Adriano Rios Vilar’s bufos than it was to get in.’

  Sharp black eyes were suddenly interested. ‘You’ve met him, have you?’

  ‘Briefly. He gave me a polite warning not to disrupt the “delicate balance” of Portuguese neutrality.’

  He paused, taking his time to slide the papers into their files, then stacking them on a corner of his desk. When he looked at me his eyes were serious.

  ‘Do I need to tell you to do what you must to ensure you don’t get caught?’

  He didn’t, and my expression must have been enough of an answer to him. This time, when he looked away it was to leaf through the file I carried in.

  ‘Now then,’ he said. ‘What have we here?’

  ‘Something I picked up along the way. Interesting, is it?’

  ‘Not particularly,’ he replied, leafing through it again.

  I wasn’t sure I believed him, and shaking off a faint regret that I hadn’t read it, I wandered over to the photographs. Most were political: Matthew with Churchill; with HRH King George; standing at some formal function between two men I didn’t know.

  ‘John Vereker and Kim Philby,’ he explained.

  John Vereker, Lord Gort, was the commander of the British Expeditionary Force in France back in ’39, and a friend of my father’s. I looked closer, surprised at how he’d aged. I had no idea who Philby was, but had the impression from the way that Matthew said his name that, despite displaying the photograph, despite the man clearly being important, Matthew wasn’t fond of him.

  My eyes moved to a neat row of personal snapshots: Matthew’s wife Eleanor, beautiful and remote; Edgar, his firstborn, proud in his captain’s uniform, and rather more attractive than the spotty-faced nuisance I remembered. Matthew posed with my father in the next one, clad in white jumpers and floppy hats. Matthew held a bat like a walking stick whilst Dad held aloft the trophy. They looked ridiculously young.

  In the last photograph, taken from a distance, a fair-haired young girl straddled the branch of a willow tree, her toes grazing the river beneath her. I picked it up, bemused. Looked at him for an explanation.

  ‘You broke your arm jumping from that tree a week later,’ he said. ‘I suppose I should take it down now that you’re here.’

  I traced the lines of the image, feeling a certain sadness for the girl’s loss of innocence.

  ‘Well.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Let’s get on with this, shall we?’

  Replacing the photograph on the shelf, I sank into a visitor’s chair.

  ‘Yes. This man you want me to interview?’

  ‘Hubert Michael Jones.’

  ‘And what’s Mr Jones’s story?’

  ‘Says he’s from Shoreditch,’ Matthew said blandly. ‘The accent’s about right. Picked out for special service thanks to a French mother. He trained with your lot and parachuted into France in July ’42.’

  ‘You seem to have the full story. Why do you need me?’

  Matthew recited Mr Jones’s curriculum vitae as if by rote. ‘Our Bertie fell foul of Jerry and was incarcerated last November.’

  ‘I landed in France just before Christmas, Matthew,’ I pointed out. ‘I wouldn’t know him.’

  ‘No matter.’ Those elegant fingers waved away my argument. ‘He spent the last six months at Adolf’s pleasure in Fresnes. Escaped and made contact with the local Resistance. He was smuggled into Free France before catching a ride with the Royal Navy, bound for the White Cliffs of Dover.’

  ‘So if your Mr Jones wasn’t on the Volturno or the Shetland –’ I named the two ships most recently sunk by the Luftwaffe – ‘where was he?’

  ‘Sub. They had engine trouble before leaving French waters. Put in here for about twenty-four hours and were off again.’

  ‘Until Jerry caught up,’ I said.

  ‘Until Jerry caught up,’ Matthew confirmed. ‘The little scrapper seems to have survived an awful lot.’

  ‘You should congratulate him.’

  ‘I will,’ Matthew said, standing up. ‘As soon as I’m convinced he’s telling the truth.’

  ‘What makes you think he isn’t?’

  ‘Bit too convenient, my dear. He gets out of Fresnes, out of France and is the only survivor from a submarine? A tad too convenient. But . . .’ Matthew sighed, ‘his company awaits.’

