by Mara Timon
I wasn’t naïve. With his wife in England, I didn’t expect him to live like a monk, but to pay for company? I ignored the waiter’s reproof and ordered a second drink.
‘Hey, beautiful.’ A sailor swaggered up to me, speaking Italian. ‘You busy?’
Not sure whether to be amused or irritated by his intrusion, I chose the latter.
‘Too busy for you.’
Too busy watching the brothel Matthew had disappeared into. Forty-six minutes later, he emerged, a smug smile on his face. My illusions began to crumble even as a little voice in my head protested that something was wrong.
He crossed the street and ducked into another alleyway. Matthew might not approve of Special Operations, but their trainers were effective. Blending into the crowd, I followed him to another bordello. The paint on the side was peeling, but the woman at the door smiled and kissed his cheeks. I sat down heavily on the kerb. This made no sense. He’d just left one whore; surely he couldn’t still be feeling amorous?
Pushing away my shock, I ordered a cup of coffee from a reasonably clean café and, certain no one had followed me from the Chave d’Ouro, sifted through the facts.
Why is Matthew Harrington, renowned for his charm, visiting whores?
Stupid question. Why does any man visit a woman of questionable integrity?
Because a whore lacked the expectations a mistress might have?
Wait. Why ‘integrity’? Why not ‘morals’?
I sat up, accepting the chipped cup of coffee. Tapped my finger against it, cringing a little as it stuck to the handle. Why was one word was more important than another? What did my subconscious understand that I didn’t?
Integrity. Honesty. Honour. Reliability.
What made them unreliable?
They sold their bodies to the highest bidder. A courtesan might have a choice, but these women were bought by the hour.
Or forty-six minutes.
A pair of sailors swaggered past with their distinctive rolling gait. The din of the crowds was nothing compared to the ringing in my head. Whores provided comfort – a safe port. And when a man feels safe, he won’t be careful about what he says.
In London, there was a poster of a beautiful woman surrounded by men. Be careful, it warned. She’s not as stupid as she seems. It cautioned viewers not to disregard women, although it should have suggested thinking twice about relaying any confidential information to anyone.
The penny dropped. Matthew wasn’t rogering the whores – he was running them. An intellectual pimp. I wanted to find that distasteful, but this was the Spider. Tension ebbed from my shoulders and I leant back until I noticed that the waiter and two old men he’d served breakfast to were watching me. No wonder; I was a lone, well-dressed woman in a dodgy part of town.
Bufos, they are everywhere.
‘My husband,’ I said in Spanish, schooling my features to the hard, betrayed expression one would expect on a jealous wife. ‘He likes whores.’
Their interest waned. I sipped the coffee, gagging on the bitter taste. If Claudine thought my coffee was undrinkable, she should try this swill. I pushed it aside and waited. Twenty minutes later, he slipped through the shadows, his fedora pulled low. He moved past the Bairro Alto, doubling occasionally. Passed Rato Square and headed towards Estrela, turning left on to the Rua de São Bernardo and skirting the gardens before halting at the gate of the British embassy.
Almost directly across the street stood another impressive building, with red swastikas flying from the windows. I chuckled to myself, wondering if each embassy stationed a man with binoculars on an upper storey.
I backed against a tree, dropped to one knee behind a bush, ostensibly to adjust the strap of my shoe, but careful to avoid watchers from either building noticing my face. Just beyond the gates, Matthew paused to speak to another man, and I was due my second shock of the morning: it was the same horsey man with an enormous Adam’s apple that I’d seen with Christophe Deschamps.
Within moments, Adam’s Apple adjusted the strap of the leather holdall on his shoulder and reached into his pocket for a pair of dark spectacles. He ran his fingers through his thinning hair, put on the glasses and walked out on to the street.
Spurred on by curiosity, I followed him. At least Matthew had taken some precautions against being followed; this man didn’t, taking a taxi to the railway station. Three people stood between us in the queue; close enough that I heard him tell the man behind the counter that he wanted to see the sunsets over Cabo de São Vicente.
