by Mara Timon
‘Bloody Frenchwoman,’ I grumbled, but padded down to meet her. Yanked the door open with my good hand, ignoring my ribs’ protest. ‘What do you want?’
The black dress accentuated her pale skin and haggard appearance.
‘I heard you were in hospital! I wanted to see how you were.’
A wave of guilt overwhelmed me. I’d forgotten about her own situation, and had been unnecessarily harsh. I stood back to let her in.
‘Broken arm. I’ll be fine. The funeral?’
‘Yesterday.’
‘I’m sorry I wasn’t there.’
‘I didn’t expect you to be. I was just worried about you.’
I shook my head. ‘Nothing more than a silly accident. Forgive me, Claudine. I’m just feeling sorry for myself.’
‘I can understand that.’ She ducked under my good arm and entered my house. ‘Self-pity isn’t good for you. Did you fall off that bicycle? I told you that you should give it away and buy a car.’
‘I like that bicycle,’ I said, feeling strangely protective of it. Scratched my nose and waited for her to leave.
‘It was the bicycle! I knew it!’
‘She tripped in the old castle ruins and had a nasty fall, Claudine,’ Eduard said from the doorway.
I was shocked by his sudden presence. Had he deliberately used Claudine as a Trojan horse? He stood back, his hands in his pockets. He was casually dressed, without a tie, and a light breeze ruffled his hair.
‘Oh, you must be careful. Some of those rocks . . .’ Claudine’s voice trailed off, and she fluttered her hand at my arm, hanging from a sling fashioned from a floral scarf. ‘Obviously.’
‘Frightfully clumsy.’
I was surprised that Eduard would give me an alibi instead of exposing my lies. I forced a weak smile, hoping Claudine didn’t see through it.
‘Coffee?’ I offered, although I wasn’t sure if I wanted either of them in my home.
Claudine winced. ‘I’ll make it.’
She pottered around my kitchen while I retreated to my parlour. Eduard sat in the armchair, watching while I paced around the room. I didn’t know how to react. His absence had been a palpable force and I wasn’t certain how things stood between us.
I halted in front of him, standing with my good hand on my hip.
‘Why are you here?’
‘The door was open.’
‘That’s not what I asked. Why are you here, Eduard?’
I jerked my head to the kitchen, asking why he’d given me the alibi. He shrugged and gave my half-empty glass a flat look. Damned if I’d let him judge me, I drained the blasted thing. And refilled it. Let him comment on that. Sensibly, he refrained.
‘You should have sent word – I would have picked you up at the hospital.’
‘After our last conversation?’
He raised an eyebrow, as if that was an answer. It wasn’t. We sat in awkward silence until Claudine bustled into the parlour and set the tray on the table. The rich smell of coffee wafted through the room and I breathed deep enough to cause a stab of pain to shoot through my ribs.
‘Careful,’ Eduard murmured.
‘So what news, Herr Major?’ Claudine asked. ‘I heard there was quite a bit of excitement at the embassy the other day.’
I closed my eyes, allowing their words to wash over me. Sipped the coffee and expected to hear news of Italy.
Instead Eduard said, ‘Yes, Bendixen was quite inconvenienced by it.’
‘By what?’ I asked, suddenly interested.
‘Oh, that’s right. You were in the hospital,’ Claudine said. Eduard remained silent as she explained. ‘The PVDE raided his home, and the villa next door. It would seem they found evidence that he had people watching the ports and relaying information to the Luftwaffe.’
People like Bertie’s contact Pires. Was this before or after Rios Vilar issued his last warning? That raid would have upped the stakes between the Germans and the Allies, perhaps causing the increased tensions he noted? I made a note to contact Bertie and see what he knew of this.
‘Ah,’ I said, my voice calm, although my mind raced. ‘Didn’t someone mention that at a party not too long ago?’
‘Well, of course,’ Claudine said, ‘we all knew about it, but for the Portuguese to have evidence? Now that Mussolini has been deposed? It not something Dr Salazar can ignore.’
