by Mara Timon
Memories crashed over me. The young friend of my father’s who had pushed me on a swing. Always encouraging me to learn more, do more, laugh more. Until the day he relayed my mother’s ultimatum. He still wore the same cologne. I should have remembered that.
‘Why don’t you turn on the lights, Lisbet?’
‘Turn them on yourself.’
Seconds ticked by before Matthew Harrington flicked the switch on the wall. Not much had changed; his dark hair was Brylcreemed back from a tanned, aristocratic face, although the widow’s peak had receded a bit and, like his moustache, was now peppered with silver. The nose was still aquiline and imperious, and his black eyes watched beneath thick eyebrows. Clad in Savile Row’s best, he looked like an elegant bird of prey.
‘When did you lose your manners, old girl?’
‘About the time I realised you didn’t deserve them.’
He moved to the sideboard, chuckling.
‘What do you want, Matthew?’ I demanded. ‘Assuming, of course, it was you who sent for me.’
He looked at me over his shoulder, one brow raised.
‘What makes you think that was my doing?’
‘Wasn’t it?’
Ice clinked into the crystal glass and he didn’t bother hiding a smug smile.
‘Of course it was. Do sit down, old girl. Surely you can’t fault me for watching out for my family?’
I shook my head. ‘You can’t have it both ways. You told me that the moment I married Philip, I was divorcing my family. Well, I married him. Stick to your side of the bargain.’
He held up one finger. ‘Your mother’s words, my dear. Not mine. I did make that clear at the time.’
‘And because you were her lackey, you’re now blameless?’
‘Is that really the question you want to ask me?’
‘No,’ I snapped. ‘I’ve already asked it – you just haven’t answered. Why am I here?’
Matthew shrugged. ‘You dropped out of sight a few years ago.’
‘Not my decision,’ I growled, allowing him to relieve me of my pistol and put it on top of the piano. He was right; I wouldn’t shoot him. Yet. And I didn’t need a gun to disable him.
‘So he forced you?’ He raised his eyebrows in mock disbelief. ‘And here I thought it was mutual. So where is the loving husband now?’
‘At the bottom of the Atlantic.’
‘Sorry about that, old girl. You should have said.’ His voice was sympathetic, but Matthew was well connected and would have known about Philip’s demise, maybe even before I did. ‘You didn’t have to cut us all off, you know.’
‘What did you expect?’
Matthew waved his hand, the long fingers dismissing my ire.
‘Better judgement, since you ask. First there was that incident with the Christie girl’s boat. And if that wasn’t mad enough, you had to start running with the Baker Street Irregulars. Yahoos,’ he sniffed. ‘What they don’t blow up, they shoot. You could have at least chosen Six or the Foreign Office if you wanted to be a spook. I could have arranged something.’
As if I would have asked him for anything.
He stepped closer, holding up a long strand of my hair.
‘Whatever possessed you to colour it?’
I pulled away. ‘Not many redheads in France.’
‘Not enough redheads anywhere.’ He smiled, flashing strong, if slightly long, white teeth. ‘You do realise if you’d gone blonde, you’d be a dead ringer for Veronica Lake?’
It was a familiar jibe, and one that didn’t deserve an answer.
‘It’s brown until I find the first hairdresser with a bottle of dye.’
He hummed a reply. ‘I wouldn’t do that just yet, if I were you.’
My eyes narrowed as my head began to throb at the base of my skull. ‘Why not?’
He flashed a polite smile. ‘Be a dear, get a bottle of wine and share a glass with your old godfather.’
‘Do you really need to remind me of family obligations? Remember, old boy, that I don’t have them any more.’
I left the room, giving myself the space to think. My father often referred to his protégé as ‘the Spider’, noting that Matthew wasn’t just drawn to intrigue – he orchestrated it. And now he expected me to become a willing pawn in his schemes? Not bloody likely.
‘Lisbet?’ His low voice called from the other room. ‘I do hope you haven’t shimmied out of a window.’
‘Stinking Spider.’
