City of Spies

by Mara Timon

  ‘Sorry to disappoint you.’

  The roof groaned as I squeezed the trigger. Instead of the bark I’d expected, the gun made a small click. The clip was empty.

  The man smiled. His forefinger began to contract and I lunged to the side, damned if I’d allow him to kill me. Not now, when we were so close.

  I was on one knee when the bullet whistled by my ear.

  I lunged forward, my hand on his wrist, forcing it away from me. He was stronger than I was, and I struggled to maintain control. I did the next best thing, forcing his finger on the trigger, firing shot after shot until his clip was also empty. A well-placed knee evened the odds, and his fingers released the empty gun. Throwing it to the side, I tightened my hand and lunged forward again, as I had learnt on Special Operations’ practice field. Holding the grip until his body crumbled, his breath gone. Slit his throat to make sure he was dead.

  ‘Angel!’

  Eduard’s voice bellowed over the rumbling flames and the creaking of the burning building. I ran for the door. For Eduard. For safety.

  A section of the warehouse caved in, sending flames and sparks scattering. I fell to my knees outside, gasping in the clean air, the pistol resting against my thigh.

  Eduard dropped to the ground beside me. Pulled me hard into his arms.

  ‘Don’t you ever, ever do that again!’

  I couldn’t find my voice to respond. Coughed, trying to clear the smoke from my lungs.

  ‘Matthew? Bertie?’

  Eduard pointed at the boat pulling away from the pier. Bertie’s stocky figure stood at the controls as the boat skimmed the whitecaps. Matthew leant against the neat rows of barrels stacked behind them.

  ‘Your thug will drop Harrington off at the boat he came in on and do God-knows-what with the barrels. ’ He held up a finger. ‘Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.’

  ‘And us?’

  ‘You change into something less disreputable. There’s a canteen of water somewhere in the car.’ Debris had fallen on it, but so far the vehicle was still intact. A muscle in his jaw jumped as he took in the bloodstains on my tunic. His eyes widened at a thought: ‘You’re not hurt, are you?’

  ‘Me? No. Are you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Thank God.’ I cleaned my blade as best I could and paused. ‘Are we safe?’

  ‘Should be.’

  ‘Good.’ I replaced the blade in its sheath on my thigh. Took a few moments to collect my thoughts. ‘Survivors?’

  ‘Four.’

  I turned almost hard enough to pull a muscle.

  ‘Sit down, Angel, and wash your hands. We’re the four.’

  Multiple footsteps disagreed. Three men emerged from behind the guard hut, their machine pistols aimed at us. In the centre, the elusive grey-haired man from France.

  Köhler.

  Chapter Forty-three

  Y

  ou disappoint me, Major Graf. A decorated hero, such as yourself, working with the British?’ Shaking his head, Köhler eased the butt of the rifle on to the ground and leant against it. With us sprawled on the ground, exhausted, and surprised by his silent approach, Köhler had the advantage. ‘Still, I’m grateful that you didn’t die in there. We have a few things to discuss, you and I.’

  I kept my head down, avoiding Köhler’s interest. He had played the long game. I’d suspected as much from the moment Claudine told me that he was looking at everyone other than Eduard. He’d waited for Eduard to do something to betray himself. Something like rescuing a captured English diplomat. And he’d waited here to witness it. We’d played right into his hands.

  ‘You, Herr Graf, are a traitor to your country.’

  Eduard’s posture was as casual as Köhler’s, his tone almost amiable.

  ‘On the contrary, I am loyal to my country. Always have been.’

  Truth shimmered through his words and not for the first time, I wondered what game Eduard Graf played. And whether it would end here.

  At a sign from Köhler, the goons kicked our pistols out of reach.

  It’s when you care too much, old girl . . .

  Exhaustion gave way to anger.

  Bollocks, I thought, shifting my legs. It’s when you care that you fight the hardest to survive.

  The wind blew a spray of cooling ash towards us. An ember landed on my jaw and I shouldered it away. Something about that gesture attracted Köhler’s attention. His loose posture sharpened and in two steps, he was in front of me. Grabbed my hair, pulling it back until his eyes met mine.