Eduard’s face was still closed, but the way he watched me made me wonder if he thought I’d had a role in the raid. For that matter, so did I. Had Matthew taken my news seriously enough to act on it so quickly?
‘What sort of evidence could they have found?’ I asked.
‘Copies of what appeared to be transmissions,’ Eduard finally said.
Ah. Well then, God bless German efficiency. Duplicates and triplicates of everything.
Another thought, less welcome, came to mind.
‘Eduard, what will this mean for you?’
‘The raid on Bendixen’s villa?’ He shrugged. ‘Nothing, as far as I know. I am with the Abwehr, not Naval Operations.’
‘What do you think will happen?’
‘I would guess that a case will be made at the Portuguese High Court. If the evidence is solid and if the case goes against us, those whose involvement can be proved will be evicted.’
Would Bertie’s name be on any list or was he too small fry?
Claudine flapped her hand. ‘It’s happened before – a slap on the wrist. Nothing more.’
‘As you just commented, the political climate is changing,’ he reminded her. ‘No assumptions can be made.’
‘Pah. You’ll see – Salazar will have it all thrown away.’
I shared a glance with Eduard, sensing that he lacked Claudine’s certainty.
‘Well,’ she said, standing up, ‘I’ll leave you then. You most likely have some catching up to do.’
And she had gossip to spread. Eduard saw her out of the door and locked it after her. I waited in the parlour. He hadn’t told Claudine the truth, but he was part of the Abwehr. Had he told anyone there about me?
I started with the easier question: ‘Why did you lie to Claudine?’
He didn’t answer at first. Took my brandy glass, sweating near the piano, and emptied it out of the window.
Not a good sign.
‘What lie? Did you not fall down the steps in the old castle?’ His voice was too cool, and I half-expected the next question. ‘What did you see at Bendixen’s villa, Solange?’
I made a face. ‘Haydn Schüller. Having your countess in the bushes.’ My eyes snapped open. ‘Haydn? He was coming from the other villa when he met Laura. Is he involved in this, then?’
Eduard shrugged. ‘Why were you following her?’
‘Following her?’ Sometimes a half-truth was useful. ‘Why on earth would I do that? It was warm inside. I went outside for a breath of fresh air. Only it wasn’t so fresh, and I came back inside rather than interrupt them.’ My moue of distaste was genuine enough. ‘Did I miss something interesting?’
‘More interesting than that? I should think not.’
I cleared my throat. ‘Then why did you ask? Do you think someone shot at us because they thought I saw something? Neither Laura nor Haydn have made any attempt to keep their affair a secret. What? You can’t possibly think someone was shooting at me?’
‘In truth, I did not.’ He leant against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest. ‘But after your “accident” in the ruins, I do not know.’
‘Laura was outside as well. If someone shot at us because of something I may have seen, do you think they went after her too?’
Not for a moment did I believe that. Not when someone had shot at me at the monastery before Bendixen’s soirée. But Eduard seemed to consider it.
‘I saw her a few days ago. She did not appear to be suffering from any attack, thwarted or otherwise.’
‘I don’t know what to say. I can’t imagine why anyone would want to shoot me, but if they are, then I’d really like my gu
n and knife back. If there’s a chance . . . Well . . . I want to be able to defend myself.’
He nodded slowly. ‘You may have them back on three conditions.’
‘Which are?’
‘One – you tell me how you got hold of them.’
I played lightly with the truth. ‘The gun? I acquired it in France.’ I remembered Scar and Pig-eyes, the two Gestapo agents I’d killed at Franc Laronde’s house. ‘To protect myself.’
‘A PPK isn’t something easily acquired.’
‘For a price, anything can be bought.’
He frowned, clearly wondering what price I’d had to pay.
‘I’m not like Laura,’ I snapped. ‘I don’t barter my body for anything.’
‘I know.’ He cleared his throat and continued. ‘And the knife?’
‘A gift.’ I stared back, refusing to be ashamed. ‘From a friend who’s now dead.’
‘A German gun, popular with the Gestapo, and a Celtic blade.’
