City of Spies

by Mara Timon

  She signed her name with a ridiculous flourish, and I wanted to weep again, touched by her caring. The clock on the mantle read a few minutes to five.

  Why not?

  I stubbed out the cigarette, slipped on my coat and locked the door behind me. I walked down the hill and paused at the corner, waiting for a dark saloon car to pass before I could cross the street, staring at it as it slowed. It veered sharply to the kerb, brakes screaming. It was like watching Matthew’s abduction again, only this time the men ran straight at me. Two of them. Wearing balaclavas.

  They reached for me, and after months of complacency, my timing was off. One man grabbed my right arm, and then my body began to remember. I leant into him, driving my knee into his crotch and yanking the sgian dubh from my thigh. I dropped into a crouch, edging backwards until my back hit a low wall.

  A little crowd gathered across the street, returning from the beach with their towels and sand pails. They stood. And watched. And did nothing.

  ‘Help!’ I screamed.

  The man, still clutching his crotch, hissed, trying to draw my attention from his advancing colleague. I slashed and the little knife grazed his arm. Two against one. I’d had worse odds, until my heel caught on a crack in the pavement, and I lost my balance.

  As I flailed, a white cloth brushed my face, stinking of something acrid and unfamiliar. Strong hands gripped my arms, supporting me as my legs ceased to work.

  And then, there was only darkness.

  *

  Wild horses thundered about, trampling my poor brain. My mouth was dry and my tongue tingled with the remnants of something bitter. Good Lord, we’d had a few drinks; it was our last night together, but not enough to rate a hangover of this magnitude.

  My body refused to move. Protested everything about the situation, down to the lumpy bed. That realisation brought on waves of nausea and fear. My own bed wasn’t lumpy. I forced my eyes open, bracing myself against a stabbing bright light.

  The blurry outline of a man’s hand was silhouetted in front of me, and cool dry fingers fluttered at my neck. Something smelled familiar, but I couldn’t place it. All I knew was that it wasn’t Eduard, and I wasn’t home. And a strange man’s hands were at my throat.

  Red-hot anger burned through my fear.

  To hell with you! I silently screamed, balled my hand and let it fly. My fist found its target and the man recoiled with a loud oof.

  ‘I see you’re awake then,’ he said in English, rubbing his jaw.

  The accent was public school, sharp as cut glass. I waited for the retaliatory blow to fall, but instead he faded from sight. Water gurgled as the fuzziness began to fade. I accepted the glass from my captor and flung it into his face.

  ‘Insult and injury, Lisbet?’ Matthew pulled a handkerchief from a pocket and dabbed his face. ‘Was that really necessary, old girl?’

  I snarled. ‘What do you want?’ I looked about the spartan room – the white walls, the battered institutional desk and green filing cabinet. An office, obviously, but it could be anywhere. ‘Where the bloody hell have you taken me?’

  ‘The airfield. You will be on the scheduled flight back to Blighty. I apologise in advance that your trip might not be the most comfortable, but they still watch every move we make. You’ll need to change into this.’ He pulled a folded uniform from the cabinet. ‘You’ll be masquerading as the co-pilot.’ A roll of dressing was placed on top of the uniform. ‘Who is a man, needless to say.’

  What the devil was going on? I tried to sit up too fast and the room spun.

  ‘Why? Why now? After all these months, why me?’

  ‘You know better than ask that, old girl.’ Matthew perched on the side of my cot and laid a steadying hand on my arm. ‘Your Major Buckmaster sent word. He’s recalling you to London. The kidnapping was a fake. Staged, if you will.’

  ‘Let me see if I understand this. I risk my cover story, my life and the lives of two good men to rescue you from your kidnapping, and in return you plan mine?’

  ‘Yes, my dear. That about sums it up.’

  ‘And you couldn’t just summon me? Let me know?’

  He sighed. ‘Don’t you think Jerry would notice if you packed up house and waltzed on to the next flight to London the moment your husband sails off to Berlin? What do you think would happen to him? Do consider the company he keeps.’

  I knew the company he kept: the German company, and the role he had undertaken – at their behest – with the British. The very thought made me feel ill.