  Grateful that the Consul-General in Madrid was more trusting, I followed my godfather up a flight of stairs. He stopped briefly in another office to pass on a file. It wasn’t until the man turned that I noticed his Adam’s apple. I stepped back and kept my head down, hoping he wouldn’t notice me, or worse – connect the blonde in front of him to the brunette from the train.

  A secretary carrying a silver tray with tea and biscuits met us on the top floor. Matthew held the door open, allowing her to enter first. The summer heat was oppressive and the interview room was stifling. Sweat gathered under my wig and I wondered how long I’d last before having to take the blasted thing off.

  Jones sat at a low table. He was short and squat, with eyes too close together and a neck that must have been left in France. His nose had been flattened from repeated breaks and he sported a white scar above his left eyebrow. A newer wound oozed through the white bandage taped to what should have been his hairline. He might not have been a bad-looking man once, but wasn’t likely to be again.

  He was mopping his brow as we entered, his massive hand freezing on his forehead at the sight of me. Bright eyes raked me from head to toe.

  ‘Hallo, Mr Harrington.’ He greeted Matthew cordially and returned his gaze to me. ‘Hallo, miss. And miss.’

  He nodded to the secretary as she put down the tray, poured three cups, and retreated.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mr Jones,’ I replied, not bothering to introduce myself. ‘I understand you have an interesting story to tell.’

  ‘Ain’t a story, miss.’

  He put the white handkerchief down and I realised that his hands weren’t that large per se. They’d been bandaged in several layers of white linen.

  ‘Very well then. Why don’t you tell me what happened?’

  He shrugged. ‘Where do you want me to start?’

  ‘The beginning. I want you to tell me your full name and why you were sent into France.’

  ‘Bert Jones, at yer service.’ He pulled a non-existent forelock; what little hair Nature had left him with was shaved off.

  ‘Please proceed, Mr Jones.’

  ‘Started simple enough. I was about to be shipped out to France with my unit when I shot me mouth off an’ got hauled in. Someone looked at me
sheet an’ asked if I spoke French. Mum was from Tours, wasn’t she?’ He selected a wafer, crunching on it noisily.

  ‘And you volunteered?’

  He spoke through a full mouth. ‘CO called me in for a chat. Asked if I wanted to volunteer for “Special Service”. Me, I thought it’d be safer than having Jerry shoot at me.’ He shook his head, disgusted. Brushed the crumbs off his chest. ‘Safe, my rosy arse.’

  ‘Where were you trained?’

  ‘For what? Started off at Beaulieu, then went to a few other sites.’

  He tried to lift the porcelain cup; cursed as it threatened to slip from his bandaged hands.

  ‘Tell us about it,’ Matthew suggested.

  ‘What do you want to know? The shooting was easy enough. Weapons, then fighting without weapons. I was pretty good at both.’ He smirked.

  ‘I have no doubt of that,’ I said. I also had no doubt that whatever skills His Majesty’s academy at Beaulieu taught Mr Jones would be put to good use once he returned to the East End. Even if those hands didn’t heal. ‘What else?’

  He ticked them off. ‘Signalling, how to move about at night, how to blow up an old railway line. Enough to make me pretty clear about this “Special Service” bollocks.’ He ducked his head. ‘Sorry, miss.’

  I waved away the apology. ‘And afterwards?’

  ‘Stomped about Scotland for a bit. Then learnt to jump outta planes and the like.’

  He looked closely at me, as if trying to determine if he’d surprised me. It would take a lot more than that.

  ‘And then off to France?’

  ‘I was s’posed to be dropped into a field near Tours last February. I knew the area – Mum’s people was still there. Supposed to recruit the lot of ’em, then train ’em up in weapons. Fancy that – me, the weapons instructor,’ he snorted.

  I’d have bet he had a criminal record back in England.

  ‘They were waiting for us at the airfield. The lights looked right enough. Four of ’em, forming an L.’ He raised the cup to his lips again; his hands had begun to shake. ‘Could have been laid out with a square. “It doesn’t get better than this!” the dispatcher said, and kicked us down the hole.