‘The Scots were in France before the war, Eduard. Keep the gun if you must, but I’d like the knife back.’
He didn’t look happy. ‘Was he your husband?’
‘Who?’
‘The man who gave you the knife. The one who’s dead?’
‘What? No. My husband died in the early days of the war, the Scot somewhat later.’
‘He was your lover?’
There was a French letter in his car; he hadn’t been a monk since his wife died, but he wouldn’t apply the same latitude to me. Nevertheless, I wanted there to be truth – as much as I could afford – between us. At least about this.
‘Briefly,’ I admitted. ‘And the only one other than my husband, before you ask.’
For whatever reason, it was important he know that.
‘Was he involved with the Resistance?’
‘Alex?’ I laughed, sadly. ‘No. Not at all. Just a man who was in the wrong place at the wrong time.’ Before he had a chance to draw any parallels, I added: ‘Your second condition?’
‘That you allow your curiosity to go unsated. This is Lisbon, it is not safe to be too curious. You will not follow anyone. You will not get yourself in any other mischief.’
I nodded, finding it easier to lie to him non-verbally.
‘Your third condition?’
He looked like he wanted to ask something else, but instead threw the challenge out.
‘That you prove to me you can use them. You’re a danger to yourself without them, but if someone is out to kill you, I’d rather you be ready for them.’ He picked up my handbag. ‘Get in the car.’
It looked like Eduard Graf had made up his mind.
At least for now.
*
Eduard was serious about the shooting lessons. We drove out towards the sparsely populated area near the Boca do Inferno. He pulled a satchel from the boot of his car, ignoring the telltale clink of wine bottles.
‘If you’re going to seduce me, Eduard, that’s fine. But with all the painkillers I’m taking, I don’t think you need more than one bottle.’
He gave me a flat look. Stalked to a fallen log and lined up three empty bottles.
‘Damn,’ I muttered, giving the cast on my left arm a dark look.
He paced back about twenty yards and checked the pistol. With a complete lack of concern, he raised it, squeezed the trigger, and the rightmost bottle shattered. It was a good shot and he should have been smug, but his face was blank as he handed me the gun. Adjusted my posture, damn him, and had me fire off a shot.
I would have loved to show off, to prove that I could do it, if not as well as he could, then certainly not far off. Instead, the pain in my ribs set off my balance, and with only one hand on the pistol, I missed.
He stood behind me, his warm body supporting me, closed his hand over mine and took aim. Dizziness that had little to do with the painkillers had me sway on my feet. Eduard tightened his hold and the report of the gun echoed over the waves as another bottle shattered.
We stood at the makeshift range, Eduard patiently correcting me, until no bottles were left and the nearest tree was filled with lead. My right arm shook from the exertion, and my left arm itched. Special Operations’ instructors were good, but Eduard Graf was better. Even exhausted, I was now hitting the knots in trees.
‘The sun is going down,’ I murmured, not wanting to admit I was too exhausted to continue.
‘One more time.’
Eduard refilled the clip and moved behind me to correct my stance. I blew a lock of hair out of my eyes, rubbed my forehead with my sweating arm and took aim. Missed spectacularly as Eduard’s lips lingered at the nape of my neck.
‘Stop distracting me.’
I lined up another shot, my concentration challenged by his proximity. His chuckle shot a spark down my spine and I closed my eyes.
‘I’m distracting you?’
He straightened my right arm as it wavered. Then drew the back of his hand down the sensitive underside before wrapping his hand around mine again and squeezing the trigger twice, hitting the knot both times.
‘You’re cheating, Eduard.’
His hand dropped to my hip and, despite the risk of another rejection, I leant my head back against his chest.
‘Do not stop,’ he murmured.
I wasn’t sure if he meant my shooting or my advances. I straightened and emptied the clip into the tree, the cartridges catching the fading light as they fell in elegant arcs away from the pistol. Squeezed the trigger until the mechanism clicked on an empty chamber. Tossed the gun a few feet away, and turned in his arms.
He was waiting – pulling me closer. I ignored the pain in my ribs as I pressed against him.