  I remember you, they said, as he nodded to himself. I remember what you did.

  On my knees, I raised my chin, and squared my shoulders. This man would not win. He would not beat me. He couldn’t in France, and he wouldn’t here.

  ‘Well, well. You survived. How delightful.’ His smile was chilling. ‘I look forward to our conversations.’

  There were three of them, and two of us. The odds wouldn’t be so bad if we hadn’t been disarmed. Eduard met my gaze, his eyes questioning, horrified. If Köhler had recognised me before, he hadn’t said anything to Eduard. Explanations would have to wait. Köhler’s goons hauled us to our feet, and led the way, one on either side of Eduard. Köhler and I followed, his fingers firm on my arm.

  I gestured to the burning warehouse.

  ‘A rather elaborate ruse, if all you wanted was a conversation.’

  His laugh rasped like fingernails down a blackboard.

  ‘That depends on the nature of the conversation, doesn’t it?’ He had wanted proof. Of Eduard’s loyalties, and now of mine. ‘I’d be interested to hear how you got here from France.’ His fingers tightened on my arm, although his expression remained polite. ‘And how you got into France in the first place. From England, wasn’t it, Frau Verin? Or should I say . . . oh, what was it?’ He pretended to think about it until naming my previous alias. ‘Nathalie Lafontaine? Is there perhaps another name you wish to share?’

  Köhler had made it his business to learn the name I’d used in France. And if he hadn’t made the connection to Special Operations on his own, the little wireless operator might have told him before she died. It was astonishing that he hadn’t recognised me until now. Or had he? Had I too played a part in his long game?

  The Gestapo had no authority to arrest us in Portugal, but Köhler could still make us disappear. Maybe we’d be sent to Germany, maybe just killed and disposed of. After being questioned to the point where death seemed a better option.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ The lie, ridiculous as it was, came naturally.

  He laughed, ‘Of course you don’t.’

  The large saloon car parked near the guard hut hadn’t been there when we’d arrived; they must have been waiting nearby. And the moment we got in, our chances of escape dwindled. It had to be now.

  If I was going to die, I might as well die fighting. I dropped my head, letting him think me beaten. He grabbed my elbow, pulling me forward. But not before my hand clasped my blade, freeing it from its sheath and plunging it into his belly.

  ‘This is for Alex Sinclair,’ I whispered in his ear.

  Warm blood spilled from Köhler and I pulled the knife up as far as it would go. My eyes remained locked on his, watching the surprise turn to fear. His left hand tried to staunch the flow of blood. His right raised the machine pistol pointing at Eduard, but he was already moving, reaching for a goon’s gun while his attention was fixed on us. There were two shots.

  Köhler’s strength was fading. I knocked the gun from his hand. Stepped away, letting his body drop to the hard ground.

  ‘I should have killed you in France,’ he whispered.

  I settled one knee on his wounded abdomen, and watched the light leave his eyes.

  ‘Yes, well. You tried. And failed.’

  I should have felt triumphant, but all I felt was an exhaustion that reached to my very core.

  Eduard helped me to my feet, scanning me for wounds.

 
; ‘How badly are you hurt?’

  ‘Not as bad as him,’ I said, using Köhler’s sleeve to clean his blood from Alex’s blade. ‘Why was Köhler convinced you are a traitor?’

  ‘He was wrong. I would never betray my country.’

  He’d said that before, and now I thought I understood. He wouldn’t betray Germany, but he would do whatever he could to prevent it from betraying itself.

  ‘How did he know we were here?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Eduard’s dark eyes mirrored my own exhaustion. ‘Köhler knew there was a leak in the Abwehr, someone was liaising with the British. I didn’t think he thought that was me. That I was working with Harrington. Maybe I missed something. Maybe Harrington did. All I can hope is that Köhler’s suspicions about me went no further.’ His eyes went to the sky, but then sharpened. He frowned his eyes meeting mine. ‘How did you know him?’

  I held up the sgian dubh, let it lie flat in my hand.

  ‘This blade once belonged to a man named Alex Sinclair. He was my friend, and Köhler killed him.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Alex tried to save a girl that Köhler and his Gestapo friends kicked to death.’