The tourist books mentioned the cape on the south-western point of Portugal, although I couldn’t recall more than a photograph of a lighthouse and far too many birds. Closed my eyes and tried to envision the map. What was the nearest town, damn it?
Someone cleared their throat and I stepped forward, almost at the front of the queue. What was it?
Adam’s Apple purchased a paper and a pack of Lucky Strikes, lit one and looked around. Lucky Strikes, and the same seersucker suit he’d worn the other day. He looked like a Brit trying to be an American. And failing miserably.
I dipped my head, hiding my face under the brim of my sun hat. The couple in front of me shuffled forward and bought tickets to Faro. It wasn’t far from there. What was it? It started with an S. São, San.
A gentle nudge pushed me forward and the man at the counter raised an eyebrow at me.
‘Sim?’
The word came out in a rush. ‘Sagres, please. I’d like to purchase a ticket to Sagres.’
‘Sim,’ he repeated, sliding it across to me.
I reached the platform ahead of Adam’s Apple. Bent down to adjust the strap on my shoe to allow him past. He took his seat in the front compartment of the third carriage. I entered the next compartment, sitting with a view of the corridor. If he was going to leave, I’d see him.
I opened my book and pretended to look engrossed, hoping it would deter anyone from sitting beside me, or even worse, distracting me with their conversation.
Cabo de São Vicente. I doubted that was his final destination, and I didn’t believe his story about sunsets. Something was going on, and I was determined to find out what it was.
*
The heavy man across from me snored, his sonorous boom overshadowing the soothing clickety-clack of the train. He batted away a fly and jerked himself awake with a loud snort. He mumbled something and subsided back to sleep.
I sighed and returned my attention to the book, hastily bought at the station. Reread the page and realised I had no idea what it was about. Retraced to the beginning, dog-eared the corner of the page and stared out the window, wondering what the devil Adam’s Apple was up to. I closed my eyes, just for a second.
And jerked awake as the conductor called out ‘Sagres!’
Grabbed my book and handbag. A glance in the other compartment confirmed that Adam’s Apple had already disembarked.
The platform was all but empty. A woman stood next to a man with a set of binoculars hanging from his neck, and a harried-looking mother herded three small children back to where her husband checked the times for the return journey. There was no sign of Adam’s Apple.
With no pressing engagements waiting in Lisbon, I opted to remain on the chance that Adam’s Apple was in Sagres. I rented a red bicycle that reminded me of the one I’d ridden from Paris, and asked directions to the lighthouse.
More irritated with myself than with Adam’s Apple, I followed the coast road west. The sun began to dip as I tired. I’d gone as far west as I could without a swimming costume – which meant that this was Cabo de São Vicente. I might not have found Adam’s Apple, but I’d see first-hand that sunset he had raved about.
I left the bicycle and wandered to the cliff’s edge. I shouldn’t have followed Matthew. Should have stayed in Lisbon. What the devil was I doing, chasing after a man I didn’t know, on an impulse?
The low thrum of the waves caressed the rocks. The water was a deep blue, the beautiful colour too unreal to be on
anything other than a gaudy painting. Farther out, a school of dolphins played and seagulls frolicked above the lighthouse farther along the coast. In a place like this, it was hard to believe there was a war on.
I stood up and dusted off my bottom. I’d check the lighthouse, and if Adam’s Apple wasn’t there, I’d return to Sagres. Worst case, I’d spend the night there and return to Lisbon in the morning.
In the distance, a trio of merchantmen steamed into sight. They were escorted by two frigates – British, by the look of them. If Philip were alive, would he be on one of those ships? I felt a pang in my heart, no longer the stabbing pain, but a longing for the man who’d been my husband for less than three years.
A seagull dipped into the water, shrieking its joie de vivre, and a different face superimposed itself over Philip’s. A military man in a dinner jacket, whose dark eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled.
‘Where the hell did that come from?’ I muttered, picking up a pebble and flinging it into the sea.
I’d never spoken to the man; what possessed me to even think of him? I gritted my teeth and concentrated on the rush of the waves.
Until they got louder.
And louder.