‘Goddamn you, Eduard Graf. If you reject me now, I’ll shoot you. I swear I will.’
‘The clip is empty.’
‘I don’t care.’
My fingers fumbled with the buttons on his shirt, hating the cotton that separated us, awkward with haste and the encumbrance of the cast. Eduard stepped back and shed both shirt and vest, not giving me time to stare as he closed the distance, his fingers, more nimble than mine, going to the buttons of my shirtwaister, cupping my breast through the thin cotton and groaning.
‘I can’t get this dress off.’
‘Let me.’
He made short work of the buttons and eased the sleeve over my cast.
I should have been embarrassed standing in the half-light in my brassiere and knickers, yards of linen protecting my ribs, but I threw my head back and let him look. Revelled in the expression on his face. Wanted to see him, feel him.
Have him.
‘Angel?’
I took a deep breath and closed the space between us, wondering why something that should be wrong should feel so right. As if everything I’d done for the past year, the past twenty-eight years had led me to this point, lying with this man above the cliffs named after the Mouth of Hell.
He unfastened my bra, his trousers. The discarded clothes made for a comfortable mattress. The sky, a canopy of pinks and blues, until Eduard made me blind to everything but the look on his face, the feel of his lips, his hands, and his body.
Until he made me his.
*
‘A redhead,’ he murmured.
‘What?’
I followed his eyes lower down my body, and grabbed for his shirt to cover my modesty. What little was left of it.
‘Why did you dye your hair?’
‘It seemed the thing to do.’ I couldn’t let him distract me. ‘Why now, Eduard?’
‘What? This?’ He nuzzled my neck. ‘You smell good.’
‘Thank you.’
There it was again. The scratching of the memory. Smell.
I stopped when I smelled you, princess.
That night at the castle ruins, the person near the steps. I’d thought it was a man, but anyone could wear a disguise, and I’d fallen into the age-old trap: I’d seen what I expected to see. But on some level, I registered more
; a perfume with a mix of musk and night flowers, as unique as the woman who wore it. I knew who she was. Pictured her with the gaslights bringing out the red in her chestnut hair. She didn’t have a reason to want me dead, but then, this was the city of spies, and no one was who they pretended to be.
Why was she meeting Allen-Smythe? Was it for money? Her husband’s losses at the casino were well known. She wasn’t German, but spent far more time with them than even I did. Was it ideology? She didn’t strike me as either a fascist or a communist. Was it the thrill of the chase?
I leant back in Eduard’s arms and sighed. I’d have a devil of a time neutralising her.
His teasing voice became serious. ‘Angel, at least twice in the past week I came close to losing you. Maybe more. I cannot lose you, and if the only way I can keep you safe, is to keep you by my side, then I will do that.’
I smiled, unwilling to correct him. He couldn’t keep me safe from an assassin. Only I could do that, and only if I was able to stop her first.
Chapter Thirty-four
I
t would have been easier if it was Köhler. One assassin, one threat. This complicated things. While easier to find on any given day (half of Estoril knew where she lived), I couldn’t just knock on her front door, point the PPK at her forehead and pull the trigger.
To make matters worse, they were watching me. It was more intense than the usual bufos. I felt it the last few days. Couldn’t see them, but could sense their presence; a sort of malevolence that was directed at me. Was it my would-be assassin? Or one of her henchmen?
I stared out towards the sea, the glass of brandy untouched at my elbow. The evening was cool, stars glowing in the sky, and the sea a fair bit calmer than the tempest raging inside my mind. Whoever she really was, she had done a jolly good job of hiding in plain sight. And I had underestimated her – almost paying for that error with my life. Twice.
What could I safely assume?
She had both a revolver and a rifle, although displayed rather poor skill with both.
She was aiming at me on the night of Bendixen’s soirée. And having shot at me clad as both Veronica and Solange, she knew I was more than I seemed, although she might not realise which side I worked for.
She may or may not have told her masters about me, depending on the level of threat she felt I posed. Although her attempt to kill me gave a fair steer on that. Anger more than fear made my hand shake as I lifted the glass to my lips.