  I replaced the knife in its sheath, reacquired my PPK from Köhler’s corpse, and allowed Eduard to help me to my feet.

  We hadn’t moved more than five feet before we saw the man leaning against Köhler’s black saloon car. He was unarmed, but the men flanking him weren’t.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ I whispered.

  Chapter Forty-four

  S

  enhora Verin,’ Adriano de Rios Vilar said. ‘You continue to surprise me, despite all my warnings.’

  Exhausted, I let my hands drop to my sides. I was out of ammunition and out of the will to fight. Eduard wasn’t. He lunged in front of me, shielding me from the Portuguese PVDE officer and his men. Rios Vilar continued as if Eduard had remained at my side.

  ‘May I ask what happened here?’

  Those large, beautiful eyes were as opaque as they were steady. Covered in blood and the soot from the still-burning warehouse, with the body of Köhler and his two goons behind us, there was little point in protesting my innocence.

  ‘If you’ve been there long enough, then you’ll know.’

  Eduard bristled and my fingers tightened on the empty gun, still in my hand.

  ‘Stand back, Major Graf,’ Rios Vilar said.

  Beside him, his men raised their weapons, pointing them at Eduard. Eduard’s shoulders tensed, but he stood back. Rios Vilar nodded, his attention still on my face.

  ‘Is he safe?’

  ‘Unless you plan on shooting him. Or me.’

  ‘That is not what I asked. Do not take me for a fool, senhora. Is the English diplomat safe?’

  If he was going to kill me – kill us – in reprisal, at least it was for a good cause. I raised my chin.

  ‘Yes. Yes he is.’ My anger returned, overriding my better judgement. ‘No thanks to you and your men. Bloody line of neutrality and you allowed this, the kidnapping of a diplomat, to happen on your watch?’

  A faint smile appeared that did not reach his eyes.

  ‘On my watch? What I witnessed was him being rescued by – forgive the presumption, Major Graf, but by people with his interests at heart. Thus saving us the embarrassment of his disappearance.’ He sighed and looked at the blaze. ‘Although you have left me a bit of a mess to clean up, senhora.’

  ‘A bit of a mess,’ I echoed.

  ‘You were not here,’ he said.

  ‘I what?’

  My knees buckled and Eduard reached out to steady me.

  ‘You were not here, and this . . . this incident, will not be talked about. Am I clear?’

  I wasn’t so certain, but nodded nonetheless.

  ‘Good.’ Rios Vilar waved at the Mercedes. ‘Now go, but understand that I will not clean up after you again.’

  Waves of confusion battered my mind. Eduard’s hand was warm on mine as he tried to guide me away. I pulled away and turned back to Rios Vilar.

  ‘Why are you doing this?’

  His lips pursed, and his head tilted to the side. He studied me for a few moments before the faint smile returned.

  ‘Because of my . . . how did you call it? Bloody line of neutrality, of course.’

  He gestured to one of his men, who tossed a water bottle to me. My arms refused to work, and I watched its trajectory – watched it land at my feet. Stared at it because at that moment, struggling to comprehend Rios Vilar’s actions, I couldn’t think of what to do with it.

  ‘Clean yourself up and go, senhora. Before I change my mind.’

  He gestured to his men and they moved towards the bodies of the Gestapo thugs.

  I bent, and held the bottle in my hand. Eduard pried the PPK from my other hand and led me to the Mercedes.

  Before I sat in the passenger seat, I turned to Graf.

  ‘Why? Why is he helping us?’

  ‘He isn’t helping us, Angel,’ Eduard said. ‘He’s helping Portugal. Things are changing. The war is changing. Salazar is no fool. He has allowed the Allies to use the Azores as a base, and this court case was another, perhaps more subtle show that he does not want to be seen on the losing side. It is the first time someone, agents of another government, are tried for espionage on Portuguese land. He could have dismissed the case, yet he did not. Harrington’s kidnapping would be an embarrassment he would not tolerate.’

  ‘Then why . . . ?’ I glanced back to where the PVDE men were dragging the corpses towards the warehouse.

