by Mara Timon
Eduard broke the silence. ‘You have one cracked rib and a broken arm. You were pushed down a flight of steps in a ruin you should not have been to. In a city you rarely visit.’ My eyes struggled to focus as he paced in front of the window counting out my infractions on his fingers. ‘Having hot-wired my car.’
I winced; I’d forgotten that detail.
‘Ah . . . I can explain that . . .’
He continued as if I hadn’t spoken. ‘You held a pistol in one hand and a knife in the other. And I could not get there in time to stop you from falling.’ He clenched his fist, every inch the Panzer commander. This man would take no prisoners. ‘It was you, wasn’t it? The man who shot at us was after you, not me.’
My mouth went dry. I tried to fashion a plausible excuse, but came up blank.
His voice lowered. ‘Do you know why I left the car in front of your house? Do you?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘I thought they were after me. I did not know if they’d cut a line to the brakes. If I would not be able to stop and would continue down the hill and into the Atlantic.’
Cold sweat prickled my skin. I hadn’t considered that his car might have been sabotaged – hadn’t thought of any risks. I just knew I had to follow Allen-Smythe.
‘Did you even think of that?’
‘Eduard . . .’
‘Of course not. You do not think before you act. You simply assume everything will be fine. But that has not always been the case, has it?’
I had no idea he’d read me so well.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘So you hot-wired my possibly sabotaged car and drove to São Jorge for the fun of it?’
‘Something like that.’
‘Stop lying!’
He took one step towards me. Swivelled, and drove his fist into the wall. I stared at him. This quiet man, this gentle man, was incandescent. At me. And didn’t care who heard it.
‘Please keep your voice down.’ I glanced meaningfully at the door.
Furious, he stormed to the door and locked it, but when he spoke, his voice was again low and measured.
‘I am a fool. I should know no one is who they say in this damned city.’ He looked to the ceiling and took a deep breath before staring into my eyes. ‘You were there to meet Harrington, and I would like to know why.’
It felt stupid to do so, but I still asked who he was referring to. His look was answer enough.
‘I know you were there,’ he grated. ‘What I want to know is why you were meeting him.’
‘Eduard, I swear, I wasn’t meeting anyone. Not your Harrington, not Salazar, not anyone.’
He stared at me for a few moments. Then leant forward, one arm on either side of my bound ribs, his face a breath from mine.
‘Then why did he scream “Lisbet” as you fell?’
Chapter Thirty-two
M
atthew’s carelessness had all but confirmed that I was an English spy. How could I rationalise the irrational? Especially when Eduard was fully justified in feeling betrayed.
He waited for my answer, but all I could think of saying was: ‘Why on earth would he do that?’
‘That’s what I’d like to know.’
Keep as close to the truth as you can . . .
‘Fine. You’ve accused me of acting on impulse, and you’re right. I was walking up from the beach, and stopped for a cup of coffee. I saw one man leave with another man’s briefcase.’ I shrugged. ‘I called out, telling him of his error, and when he didn’t respond, I went after him.’
‘You knew something wasn’t right, and yet you followed.’
‘Ah. Yes. Sounds rather silly, doesn’t it?’
‘Without wondering who he was meeting or whether he’d be armed. Who he was working for or where he was going. How insane are you?’
‘Insane enough to be certified. Clearly.’ Which of course would be better than jailed or dead. ‘Why were you there?’
‘I finished a meeting, saw my car – my car – screaming by, and you expect me to do nothing?’
‘Oh hell.’
His eyes narrowed at my curse, but otherwise he ignored it.
‘I commandeered a car and followed.’
‘Christ,’ I muttered.
Had I been so intent on tailing Allen-Smythe that I’d missed Eduard tailing me? Who else could have been tailing me?
‘Then I see you pushed and Harrington shooting over your head. He hit one man. The other shot at me, and ran off.’ He rubbed his face, grey from exhaustion. At least some of the anger had dissipated. ‘I do not understand, Solange, why an English diplomat was standing over you, protecting you.’
‘Nor do I,’ I said, thinking quickly. ‘Unless he thought I was someone else?’
Eduard frowned. ‘So you don’t know him?’
Evasion was easier than outright lies. ‘Why would I?’
‘I hoped you would tell me.’
‘I can’t tell you what I don’t know.’
I tried to keep my eyes steady as they met his. Warring emotions played across his face: the anger that hadn’t fully subsided; exhaustion that could only partially be blamed on his work; and a desperate desire to believe me.
My eyes began to burn with tears. I tried to wipe them away, but couldn’t raise my arm high enough. It was bad enough having to cry, but weeping in front of Eduard was mortifying. I tried to muster the shreds of my bravado.
‘But while I’m delighted that you care enough to yell at me, can it please wait? I’m not feeling very well at the moment.’
The words were barely out of my mouth when my stomach revolted. I lunged for the bowl on the bedside table. Felt Eduard’s hand steady my back as I vomited.
‘Oh God, how humiliating.’ I fumbled for a glass of water.
‘The painkillers,’ he explained. ‘Sometimes they have that effect.’
His weight sagged against the bed and his linen handkerchief brushed against my cheeks. For whatever reason, he was allowing me to get away with my story.
