City of Spies

by Mara Timon

  Smuggling. Was Adam’s Apple involved? Matthew? Christophe Deschamps? Both had spoken to Adam’s Apple within the last week and I didn’t believe in coincidence.

  I trusted my instincts. Although I was as certain as I could be that I wasn’t followed, I couldn’t help feeling that I had missed something important.

  Chapter Fifteen

  M

  y second cup of coffee sat cooling on the kitchen table when an insistent knock jerked me back from the table.

  ‘Solange? Are you awake?’

  I threw a rag over the spilt coffee and gave myself a few seconds to compose myself so that I wouldn’t punch the woman. Took a few more deep breaths and made my way to the door.

  ‘I’m bored,’ Claudine said by way of greeting.

  ‘You were born bored, Claudine.’ I stepped back to let her in. ‘Where’s Christophe?’

  Her Cupid’s bow mouth tightened, white lines radiating out from her lips. Frustration as well as Nature was ageing Claudine.

  ‘I don’t know. Working, I suppose. He doesn’t tell me where he goes.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ I led the way into the parlour. ‘What about Julian?’

  ‘A new love,’ she growled.

  No wonder she was in such a foul mood. Her relationship with her husband might have been strained, but her affection for the novelist was clear.

  ‘Oh, Claudine, I’m so sorry!’

  She blinked. ‘For what?’

  ‘Well, Julian. You . . .’

  She laughed with genuine amusement. ‘Julian? You really thought that Julian and I . . . that we . . . Oh, Solange, you are priceless!’

  ‘Well,’ I said, offended, ‘I don’t really care if you are or aren’t, but I am sorry . . .’

  She put her hands on my shoulders and stared into my eyes.

  ‘My dear, let me assure you, Julian is not my lover. It’s not that I wouldn’t, if I’m honest. But no. His tastes run to . . . Hm. Let’s just say they’re complicated.’

  More complicated than an opinionated, alcoholic Frenchwoman with expensive tastes and dubious political leanings? Was that even possible? Still chuckling, she wandered around the room, picking up objects, only to put them down elsewhere. I moved behind her, replacing the clock on the mantelpiece.

  ‘Can I get you something to drink?’

  ‘Yes. A drink.’ Her voice was soft, as if she was speaking to herself. ‘I stopped by yesterday, but you weren’t home.’

  ‘No, I was out exploring. Is there something you need?’

  ‘Not at all. I just wanted to see how you were settling in. It’s been almost a week, already.’

  Almost one week, hell. In the last twenty-four hours alone I’d discovered my godfather was running an intelligence network of whores out of the Baixa, almost got strafed by a trio of Focke-Wulf fighters, narrowly escaped a scorpion’s bite . . . oh, and stumbled on some sort of smuggling operation. If Buck was impressed with my exploits before, what would he say now?

  Forget Buck, my godfather would be incandescent. My job was to gather intelligence on the Germans, not to follow Adam’s Apple or meddle with smugglers.

  The clock was again moved to the side table.

  ‘Claudine, what’s wrong?’

  She turned towards me, her dark eyes wide. ‘Wrong? No. Nothing. Do let’s go for a drink, but not here. Let’s go down to the beach. You like the Albatroz, don’t you? I’ll drive.’

  I grabbed my bag and hat and followed Claudine to a little black Peugeot with diplomatic tags. She slid behind the wheel and jammed the key in the ignition.

  ‘I’m so glad to have met you, Solange. Did I say that?’

  ‘No.’ I stretched out my legs. ‘But it’s nice to hear.’

  Claudine thrust the car into gear and pulled away from the kerb, narrowly missing a man on a bicycle. He held up his fist but his words were drowned out by the car’s engine. She veered into the wrong lane while waving at a mother with two children. The woman yanked her children out of harm’s way, almost throwing them against a fence. At the next turn, I was slammed against the door as we narrowly missed a man sweeping up fallen blossoms under a wall of purple bougainvillea.

  ‘Are you trying to kill them or me?’ I braced myself against the dashboard as Claudine manoeuvred around an elderly woman. ‘Let’s go to the Parque instead.’

