Lisbon Crossing, The

by Tom Gabbay

  He glanced over, checked my reaction before continuing. I smiled and nodded.

  “Of course I’m even more besotted now I’ve met her in the flesh…I’ll have to be careful not to get carried away, though…Being a married man, as I now am.”

  “A very fortunate married man,” Santo chimed in. The duke smiled graciously, and I thought I’d better second the opinion. I said something about the duchess being every bit as charming as she was beautiful.

  “Yes, she is an exceptional woman,” the duke affirmed. “Unlike any I’ve met…” He seemed to go distant for a brief moment, but he came back quickly with a smile.

  “I propose a toast to exceptional women…”

  He raised his glass and we followed.

  “To Lili Sterne and my wife…Not necessarily in that order, you understand.” He started to drink, but pulled up short. “What about you, Santo? Is there an exceptional woman you’d like to add?”

  “Several,” Santo grinned mischievously.

  “Touché!” the duke laughed. “Well, good luck to you. I fear those days are gone for me…And do you know, I don’t envy you a bit!”

  As we drank, a pair of waiters appeared from behind the hidden door with our first course of poached fish under a creamy white sauce. It smelled delicious.

  “Interesting that you should mention Errol Flynn, Jack,” Santo said casually as they started serving. “I met him several years ago, at a cocktail party in Mayfair, and then again, here in Lisbon. Do you know him well?”

  “I was his stunt double on six or seven pictures,” I said, and the duke’s ears perked up.

  “You were Errol Flynn’s stunt double?”

  “Yes…”

  “How fantastic! And here I was thinking you were just another Hollywood hustler.”

  “That, too,” I assured him.

  “Well, hats off to you, on both accounts. We ran across Mr. Flynn ourselves, a couple of years ago, in Paris. Charming fellow, absolutely charming. Wouldn’t you say, Jack?”

  I didn’t think it would go over too well to say what I really thought—that he was an arrogant pig—so I shaded the truth a bit, Hollywood style.

  “I couldn’t agree more,” I said, cutting into my fish. “Charming fellow.”

  Dinner proceeded along those lines, the conversation pretty much limited to Hollywood gossip, Portuguese cuisine, and the wines of Europe, until we hit dessert. As I bit into a piece of honey-soaked sponge cake with caramelized pears on top, Santo and the duke exchanged a glance. The duke waited until the servants had left the room before getting down to business.

  “Have you been to London, Jack?”

  “No, sir, I haven’t,” I said. “I hope to someday.”

  “Yes, you must see it. I only hope it will still be standing.” He put on a worried puppy look. “I hate to think what will happen. I fear it will be devastating, absolutely devastating.”

  “It must be difficult for you,” I said, which seemed to strike the right chord. He put down his fork and turned to show me the pained expression on his face.

  “I’ve been desperate, absolutely desperate…My wife and I were in Antibes when news came of France’s surrender. Shocking turn of events, but there you are, it’s happened. We’ve had to abandon our house in Paris, with all its possessions. Not an easy thing to accept, but we must all take a good hard look at reality now, and someone…Someone must put an end to this, this…insanity before thousands more are killed and maimed. And for no other reason than to save the faces of a few stubborn politicians…” His voice trembled with emotion and his hands balled up into tight fists. Santo took over, his voice as smooth as silk.

  “The English are in a hopeless position,” he said. “It’s only a matter of time before they are forced to come to terms with the new reality of Europe. The only question is how long it will take—and how much must be destroyed before they come to the realization.”

  “It should be obvious to all”—the duke took over again—“that modern warfare no longer allows us to speak in terms of victors and vanquished. The world is at a critical juncture—this cannot be put too strongly, Jack. The course of the next hundred years will be decided in these coming weeks. If Germany and England are allowed to continue along the current path, Europe will be left in ruins, ripe for the taking by the bloody Bolsheviks…It may sound silly to put it this way, but the time has come when someone needs to say, you two boys have fought long enough and now it’s time to kiss and make up.”

  The duke turned to Santo, cueing him to take over. The banker leaned forward and looked me square in the eye.

  “You understand that our conversation must remain strictly confidential,” he said. “It must not go beyond this room.”

  “Jack can be trusted,” the duke assured him. “I’m certain of it.” They looked to me for confirmation and I nodded.