  ‘You must tell him, Matthew,’ I said when my breathing allowed it. ‘He’ll come back expecting to find me.’

  ‘And Solange will have disappeared.’ He stressed the name, watching my reaction. ‘We need his reaction to be authentic. Otherwise your cover story, and his allegiance, will be called into question.’

  ‘Let me explain his authentic reaction. With no ransom and no word, he’ll search for me. And when he realises you’re involved, he’ll go after you as well.’

  Matthew stared at me, his expression inscrutable.

  ‘You really do care for him, don’t you?’

  ‘He’s a good man, Matthew. He risked his life to save yours. And so did I. Tell him. Let him know I’m safe.’

  ‘Solange was his wife, Lisbet. You mustn’t confuse the two.’ Again that look – that warning. ‘Elisabeth, you haven’t done anything stupid, have you? You must know that not even your group of yahoos would tolerate an agent genuinely married to an Abwehr officer.’

  It was nothing I hadn’t already considered, but his words fuelled my anger.

  ‘Matthew, there’s no need to threaten me, or be insulting. I suppose I could always write from England.’

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ he snapped. ‘I’ll tell him. Anything else, while I’m playing messenger boy?’

  I thought about that for a second.

  ‘Why, yes, Matthew. There is.’

  He didn’t quite roll his eyes. ‘And that is?’

  ‘Bertie.’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘What will happen to him after I leave?’

  ‘Ah, your little East End friend. He’s done well, hasn’t he? We’ll keep him here, of course.’ Outside the window an engine roared into life. ‘Your chariot awaits. Payne will escort you out. It was supposed to be Fitzgerald, but his arm is being stitched up.’ He gave me an arch look. ‘By the by, that’s a nice little toy you have.’ He pointed to the sgian dubh where it sat on the desk next to my handbag. ‘However did you acquire it?’

  I grunted, and struggled off the cot. Matthew rested a hand on my shoulder.

  ‘Get dressed, and then wait for Payne. We must make it look authentic. This time, try not to grab his testicles, his wife might object.’

  ‘If he knocks me out again, I won’t just grab them, I’ll rip them off. And next time you play this game with me –’ I closed my hand around the sgian dubh – ‘I’ll go for yours.’

  I waited for the door to close behind Matthew, and slowly began to dress, binding my breasts and tucking my hair into the cap. The shirt and tie covered my necklace, and my bracelet and earrings were buttoned into a pocket. I left my wedding ring on. Buck and Vera would already know of ‘Solange’s’ marriage, but what was more worrying was how they would act on it.

  The disguise wasn’t perfect, but was good enough to convince anyone who didn’t look too closely.

  I held the little knife in my hand, and waited in furious silence for Payne and the flight home.

  To whatever lay in wait for me on the other side.

  Chapter Forty-seven

  T

  he aeroplane rolled to a halt on the runway in Bristol. The pilot and I remained in the cockpit until the others disembarked. A dusting of snow blew across the tarmac as I followed him into one of the metal huts.

  Vera Atkins waited just inside. One gloved hand adjusted the impeccable tilt of her hat, and then she moved forward to greet me.

  ‘Welcome back to England, C
écile. Did you have any problems getting in?’

  ‘A bit of flak as we crossed over France, but nothing significant,’ the pilot answered.

  ‘Excellent. Thank you very much,’ she said, dismissing him. ‘Come, my dear. Dinner’s waiting for you in the main hangar, then we’ll get you to London. Buck is quite keen to speak to you.’ She linked her arm in mine, a civilised escort. ‘We’ll drive back after dinner, and do feel free to doze on the way, Cécile. It’s a long drive, and Maurice is expecting you at Orchard Court at eight o’clock sharp tomorrow morning.’

  Eight o’clock sharp. This wasn’t going to be good.

  *

  Mr Parks was immaculately clad in his usual dark suit and tie.

  ‘Good morning, madam.’

  I forced a polite smile. ‘Good morning, Mr Parks. Did you miss me?’

  ‘Frightfully dull without you, madam. Please follow me.’ He led the way through the lift’s gilded gates. ‘Pardon me for saying, but you’re looking well. It’s nice to see a tanned, friendly face.’

