by Mara Timon
‘We are given empty promises. There are no instructions given to the local authorities to prevent the Germans from taking what they want. One man . . .’ He took a deep breath, and slowed down. ‘One of our men reported confronting a guard. The guard told him that once the wolfram had left the garage, his responsibility ended. The fool wasn’t supposed to let it leave the garage in the first place!’
I understood his anger, and his words gave me a better perspective about what was being smuggled from that quay near Sagres.
‘You mentioned the Americans. What are they doing about this?’
‘Duplicating every blasted thing we’re doing!’ He banged his hand against the desk. ‘Their colonels would rather work independently than build on what we’ve already learnt. Don’t get me wrong – they are helping, but we’d get there a bit faster if we could pool knowledge. Resources.’
Thousands of lives was a high price to pay for a lack of trust.
‘What do you think should be done?’
‘There’s nothing we can do while Salazar sleeps with the Germans.’
‘But . . . ?’ I prompted.
His head tilted from side to side as he considered the problem.
‘The only way to stop the smuggling is to prohibit it. Seal up the warehouses, the quays. Instruct the guards to only allow movement of the ore with the correct authorisation. Hell, put guards in, in the first place,’ he growled. ‘Then make sure they comply. Supervision. Random inspections. I don’t think it would stop it, but at least it would slow it down. And give us a chance.’
‘So we’re restricted but they’re not. How many processing plants there are in Germany?’
‘Three that we know of.’
‘Presumably processing to capacity. I assume the RAF is doing its best to neutralise them? Although until they do, the unlimited supply fuels the German war machine, and keeps this blasted conflict going.’
‘So far so good, old girl. Glad you were listening.’ Matthew’s voice was flat.
‘But what I don’t understand is why you’re not doing something about it.’
‘So you weren’t listening, after all.’
‘Oh, I was. You said that your lads complain more than Lady Anne. That’s all well and good, but when all you do is complain and don’t back it up with any action, it’s not that effective, is it?’
Matthew stared, as if seeing me for the first time. The mantel clock ticked several times before he responded:
‘What are you suggesting?’
‘I don’t know yet. Let me think about this.’
I picked up my handbag and hat. Paused halfway to the door in time to see Matthew sink back into his chair, the picture of frustrated despair.
*
I was shaking by the time I dismounted from the bicycle in Oeiras. Passed a pair of chattering women as I entered the lavatory of a busy waterside restaurant. For one moment it sounded as if they spoke Italian, and the next Spanish. Then I realised that it wasn’t any one language they conversed in, but both. The languages were similar enough to understand one another, and if following the conversation was frustrating, at least hearing their speculation about the romantic prospects of one of the women with some new officer was distracting.
When was the last time I’d been able to laugh that freely? Not since dropping into France, where my life depended on never making a wrong move. Maybe even before then, at the first training school SOE sent me to, where a small group of strangers with different backgrounds and different skills became the best friends I had. The commanding officer was clear about our odds: in all likelihood, only one in two of us would return. I would never have put Robert into the group that wouldn’t.
I slipped past a woman preening in front of the looking glass and locked the door to the stall. Intent on applying her lipstick, Laura, the Spanish countess, didn’t appear to notice me. Or rather, she didn’t notice the blonde Englishwoman. She wouldn’t have forgotten the Frenchwoman who’d given her the dressing-down at the casino. I’d have to take my time changing from one into the other.
The cotton shift I’d left home in was wrinkled after being crushed in my bag, but would have to suffice. I hung it on the doorknob and wrapped the wig in my discarded clothes. A knot rose in my throat and I closed my eyes against the tears, bit my fist to stop the howl. Waited until I heard Laura leave the room, before I sat heavily on the commode and wept, my sobs muffled by the damp dress folded neatly in my hands.