He’s a good man, Lt Neumann had said. Honourable.
But he was a German officer. Tasked with rooting out enemy spies. Like me.
The painkillers were making me sleepy as well as maudlin. I closed my eyes to escape his censure, hoping I would survive the hospital, and the repercussions of the last few days.
*
The man sitting beside my bed was slightly shorter than Eduard and swarthy. Avian black eyes watched me and, given the certainty that Eduard was having my room watched, I was grateful for my godfather’s Mediterranean disguise.
‘You gave us quite a scare, old girl,’ he said.
‘You shouldn’t be here.’
‘And you shouldn’t have been at the castle.’
‘What happened?’
Matthew wound a gramophone in the corner – the sounds of a Verdi duet masking our conversation.
‘It would appear you stumbled into something rather larger than anticipated.’
‘Yes, well. I’d rather guessed that when I felt a pair of hands at my back.’
He studied a painting on the wall before speaking.
‘You were right about Allen-Smythe. He was passing on secrets to the Germans.’
‘What sort of secrets?’
‘Mostly who we were interested in, and the steps we were taking to . . . ah . . . keep watch over them.’
Probably not what he really meant, but I didn’t have the energy to argue.
‘And where is he now?’
‘The city mortuary. The gentleman who pushed you panicked when he saw me. Got off one shot at me, and one at Rupert. Young Allen-Smythe presented a better target.’
‘You mean, he killed his own contact? Why would he do that?’
‘Jolly good question. For which I can only guess that he was afraid Rupert would betray him.’
‘Do you have him? Or the man who gave Allen-Smythe the briefcase?’
‘Not yet.’
The door to my room opened and a doctor walked in, trailed by a pair of nurses. Matthew retreated to the window. The doctor removed the stethoscope from around his neck and checked my breathing, or what he could do through the yards of linen bandages. Grunted and said something to the nurses, and something else to Matthew, who nodded, as if he understood the doctor’s orders.
Waited for the door to close firmly behind the trio before he spoke.
‘My dear?’
‘Where’s the man who tried to kill me?’
‘I don’t know. Whoever he is, he’s wounded.’
‘You shot him?’
‘No, your German friend did. Went a little mad, that boy. Jolly good shot, by the by.’
‘Speaking of which, do you have my gun?’
‘Sorry, old girl?
‘Never mind,’ I mumbled, feeling sleepier by the second.
If Matthew didn’t have it, then maybe Eduard did. Or it was lost. I felt more of a pang for the sgian dubh than the PPK. Something else worried me – something else I needed to tell him. And then I remembered.
‘I found it.’
‘Found what, my dear? The fountain of youth? Love? Your gun? Damned silly thing to lose. Especially for a yahoo like you.’
‘Love?’ I blinked. ‘Why would you say that?’
‘Last time you acted so foolishly, you ran off with de Mornay. Just be careful, Lisbet. Falling for that boy is not a good idea. The Abwehr have a reputation here in Lisbon. Most are indeed more concerned with their pleasure than their jobs. But not that boy. Eduard Graf is a damned sight more dangerous than your husband was.’
‘No joke.’
‘No, indeed.’
‘Are you going to send me back?’
‘To France?’
‘To London, you dolt.’
‘Why would I do that?’
‘He knows that I’m a bit more complicated than he thought.’
Matthew snorted. ‘You’re a bit more complicated than the German naval codes, Lisbet. But no, until the risk is real, I’d rather you stayed.’
‘It isn’t real?’
Hard to believe, when I was lying in bed with . . . what was it? A broken arm and a cracked rib after being pushed down the steps of a bloody ruined castle.
‘Graf hasn’t yet alerted his masters to his suspicions. I’m not sure he will.’
Well, that was interesting. But it was time to confess.
‘Someone is trying to kill me. Not Graf.’
‘Yes, old girl. I had noticed that.’
‘It wasn’t the first time. That someone has tried to kill me, that is.’
He pursed his lips. ‘Do you know who? Why? Where they are?’
‘If I did, they’d already be dead. Do you?’
‘I do not. And I suggest you take care of that problem. Do let me know if I can help.’
I believed him, but by his own admission, his organisation had too many holes. Sleep again threatened me, and I fought it, determined to let him know what I’d learnt. In case Eduard changed his mind. In case the Gestapo came for me in my sleep. He was halfway to the door when my whisper stopped him.
‘I found them, Matthew,’ I repeated.
‘Them? There’s more than one?’
I shook my head and he retraced his steps, the genial Spanish façade receding as the avian predator took over. I was no longer his recalcitrant godchild, but the agent, the informant.
‘Who have you found?’
‘The pianists, Matthew,’ I mumbled.
He patted my shoulder with an awkward affection.
‘Time for bed, old girl. You’re beginning to speak nonsense.’
I was losing the battle to stay awake, but this was important. I couldn’t let them sink another ship.
‘Germans,’ I mumbled. ‘There are three of them.’
He held himself very still. His black eyes sharpened as he moved closer.
It took all my reserves, but I forced the words out.
‘Wireless transmitters. Run by Hans Bendixen at the Villa Bem-me-Quer.’