And the first plane screamed past. German Focke-Wulfs. I dropped to the ground, but there was nowhere to hide. There was just me, cowering on the blasted cliffs. But it wasn’t me the Focke-Wulfs were hunting. A second plane thundered past, then a third, racing towards the convoy in the distance.
The fighters engaged, and the ships’ enormous guns, rotating, retaliated. A Focke-Wulf disengaged, hit, but not severe enough to splinter. A German bomb hit a merchantman. Black smoke billowed from the ship as it listed to the side. Another Focke-Wulf was damaged, but dropped a bomb on a second merchantman before it peeled off. The bombers retreated, turning away as the British sailors jumped from the damaged ship.
The right wing of the damaged Focke-Wulf rose as it turned towards me. I cried out, pressing my hands closer over my head, as if by drowning out the sound, that awful roar, I could drown out my imminent death. My heard pounded, blood rushing though my veins. I was too young to die; I hadn’t done what Matthew had brought me here to do. Hadn’t completed my mission.
The Focke-Wulf screamed towards the lighthouse. If it exploded, I’d be caught in the conflagration. The plane passed, deafening as it screamed overhead. I braced myself for the stutter of machine guns but heard nothing over the roar of the plane, the waves, and my own blood.
The plane flashed past. It turned, this time over the ocean, and screamed out of sight.
‘You bastard!’ I howled, my hands still cradling my head.
Hating him for what he’d done; hating myself for my fear. I crawled forward, cursing and crying. The remaining two Focke-Wulfs were gone, and the convoy was slowing, picking up sailors from the water. The damaged hull of the merchantman was left behind, limping towards shore. I turned away; I could do nothing. Couldn’t save those sailors any more than I could have saved my husband. Or myself, had the Focke-Wulf opened fire on me.
Streaks of lavender and pink replaced the oily smoke as sunset gathered. When the lights of the merchantman melted into the growing night, I picked up my bike and cycled into the dark.
Chapter Fourteen
T
he moonlit night reminded me of France. This time, I wasn’t hauling my wireless, wasn’t heading for a drop site, but every sense was still on edge.
The return to Sagres felt longer than the way out. Tired and cranky, I contemplated stopping to ask for directions, but the lorry that rumbled past moved at pace, and to avoid getting run down, I leapt onto the hard shoulder. Shielded by brush, all I could see was two men in the cab and a canvas cover concealing some cargo. It turned off the coast road, heading towards the ocean and a cluster of flickering lights.
I followed. The warehouse was two storeys tall, and well lit. Beyond it, a single speedboat was moored at the pier. Men milled around, looking bored, well-armed yet out of uniform. They were too far away for me to hear any words, but the guttural sounds sounded German. One man threw a half-smoked cigarette onto the dirt and ambled up to the lorry.
Whatever was going on wasn’t above board. Hiding the bicycle in the underbrush, I freed Alex’s sgian dubh from its sheath. It would provide little defence against a machine carbine, but with the Luger stashed in the chimney and my PPK under a floorboard in my bedroom, it was all I had.
Making a mental note never to leave home without a gun, even for sightseeing, I crept closer.
A guard stood at a barrier not unlike a level crossing. His attention was focused on the driver stepping from the lorry’s cab and I skirted past unnoticed. The two men conferred for a few minutes before brushing aside the canvas awning to inspect the cargo.
What would require this level of security?
Prickly shrubs provided camouflage while I rubbed a handful of dirt on my arms and face, trying to blend into the night. Would Adam’s Apple be here? Or had he travelled farther south to watch the convoy being attacked?
Someone barked a command and the other men began to unload the cargo. It looked like barrels, wrapped in sheepskins. Each barrel required two men to lift it, straining under its weight. The barrels were loaded onto a cart, and dragged into the warehouse.
Some ten feet away from me, the long grass stirred as a cat moved through it. It was missing half its right ear and several chunks of fur. The sgian dubh might not do much against a German assault rifle, but I’d be damned if I couldn’t handle a cat.