  ‘Why did he not do something?’ Eduard’s laugh was mirthless. ‘Because we did the dirty work for him. But do not think it is over, and do not think that man is on your side. His masters are Portugal, Salazar, and his captain, Agostinho Lourenço. And I am not sure of the order.’

  I looked back at the Portuguese men. Rios Vilar had stopped directing his men and stood, arms crossed, watching us. A thin finger of apprehension traced down my spine.

  ‘Come, Angel, before he changes his mind.’

  He didn’t need to tell me twice.

  Chapter Forty-five

  T

  he late afternoon sun glowed red as it sank towards the horizon. A red sun at night was supposed to indicate a sailor’s delight, but what did it mean for a spy? A midnight flight? The ocean was to my left and we were heading north, maybe north-west. Away from Estoril. Wherever Eduard was taking me – it wasn’t home.

  What was north and west? There wasn’t enough water in the bottle to do more than rinse my hands and face. My body was still covered in blood, the smell, the feel of it choking me. Fear, barely suppressed during the rescue, returned, reminding me how close we had come to ending up dead.

  We drove past a signpost for a town I’d never heard of and I looked at Eduard’s profile, wondering what he was planning. His hand dropped from the steering wheel on to my knee. He squeezed it and downshifted into a turn. Bile rose in my throat.

  ‘Stop the car!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Now!’

  The Mercedes hadn’t quite halted when I catapulted myself from it. Dropping to my knees, I was sick, heaving long after there was nothing to left to expel. Angry tears streamed down my face and tremors racked my body, and still my stomach convulsed.

  Eduard kept one hand on my back, steadying me, as the other held my hair away from my face. I was ashamed of my reaction. Maybe even ashamed of my actions.

  ‘You did what you had to do,’ he said.

  ‘Does that make it any better?’

  I looked down at myself. Dried blood stained the tunic. I rubbed my hand against it, desperate to be free of it – free of the coppery stench. Free of death.

  My fingers fumbled with the tunic’s buttons, tearing the last two off in my haste to be rid of the garment. Something fluttered free. I was too clumsy to catch it, but batted it away from the vomit and pounced on the papers before the breeze could scatter them.

  Holdi
ng them under my knee, I pulled my arms free of the tunic, throwing it aside to claw at the shirt underneath. It stuck to my body, still moist with blood. I ripped it from my shoulders, catching at the cuffs. I pulled, but they wouldn’t give way.

  I couldn’t stifle the sob.

  Eduard took my trapped hands in his. Murmured nonsense as he undid the buttons, freeing me from the stench. He held me against him as I wept; I didn’t regret killing Köhler or his men. Didn’t regret the men from the warehouse; they would have killed me, given the chance. But so much blood. So much blood on my hands.

  ‘What’s this?’ Eduard asked, reaching for the papers.

  I looked him blankly, then at the papers. There were rows and columns, letters and numbers – codes that made no sense. I forced my brain to slow down, to concentrate. There were three typewritten sheets. Some rows had ticks next to them, but most didn’t. I blinked and the pattern began to emerge. The items with ticks had dates that had passed. Other columns included a time and location, sometimes a handwritten note in the margin. I flipped to the last page, saw a date some months hence and understood what we held.

  So did Eduard. ‘Sweet Jesus, Angel. Do you know what this is?’ His dimples flashed as he began to laugh. ‘God in Heaven, you stole the wolfram shipping schedule! Did you know what it was when you took it?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘What did you do? Take it just because it was there?’ I shrugged and he handed the sheets back to me. ‘What do you plan to do with it?’

  His voice was neutral, and his face gave nothing away. Was this a test, or something else?

  I had neither the resources nor the inclination to act on them myself, but this information could do damage to the smuggling operation enough to put a dent in the German war machine. I tucked the papers into my blouse and buttoned it up.

  ‘I’m sure I can find a use for them.’

  ‘Yes, I am quite sure you can.’

  Eduard helped me to my feet and opened the car door for me.

  He didn’t look upset by this new twist.

  *

  We continued north-west and I continued to speculate. Why wasn’t Eduard upset? Köhler was no longer a threat, but there was no way of knowing whether his suspicions of Eduard had gone any further. Unless Eduard thought the investigation into him would end with Köhler?