  “Of course,” I said.

  “At some point in the very near future…” Santo began slowly, tasting each word before letting it slide off his tongue, “His Royal Highness’s voice will be heard around the world, in a live radio broadcast. At that time he will propose a plan for an immediate and permanent end to hostilities between Germany and England. It will not be an empty plea, but will contain specific points that can be accepted by both sides…No one else is in the position to make such a proposal. Because of His Royal Highness’s continuing popularity among his people, and the enduring respect they have for him, his declaration will rally the country to his side, and enable those who support peace—some of whom are in the British cabinet—to come forward. There is good reason to believe that the German government will be favorably disposed to the plan, allowing for an early end to the war.” He paused for effect. “You are being entrusted with something very important, Jack. This will be a speech to change the course of history. One that will be remembered for a thousand years to come.”

  Santo sat back and awaited my reaction. I tried hard not to have one. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it sure as hell wasn’t that the former king of England was negotiating with Hitler behind Churchill’s back in order to initiate a revolution among his former subjects. He might see it as a historic peace mission, but most would see it as high treason. I’d just been thrust onto some very dangerous ground and I knew that I had to step carefully.

  “What is your view of that idea, Jack?” the duke said, quiet gaze fixed firmly on me.

  “I think you’d be doing the world a great service, sir,” I answered without hesitation, and he smiled humbly.

  “Well, somebody must step forward.” He offered me a cigarette, which I accepted. “I’m sorry to say that the British ministers of the day are not up to the task. I fear they’re no match for the likes of Hitler and Mussolini. These are strong, decisive men who know how to lead.”

  I nodded sympathetically.

  “I’m counting on your help, Jack.”

  “Yes, well, to be honest, sir, I’m having a tough time seeing how I figure into this.”

  The duke smiled cryptically and turned to Santo again.

  “His Royal Highness would like Miss Sterne to carry a personal message to President Roosevelt,” he said. “A letter.”

  “I see,” I said, swallowing hard. “What would the letter say?” I didn’t really expect a straight answer, but the duke seemed eager to give me one.

  “I believe that Roosevelt has an inaccurate understanding of the strategic situation in Europe,” he said. “I suspect that he is receiving bad advice from men who profess neutrality but, in truth, wish to see America enter the war. They are convinced that Hitler must be defeated, no matter the cost. It is, of course, understandable that Roosevelt might be susceptible to those voices—England is the mother country, after all, and when the mother is attacked the natural instinct of the child is to come to her aid. But, in this case, the child must stand aside. Should the United States become involved, it would extend the war by ten years, perhaps longer. Western Europe would be reduced to nothing
more than a pile of rubble and we know what would happen then. The armies of Russia would simply march in. Communism would be victorious.”

  He paused to take a long drag on his cigarette and slowly exhale the smoke.

  “My letter to the president,” he said, “will outline those points—in a slightly more circumspect manner, of course—and it will request that the United States support my plan for peace when it is announced. The best way to save England, Jack—probably the only way—is to force her to make peace. It may be accomplished now or it may be accomplished after she has been bombed into oblivion by the Luftwaffe. But, one way or another, it must happen.”

  Christ, I thought. He makes it sound like a goddamned threat.

  CHAPTER 11

  “THE GERMAN AIR FORCE HAS MOUNTED A SERIES OF ATTACKS ON SHIPPING CONVOYS OFF THE SOUTHEAST COAST OF ENGLAND…IT IS THE FIRST MAJOR ASSAULT BY THE LUFTWAFFE IN WHAT THE PRIME MINISTER HAS DUBBED ‘THE BATTLE OF BRITAIN…’”

  The crowd—mostly Brits—had grown in number as word spread through the hotel of the report coming in on the World Service. They gathered around a radio that had been placed on the bar and listened in transfixed silence:

  “THE BOMBING RAIDS BEGAN AT DAWN WHEN A FORMATION OF GERMAN PLANES STRUCK AIRFIELDS ALONG THE SOUTH AND EAST COASTS OF ENGLAND. THE ATTACKS HAVE CONTINUED THROUGH OUT THE MORNING WITH REPORTS OF ENEMY RAIDS ALONG THE WEST, SOUTH, AND EAST COASTS…EXPLOSIONS HAVE BEEN RE PORTED AT GUISBOROUGH, CANEWDON, HERTFORD, COLCHESTER, WELWYN, AND ELY…THERE HAS BEEN SPORADIC ACTIVITY OVER THE SCOTTISH COAST BETWEEN FIRTH OF TAY AND BEACHY HEAD…”

  The broadcast paused, leaving only static to fill the room. People exchanged looks with each other, but no one spoke. After a moment, the announcer returned, with a hint of urgency in his voice.

