by Mara Timon
‘I took the time to settle in.’
‘Lisbon is a beautiful city. There is a lot to see here.’
‘There certainly is. And as my guide for the evening, what shall we start with?’
‘The Avenida. I must meet a man there. It is only for a few moments. It won’t take long.’
It wasn’t the answer I’d expected. Was his date with me a cover for some other activity? As Graf parked the car in a side street, my curiosity had shifted from Graf to this contact. Did he know he was using a British agent as his cover? Or was he walking me into a trap?
My long strides matched Graf’s as we passed the crowded Rossio and the Estação Central, with its two main arches flanked with three smaller, less ornate ones. A clock at the top proclaimed the time to be 8.25, and we had to move to avoid the wave of people flooding from the station.
Beside it, a porter guarded the entrance to the Avenida Palace Hotel. Two uniformed men smoked not far away. They snapped off the Nazi salute to Graf and I looked away, noticing how the windows aligned on the fourth floor between the railway station and the hotel. Only the fourth floor had all the curtains drawn. Could this be the secret passage that Matthew had mentioned? Funny, I’d expected it to be below ground.
Was this the reason why Graf had chosen this hotel to meet his contact? A rendezvous with someone who wasn’t supposed to be in Lisbon? Who could it be? And why now, when it must have been easier to meet this person without me?
We passed under the sparkling lights of an enormous chandelier. Graf ordered two glasses of dry port from a waiter and seated me in an overstuffed chair. He took the seat opposite, facing the entrance. The room was lined by columns, a pale contrast to the patterned red wallpaper.
An awkward silence rose between us. I didn’t feel comfortable with my back to the door, although the ornate looking glass behind Graf’s head provided a small perspective, and in it appeared the scarred face of Lieutenant Neumann.
‘I’m sorry, Angel. Would you please excuse me?’ He stood up with an apologetic smile. ‘I won’t be long.’
‘That’s fine, Herr Major. Your lieutenant can keep me company while you run your errand.’
I had to stop myself from slipping into the seat he vacated.
Graf snorted, and clapped the lieutenant on the shoulder.
‘Good luck, Herr Leutnant.’
‘You too, sir.’ He shifted from one side to the other, wincing slightly.
‘Sit down, Lieutenant, I don’t bite.’
I gestured to the waiter to bring a third glass and watched Graf in the looking glass until he turned down a corridor.
‘What an intriguing man,’ I murmured to myself.
‘Yes, ma’am. He is.’
Neumann eased himself onto the chair, one leg stiffer than the other. There must have been hordes of women that had chased him, before the burns. What a waste.
‘Have you known him long?’
‘Four years, ma’am. Since the start of the war.’ A half-smile rose from the beautiful side of his face. ‘I drove his tank.’
The question tumbled out before I could stop it. ‘How do you get from a tank regiment to a diplomatic role?’
‘You get wounded, ma’am.’ He looked directly at me, challenging me to look away.
‘I’m sorry. Do you miss it? The tanks?’
‘I miss my regiment. The 7th Panzers. But as you can see, I can no longer fight.’
‘The 7th Panzers? I think I’ve read about them in the papers. Rommel’s Ghost Division?’
He inclined his head. ‘So fast even the High Command had problems keeping up with us.’
‘You were at the Battle of France?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s where that –’ I made a vague gesture – ‘happened?’
He spoke without self-pity or anger.
‘One moment, we are attacking, fighting just outside Cherbourg. The next, a shell hits.’ He ignored my gasp, continuing in that same toneless voice. ‘The major pulled me from the tank.’
‘And then?’
I was fascinated by Neumann’s story – not quite able to imagine this side of Graf.
‘The Herr Major commandeered another tank. Delivered me to the medics and returned to battle. He was awarded an Iron Cross for it.’ His pride in Graf bordered on hero worship. ‘The field marshal himself pinned it on him.’
‘And you?’
‘Battlefield commission.’
It wasn’t something that was normally given for just being wounded. What else had they done?
‘And the Herr Major?’
