by Mara Timon
Christophe extricated himself, placing his flute beside Claudine’s and making his way to the door. Her teeth bit into her lower lip as she trailed behind him. Schüller opened both doors on the right side of the Peugeot, settling Claudine in front and sliding into the back, pressing his knee against mine.
It was going to be a long night.
*
‘He’s handsome,’ Claudine hissed once the men were out of earshot. ‘Charming and well placed. Please be civil!’
‘I am being civil.’
After all, I haven’t stabbed the pompous bore yet, I silently added.
With a half-smile frozen on my face, I watched the room. Bronze silk curtains complemented the enormous oil paintings: nymphs and satyrs, lords and ladies, young men and old, with uniforms dating back to the Great War. It could have been one of Lady Anne’s drawing rooms.
‘For pity’s sake, Solange! He’s eligible! Make an effort, will you?’ Her eyes widened. ‘Please!’
‘Stop meddling.’
She gave me a filthy look and waggled her fingers, urging me in the Austrian’s direction. He stood at a makeshift bar in the corner, flanked by Christophe and another man.
‘Oh, very well.’
She was right – it wouldn’t do to be a wallflower; there was always the chance I could learn something interesting. I accepted a glass of champagne from a waiter, and listened to snippets of conversation. Congratulations were being exchanged, but I had yet to learn what for. Perhaps the major knew.
‘Fairly imminent, from what I’m hearing,’ the man beside Christophe said. He was the man I’d seen the first night in the casino. The one who had pointed his young friend in my direction. I strained to catch the gist of the conversation before they noticed me. ‘The only question is whether it will be Sicily or Sardinia.’
‘Sardinia,’ Schüller declared. ‘Most certainly. And the Führer agrees. Troops have already been sent to reinforce the island.’
A laughing couple edged past me, causing me to miss his next sentence. All I caught were the words ‘Marine’ and ‘Something something Major Martin’. Martin? That didn’t sound like a German name. Perhaps a German spy? I sidled closer.
The older man sipped his drink. His eyes were unfocused, but his words were sly.
‘Graf seems certain Sardinia is a bluff, that it’ll be Sicily.’
‘What does Graf know?’ the Austrian laughed. ‘Surely not more than the Führer!’
‘No, I wouldn’t think so.’ The man paused, seeing me hovering. Schüller smiled. ‘Ah, Frau Verin, I see you couldn’t wait for a drink?’
I raised an eyebrow and held up my glass of champagne.
‘Then it must be my company you’re after,’ he smirked, settling his free hand on my bottom.
I ignored their amused looks as I shifted out of the major’s reach, intrigued enough by their conversation to ignore his bad manners.
‘Please, don’t let me interrupt you.’
‘No, my dear,’ the older man said. ‘Don’t let me interrupt you. A Viennese waltz is playing, and I am certain the Herr Major would like to show you off.’
‘Thank you, Herr . . . ?’
‘Von Hoyningen-Huene. Enjoy your dance.’
I forced a smile and held out my hand. ‘Herr Major?’
‘Haydn,’ he corrected.
He nodded to von Hoyningen-Heune and, placing my hand on his arm, led me on to the dance floor.
‘This soirée,’ I began, my curiosity getting the better of me. ‘Is it for any particular reason?’
‘Why do you ask?’
He pulled me close as we twirled around a rotund couple, the woman glittering in diamonds, her gown straining at the seams. The man’s upper body bulged over the top of what must be a corset.
‘Because at every turn, people are congratulating each other. It’s either that, or we’re at a wedding reception and the happy couple are nowhere to be seen.’
Another officer danced past, paused and smiled at Schüller.
‘Well done, Herr Major.’
Schüller inclined his head and I saw an opportunity for a quid pro quo.
‘Is it my company he’s congratulating you on?’
His blue cat’s eyes danced. ‘As well.’
Clearly he was enjoying being privy to something I was not. Either he’d tell me in his own time, or someone else would. Claudine, no doubt, would have all the relevant details by the end of the evening.