  “WE TAKE YOU NOW TO A LOCATION IN MANSTON, NEAR RAMS-GATE, WHERE OUR CORRESPONDENT, CHARLES GARDNER, WILL PROVIDE AN EYEWITNESS ACCOUNT OF…WE TAKE YOU THERE NOW…”

  More static, for quite some time. People didn’t move, just stood there in uneasy anticipation, knowing they were caught in a moment they would never forget. Then, abruptly, Gardner’s voice came in—agitated, excited, but in control:

  “…NOW THE GERMANS ARE DIVE-BOMBING A CONVOY OUT AT SEA…THERE ARE ONE, TWO, THREE, FOUR, FIVE, SIX, SEVEN GERMAN DIVE-BOMBERS, JUNKERS 87S…THERE’S ONE GOING DOWN ON ITS TARGET NOW…AND BOMBS AWAY…NO, MISSED THE SHIP. THERE ARE ABOUT TEN SHIPS IN THE CONVOY, BUT THEY HAVEN’T HIT A SINGLE ONE…AND…THERE YOU CAN HEAR OUR ANTIAIRCRAFT GOING AT THEM NOW…OH!…OH!…NO, WE THOUGHT THEY GOT ONE, BUT IT GOT AWAY…BUT NOW THE BRITISH FIGHTERS ARE COMING UP…HERE THEY COME…YOU CAN HEAR OUR OWN GUNS GOING LIKE ANYTHING NOW…I’M LOOKING ROUND NOW, I CAN HEAR MACHINE-GUN FIRE, BUT I CAN’T SEE OUR SPITFIRES…THEY MUST BE SOMEWHERE THERE…OH, HERE’S A GERMAN AIR CRAFT COMING DOWN NOW…IT’S COMING DOWN IN FLAMES…HE’S COMING DOWN COMPLETELY OUT OF CONTROL, A LONG STREAK OF SMOKE, HE’S…AH…THE PILOT’S BALED OUT BY PARA CHUTE. IT’S A JUNKERS 87 AND IT’S GOING SLAP INTO THE SEA, AND THERE IT GOES! SMASH!…TERRIFIC PUMMEL OF WATER AND THERE WAS A JUNKERS 87…POSSIBLY THE FIRST GERMAN AIRCRAFT TO BE SHOT DOWN OVER BRITAIN…”

  I wondered if the duke was listening, and if so, what he was thinking—he seemed to almost relish the idea of his countrymen being bombed into submission. There was an underlying bitterness in him that you didn’t see in the newsreels, a sense that what he wanted more than anything was to get even. I’d always had my doubts about “The Love Story of the Century” angle, and now I was convinced that there was more to the abdication of Edward VIII than met the eye. While he was clearly in love (or some version of it) with Wallis Simpson, he didn’t strike me as the type of guy who’d easily walk away from all that power and glory. Who knows what kind of palace plotting had dethroned the king, but it was clear that he wasn’t quite finished with the intrigue.

  I felt a tugging on my sleeve and looked around to find a dirty face looking up at me. He must’ve been eight, maybe nine, one of the kids that hung around the hotel entrance hoping to catch a handout as the big cars came in and out. I was surprised that he’d been able to make it through the lobby and was about to reward him with a coin when he produced an envelope.

  “Senhor Teller?”

  “That’s right.”

  “For you.”

  I reached for the envelope, but it disappeared, replaced by an empty palm. I covered it with a dollar bill, got a devious smile and the envelope in return.

  “Who—?” But the kid had already vanished.

  I walked out into the lobby to have a look around, hoping to get a clue about the source of the letter, but aside from the desk clerk, the place was deserted.

  I wandered into a private corner, unsealed the envelope, and removed the thin piece of folded brown paper it contained. In the middle of the page was a scribbled message:

  RUA ESPERANÇA, 66

  2 P.M.—P

  “Hello, old chap!”