I rummaged through the kitchen for a bottle and corkscrew. As my hand closed around the little metal device, I saw Alex open a bottle with the dead German’s jackknife. I had few options on that day, no connection to the Resistance, no way to get us to safety. Just instincts, and his death was a reminder of how that had worked out.
My options weren’t much better now. Alex was dead. Philip was dead. The only ‘friend’ I had in this country was my godfather – a man my father had trusted, and whom I had trusted, until he relayed Lady Anne’s ultimatum. But he needed something, and as long as I was useful, he would protect me. Contrary to his claim, I wasn’t family – I was an asset.
Grabbing two crystal wine glasses from a cabinet, I returned to the parlour, determined to show no weakness. Put the bottle and glasses down on a coffee table, and looked around for the first time. The room was small but well appointed. A brocade sofa the colour of double cream was flanked by two matching armchairs. Across the room, under an oil painting of a grandee, was the piano. It had seen better days but despite the humidity, it was still in tune.
‘You always played well.’
‘Yes? Well, I’ve played a different sort of piano for the past year.’
‘Ah, yes. The wireless.’
His bland tone confirmed that he knew what I did for SOE, and the cloak-and-dagger nature of my arrival – and his – gave an indication of what he wanted. I played along.
‘Who lives here?’ I asked.
‘You do.’ Matthew handed me a glass and raised his own in a silent toast. ‘Tell me about France.’
‘Why?’
He was silent, his black eyes locked on my face as he waited for me to continue.
‘It’s all classified. I’m sure you’re aware that I signed the Official Secrets Act.’
‘I’m quite sure my clearance is sufficient.’
‘I’m quite sure it is.’ My polite smile matched his. ‘Have someone look it up.’ I sipped the wine, watching him over the rim of the glass. ‘What do you want me to tell you? What it feels like to be shot? To shoot someone? It’s different from a distance as opposed to close up, you know.’
‘I know.’ His quiet voice took the wind from my sails.
‘There was death in France, Matthew. Too much death. Some was under my watch, some by my hand.’ My shrug was anything but an apology. ‘As you said, they’re a bunch of yahoos I run with.’
His face remained impassive. ‘No one ever said you took the easy path, old girl. Not your nature, maybe too much of your father in you.’ I looked away, but Matthew continued. ‘Nine lives your father had. Like a cat. You’re the same, Lisbet.’
‘Sure. I’m a cat, all right. A black one.’
He chuckled, and pressed my glass into my hand.
‘Even better, dear one. They know how to hide in plain sight.’
Matthew Harrington, aristocrat, bureaucrat and a plethora of other ’rats, clinked his glass against mine.
‘À votre santé, ma chatte noir.’
Chapter Ten
‘H
ow much do you know about Portugal – about Lisbon?’
Matthew held the empty wine bottle up to the light, frowning. Muttered something about evaporation and poured two glasses of Carlos Primero from a bottle on the sideboard.
‘Not a lot, I’m afraid,’ I answered, accepting a cut crystal brandy balloon. ‘I know they’re neutral, or at least, technically so.’
‘Right you are. Dr Salazar, like Franco in Spain, favours the Germans. Or rather, the
Italians – there used to be a portrait of Il Duce hanging in his office. Might still be, for all I know. The rest of the country, however, favours the Allies. It’s a delicate balance.’
‘He’s sitting on the fence because he doesn’t want to be deposed?’
Matthew’s long fingers traced the grooves in the crystal.
‘The only problem is, he’s not sitting on the fence. No, my dear, be under no misconceptions – Salazar’s early reforms gave the country a modicum of stability, but his policies are conservative, Catholic, and as I said, Fascist. We gave him lists of suspected German and Italian spies. Would you care to guess what happened to them?’ He paused, one eyebrow raised. ‘No?’
His nostrils flared and his voice became condescending.
‘Allow me to give you two examples. Mind you, in each case, we provided them with solid evidence of the gentleman’s activities. The result of this “Portuguese justice”? In the first case, Richard Schubert left Portugal for Spain. That, at least, was an act of expulsion although the Portuguese refused to do more. Why? Because according to their penal code, spying in Portugal against another country is questionable and expulsion is the only option.’