  My nails dug in to the leather as the hotel blurred past. There was no way the Peugeot could take the turn at the bottom at this speed. Claudine’s nose wrinkled.

  ‘Pah, too many Germans.’

  ‘The Palácio?’

  ‘Too many English. Relax, Solange. I never hit anything I’m not aiming at.’

  ‘There’s a first time for everything.’

  Closing my eyes only made the ride worse. The shoreline was coming up fast as Claudine accelerated on to the coast road and headed towards Cascais. People and restaurants whipped past before she skidded into the car park.

  ‘See? No new dents – no blood spilt,’ she grinned and cut the engine.

  The Peugeot spluttered before falling into affronted silence. It was a wonder Christophe allowed her to drive it. Or to drive at all. Singing came from a small church, no bigger than a garage, which stood in front of the restaurant.

  ‘They’re thanking God that you haven’t killed me, yourself, and half the people on the coast. Just so you know, I’m walking home.’

  She laughed. Linking her arm in mine, she led the way into the restaurant.

  ‘A table for two,’ she asked the maître d’. ‘In the shade, please. My friend burns easily.’

  ‘Of course, senhora.’

  He signalled to a young man in a dark suit and a white shirt who led us to a table under an umbrella on the terrace. Claudine’s eyes lingered on him as she slid into her seat.

  ‘Perfect,’ she sighed.

  A short, round man weaved his way to our table. Beads of sweat stood out on his forehead as he placed menus in front of us. As I reached out for mine, she waved it away.

  ‘Two Pernods. And have the other man bring them. The young one with the glossy hair.’

  ‘Senhora,’ he said and retreated.

  Claudine turned to me with a little smile. I rolled my eyes, amused despite myself, and turned my face into the sun. She reached into her bag for a compact and a lipstick and preened when the young waiter set the sweating glasses on the table. Her long fingers were pale against the brown of his hand.

  ‘Obrigada,’ she purred.

  ‘Would you like me to go for a walk?’

  ‘Why on earth would you do that, Solange?’

  The waiter seized the opportunity to retreat.

  ‘What is wrong with you, Claudine?’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘This mood you’re in. I don’t know what’s happened, but something’s wrong.’

  She looked out to sea, then down at her hands, as if she wasn’t sure if she should tell me anything, although she clearly wanted to. I lit a cigarette and waited for her to make up her mind.

  ‘Christophe,’ she sighed.

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘I don’t know. Last night he left the casino to meet Hans and Haydn for a late drink.’

  Hans? Hans Bendixen? Was that what Christophe was involved in?

  Claudine twisted her wedding band around her finger.

  ‘He came back at dawn.’

  She stared out to sea. Then her expression changed; her eyes widened and her body went rigid. She took three fast steps to the terrace’s railing. Her face was leeched of colour and she screamed.

  ‘Bodies!’

  The afternoon crowd surged to the railing to see the grisly tide. Some remained on the terrace sipping their cocktails, and for a moment, I was back in London. I was back in London and my friend Kat Christie was prying a flimsy piece of paper from my fist, reading aloud.

  ‘Dear Mrs de Mornay, We are sorry to inform you that your husband’s frigate came under heavy attac
k by German U-boats off the coast of Greenland . . .’

  ‘Solange?’ Claudine shook my arm, her brow furrowing. She repeated my name, but it was Kat’s voice I heard.

  ‘It badly damaged a German submarine, before taking a torpedo. I regret to tell you, Mrs de Mornay, that there were no survivors. Our condolences on your husband’s death. He had an exemplary record and was a hero; much loved by his crew . . .’

  I pushed on to the beach. In subarctic waters, Philip didn’t have a chance, but these men . . . maybe they had a chance. The heels of my sandals caught on the stones, and I ripped them off, leaving them as they lay. Hot sand burnt my feet, and along with the bodies, the tide brought in shards of metal and wood, clothing and life jackets.

  ‘English,’ a low voice confirmed in a nasal American accent as he and two other men dragged a body out of the water. The sailor’s uniform was tattered, his fair hair crusted with sand and seaweed. The tip of his nose was missing and wide eyes stared sightless at the sky.