‘The second tank was shot out. He joined me in the ward for a while.’
‘And now?’
Andreas shrugged. ‘Military attaché. As you know.’
Which translated to Military Intelligence. It was an intriguing story, but still didn’t explain Graf’s almost unheard-of move from a Panzer division to Admiral Canaris’s Abwehr. Nor did it answer the question of who he was meeting tonight.
Neumann shook himself out of his reverie.
‘I am sorry to bore you, Frau Verin.’
‘You’re not boring me, Lieutenant.’
On the contrary, Lieutenant Neumann provided a unique insight into Graf. As I waved him to continue, something in the looking glass caught my eye. Two men, plain-clothed, but with a military bearing, walked through the foyer. Graf’s tall figure was instantly recognisable, even before Neumann got to his feet and snapped off a crisp salute.
It was the other man who stole my breath. Older, average in height, a face cold and mocking. I recognised him instantly: he was the grey-haired man I’d last seen in the French fishing village. The man who had killed Alex Sinclair.
What the devil was he doing here? And with Graf? Graf was Abwehr. I’d assumed the grey-haired man was Gestapo, or one of the other SS divisions. I didn’t realise they operated outside Germany and the occupied territories.
Unless they’d followed someone here? Someone who’d perhaps killed several of their number? Someone like me? Did they know who I was? Did Graf?
No, I decided. If they were after me, I’d already be surrounded. The man’s reflection gave as little away as Graf’s did as they completed their conversation. He remained still, watching Graf move towards us.
I forced my hand away from the PPK in my bag. There was a chance that the grey-haired man wouldn’t equate the urchin in France to the elegant socialite in front of him, and I didn’t want to have to use the gun. Not here, where I had no hope of surviving a shootout.
I pretended to admire my manicure as Graf sank into the chair the lieutenant vacated, waving his adjutant away.
‘Many apologies for my absence, Angel. The meeting was unavoidable. Its length, unconscionable.’
I surreptitiously wiped my damp palm on the brocade upholstery.
‘Think nothing of it.’
A stray thought occurred to me: if I was reluctant to cause a scene in the hotel foyer of a neutral country, what if the grey-haired man was too? Was he waiting for me outside? Would Graf defend me or hand me over?
One thing was clear: if I survived the day, I would have to ignore Rios Vilar’s warning. It was time to go hunting, and at least this time I knew the face of my prey, even if I lacked his name.
I took a sip of the port, noticing that its taste had soured.
‘Was it successful?’ I asked. ‘Your meeting?’
For an instant he allowed a weariness to creep across his face.
‘Only time will tell. Finish your drink, Angel. We’re late for our reservation.’
My eyes scanned the room as I rose, but the grey-haired threat was not in sight. Feeling the reassuring weight of the PPK concealed in my clutch bag, and the sgian dubh strapped low on my calf to accommodate my gown, I allowed Graf to steer me from the hotel.
Every nerve was alive. To the threat of the grey-haired man, as much as to Graf.
*
Café Luso was once a wine cellar of one of
the Bairro palaces, and by ten o’clock the room was crowded and already thick with smoke. The tables radiated from an area cordoned off by thick red ropes, where a slight man sang in front of a mural of another fadisto, singing to a crowd on the streets. The painted man cavorted but the live one’s eyes were closed, his delicate hands extended as his voice soared.
Graf seemed more at ease here than he did on the streets in his uniform. And I took comfort in the crowded room. If there was a kidnapping on the cards tonight, it would be damned difficult to do it here.
‘Don’t let his innocent look fool you,’ Graf murmured, and it took a moment to realise he spoke of the fadisto. ‘This song is very political.’
‘I thought you didn’t speak Portuguese?’
‘I don’t, but I have learnt words – phrases. Enough to get by.’
He’s been here before. With other women? The Canary?
‘Oh.’
I suppressed the stab of jealousy and the knock-on horror: he was an Abwehr officer, and my decoy as much as I was his.
