City of Spies

by Mara Timon

  ‘Beautiful,’ I murmured, as Graf held out my seat out.

  He laid his napkin on his lap. ‘I hope this is acceptable?’

  ‘Perfectly.’

  ‘Good.’ He accepted a menu from the waiter, placed it to the side. ‘Two bianchi e’mari to start.’

  The waiter nodded and retreated.

  ‘White and bitter?’ I asked, translating the Italian.

  ‘White wine and campari. An Italian friend introduced me to it. It’s quite refreshing.’

  ‘I can order my own drink.’

  ‘I’m sure you can,’ he said. ‘Please. Order what you like.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ I told the waiter, wondering why Graf didn’t sound as arrogant as Schüller, and despite myself, feeling as if I was playing with fire.

  ‘You speak Italian as well?’ he asked.

  I nodded, opting for the truth. ‘I studied music and found it useful to know what I was singing.’

  ‘How many languages do you speak?’

  ‘French and German, of course. Italian and some Spanish, albeit with an Italian accent.’

  He chuckled. ‘English?’

  Tricky question – and one I couldn’t deny if I learnt languages to help with music, so I answered honestly enough:

  ‘Enough to get myself into trouble.’ Once his laughter subsided, I continued. ‘Their operas aren’t brilliant – I didn’t spend a lot of time learning them.’

  ‘And Portuguese?’

  ‘People lie when they claim that if you know Spanish, you can understand Portuguese. What about you, Herr Major?’

  ‘Eduard,’ he corrected. ‘I am not very good at languages, I’m afraid.’

  Evidenced by his mistranslation of my name. Not that I was about to correct him.

  The waiter returned with our drinks and Graf clinked his glass against mine.

  ‘To one less thief on the streets.’

  ‘And to Galahad, who arrived too late to save the damsel in distress.’

  ‘Ouch.’ He smiled. He might not have the movie-star looks of Schüller or Robert, but he was the sort that became more attractive as you got to know them. ‘Although the damsel did quite well on her own. The sardines here are quite good.’

  ‘No thank you!’

  ‘Are you not a fan of fish?’

  ‘Herr Major—’

  ‘Eduard.’

  For a German, he was remarkably informal.

  ‘Eduard, then.’ The white wine was going to my head and I began to feel giddy. ‘A human body has 206 bones. Those things have twice the amount, every one honed to razor sharpness. Thank you, but no sardines for me. Not unless they’re de-skinned, decapitated, and most importantly, de-boned.’

  ‘Doesn’t that take the fun out of it?’

  ‘Life is dangerous enough.’

  ‘Yes,’ he murmured. He waved the waiter over and ordered, again without asking for my input. ‘Look over there, Angel.’ He pointed out of the window towards the ocean.

  I could hear the thunder of the surf against the Boca’s cliffs, but beyond it the ocean was tranquil enough.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘She’s quiet today. Like Lisbon.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Look at it. Blue. Serene. Underneath there is a maelstrom – an undertow that could bring you down before you noticed you were in trouble. Lisbon is not a safe city. Never forget that, Angel.’

  ‘Why are you saying this to me?’

  He straightened the silverware in front of him.

  ‘I do not know.’

  ‘So you don’t warn off everyone?’

  ‘No.’ A half-smile. ‘I never felt the need to.’

  ‘I can take care of myself,’ I reminded him. Changed the subject before it led to more dangerous ground. ‘How long have you been here, Eduard?’

  ‘Just over one year.’

  ‘And before that?’

  ‘Wherever I was sent.’ This time his smile was flat and he turned the conversation again. ‘As an expert, Angel, what do you think of the Portuguese music?’

  At least he’d found a safe topic.

  ‘Fado? I love it.’

  ‘You’ve been to the Café Luso?’

  ‘No.’

  The waiter arrived with a bottle of wine. Presented it to Graf. Uncorking it, he poured a measure. As he waited for Graf to taste it, he smiled at me.

  ‘Café Luso? You must go, senhora. Most renowned fado in Portugal, not just Lisboa.’

  Graf smiled and the ghost of a dimple appeared in each cheek.

  ‘Would you like to go?’

  ‘With such a testimonial, how could I say no?’

  If the waiter had said it was a gutter dive populated by thugs, whores and murderers, I’d still have gone.

  ‘Amália sings tomorrow, senhor,’ the waiter said, placing the bottle into a silver wine cooler. ‘If you wish, I can arrange?’

  ‘If the lady is available?’

  What had happened to make me want to go with this man, this German? It was more than just wanting an informant within the Abwehr. More than the danger, the thrill of dancing with the Enemy. It was this man. For whatever reason, he intrigued me, drew me to him. Before I knew who and what he was, and even now, after the penny dropped. It was dangerous, it was foolish. And still, feeling as if I was standing at the edge of a cliff, with the full knowledge that more than just my heart was at risk, I murmured: ‘I’d be delighted.’

  He nodded and the waiter retreated, stopping first at the gramophone in the corner to change the record. The sound of a fado guitar, and then a woman’s voice soared, intense, compelling.

  ‘Amália?’

  Graf laughed. ‘I think he’s trying to convince you.’

  ‘Shouldn’t you be working harder to convince me?’

  ‘Why would I? You already said you would go. I assume you understand that it will be in my company, not Pedro’s? Of course, if you tell me you’d prefer his company . . .’