  Where the breakwater tamed the tide near a stone villa, an old man struggled to pull a second body from the sea. Determined to help, I threw myself into the surf, ignoring the tide dragging at my skirt and the rocks slicing my feet. I tried to grab an arm and missed. Where his arm should have been was nothing but algae and salt water.

  ‘Tubarão,’ the old man said. ‘Shark.’

  More a blast than a shark, I guessed, gripping the man’s belt. Buffeted by the tide, we dragged the dead sailor on to the shore. He was also missing his left leg from the knee down. There was no need to check a pulse.

  ‘Morto.’

  Breathing hard, the old man fell to his knees, his gnarled fingers gentle as he closed the sailor’s eyes. He crossed himself and said a prayer, the Latin strangely comforting. He bowed to me and stumbled down the beach.

  Instead of the dead sailor’s sandy hair, I saw Philip’s dark curls. I brushed a lock of hair from his forehead and sat beside him. I would keep him company until someone came with a stretcher to take him away.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I whispered, unsure if I was apologising to this nameless man or to Philip for that last argument, punctuated by slamming doors and shattered crystal. Had another woman sat by Philip’s body and hoped he’d left home with a sweetheart’s kiss on his lips?

  ‘I think, senhora, that these are yours.’

  I shielded my eyes against the blinding sun. A man held my sandals out to me; put them on the sand when I didn’t move.

  ‘It was very brave, what you did.’

  His English was accented and I recognised the waiter from the Albatroz. Claudine still stood on the terrace, watching me. Had she sent him? Asked him to speak to me in English? Or was it his own initiative? I cocked my head as if I hadn’t understood his words. When he repeated them in French, I shrugged.

  ‘Anyone would have done the same.’

  ‘No, senhora. Not everyone would go in the water after a dead English sailor.’

  He had noticed the dead men’s uniforms. There was no point in pretending I hadn’t.

  ‘He’s still a man, regardless of what uniform he wears.’

  For a moment his eyes mirrored my own exhaustion.

  ‘You are a good woman, senhora.’

  He left me alone with my memories, and a silent reminder not to trust anyone, no matter how innocent they seemed. I dug my feet into the wet sand, pushing against the mud, reality, and maybe my own nature, wondering what the devil I was doing here.

  I expelled a deep sigh and glanced again at the terrace. There was no sign of Claudine, but in her place, watching me, was the man I’d seen sweeping away the dead blossoms near my villa.

  Chapter Sixteen

  S

  adness turned to irrational anger at the human cost of war. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the dead English sailor. I paced my villa, dosed myself with brandy, and only fell into a restless sleep shortly before sunrise.

  The anger had festered overnight, and by mid-morning I stomped down to the cellar. A previous owner had decorated the walls with heavy walnut panelling, although why was anyone’s guess, when there were serviceable rooms on the ground floor. Most of the walls now were hidden behind crates, boxes, and broken furniture. I pushed a trunk out of the way and chalked three concentric circles on the wall. My housekeeper, Sabela, was competent. She cleaned, she cooked, she provisioned the kitchen, and no doubt she informed on me. To Matthew, and whoever else bribed her. The holes in the wall were one of the things I made certain she knew nothing of.

  I unsheathed Alex’s sgian dubh. It had become second nature to strap it on in the mornings. I knew how to stab, to shoot, but I’d seen this blade fly, and that could be useful. Pacing to the far side of the room, I remembered what Alex said, and mimicked his stance from memory. Turned, and flung the knife at the wooden panelling. It landed with a soft thunk, quivering just inside the largest circle. I was nowhere near as proficient as he had been, but with practice, I was improving. Halfway through the session, the telephone rang. Leaving the knife in the wall, I raced up the stairs for the receiver.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Good afternoon, Solange. Did I interrupt you?’

  Yes. ‘No.’

  ‘Oh. I wanted to see how you were. After yesterday . . .’

  ‘I’m fine.’ I wasn’t, and even Claudine could hear it in my voice. Who would be after pulling a dead man from the sea? ‘I’m not, of course, but I will be. It was just a shock.’

  ‘Your husband was killed at sea, wasn’t he? That was why you went into the water?’

  ‘Yes.’ I surprised myself with my own candour. ‘It doesn’t matter which uniform those men wore, they deserve a decent burial. I’d really rather not talk about that. I’ll be fine.’