‘Questionable?’
‘And I quote: “It is unclear whether espionage is a punishable offence under Portuguese law if it’s not against Portugal.” Under duress, Salazar just changed the law, but it doesn’t apply retroactively.’
‘And the second example?’
I could have pointed out that the Boche were most likely equally irritated that people like Matthew were still walking around. Or me, for that matter.
‘Ernst Schmidt – and I’m not sure if they’re their real names, mind – was arrested and then released. He now boasts that the Portuguese police dare not hold him.’
‘So one is free to wreak havoc in Spain until, I imagine, he finds a way back in, and the other has set a bad precedent. Forgive me if I’m wrong, but don’t we have a treaty with the Portuguese? I remember reading about a speech Salazar gave reaffirming it just after the start of the war. All the newspapers covered it.’
‘Very good, and yes, we do. Salazar not only confirmed it remained intact, but also stated that Portugal wouldn’t take advantage of its neutrality to make money from the war. The only one who seems to believe that tosh is Campbell. Thinks that Salazar will come to the rescue if things get bad enough.’ He made a rude sound. ‘And I’m damned if I know what it’ll take for things to get “bad enough”.’
I raised a brow. ‘Ronald Campbell? Isn’t he the ambassador here?’
‘Yes, and you might not want to get too close – he knew your father. Might recognise you and blow your cover. Inadvertently, of course.’
‘Noted.’
‘Good. As to the situation, if he had more sense, he’d press for all of Bendixen’s lackeys to be arrested.’
‘Bendixen?’
‘Hans Bendixen, Head of German Naval Espionage in Portugal. And for every one we find, there are countless more at large. Furthermore, Salazar –’ his voice dropped to an icy timbre, sarcasm oozing from each syllable – ‘swears that we are barking up the wrong tree. Agents we list as minor fry are key men and vice versa. He protects them while claiming to support us as well. Lisbet, this is serious business. Lisbon is the only neutral capital on the sea. People sneak in and out every day. The Hotel Avenida even has a “secret passageway” to the train station, for Christ’s sake.’
‘Not so secret, then,’ I murmured, impressed despite myself. And for the first time in weeks, intrigued.
‘Informants are on every street corner, with three others peering from behind the curtains, ready to run to whoever offers the highest price.’
‘Not much different from France.’
I put down my glass, trying not to remember how Jean-Roger Demarque’s treachery could have landed me in the Gestapo HQ on Avenue Foch.
‘They’re everywhere.’ He rubbed the bridge of his nose. ‘When you meet someone, Lisbet, always assume they’re a spy. Perhaps even a double agent.’
‘And you want someone here you can trust.’
‘No, my dear.’ The light in his eyes dimmed and he looked tired. ‘I need someone I can trust. Each week it’s something else. Assassinations. Kidnappings. That bloody fiasco with the Ibis.’
I felt silly asking the question, but to be fair, I hadn’t had the leisure of reading a newspaper for weeks.
‘What fiasco?’
‘Last week the German Junkers shot down a commercial plane over the Bay of Biscay. A scheduled flight from Lisbon to Whitchurch that didn’t go over the war zone.’
I hadn’t realised there was an exclusion zone anywhere near England or France, but surely if a bomber could be modified to drop agents, why couldn’t a commercial plane be refitted to carry something rather more dangerous?
‘Ah.’
‘No, in this case there was no Trojan horse involved. There were innocents – or at least non-combatants – on that plane. Seventeen dead, including the crew. This was the third plane they attacked and the first one they managed to shoot down. With Leslie Howard on board.’
‘Who?’
‘The actor. You know the one – he played in Of Human Bondage and Gone with the Wind.’
I had a vague memory of a man with a long face and soft voice.
‘Oh, yes. He played Ashley Wilkes. He’s dead?’
‘You would remember that role. Not his best work, of course, but that’s what he’ll be remembered for.’
‘What else should he be remembered for?’