‘The song is loosely based on history,’ Graf continued. ‘Just enough to keep him out of trouble. But he does not welcome us here.’
We were surrounded by Portuguese couples, the women with their hair cut in the ‘refugee’ hairstyle, their dresses based on French designs.
‘Us?’
‘The Germans, the Italians. Europeans. Not so much the people, I think, as much as the strife we bring.’
‘He favours the Allies?’
‘Most Portuguese do.’ Graf paused to order a bottle of wine from a passing waiter. ‘You didn’t know?’
‘No.’
Graf seemed unconcerned by the Portuguese’s sentiment. What were his politics? Could a Nazi be sitting with a Frenchwoman, drinking vinho verde in a casa do fado? Could he blithely accept a singer who disagreed with his leader’s policies – when Salazar, however covertly, was rumoured to support Hitler?
Who was Eduard Graf?
‘Why are you here, Solange?’
His question so closely mirrored mine that all I could do was blink and take his question at face value.
‘Because you suggested a night of fado.’
‘That’s not what I meant. You don’t court the aristocrats, although I suspect they would accept you. But nor do you seem overtly political. Why did you leave France?’
Keep the lies close to the truth . . .
‘I made a mistake.’
He put down his glass. ‘A mistake? One that landed you in Portugal?’
‘One that could have landed me in Fresnes.’ I shrugged. ‘I turned down a date with a neighbour. In retaliation, he accused me – to a gendarme – of being a Resistance fighter.’
It was the same story I’d told Adriano de Rios Vilar. It was always easier to be consistent when it was the truth.
He looked politely amused. ‘And are you? Is that where you learnt to fight?’
‘I told you – I have three brothers. And if I was a Resistance fighter, do you really think I would have left France? That I would be here with you?’
‘Perhaps not,’ he answered. ‘There was no one who would speak on your behalf?’
‘This neighbour was well placed. I did what I had to do.’
His face became serious and he put his hand over mine.
‘Remind me to thank that neighbour of yours,’ he murmured.
He wouldn’t thank the neighbour, or me, if the grey-haired man figured out who I was.
The fadisto finished his set, bowed, and left the stage. His guitarists sipped water and tuned their instruments. The noise levels rose when a beautiful woman made her way through the crowd. She paused at the red ropes before taking her place behind the microphone, dark hair shining under the gaslights.
‘Amália,’ Graf said, unnecessarily.
Unlike the young man, Amália was quietly confident. She straightened her black shawl at the opening notes of the first song. The fadista’s black gaze was piercing and when she opened her mouth, the most extraordinary voice emerged. I understood why Graf and the waiter had insisted that I hear her.
Amália’s skill humbled me. Enjoying my response, Graf refilled my glass, his fingers brushing against mine, evoking all the wrong emotions. He was Abwehr – my enemy – and my instincts should be telling me to bolt. Instead, for the first time since landing in France, they urged me to relax and enjoy the temporary illusion of safety.
Because it wouldn’t last.
Part 3
Late July to August 1943
Chapter Twenty-six
R
upert Allen-Smythe stood near the Tower of Belém, a thin silhouette against pale, delicate stonework. He spoke to a man who, not unlike the tower, was short and squat. A snap-brim hat hid his face, but I recognised him, by face if not by name. Like Allen-Smythe, he kept cropping up, often in the same company. German company. While someone like me, with no official links to the British embassy, could get away with it, I struggled to find a reason, above board, for his actions. Curious, I had begun to follow him, often wearing the blonde wig or a short auburn one to keep the PVDE’s attention away from Solange Verin.
Allen-Smythe favoured tourist attractions for his meets and maintained a rough pattern that allowed me to find him in the morning and, even if he managed to lose me, to pick him up again by mid-afternoon. Patterns were as dangerous as they were foolish. And while Allen-Smythe’s stupidity was clear, there was little evidence of any wrongdoing. Yet. But I trusted my hunches.