*
That night I dreamt I was standing in the courtyard of the manor house where I trained. The thatched barn is behind me, and crouching on the periphery is the ridge I knew as the Hog’s Back, alive with the eyes of a thousand bufos. SS thugs watch from the guardhouse, their assault rifles gleaming in the moonlight. My friends stand with me: Dom and Jérôme, Big André and Philippe and Robert. But Dom isn’t Dom. She’s the dead Frenchwoman, Mireille, and as Robert breaks cover, she throws Alex’s sgian dubh. He crumples.
‘We don’t tolerate traitors,’ she explains. I blink and they’re gone – vanished into the thistle.
I know I need to break something out, but I don’t remember what and there’s no one to ask. I reach for my gun, but it isn’t in the waistband of my skirt or in my bag. I must have forgotten it at home and instead of the dark clothes I thought I’d worn, I’m wearing a green twinset and a tweed skirt. How could I have done that? I don’t own a green twinset.
My curse carries on the evening breeze and the guards come to investigate.
‘Traitors,’ one says. Sees the knife in Robert’s body. ‘Bloody English knife.’
‘Scottish,’ I correct automatically.
‘Spy!’
The other raises his gun. I know better than to argue. Know better than to run, and I will not beg. I close my eyes and wait for my end.
In the darkness, there’s a giggle and a bang.
*
I woke in the darkness of my bedroom, sitting up straight, covered in sweat. Heart pounding, I rested my head against the window frame behind me, allowing the night air to cool my body.
A car growled as it climbed the hill, its occupants laughing and urging it on as it backfired again. Not a gun, just an old jalopy. Padding to the parlour, I poured a large brandy and, saluting the ghost of my fallen friend, drained it in a single gulp.
Even after a second glass, sleep was elusive. I waited for the sky to lighten before dressing in a red linen sheath and a pair of espadrilles. Strapped Alex’s knife to my thigh and grabbed my bicycle.
With no destination in mind, I headed to the beach, and the soothing sound of the waves. I turned left at the base of the hill and cycled along the embankment toward Carcavelos until I reached the chunky fort of São Julião da Barra.
As the sky changed from cerulean to lavender, a man appeared on the beach below the fort, running in the surf with an Alsatian dog. He threw a ball into the water, barely breaking his pace. I watched his laughter when the dog returned it, drenching him when it shook the water from its fur. Spellbound, I watched them cavort in the waves until they passed out of sight, their joie de vivre restoring some small part of my psyche. I herded my ghosts into their box and shut the lid. There were more important things to consider.
I rose, dusted the dirt from my bottom, and cycled home.
Chapter Twenty-one
S
o far, I had several pieces to the puzzle but no clue as to what they meant. Mentally I organised what I knew:
One: The Germans were smuggling wolfram from various small inlets along the coast.
Two: The Germans were operating some sort of intelligence ring that allowed the Luftwaffe to target Allied convoys. Major Haydn Schüller was involved, and I guessed, Hans Bendixen. Was Christophe Deschamps?
Three: Matthew was running whores near the port. Were the Germans as well? And if so, how reliable was the information being fed to either side?
Four: Adam’s Apple was employed by the British Embassy but kept turning u
p in a variety of places, and with people whose interests weren’t likely to be aligned.
Five: The PVDE – or at least Adriano de Rios Vilar – made it their job to watch the internationals. How much of what was happening were they aware of? And who were they, consciously or otherwise, assisting?
In the City of Spies, no one is who they claim to be . . .
Even their own political police.
In lieu of a pencil, I tapped my teaspoon against the table. The first two items were the big problems. The latter three fitted into them somewhere. Regardless, it was far too large for one person to focus on. I needed help.
I stuffed the blonde wig in my bag and freed my bicycle from the shed. As I opened the tall gate, I jumped back, startled. Claudine stood in the gateway, one hand raised to knock. She was dressed in a bright frock with large cabbage roses. The dress added colour to her dull cheeks, and she looked brittle. And very possibly hung-over.
‘Sorry to surprise you. Are you going out?’
‘Nothing that can’t wait.’ I propped the bike against the fence. ‘Would you like a cup of coffee?’
She didn’t move. ‘Christophe didn’t come home last night.’
Unsure how to act, I answered carefully.