We danced in silence, pausing as one man after another met Schüller’s eyes. He basked in their adulation. I stifled a yawn, hoping Claudine was as bored as I was.
‘We concluded a successful venture yesterday,’ Schüller finally offered.
‘Venture?’
That was a strange choice of words. I’d expected ‘battle’ or ‘campaign’. Venture?
‘One that went according to plan. Again.’ He slid his hand down my back.
Picking the gossip out of Claudine was a better option. I saw her crossing the dance floor, so I made my excuses and followed her to the lavatory.
‘Are you having a good time, Solange? I saw you speaking with the ambassador earlier. Isn’t he charming?’
‘Who?’
She rolled her eyes. ‘Baron von Hoyningen-Huene. Germany’s ambassador to Portugal. Didn’t you know?’
‘No. I also don’t know why everyone is stopping us every three feet to congratulate Major Schüller.’
‘Didn’t Christophe tell you?’ Claudine asked, leaning close to the looking glass to inspect her face.
‘Christophe didn’t tell me anything. Your husband barely talks to me.’
She dusted her face, masking the signs of exhaustion.
‘Christophe never talks to anyone. Don’t take it personally.’
‘I’m not. But your major is playing I-know-something-you-don’t-know, and it’s driving me mad.’
She grinned. ‘So he is getting to you. I’m so pleased!’
I gritted my teeth. Schüller was getting to me, all right. If Christophe wanted to take an easy bet, he’d put his money on me slapping the Austrian before the evening was out.
‘How can you not know!’ a bejewelled matron exclaimed. ‘And you with the Herr Major! A marvellous victory, our Luftwaffe sank two Allied ships the day before yesterday, and another one yesterday!’ She leant in close. ‘He received personal congratulations of the Fliegerführer Atlantik!’
Focke-Wulfs over the cliffs of Cabo de São Vicente. A burning convoy. Mangled bodies in the sea. Whatever else was happening with the smuggling, here was another threat: someone was informing the Luftwaffe of Allied ships leaving port, and I’d bet anything the trail led back to Haydn Schüller.
Chapter Seventeen
T
he Linha Ferroviária connected the coastal towns to Lisbon, for the people who didn’t have a motor car or the funds to pay a driver, and by ten o’clock, the carriage at Estoril was still crowded. I took a seat and opened a newspaper a previous commuter had left behind. I couldn’t understand the language, but it was useful enough to fan myself with, and occasionally swat away the hand of the overfamiliar man beside me.
The train terminated at the Cais do Sodré and I followed the other tourists past the Praça do Comércio with its statue of a very bored King José I, through the Arco da Vitória towards the Chiado, the shopping district. Side by side, the similarities of the window displays were hard to miss. Whether they supported Germany or the Allies, the same underlying themes were there. Like two companies plying completing products.
What was harder to miss was the bufo. Every time I turned around, he was there, and time was getting tight. I continued north to the Rossio, and the press of tourists, mingling and making minor changes to my costume until I felt certain that by the time I doubled back, slipping into the dingy bar at the edge of the Bairro Alto, the bufo not only was lost, but he wouldn’t recognise me if he did see me. I sat down, ordered a drink, and waited.
*
‘Be careful, my dear. You’re dangerously close to acquiring the Portuguese melancholy,’ the man lisped.
He slipped into the chair opposite and pushed across a glass with a couple of fingers of brandy. He was taller than most Portuguese, but had the same swarthy skin, the same round face crowned with black hair and moustache. What hadn’t changed was the nose, aristocratic and aquiline.
‘You need to learn to talk with those things,’ I told my godfather.
‘What things?’
‘The pads fleshing out your cheeks. You’re lisping like a little girl.’ Paused for effect. ‘Or a pansy.’
He graced me with a filthy look.
‘Besides, it’s not melancholy, Matthew. It’s a hangover.’
‘Good night at the casino?’
‘Didn’t go to the casino. German reception at some villa in Cascais.’
‘You shouldn’t drink so much – it’s unladylike.’