‘The chap was rabidly anti-Nazi. Did what he could for us. Came over with his agent for a series of talks about film, but spent time trying to shore up support with the local propagandists.’ He shook his head, frowning. ‘A very brave – and clever – man.’
‘That’s why he was shot down?’
‘So some say. Others say Jerry thought Winnie was on the flight.’
‘Churchill? Was he really over here?’
‘Doubt we’ll ever know. If he was here, I didn’t see him.’
Still holding his glass, he moved to the window and twitched aside the curtains.
‘What do you want me to do?’
‘Just mingle. Preferably with the Germans. Be friendly with everyone but friends with no one. Keep your eyes open. They’ll be wary of you, do what you can to be accepted.’ He shifted his shoulders, as if his jacket had suddenly become too tight. ‘I want to know if the things you hear are consistent with what they want us to know.’
‘They?’
‘The Portuguese. The Germans. The Italians. Hell, even the Yanks. You choose.’ He drained his glass. ‘I won’t come here again, Lisbet. We’ll arrange dead letter boxes and go-betweens. When we meet in public, pretend you don’t know me.’
‘Easy enough. Is there anyone here that might know me? From before?’
‘Before?’
‘Before I married Philip. Before I dropped out of society. Before the war.’ I shrugged. ‘Before.’
‘Lisbet, it’s been five years. With the dark hair, I barely recognised you. I doubt your own mother would.’ He had the grace to look chagrined.
‘And if she did, the old dragon would look away and keep walking.’ With a bitter smile, I forced the rage back into its cage and changed the subject. ‘What’s your link to Special Operations?’
‘I have no direct link to your little club.’ He held up a single finger, stopping my next question. ‘No indirect link either. SOE doesn’t hold much sway here.’
‘That doesn’t sound right. Buckmaster never missed a chance to get more people into France. I can’t believe his counterpart here would be so lax.’
‘Have you ever met John Beevor?’ Matthew delicately crossed one leg over the other.
‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘Headed up SOE here for a couple of years. A foolish man playing a double game.’
I sat up straight, alarm coursing through me.
�
�Double agent?’
He held his hands up. ‘No, no. Double game. He established a network with the left-wingers. The Communists opposed to Salazar –’
‘So what? We did that in France as well.’
‘Yes, my dear. But Beevor also danced with the Legião Portuguesa. Heard of them? No? Bunch of chaps who formed an armed militia specifically to fight the Red Wave.’
‘Ah,’ I said.
‘Ah, indeed. And then there are the disputes between the Legião and the state police, the PVDE. Bloody amateur. His boys show up for a “little chat” with someone—’
‘A kidnapping?’
He inclined his head in silent acknowledgement. ‘Only to be met by the PVDE. Too many holes in the organisation. Too unreliable.’
‘And this is who you want me to work for?’
Underneath the horror was a vague certainty that there was more to the story than Matthew was telling me, and not just about John Beevor. I hadn’t met the man, but I had heard of him. ‘Foolish’ wasn’t a word often used to describe him.
‘Don’t be absurd. He’s moved on, but the damage is done. No, my dear. Best that no one even knows you’re in the country. You’re not going to work for Special Operations here. You’re going to work for me.’ He shrugged. ‘Call it a secondment if it makes you feel better.’
It didn’t. But I had run out of options.
*
Once Matthew left, I prowled through my new lair. The public rooms were on the ground floor: two parlours, a formal dining room, a WC and the kitchen. On the first floor, three bedrooms and a large bathroom. The enormous copper bath was tempting and I set the water running. Threw in a handful of bath salts from a jar on a shelf before undressing.
The looking glass wasn’t flattering. The woman in it had gone from slim to gaunt. Long brown hair escaped its chignon, and auburn roots showed at the hairline. Dark circles ringed tired eyes, but for the first time for weeks, they held a hint of their old sparkle.
Matthew’s offer was intriguing. Unlike the work I had done in France, where survival meant blending into the background, here I was setting myself up as live bait, and with the ability to bring the fight to the Germans. It was a welcome change.
