City of Spies

by Mara Timon

  *

  My front door had been jemmied, but the lock hadn’t been fully reset. If they were still inside, they’d have heard the roar of Julian’s car, or watched from a window as I staggered through the gate.

  Feeling more sober than I had in hours, I pulled the PPK from my bag and checked the clip. Eased the door open with my shoulder, and led with the gun’s muzzle, jumping when a flash of lightning blinded me. Thunder could hide a multitude of other sounds, but not footsteps. I eased out of my shoes.

  I smelled fresh flowers and then . . . the nasty tang of Gitanes. Followed the stench down the hallway. As on my first night in Estoril, this intruder didn’t care if the smoke alerted me to his presence.

  Friend or foe?

  There was no light shining from under the door. I slowly turned the doorknob, easing the door back enough to make room for the gun’s nose. I crouched low. If the intruder fired first, they’d go for a chest or head shot.

  The glowing cigarette gave away his whereabouts, although there could have been more than one. Holding my breath for the count of three, I took one step in and slid to the left. Then my pistol was at his head.

  ‘Careful, princess, gunshots are messy.’

  ‘Jesus Christ, Bertie, I could have killed you.’

  I slid the safety on and slapped the back of his head.

  ‘Better men have tried. Oh, wait. You’re not a man, are you?’

  He grinned as I flicked the light switch, bathing the room in a warm glow. The East Ender looked rougher than usual – his clothing was filthy and his face streaked with dirt. His gaze followed mine to the brown stain high on his arm.

  ‘Nothin’ important,’ he said, dismissing the wound.

  I narrowed my eyes, wondering what he wasn’t telling me.

  ‘Bad news?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘You found him?’

  The little man smirked. ‘Did you ever doubt it?’

  ‘Well, it bloody took you long enough!’

  ‘Two days, princess, an’ I’m counting from the time the toff disappeared. Weren’t you taught patience in that posh school of yours?’

  ‘What? Between learning how to shoot and to kill people with my hands?’

  Chuckling, he sauntered to my sideboard; admired the view before filling two glasses with Carlos Primero.

  ‘Am I going to need that much?’

  My stomach rebelled against the thought of more bad news.

  ‘You might. Sit down.’

  I shouldn’t have underestimated him; he’d found Matthew, of course he could find me. I hadn’t overtly kept him in the dark, but hadn’t offered any information on myself, my alias, and certainly not where I lived. But there were more important things to consider.

  ‘What have you learnt?’

  ‘About your life as Solange Verin? Your aspirations to becoming the next Frau Graf? Tsk, tsk. What would they say back in Blighty?’

  ‘I imagine they’d give me a medal, but I was asking what you found out about Harrington, not about me.’

  ‘Dangerous game you’re playing, just as you know. Graf doesn’t have a reputation for being a fool.’ He smacked his lips. ‘Excellent brandy. Right, right, don’t give me that look. Sir Matthew. You were spot on when you thought he was at one of the quays.’

  ‘You’ve found him?’

  ‘I found the quay. Halfway between here and Sintra. Not far from the one you showed me in June. Small, an’ up until now, active enough, pulling in half a dozen labourers to work on the docks a few times a week. Been there before, y’know. Wolfram goes in. It’s decanted into barrels – marked as lead, mind. So as if anyone’s poking around, it looks above board. Then it’s onto a speedboat an’ out to fuck-knows-where. Pardon the language.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘So the night before the kidnapping, they turn away the crew. No explanation, just a get-thee-hence. Repeated the next night. Now the quay’s shut for business. Boarded up, but wiv’ an armed guard at the gate, an’ men patrolling around the warehouse.’

  ‘Who has him?’

  ‘Germans.’ He held up a hand to stop the next question. ‘Not sure which group, although if I had to guess, it’s the Navy Intel arseholes, out for a bit of revenge after what happened at the courthouse. ’Sides, they know which quays the smugglers use.’

  That made sense. ‘Is he alive?’

  ‘If he’s dead, why keep it closed?’

  I hummed a response, then asked: ‘How do you propose we get him out?’