And then I closed my eyes. It was bad enough that Eduard had heard enough to suspect I was rather more than I claimed. The problem was that someone else suspected me as well. And had already tried to kill me. Again.
*
The nurse had just finished changing my bandages when the door opened with an unceremonious bang. She turned, a string of rapid Portuguese on her tongue, stopping midstream when she saw the offender.
‘I’m sorry, sir.’
She picked up the dirty bandages and sidled out, leaving room for Rios Vilar.
The PVDE man strode past her as if she didn’t exist, taking up a position at the foot of my cot, arms crossed over his chest and brow lowered.
‘I am glad to see you alive, Senhora Verin.’
He didn’t look it. He looked like he’d happily put a bullet between my eyes.
‘An unfortunate accident?’ he asked, his voice incongruously pleasant.
‘Unlike Monsieur Billiot,’ I said, ‘I try to survive any accidents.’
‘Most people try to survive accidents, senhora. I am glad you were more successful than Senhor Billiot.’ He pulled a chair close, but instead of sitting down, braced his hands on its back. ‘Would you care to tell me what happened?’
‘Don’t you know?’
He blinked. If he was feigning emotion, he was doing a bloody good job of it.
‘Why don’t you tell me.’
It would have been easy to lie: a story of a horseback riding accident, a slip on the rocks, anything. But this man had me watched for months; there was no point. Taking a deep breath, I repeated the story of seeing a briefcase stolen, and on a foolish whim, following the offender.
‘Silly thing to do,’ I concluded. ‘Clearly.’
‘Clearly,’ he echoed. ‘Senhora, I do not think I need to repeat myself and tell you that these are dangerous times. The war progresses, both sides are jumpy. Desperate. Both sides will do whatever they must to succeed. If you get in the way, you are in danger. If you are a part of it, you are in danger, and due no protection from the state. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Yes.’
I wondered what protection he had offered to date? How many times had I been attacked with no one to guard my back?
‘Good.’
He let his hands drop to his sides and turned to the door.
‘Senhor Rios Vilar?’
The painkillers had loosened my tongue and the urge to ask the question in the back of my mind bubbled to the surface. He paused, turning back to me with his head tilted in silent inquiry.
‘Yes?’
‘If things are as you say, and the war progresses, which side will you choose?’
‘You know the answer to this.’ His laugh was mirthless. ‘Portugal, Senhora Verin. For me, it is always Portugal. Nothing else matters.’
It was still about the fine line of neutrality. One that he might now think I’d crossed. And if he did, then my life might well go the same way as Martin Billiot’s.
Chapter Thirty-three
A
fter three days, neither the PVDE, the Gestapo, nor Eduard came calling.
Matthew did, briefly. Long enough to interrogate me on the wireless devices. I told him of meeting Köhler, first in France and again in Lisbon. He confessed to knowing little of the man. Agreed to keep an eye on the situation but felt it unlikely the man would be here because of me.
I agreed. Didn’t think he’d be a bad enough shot to miss twice, maybe three times.
With regards to the PVDE, Matthew could shed no light.
‘Some PVDE officers favour the Nazis, as you know. But Rios Vilar?’ His shrug was no answer.
Three days. Seventy-two hours. On my own, staring out of the window, wondering what would happen upon my release. Or whether someone would tire of waiting and have me killed in here.
I was bored. I was cranky. And I wa
s damned if I’d allow myself to be an easy target. I could brood about Eduard as well from home as I could in the hospital, and could protect myself better there as well. On a walk around the ward, I acquired a skirt one size too large, a jumper one size too small and left the hospital.
The taxicab dropped me off at a hotel in the Bairro Alto. I went in the front door, and out of a service exit in the back. Took the train to Cascais. Doubled back. It was exhausting and I didn’t have a lot of energy to spare, but if Rios Vilar still had his men following me, chances were good that they were as exhausted as I was. I unlocked my front door, turned on the wireless and poured myself a drink.
The BBC and its Spanish equivalent recounted the Allied successes in Italy, the continued bombing of Hamburg, the Russian victories on the steppes. The local English station spoke of food shortages and the resulting strikes in the Bairro, where the workers had stopped work on Tuesday and were now locked out. It had escalated into demonstrations, shots fired, and the city filled with troops. The German channels claimed these ‘disturbances’ were fostered by the British.
I lit a cigarette and took my brandy to the piano, picking out a tune with my right hand. Perhaps I could check in with Bertie. Make sure he hadn’t left something out of his last report. Wasn’t there something he’d said . . . ? Something that my memory was aware of and that I just couldn’t pull forward. What the devil was it?
A loud knock sounded on the gate.
I ignored it. An assassin wouldn’t announce his presence, and whoever else it was, could go hang.
The knocking became insistent. I walked upstairs and eased out on to the balcony. The angle was wrong, but could just barely see the top of Claudine’s head when she stepped away from the door. The last thing I needed was to be more fodder for the Estoril gossip machine.
‘Go away!’ I bellowed, not caring who heard.
‘For pity’s sake, open the door, Solange!’ Claudine shouted. ‘I’m not leaving until you do!’