‘Since when have you concerned yourself with my manners?’
He tilted his head, conceding the point. ‘Did you learn anything interesting?’
‘Despite apparently meeting the German ambassador, all I have is speculation. Will the Allies run their way up the Boot from Sicily or cross over from Sardinia?’
‘The consensus?’
‘Sardinia. Their troops are already reinforcing the island, but who knows?’ I looked at him closely. ‘What do you know about a man called Martin?’
His face was carefully blank. ‘Who?’
‘Martin. A major in the Royal Marines, I take it.’
‘It’s a common enough name.’ The tip of his nose twitched. For a diplomat whose life depended on deception, it would give him away in an instant, to anyone who knew to look for it. ‘Why do you ask?’
My blasé tone matched his. ‘I’ve never met the chap of course, but some of the Germans were discussing him.’
‘How very interesting.’ He scratched his nose and looked at me warily. ‘What were they saying?’
‘They stopped as soon as they saw me.’ I leant back and smiled. ‘Fancy telling me what’s happening?’
He reached into his breast pocket for a silver case, extracted a small thin cigar and sniffed it.
‘To be honest, old girl, I really don’t know much. The chap was found dead in the water off the coast of Spain last month. Supposedly had documents of some sort on him, but as to what they were, I genuinely don’t know.’ He studied the cigar for a few seconds. ‘Whoever he was, he was buried with military honours, poor sod.’
‘Ours or theirs?’
His face was serene and the twitch had subsided. ‘Theirs.’
‘Ah,’ I said. ‘What did they find in those documents?’
Matthew shrugged. ‘Your guess is as good as mine.’
‘Well,’ I raised my glass, ‘to the major. Hope he really did die a hero.’
‘Hear, hear,’ Matthew murmured, raising his glass. ‘And when we need all the heroes we can get.’
‘So you do think invasion is imminent?’
‘Which invasion, old girl?’
‘Italy. What else is being planned?’
There had been rumours of an invasion of France, but the last one, Dieppe, had been a disaster. Was that it? Let the Germans think we were invading Italy and instead invade France?
‘No idea, old girl.’ He drew on the cigar, exhaling a small cloud of smoke. ‘Yes, I do think an invasion of Italy is imminent. Sardinia seems as good a guess as any.’
I fumbled for my own cigarettes, allowing my godfather to light one for me.
‘And what then? Do you think the Italians will depose Mussolini? Switch sides?’
‘Italy won’t switch sides.’
My hand froze, the glass halfway to my lips.
‘What are you talking about? Of course they will.’
The speculation was rife – not only about Italy, but the impact her fall would have on the other Fascist states.
‘They’ll try, I’ll grant you that, but it won’t happen.’ He sipped his brandy. ‘They’ve spent the last few years as staunch allies to the Germans. Who’d trust them? No, my dear. Surrender is their only option. Unconditional. And then the ugliness begins.’
‘You think the Germans will invade Italy?’
‘They won’t have a choice. Be surprised if plans weren’t already in action. They can’t afford to lose the Boot.’
‘What aren’t you telling me?’
‘Nothing, actually. You know about as much as I do.’
I looked around. The bar was small and dank, catering more for locals than foreigners, but it had a feel, a vibrancy, which was rare in the European haunts. In the corner, a young man with a guitar sang fado in a rich tenor. On either side of him were men plucking on guitars – on the left a conventional one, on the right, a teardrop-shaped guitar with a lot more strings. The fadisto’s unintelligible words washed over me as I watched the man across from me. In a strange way, the disguise suited him. The heavy make-up gave him a swarthy look, and with the silver erased from his hair and moustache, he looked younger. Dangerous. Like a buccaneer in the films.
‘Is this why you wanted to meet? To let me know the political lie of the land?’
He laughed – a deep rich sound. ‘If you didn’t know that by now, I’d be tremendously disappointed, old girl.’
‘Why break your own rule and request a meeting? Awful lot of effort to lose a tail, for a social call.’