  The lift stopped on the second floor, and Parks opened the grates.

  ‘This way,’ he said, although I knew the way. We walked to the end of the corridor, and Parks knocked on the door. At the muffled response he peered inside. ‘Miss Cécile is here to see you, sir.’

  Maurice Buckmaster mumbled something and Parks closed the door. I knew the drill. Followed Parks down the short hallway to Special Operations’ Orchard Court suite waiting room. Or rather, its bathroom. I flicked on the lights and perched on the toilet’s closed lid and leant my head against the cool tiles. If I had to be locked in the loo, I might as well be undignified about it.

  The first time I was locked in here was the day of my interview, a year and a half ago. I’d been kept waiting rather too long and by the time they came for me, I’d been on the verge of walking out of the lavatory, the flat, and the interview.

  Now, I was back. My body was scarred from German bullets, and my soul from the deaths I had seen, and caused. I wanted to open the locket and look at Eduard’s face, but dared not. Not in this place. They knew about him, and might eventually learn of the locket’s secrets, but not yet. I wasn’t ready.

  There was a polite knock on the door. Vera opened it. She had freshened up and was impeccably dressed in a smart tweed suit with a gold cat pinned to her lapel. If the late night drive from Bristol had drained her, it didn’t show.

  ‘I apologise for making you wait, Cécile. We’re ready for you now.’

  Buckmaster stood as I followed Vera into the bedroom that served as his office. He was tall and slim, with an angular face and thinning hair. He vigorously shook my hand, then waited for me to sink into an armchair before perching on a corner of his desk, legs swinging.

  ‘Welcome back, my dear. Excellent showing down in Portugal. Particularly liked your style, stealing the wolfram whilst rescuing Sir Matthew. Excellent use of your assets.’

  If he was aware of the rescue, he knew who’d helped me. I hoped my polite smile hid the burning in the pit of my belly.

  ‘Don’t forget the shipping schedule.’

  ‘I was more impressed by the way you set up the Germans from a legal perspective,’ Vera said. ‘Relying on Salazar’s instability to help your case. Most would have just blown up the villa, as they were trained to do. I’m glad to see you’ve learnt to curb your temper.’

  If she’d seen the warehouse she might have rethought that assessment. She allowed silence to blossom between us, her blue-grey eyes intent on mine. Eduard did this too – using silence to compel people to incriminate themselves. I wasn’t that foolish. I lit a cigarette and waited.

  ‘I am, however, most intrigued about this marriage of yours,’ she continued.

  Her tone was light, conversational. It gave nothing away, but implicit in it was the threat: betraying your country is treason.

  ‘Of course,’ I echoed. I, Elisabeth Daria Grace de Mornay . . .

  ‘It takes a strong will to live that sort of deception.’

  Maurice didn’t take his eyes off my face. I shrugged, desperate to change the subject. Or for Buck to tell me what fate he’d decided for me.

  ‘I never doubted the strength of your will, Cécile. Quite frankly, what does concern me is any emotional entanglements you may have formed with this man. As Solange you spent a lot of time with him, were intimate with him. How much do you know of his business? The reason he was in Portugal?’

  ‘He was a military attaché.’

  Buckmaster flipped his hand impatiently.

  ‘Yes, yes, and Harrington is in charge of passports.’ I frowned as he leant forward. ‘Last summer you accompanied him to the Hotel Avenida.’

  How the devil had he heard of that?

  ‘I had drinks with him there several times. Which time are you referring to?’

  ‘Perhaps the first week in July?’

  That first date, before hearing Amália sing. When Andreas Neumann kept me company as Eduard disappeared for a meeting. With Köhler.

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘Did he ever speak of it?’

  ‘He apologised. Said it was something he had to do. I remember being quite out of sorts with him for leaving me waiting downstairs with his adjutant. Even less so when I recognised the man he was with as Gestapo.’

  Vera smiled. ‘Yes, I can’t imagine you enjoying that. How did he explain it?’

  ‘He didn’t. Said he couldn’t.’ They exchanged a glance, sharing some secret that I was not privy to. ‘Is there something I should know?’