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded document. Smoothed it out on the table and used our two glasses and an ashtray to hold down the edges. It was a map of central Portugal – towns and cities shown in strong black print. Bertie had pencilled in markers along the coastline.

  ‘Drew this when you had me look into the smugglin’. I’ve worked out of a good number of the quays, but the one you want is here.’ He pointed to an inlet about five hundred yards from the coast road. ‘Lorries usually come down here at night, an’ leave before sunrise. Not any more.’

  ‘You confirmed this?’

  ‘Thought this was the one yesterday. Spent the night stakin’ it out. Saw men moving about but not the same – not like there was a shipment coming in, or goin’ out.’ He paused, the glass halfway to his lips. ‘You hear that?’

  ‘I didn’t hear anything.’ I reached for my pistol.

  Bertie held up a finger for silence and grasped his gun as the front door opened. I held myself flush against the wall as Bertie turned off the lights and moved to the other side of the door.

  Approaching footsteps became louder. A single set, and whoever it was made no attempt to hide their presence. I closed my eyes and said a little prayer as the parlour door swung back with an almighty crash. We moved quickly, our guns aimed at the man backlit by the hallway lights. The muzzle of his Luger alternated between us.

  ‘Who are you?’ Bertie demanded in French.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’ Eduard responded. My breath escaped with a soft whoosh.

  ‘Thank God,’ I whispered, sliding the safety into place. The men still had their pistols trained on each other. ‘Put your guns away, both of you.’ I turned on the lights. ‘What are you doing here, Eduard?’

  ‘Ah, the estimable Major Graf,’ Bertie murmured. His gun didn’t move. Neither did Eduard’s.

  ‘Who’s he?’ Eduard’s expression was one of grim resignation. ‘What have you done now?’

  I opened my mouth but words refused to emerge.

  ‘Just once, Angel. Just once can you not stay away from trouble? I asked you to leave this to me. Not only did you ignore me, you rushed headlong into it with this riff-raff!’

  Bertie put the gun on the table, but kept it within easy reach, palming the map and reclining in the armchair. He wore a look of sublime amusement.

  ‘Riff-raff?’

  ‘For heaven’s sake, Eduard. Do you really think I’m the sort to sit on my hands and wait for someone else to solve my problems?’ I raged.

  ‘Sometimes I wish you were.’

  The words hung in the air. His shoulders were stiff and he looked as if he wanted to hit something. If he took one step closer to me though, at that moment, I might just have hit him.

  ‘Then you’re with the wrong woman.’

  Eduard took another step towards me when Bertie interrupted, gun back in his hand.

  ‘Touch her, mate, an’ I’ll put a hole in you.’

  Eduard might not have spoken French fluently, but he understood enough to flush an angry red.

  ‘Who are you to give me orders?’

  ‘I’m the one what’s holding the gun.’

  ‘Leave off, Ulysse.’ I used his codename to remind him that this was my operation, and despite Eduard’s untimely appearance, I was in control. ‘He’s angry, but he won’t hurt me.’

  ‘Not your skin I’m worried about, princess. Me, I don’t like the idea of being in the same room as the Gestapo.
’

  ‘Abwehr,’ Eduard corrected. ‘I am not Gestapo.’

  ‘Maybe you’re not.’ His voice was conversational. ‘But the princess here, she seems fond of you. So if you’re stayin’, I’ll take me leave.’

  ‘Stay.’

  I stared at Eduard, hoping instead he’d leave.

  He didn’t. He stared at me with an unreadable expression, his eyes moving from Bertie to me and back.

  ‘If you have something to say, Eduard, then bloody say it. I don’t have time to play games.’

  He raised one eyebrow. When I remained silent, he relented.

  ‘I know where he is.’

  ‘I’ll bet you do,’ Bertie drawled. His gun was still centred on Eduard’s chest.

  ‘Put the gun down, Ulysse,’ I snapped, my voice as short as my patience. He gave me a level look, but obeyed.

  Eduard’s anger hadn’t quite subsided but it appeared that he was beginning to realise what he was dealing with.

  ‘You’re serious about seeing this through?’

  ‘I am.’

  He stared at me for a few seconds before he sighed and turned to Bertie.