The remaining ear twitched, and it turned, baring its teeth and hissing loud enough to warrant the officer’s sharp command and disappeared into the brush.
‘Goddamned animal,’ one of the soldiers muttered, moving my way.
To be caught was one thing; to have the alarm raised by a feral beast was another.
The soldier strode closer, and sneezed. He wiped his mouth with the back of his left hand and muttered, ‘Fucking cat.’
The knife felt slick in my hand and, muscles protesting, I crouched, ready to defend myself.
The man sneezed again.
‘Waste of time,’ he growled. Turned back to the warehouse.
The officer called out a question, to which the man shook his head and moved back into his position, passing less than five feet from me.
Once the lorry had been unloaded, the driver handed the officer a clipboard. Nodded as it was signed, then heaved himself into the truck and drove past the barrier.
‘Well, how about that?’ I murmured.
The quay was crawling with men, making it impossible to sneak closer. My legs ached from inactivity, but something kept me rooted to the spot, certain that whatever was going on hadn’t yet finished. I stretched as best I could and allowed myself a faint regret that I hadn’t brought a flask of coffee.
The moon was already dipping when a skiff tied up to the pier and the barrels were loaded onto the boat. They could have been the same ones, or different ones for all I knew.
The boat rode low in the water while the men on the pier fumbled for flasks and packs of cigarettes. What was in them anyway? Portuguese wine was pleasant, but not good enough to smuggle out. So what was it? Port? Spirits? What could be heavier?
Something at ground level caught my eye and I edged back as a creature tiptoed inches from my foot. About the size of my hand, at first glance it resembled a small lobster, but the narrow tail that curved over its back looked worse than the grasping claws. It swivelled to face me, its tail bobbing. I fell hard on my bottom, and grabbed the sgian dubh from my thigh.
Jesus Christ!
No wonder the cat had bolted. I had no idea if the little blade would even pierce the scorpion’s armour, but I wasn’t inclined to get close enough to even try. I dragged air in through my mouth, tamping down on the urge to scream. Edging back, I stepped on a dry branch and flinched.
I flicked my fingers at it, hissing, ‘Go away!’
It didn’t move.
/> If I threw a stone at it, would it run, or attack? Buck had always told us to expect the unexpected, but a scorpion?
With room to stand and swing a branch, I could launch the creature halfway to the sea. Only there was no room; standing would make me an easy target for the soldiers, and if I missed, the scorpion would get me. At least that would make for a less embarrassing letter to Lady Anne. Death by scorpion instead of drowned in wine.
I looked between the warehouse and the scorpion. Anger outweighed fear.
‘Go,’ I demanded in a harsh whisper, trying to keep the panic from my voice. ‘Go!’
Its front legs bowed. Was that a warning?
‘I tell you, there’s something out there. You two. Go and check it out.’
Oh, hell.
‘Fucking officers,’ a soldier growled, stomping in my direction. ‘Think they own the world. It’s only a stinking cat.’
The scorpion retreated into the bushes and for a second, I wished I could follow it. Instead, I forced my heart to slow and crouched low to the ground. Trembling fingers gripped the knife. It wouldn’t be much help, but at least it made me feel better.
‘You think they don’t?’
The other man used the muzzle of his rifle to check under the shrubs. The black barrel passed less than a yard in front of me. I could hear their grunts; smell the sweat on their bodies. With a little luck, they’d step on the scorpion.
‘You’d think they’d do away with it, wouldn’t you?’
‘Christ, Sig, even the Reds have ranks. When did you turn into a commie?’
‘Fuck off, Gast,’ the first man growled. ‘This is a waste of time. Let’s go back.’
If they’d looked down, they would have seen me – they were that close. But they rejoined their companions in front of the warehouse, watching the motorboat slip its moorings and head south.
Stunned, I could only stare after them. Rank amateurs.
And thank God for that.
I edged backwards, careful not to make any noise until I could retrieve my bicycle. Dawn stretched lavender fingers across the sky as I followed the road until I saw signs for Sagres. The bicycle shop was closed but a nearby café was open. The coffee was hot, and if the roll was stale, it was edible.