He sipped his brandy and replaced the glass carefully on the table. One fingertip rubbed the rim – delicate against the heavy tumbler, too delicate for the rough cotton shirt he wore.
‘I saw you at the beach last week.’
‘So?’
‘The day the British sailors were washed ashore.’ He watched me with hawklike eyes.
It was easier to talk about Mussolini’s imminent fall, but I would never admit that to Matthew.
‘So?’
He cleared his throat. ‘So not everyone died.’
My pulse, which had been keeping beat with the guitar, accelerated.
‘Well, that’s good news.’
‘It is, indeed.’
He was giving nothing away, and I was in no mood for games.
‘All right, Spider. What do you need from me?’
He snorted. ‘I was rather hoping you’d forgotten that nickname. What I need from you, my dear, is a favour.’
Another one?
‘What sort of favour?’
‘A survivor was washed up. Farther down the beach, near Carcavelos.’
‘One of the men from the ships that sunk the other day?’
‘You heard about that?’ Matthew whispered. He looked around, but no one appeared to be interested in us.
The young fadisto accepted a glass and a searing look from the waitress. Patted his face with a towel and picked up his guitar.
‘What do you think last night’s reception was in honour of, Matthew?’ He grimaced and I continued, ‘Someone’s keeping the Luftwaffe informed about the convoys. Someone with a wireless stashed nearby, I’d guess. Something needs to be done about that.’
‘With four ships sunk in the last month, and a fifth damaged, we have some of our best men working on it.’
‘If you’ll allow a woman to speed things up, have one of your men look into Major Haydn Schüller. Not sure what his role is or where he’s based, but I’m working on it.’
He nodded, rubbing his eyes. ‘Appreciate that, my dear. Good job.’
‘So – about this sailor. You want me to question him?’
‘He’s not a sailor. He’s one of yours. Caught a ride home with our boys after he got into a spot of trouble.’
The fadisto launched into a new song. I didn’t understand the words, but he sang with his heart and soul. It didn’t distract me from one nagging worry: why would the Spider risk my cover when there were others better equipped to debrief the man?
‘Ask one of the chaps here in an official capacity.’
‘I can’t.’ His face darkened under the heavy make-up. ‘I won’t. I need you to do it.’
‘Why me?’
‘Because you were in France, and you got out. You know what it’s really like.’ He twirled the brandy in its glass and we both watched the amber liquid rise and fall in waves. ‘I want to make sure he’s genuine.’
‘I thought you didn’t want me compromised by showing up to one of your parties.’
‘If anyone can disguise herself without – how did you say it? “Lisping like a little girl”? – it’s you.’
His hand caught mine, and he brought it to his lips. He gave me directions and finished his drink.
‘I’ll expect you tomorrow. Shall we say three o’clock?’ he said to me before leaving.
A middle-aged couple at the next table looked at me, the woman with curiosity, the man as if I emanated a bad smell. Women didn’t sit by themselves in bars – at least not women with a decent upbringing. His lips pursed and he made a strange wheezing sound. The woman slapped him lightly on the arm.
With a bright smile, I made a show of lighting a cigarette and ordering another drink, enjoying the disgust that passed over the man’s face.
*
I left the bar in the Bairro Alto and took my time wandering around the city, stopping in Chiado to buy a new hat, a scarf, and a pair of espadrilles. At each stop, making the slight changes that would return my looks to something the gardener-bufo would recognise.
He found me not long after I entered the Rossio, and this time I made eye contact with him. Walked to a café smaller, and less frenetic than the Chave d’Ouro, ordered two cups of coffee, and waited.
The man who joined me ten minutes later wasn’t the gardener. This man was about my height, a couple of inches shy of six feet, slim, with olive skin, and large, beautiful black eyes – the sort that made people want to trust him, even if it was against every inclination. This man might be more of a spider than Matthew.
‘Not so many years ago,’ he said in softly accented French. ‘these cafés were almost exclusively male.’
I looked around at the women and families surrounding me.
‘Quite a lot has changed since then.’
‘Yes, senhora. Even here.’ He sat down across from me.