  ‘Put that map back down. I’ll tell you how we’re going to get Harrington out.’

  ‘And you’d do this why, Herr Major?’

  I could see indecision warring against the anger. He lifted my glass from the table and drained it before putting it down with a loud thud.

  ‘I could say it’s because I don’t want her to go alone.’

  ‘She won’t be alone, mate. Why are you really doin’ this?’

  Eduard stared at Bertie, assessing him. Whatever he saw must have reassured him because when he spoke, each word came as a blow.

  ‘I need Harrington alive.’

  ‘And why’s that?’

  ‘Because he is facilitating a meeting that is very important to me.’ He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, before revealing the truth, in front of a witness, that undid me. ‘And to the people I represent.’

  Chapter Forty

  R

  epresent? Who do you represent, other than the Third bloody Reich?’ I snarled, to hide my shock. ‘And how the hell did you know to come here? Do you have someone watching me?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking.’ His mouth twisted wryly. ‘Claudine telephoned. She said she saw a burglar breaking into your home.’ He looked Bertie up and down. ‘It would seem I found him.’

  Bertie raised his glass in a mocking salute.

  ‘Weren’t lost.’

  Eduard pretended not to notice. ‘I ran out of a meeting thinking you were in trouble. Foolish me.’

  ‘Sit down, mate. Give the lass a break. She and the diplomat go way back.’

  Bertie switched from French to English as he offered up more than one truth to Eduard. I dropped my head into my hands. In mere minutes, Bertie had confirmed more to Eduard than I had in all the months we had shared a bed.

  ‘And you know this how?’ Eduard answered in the same language, surprising me. His accent was almost perfect. Where had he learnt it? And, more importantly, why? What was happening? He’d said he was bad with languages.

  ‘She saved me from being deported. She and the toff what got kidnapped the other day. Could say I owe them.’

  ‘Deported, why?’

  ‘I seem to have upset your lot back in France.’

  Eduard closed his eyes. ‘I asked you not to get involved with anything stupid, Solange. I begged you.’

  My patience was at an end and I snapped at him.

  ‘You don’t need to be involved in this, Eduard. I’m sure the party you represent will be just as happy if we free Matthew without your assistance.’

  ‘What do you think you can accomplish? You and that thug?’

  ‘Sticks and stones . . .’ Bertie murmured.

  ‘Don’t underestimate us, Eduard. Your help would be brilliant, but quite unnecessary.’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘That thug there . . .’ I pointed to Bertie. ‘That thug was trained to do things you could never imagine.’

  ‘Speak for yerself,’ Bertie murmured.

  The penny dropped. ‘The Department of Dirty Tricks,’ Eduard groaned. ‘God in Heaven.’

  I was angry enough to continue: ‘And so was I.’

  ‘You? Special Operations?’ He rubbed his face. ‘I really am a fool.’

  ‘I wasn’t the one who used you as a cover story!’

  ‘When did I do that?’

  ‘Our first date. Your meeting in the Avenida.’

  His face flushed, red and angry. ‘I didn’t use you, Angel. I wanted to take you out, but I had to meet someone that night. Someone who would leave the next morning.’

  He acted as if Bertie wasn’t there. Maybe he trusted his words to go no further. Maybe he didn’t care. But I knew one thing: Köhler hadn’t left the next morning. Or at any point after that. I couldn’t let it go.

  ‘Someone who needed to be kept incognito? I saw Köhler, you know.’

  He returned to the window, staring out into the inky blackness as he collected his thoughts.

  ‘He was not the man I intended to meet, but do you know who he is?’

  ‘Gestapo.’ The storm outside had passed. Inside, it had only begun. ‘What are you involved in, Eduard?’

  ‘I can’t tell you.’

  ‘Can’t or won’t?’

  ‘Can’t.’ His eyes met mine and I could see the regret in them. ‘I will tell you, when I can. But not yet, Angel. I am sorry.’

  ‘Let me see if I understand this – you can’t tell me why you’re involved with the Gestapo?’

  Bertie was more of a barometer for trouble than I was, but he was also a good judge of character. Now he was looking at Eduard as if considering options. And those options seemed to exclude, at least for now, murder.