‘Perhaps he came and went. Maybe he didn’t want to disturb you and slept in a spare room.’
‘None of the other beds were disturbed, and no matter how late, he always comes home.’ She swayed and reached out to brace herself against the door. ‘And before you suggest it, I don’t think it’s another woman.’
‘I wasn’t about to.’
‘Good.’ Her gaze returned to her feet. ‘Maybe we don’t have the perfect marriage, but I don’t think it’s someone else.’
Maybe not someone else, but perhaps something else? I wanted to pry but in this state, I figured she would tell me what she knew without much prodding.
‘Come inside – I’ll make you a cup of coffee.’
She didn’t move, even with my hand at her elbow.
‘He’s afraid, you know.’
Trying not to seem to eager, I demurred.
‘Of what? What should he be frightened of?’
‘I wish I knew. He bought a gun the other week, just after we heard of Martin Billiot’s death. Hid it in the car.’ Little white lines radiated from her pinched lips, and she suddenly looked old. ‘He’s afraid, but won’t tell me why.’
With the way their marriage appeared, I would have been surprised if he told her the time of day, but looks could be deceiving.
‘I know you think I’m foolish,’ she carried on in a dead monotone. ‘I laugh and I flirt, and then I worry that my husband might be doing the same. But you know nothing of the situation, Solange. Nothing!’
My back straightened, surprised at her attack.
‘I didn’t profess to.’
She burst into tears.
I wasn’t good with other people’s emotions. Hell, I wasn’t even good with my own. What was the protocol for dealing with something like this? At a loss for words, I awkwardly patted her shoulder and gave her my handkerchief.
‘Come on, Claudine, let’s go for a walk. He might be home, waiting, by the time we’re back.’
She followed me on to the street. Waited as I locked the gate. There was something fatalistic about her, about the situation. As if Claudine Deschamps knew her husband wouldn’t be coming back.
*
We bought ice creams from the Italian man near the Tamariz while Claudine spoke of everything except Christophe. I tried to feign interest, I really did, but despite barely interacting with Christophe, I struggled to find empathy for him. I looked away, watched a little girl build a sandcastle. In a world filled with death, with spies and smuggling and Focke-Wulfs bombing convoys, she reminded me that there was something worth fighting for. The doll beside her proved better company than the teenager sitting nearby, with her nose buried in a fashion magazine. The child looked up suddenly and her Cupid’s bow mouth opened into a circle before the dark eyes blinked. She scrambled to her feet, her face a picture of beauty.
‘Mama!’ she cried, running towards us. ‘Mama!’
Claudine turned, jumping to her feet. Eyes wide, she stared at the little girl as if she were a vision of Heaven. Or Hell.
‘Mama!’ The girl’s arms lifted, reaching for her mother.
Claudine swayed. I hadn’t though it possible for her to lose more colour but she did.
The girl ran past, a blur of chestnut curls and pink pinafore. She fell into the waiting arms of a woman who looked like an older version of the teenager. Not unlike Claudine.
My neighbour crumpled to the ground, scattering chairs and sending the seagulls fluttering. I lunged, trying to help her back to her feet.
‘Leave me alone.’ She turned her face away.
A small crowd formed around us, patting and consoling her in half a dozen different languages. She struggled to sit, resting her forehead against her knees.
‘Leave her alone,’ I snapped at the crowd. ‘She’ll be fine.’
A young man shouldered his way through. Muttering something unintelligible, he picked her up and carried her to a chair underneath an umbrella.
‘Thank you,’ I said.
He flashed an embarrassed smile and retreated along the esplanade. The waitress returned with a small measure of brandy for Claudine and a glass of wine for me.
‘Thank you,’ I murmured.
For a moment, she looked as if she wanted to stay and help tend to Claudine, but it was summer, and there were customers to serve. She patted Claudine’s arm and gave me a weak smile before fixing a smile on her face and taking an order from the next table.
I sipped my wine and watched the colour return to Claudine’s cheeks.
‘I owe you an apology, Solange.’