  Harry Thompson appeared out of nowhere, looking unusually bright-eyed and bushy-tailed in a crisp white cotton suit with a splashy red tie to match his complexion.

  “Looks like the curtain’s finally come up, eh?”

  “Curtain…?” I stuffed the letter into my pocket.

  “The fate of the world, dear boy. Or haven’t you heard? The Jerries are giving us a good old pounding this morning.”

  “Oh, right…Yeah, I was just listening…”

  “Although I expect this will look pretty tame by the time we’re through.”

  “You’re probably right,” I said. “Well, good to see ya, Harry.” I gave him a pat on the back and headed for the door. He followed.

  “What news of Hollywood? Have you found the legend’s little friend yet?”

  “Afraid not.”

  “Was our elusive rodent of any help?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Not to worry. I have a feeling he will be.”

  “We’ll see,” I said.

  “How about a drink? I’m buying today…”

  I swung around to face him. “What do you want, Harry?”

  “Just being social, old boy…I thought I owed you a round…”

  “Cut the shit, will ya?”

  He smiled. “Well…Since you put it like that…A little bird told me about an intimate little dinner up at the Palacio Queluz last night…A threesome, I understand. I thought you might like to comment. Off the record, of course.”

  “Why would I want to do that?”

  He shrugged. “Because you have a soft spot for me?”

  I laughed. “Try again, Harry.”

  “Just tell me what you want to hear, dear boy.”

  I paused, gave him a look. “You wouldn’t know anyone who drives a late-model Buick with a broken windshield, would you?”

  “Sorry, old man, but I’m hopeless when it comes to motorcars. They all look the same to me.”

  “Well, thanks, anyway,” I said, heading outside, where Alberto was waiting.

  “Hold on, Jack.” Harry kept pace. “I can certainly look into it…Or perhaps there’s something else I can offer…Perhaps we could come to some sort of financial arrangement…”

  “How much?”

  “Well…I don’t know. What if we were to say—”

  “A thousand dollars.”

  Harry looked startled. “Look here, old chap…”

  “A thousand bucks to find out what your former king is up to. It’d be worth every penny, I promise you.”

  Harry looked me over, trying to decide if I was serious. “I’ll, ah…I’ll have to see what I can do,” he said, and that was enough to clinch it for me.

  “You know, Harry, up until a minute ago I bought the act.”

  “I’m not sure I follow you, Jack. What act is that?”

  “The washed-up-newspaperman-at-sea-on-a-bottle-of-whiskey act.”

  “I’m not that good an actor,” he laughed. “That’s me, I’m afraid, for better or worse.”

  “Forget it, Harr
y.” Alberto opened the back door for me, but Harry grabbed me before I could get in.

  “Hold on,” he said.

  “What?”

  “I think I can get the money…In fact, I’m sure I can…”

  “Forget it.”

  “For Christ’s sake, Jack, what—?”

  “Look, Harry, I’m sympathetic. I hope you guys beat the shit out of the Nazis, but, in the end, it’s your war, not mine.”

  “I’m just looking for a story.”

  “Sure you are…You can tell Stropford I had a very nice dinner with the duke, but, as much as I enjoyed it, I don’t plan on seeing him again. I’ve got other things to do.”

  “What are you talking about, Jack?”

  “Don’t bother to deny it, Harry.”

  He paused and finally gave in with a shrug. “All right, then. Let’s not play games. But this is important, Jack. Very important. If you could just—”

  “If you ask me, you guys should forget about the Duke of Windsor and start worrying about Hitler.”

  “Yes, well, thanks for the advice, old chap, but forgive me if I say that you don’t have a fucking clue what you’re talking about.”

  “I’m sure you’re right, Harry,” I said, slipping into the backseat. “But that’s because, like I said, it has nothing to do with me.”

  I pulled the door shut and we drove away, leaving Harry standing there on the sidewalk, in a substantial huff.

  Popov was leaning against a patch of cracked and faded blue tiles that hadn’t yet fallen off the exterior wall of Rua Esperança 66, a scruffy three-story building on the fringes of the Alfama. I told Alberto to pull the car up short, not wanting to attract any more attention than necessary. Popov tossed his cigarette aside and watched me as I made my way up the incline.

  “Is she here?” I said, looking the building over.

  “No, but not far.”

  “Lead the way.”