  ‘Maybe, princess,’ he said slowly, his eyes now locked with Eduard’s. ‘Maybe you should tell Fritz here just why you want the toff back.’

  Eduard’s jaw clenched, but turned his gaze to me. ‘Angel?’

  ‘What the devil are you playing at? I already admitted to being in Special Operations.’

  ‘That’s not what I said, princess. Tell him about the toff.’

  How the hell had Bertie found out about that?

  Both men watched me expectantly, the silence as palpable as it was uncomfortable.

  ‘Do you really want to know, Eduard, why Matthew screamed “Lisbet” when I fell?’ The anger dissipated; I was tired, although strangely not frightened. If Eduard was going to move against me, he already had enough ammunition. And secrets of his own.

  ‘Your code name?’

  ‘No.’ I stood in front of Eduard, my eyes locked on his. ‘Because Matthew Harrington remembers a child too young to pronounce her own name. Matthew Harrington isn’t just my handler – he’s my damn godfather.’

  The words hung in the air like a heavy smog. Eduard fought to hide his shock well while Bertie grinned.

  ‘S’ppose that gives you the right to be angry, princess,’ he said.

  Eduard lit a cigarette, flinching when I snatched it out of his mouth.

  ‘You don’t smoke.’

  I took a deep drag, smashed it on the windowsill and threw the butt into the garden.

  Bertie sniggered. Eduard glared. I finished my brandy.

  Seconds ticked on the grandfather clock in the hallway. I refilled my glass. Neither man commented.

  ‘So, Fritz, you have a plan?’ Bertie asked.

  Eduard relented. ‘Show me that map.’

  Bertie waved his hand, inviting Eduard to look.

  ‘Let’s see how clever you are, then.’

  Eduard traced one long finger down the coastline from Estoril to Sintra. Stopped and tapped against a small inlet.

  ‘Here,’ he said. ‘It’s not the biggest quay, but it is remote enough to hide someone.’

  It was the same quay Bertie had found, but he gave nothing away.<
br />
  ‘How do you propose to get him out? Boat?’

  ‘No. One man on the jetty with a machine gun would cut us down in a heartbeat.’

  ‘Even disguised as joyriders?’

  ‘It could work for Solange, perhaps, but not for you, mate.’ Eduard drawled the last word, echoing Bertie’s accent.

  ‘An’ what would you suggest, yer lordship? Waltzing in an’ asking for his nibs and a by your leave?’

  Eduard studied the map in silence while Bertie rolled his eyes. Finally Eduard straightened and turned to Bertie.

  ‘You come in by speedboat, that part will work, but not into the inlet. You land here, and move across by foot.’ His fingers traced the map – long, elegant pointers.

  ‘And me?’

  Eduard glared. ‘You stay safe.’

  ‘Like hell I will. Either I go with you or I go by myself.’ I folded my arms across my chest. ‘Your choice.’

  Bertie shrugged, barely able to hide his mirth. Eduard was rather less amused.

  ‘Just what are you proposing, Angel?’

  ‘I can shoot better than most. But you knew that. A lot of others don’t. What if I become your camouflage?’

  He didn’t look convinced. ‘How?’

  ‘Most men, military men, don’t see women as a threat. Get me a uniform, the sort your people wear. I’ll drive your staff car. We gain access from the coast road, pass the checkpoint Ulysse marked here, and regroup at this point here.’

  ‘And, lovely as you are, you think you can sail through unmolested?’

  ‘Yes, Eduard. I do.’ My smile was humourless. ‘Because I’ll be driving a German officer.’

  *

  A dark silence slithered into the room and wound itself around my throat as we worked out the details of the operation. If we went in as he’d suggested, shots would be fired. Would Eduard – a good German, loyal to his country – willingly shoot his countrymen to save a man who was going to simply facilitate a meeting for him? What sort of meeting was worth this?

  ‘You can’t get him out by diplomatic means?’

  He rubbed his eyes. ‘Not without the trail leading back to me.’

  He didn’t need to say aloud what would happen to him if that occurred. The Germans weren’t squeamish when it came to executing traitors. Which meant that if the kidnapping wasn’t sanctioned, neither was the rescue.