A peal of bells reminded me of my own meeting. According to the tourist books, the Mosteiro dos Jerónimos was commissioned in 1502 by King Manuel I and designed by a chap called Boytac. It had stonework that ‘wonders and delights’, statues of Prince Henry the Navigator and Our Lady of Belém. The architecture was Manueline, which as far as I could tell was a flamboyant mix of Gothic and Moorish. An equally impressive building stood next to it with the ubiquitous tourist bus parked in front. That was one thing about meeting in tourist areas: it was easy to hide in plain sight.
There was no sign of Bertie, and with Allen-Smythe lurking less than a ten-minute walk away, I hid my unease behind a bland veneer, blending in with the clergy and tourists to admire the architecture, the statues, the fountains. There was still no sign of my thug when I circled back to the archway fifteen minutes later. Had he been compromised already? Or was I being set up?
With heightened senses, I’d almost expected the shot that rang out. Just not its proximity. Dropping to the ground, I held my hands protectively over my head. While terrified screams swelled and plaster rained down on my shoulders, a few things were clear: one, there was no familiar punch as the bullet tore through my flesh; two, the gun sounded like a revolver, and based on its pitch, German; three, the shooter was an idiot – revolvers were unreliable at distances. Unless this was a crime of opportunity, and if that was the case, was I the target?
Tourists moved slowly, stunned by the ugly reality of war in this holy place in neutral Portugal. Most had never heard a gun before. After a quick scan to confirm that no one had been hit, I rose, searching for a glimpse of the shooter.
A second shot rang out and something drove me on to the ground. The force was accompanied by the smell of unwashed man and I reacted, trying to flip him off me.
‘Stay the hell down. You can strangle me later, princess,’ Bertie growled, his weight on mine ensuring my compliance.
Over his shoulder I saw a jagged hole in the masonry marking the spot where my head had been only moments before. Bile rose in my throat along with the realisation that I was the target, and that without Bertie’s intervention, I’d have been dead. My muscles released and I closed my eyes. I would not be ill. Not here. Not now. And not in front of Bertie Jones.
‘Stay here.’ He shifted to his knees, and I hoped that in his frayed and stained clothing, he made less of a target than I did. ‘I don’t see him. Bastard’ll be long gone by now.’
He helped me up and threw h
is dusty jacket over my shoulders. Hidden in the crowd of tourists, he half carried me into the chapel.
‘Christ almighty, princess,’ he murmured. ‘Someone’s out to get you.’
The grey-haired man? No. He wouldn’t have used stealth, even here, where his jurisdiction was limited. And he wouldn’t have missed. Allen-Smythe? Possibly, although as far as I knew, he had no reason to kill me.
Whoever it was, was someone new. Shaken as he was, at least I could rule out Bertie. I didn’t trust him any more than I needed to, but it was reassuring that it wasn’t him. As with the grey-haired man, Bertie wouldn’t have missed.
Which made this assassin as much a coward as they were incompetent. It wasn’t a comforting thought; even incompetents got lucky sometimes.
Hiding behind bravado, I joked, ‘Good thing their aim is rubbish.’
He snorted a reply, but his arm was firm against my back, leading me past a bewigged statue and a few tombs. When my legs would no longer carry me, I sank on to a wooden pew.
‘Did you spot him?’
‘No.’
‘Did anyone else notice that I was the target?’
He shrugged. ‘Don’t reckon so.’
It could have been anyone: Allen-Smythe, the man he was talking to – anyone. But it was too soon after my potential sighting of the grey-haired man to discount that possibility. What was worrying was that I was dressed as Veronica. Was she the target or had someone connected her to Solange?
‘Whoever it was, disappeared right quick. Bloody daft though. Could have taken down a battalion, much less you, princess, with a rifle from one of them turrets.’
Struggling to get my pounding heart under control, I didn’t bother to correct his terminology.
‘You said you had news?’
He leant back in the pew, wincing as it creaked. Slid a few inches away and bowed his head in a reasonable facsimile of religious devotion.
‘Turn away from the wall,’ he murmured. ‘Someone might be watchin’. You don’t want them readin’ your lips.’