‘Not at all.’
‘I do.’ Her shaking hand stilled my protest. ‘And perhaps an explanation.’
‘Claudine, you don’t.’
She continued in a toneless voice, twisting her wedding ring around her finger.
‘My first husband was older than me, and worldly. He was kind at first, but as the years passed, no child came and his eyes began to wander. He left when I was twenty-five. For a little dancer. Seventeen years old and already carrying his child. I was devastated.
‘I met Christophe at a Christmas party in ’37. He was everything I wanted. Young, handsome, and so dashing in his officer’s uniform.’ Nervous fingers moved from the ring to the brandy glass, turning it in circles. ‘We married within months. Despite the scandal of my divorce, even my parents came. They loved him, but how could they not?’
‘In the days before the Phoney War, he travelled a lot. He had to, I understand that. But I was lonely, so lonely. There was another man, a childhood sweetheart. One night, only one night. I didn’t love him, Solange. You must believe that. But Christophe was always gone, and Gustave was so attentive. One stinking night.
‘Christophe found out. Of course he did. I don’t know how. And then the child began to show. It wasn’t Gustave’s – mathematically could not have been – but Christophe, he didn’t believe me. Couldn’t forgive me. Isn’t that funny, Solange?’ Her laugh was bitter. ‘My first husband left me because I couldn’t conceive his child, and my second husband left when I did.’
She pushed the brandy glass away, and for a few moments we watched the families stroll along the esplanade. A seagull shrieked and dived for some morsel. Just another day in Paradise.
Claudine wiped away a tear, smudging mascara almost to her hairline.
‘He was gone then,’ she whispered. ‘The lovely laughing man – my husband, my friend, my lover. He was gone and I was married to a stranger who hated me. It was almost a blessing when he left to defend the Maginot Line. He wasn’t there when my daughter, our daughter, came. And she came fast. My little Adèle wanted to be born, wanted to live. But there were problems, as if God knew I was an unfit mother.’ One hand reached out to
me, palm up. It was a supplicating gesture, and I didn’t know what else to do but to grasp it in my own. I squeezed her fingers, as if I could share my strength with her.
‘She was born on the tenth day of May 1940. The same day Germany invaded Belgium. What a day to remember, isn’t it? But how lovely she was. She looked just like him. The same eyes, the same nose, the same smile. She even had hair, Solange. A full head of hair.’
My eyes prickled with tears.
‘She was with me exactly thirty-one hours. My Adèle. My beautiful Adèle.’ Her shoulders hunched as sobs tore through her. A couple, strolling by arm in arm, moved farther away, embarrassed by Claudine’s display. ‘I’ve lost her, and now I’ve lost Christophe. Again!’
There was nothing I could do, but be there for her. The other problems, the wolfram and the smuggling, they’d be there tomorrow. I held Claudine’s hand as she wept, wondering how much of her story to believe.
Chapter Twenty-two
I
took Claudine home when it began to rain and flicked through her address book until I found Julian’s number. If anyone knew how to deal with her, he did. Neither noticed when I made my way home.
I slept badly again, rising before dawn. Paced until I couldn’t stand the sight of my villa and stuffed the blonde wig back into my bag. The roads were still wet from the overnight showers, although the sun was bright. I took the coast road, cycling towards São Julião da Barra near Carcavelos. It hadn’t taken long to discover that the old maritime fort was now a political prison. I wasn’t sure what I expected to see there – perhaps Christophe’s face at a window?
A camouflaged lorry turned off the main road and stopped at the gate. The canvas sides hid the cargo; it could have just as easily been provisions as another prisoner.
I left the bicycle on the side of the road and climbed down to the beach. Removed my espadrilles, dug my feet into the cool, damp sand and watched a fleet of fishing boats head out to sea.
The dark man appeared farther along the beach, his dog trotting beside him, carrying a dead branch. My heart skipped a beat.
‘For heaven’s sake,’ I muttered to myself. ‘You’ve seen the man once. Haven’t even spoken to him. And for all you know he is . . .’