  ‘Well, yes, Cécile. You should know what happened there. Do remember to ask the major next time you see him.’

  My heart quickened at the thought of seeing him again. Then, fast on its heels, I realised that they weren’t as upset about my liaison with an Abwehr officer as they should have been. That I had been taken straight to Baker Street, instead of that school in Wandsworth where they usually debriefed returning agents. That they were implying that it wasn’t Köhler whom Eduard had intended to meet that night. So had Eduard, but if it wasn’t Köhler, then who?

  ‘Who? Who was it?’

  ‘Ask the major,’ Vera repeated.

  They knew. They knew what Eduard was involved in.

  ‘He’s working for you, isn’t he?’ The words came slowly, grating like a car not quite in gear.

  ‘No, no. I would love for it to be true, but no. Your major is a good German.’ Buckmaster’s voice was wry. ‘And loyal to his country.’

  Eduard used the same words, with the same emphasis. His country. Not to the madman running it. They all but confirmed my suspicion. A coup. He was working on a coup. I remembered the lectures when I trained, heard the rumours that circulated in the Resistance. It wouldn’t be the first attempt to get rid of Hitler and his band of lunatics. The Bürgerbräukeller in Munich, 1939; Paris, Berlin, Russia. The number of attempts was growing, but the rabid bastard always managed to escape. The conspirators were arrested, deposed, or dead. I couldn’t bear the thought of that happening to Eduard.

  The fool! The bloody, brave, patriotic fool! And he accused me of doing stupid things?

  I looked out of the window and composed myself. There was no point in letting Vera and Buck know the depth of my feelings; they would only use it – use me – to further Eduard’s rebellion.

  Was that it? Were they going to send me to Berlin? I kept my voice cool.

  ‘Should I see him again, I shall.’

  ‘Good,’ she said with an enigmatic smile. ‘Do that, Cécile.’

  Buckmaster’s chair squealed as he leant back.

  ‘I must say, it wasn’t easy getting you back. Your friend in the Foreign Office kept his cards close to his chest. Officially, you were never in Lisbon. As there was never any paperwork seconding you, the bean counters didn’t understand why we wanted you back when they didn’t think you were there in the first place.’

  I studied them both – Maurice’s animated face, and Vera’
s cool one. Drew in a deep breath and exhaled slowly. Leant forward and matched her level gaze.

  ‘Why did you want me back?’

  Already suspecting the answer, my heart sang.

  Berlin. Send me to Berlin. Send me to Berlin to work with Eduard.

  ‘Because, my dear –’ Maurice’s face was suddenly serious – ‘we have another job for you.’

  Historical Note

  W

  hen I tell people my debut novel takes place in Lisbon during the Second World War, they give me a strange look. ‘Lisbon,’ they ask. ‘Why Lisbon? Portugal was neutral.’ And it was, sort of. As the only European capital that was both neutral and a port city, Lisbon quickly became a centre for intrigue, with exiled aristocrats, diplomats, businessmen, artists, refugees and, of course, operatives, obsessively watching each other. As I began to learn more, it became the perfect backdrop for City of Spies.

  This book is fiction, and while I’ve tried to stay as close to the facts as possible, there are times where I intentionally deviated from history, and other times unintentionally. All mistakes are my own.

  Special Operations Executive

  Special Operations Executive (SOE) was officially formed on 22 July 1940, at the instigation of Prime Minister Winston Churchill, as a single organisation to conduct espionage, subversion, sabotage, and reconnaissance. He directed Hugh Dalton, the Minister of Economic Warfare and newly appointed with the political responsibility for SOE to ‘Go and set Europe ablaze’.

  SOE recruited agents from all classes, backgrounds and occupations and provided rigorous training that included map reading, demolitions, weapons, Morse code, fieldcraft, and close combat, and inserted agents into all countries occupied or attacked by the Axis, except where agreement was reached with other Allied countries.

  In 1942, realising they were missing a trick, SOE began recruiting women as field agents. These women trained alongside the men, (often being used as an example to spur the men on), and were commissioned either in the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force (WAAF) or the First Aid Nursing Yeomanry (FANYs), before being deployed. SOE sent 39 women into France, and all but 13 of these amazing women came back.