  ‘Good. I’m glad to hear that.’ She cleared her throat and forged on. ‘I was wondering if you had plans for this evening.’

  ‘Claudine, I’d rather not go back to the casino.’

  ‘Oh, that’s good. I wasn’t about to suggest that. There’s a small soirée tonight, a slightly different set from the people you met at the Ribauds’. I know it’s rather last minute, but they really are nice people. One of Christophe’s friends has found himself dateless, and I hoped –’

  My mouth sagged open. ‘You’re trying to set me up?’

  ‘Oh no. Nothing of the sort. Just something to take your mind off that. Come, Solange. Do this as a favour. For me. Can you really picture me at a boring German soirée, with pompous German officers and their frumpy German Frauen? You know how much they detest Frenchwomen! I won’t have a single person to talk to!’

  ‘I thought you liked the Germans.’

  ‘I do. In small doses. Please say you’ll come.’

  Let them come to you, Matthew had advised. Well, thanks to Claudine the invitations were coming, along with the bufos. At the prospect of, perhaps, meeting Bendixen, a faint tingle crept up my spine.

  ‘Very well, Claudine. I’ll go.’

  *

  The doorbell rang at ten o’clock. I fastened the second sapphire earring and stood back to inspect myself. The matching necklace grazed the top of a low décolletage. My own jewellery was back in London, and over the last few weeks, I’d spent part of my casino winnings building a collection.

  The Lanvin gown was stunning in its simplicity, cut as if it was made to order. Thick silk straps perched at the edge of my shoulders and crossed over my breasts. The waistline was fitted and the full skirt, captured at each hip, gave the impression of an A-line dress with a small train. Deep blue wasn’t my favourite colour, but it turned my skin to alabaster and made my eyes enormous. Long kid gloves and silver ribbons in my hair completed the ensemble.

  The bell rang again. I dabbed perfume at the base of my neck and applied a coat of red lipstick and opened the door, hoping the Deschamps’ friend wasn’t too awful.

  Claudine kissed my cheeks and Christophe smiled, the emotion not reaching his eyes.

  ‘Solange, may I p
resent Major Schüller? Haydn, my lovely neighbour, Solange Verin.’

  Ah, the Haydn he had drinks with the other night. I held out my hand to the major with the cat eyes.

  ‘Haydn?’ I asked. ‘Like the composer?’

  ‘Just so. A pleasure, Frau Verin.’

  Claudine held up a bottle of Veuve Cliquot, sweating in the evening heat.

  ‘A quick drink before we go?’

  Christophe opened the bottle, pouring the champagne as the major wandered around my parlour, pausing at the gramophone.

  ‘You look beautiful tonight,’ I said.

  Claudine’s gown was a pale gold taffeta, sleeveless, with a high quilted neck and beading at the hem. Eye-catching, but not enough to camouflage the deepening lines on her face.

  Her smile was wry. ‘Do you really think so?’

  The major clinked his glass against mine. ‘Prost. To new friends.’

  His slow smile told me what sort of friend he was after, but I was determined to be polite.

  ‘Where are you from, Herr Major?’

  ‘Vienna. Have you ever visited it?’

  ‘Once, when I was fourteen. It’s a beautiful city. The opera house is exquisite.’

  His eyes cut first to the piano and then to the gramophone, which now played a piano sonata composed by his namesake. At least he had a sense of humour.

  ‘You like the opera?’ he asked.

  ‘No, Herr Major, I love the opera.’

  He inclined his head. ‘And who do you prefer? Bizet? Wagner?’

  I was unable to prevent myself from needling him.

  ‘Carmen was the only thing Bizet wrote worth remembering. And Wagner is too heavy for my tastes. I confess, I prefer the Italians – Verdi, Donizetti, Rossini. Not a bad note between them.’

  ‘Italians,’ Christophe muttered.

  ‘Whatever you have to say about them, Christophe, you can’t fault their music. Or their gelato.’ Claudine flashed a fake smile and put her empty glass on the sideboard. ‘Come, darling –’ she linked her arm in her husband’s – ‘let’s go.’