  ‘Then I’d suggest you take your countess and we could make an evening of it.’

  The waiter turned at Graf’s bark of laughter.

  ‘And risk you providing more entertainment than Amália? No, Angel. I think it safest to keep the party small.’

  I sipped the crisp white wine, hoping that I didn’t live to regret this moment.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  T

  he high I’d felt in Graf’s company dissipated as the little silver BMW disappeared down the hill. What the hell did I think I was doing? This wasn’t just playing a role, or doing my job. Playing with Graf would be like playing with a grenade. There were other men who could be just as useful, if not as interesting, to have on my arm. Fully aware that if I had any sense at all, I’d have turned down the date, but hadn’t been able to force the words out.

  Self-flagellation was never my thing, and rather than examine my actions too closely, I made my way across the street. While I didn’t trust her, Claudine had become the closest thing I had to a friend in Lisbon, and she was going through hell.

  She stood in the foyer, her back resting against the wall and the telephone’s receiver pressed against her ear.

  She waved me into a seat and finished her call with a resigned, ‘Yes. Yes, I understand. Thank you for your help.’

  She replaced the receiver in its cradle and made a rude gesture.

  ‘As if you gave me any help at all, you miserable son of a misbegotten whore.’ She spoke with no rancour; it must have burned itself out several hours ago.

  ‘No luck?’ I asked.

  ‘Only of the bad variety. No one has seen Christophe. No one knows why he disappeared, or where he might be. Frankly, Solange, no one cares.’ She sank to a settee and dropped her head in her hands.

  ‘I care.’

  Perhaps more for Claudine’s sake than Christophe’s. I didn’t trust her, but I did like her.

  ‘I know.’ She squeezed my hand and brushed away a tear. ‘I’m sorry to have left you to
fend for yourself this afternoon. It must have taken you forever to get back.’

  Guilt stabbed at me; I’d been enjoying myself while she . . .

  ‘It’s of no matter. I just wanted to check in on you.’

  ‘That’s kind of you. I’m afraid I’m not very good company. Why don’t you take the car? Do a bit of exploring while the sun’s still out.’

  It was the sort of offer that I’d hoped for, an opportunity to drive down the coast and look for a quay, similar to the one I found on the trip to Sagres, that might be used for smuggling. It was a long shot, a vague hope that if smuggling was as prevalent as Matthew led me to believe, there would be evidence of it nearby. But under the circumstances how could I accept?

  ‘You’ll come with me?’

  ‘Too many calls to make. Go ahead, Solange. The keys are on the sideboard.’ She gave me a gentle shove towards the door. ‘Go.’

  As long as no one recognised the Deschamps’ Peugeot, I was safe enough. Claudine had provided me with an excuse, should the PVDE or anyone else stop me. I drove without any idea of where to start looking and only a vague assumption that it was possible that with such a coastline, the smugglers would have an outpost in the resort towns between Lisbon and Estoril.

  Driving slowly, I chose random paths to investigate. The first ended in front of a small cottage where a child played with a dog. The second ended at a beach, where a courting couple appeared to be doing more than courting. Convinced that sooner or later I would find something interesting, I continued on. No car passed me twice, although the number of people honking their horns and advising me – in several different languages – to learn to drive became tedious.

  The sun was sinking to the horizon when I got lucky.

  Three hundred yards after turning from the main road, I came to a barrier – the sort that guards a level crossing. The sort that guarded the quay at Cabo de São Vicente.

  A young sergeant emerged from a small hut beside the barrier. He tossed the magazine he’d been holding through the open door and strode towards me. He looked at the car’s plates, noting the diplomatic tags.

  ‘This area’s restricted,’ he said in the halting French that came from a list of phrases. With the shoulders of a bull and the face of a labourer, he didn’t look local. ‘Not allowed to pass.’

  Behind him, the warehouse door opened and another man emerged. He stretched in the sun and stared at us. Moved towards us, pulling a pistol from its holster. The last thing I needed was a pair of handcuffs and a PVDE escort. I smiled, hoping it looked engaging.

  Hidden behind the dark glasses, I noticed a solitary speedboat moored to the jetty. The sun still shone – albeit barely – and the quay, little as it was, should have been busy. Surely if it were a genuine dock there would be the loading and unloading of cargo, with workmen bustling about?

  ‘Oh, I don’t want to pass,’ I told the man, my voice blasé. ‘What I want are directions. Can you tell me the way to Sintra?’

  He relaxed. ‘Go back to the big road. Turn left. Stay on road for . . . I do not know. Half hour? Less. You will find it, no problem.’

  ‘Obrigada.’

  This was what I’d been searching for. I noted the landmarks and turned the car around. By the time I crawled into bed, a plan had begun to form that started with another visit to Bertie Jones.

  I closed my eyes and dreamt of scorpions driving speedboats.

  *

  The wine was sweeter than the vinho verde I’d developed a taste for. Sweet and warm, but the glass was clean and the café had a clear view of Bertie’s safe house. To avoid standing out in the not-very-fashionable neighbourhood, I had donned too much make-up, a black wig and low-cut dress, and placed pads in my cheeks that gave them a fuller look. A foreign look, to be sure, but with my height and colouring, that was unavoidable. And would exempt me from the three hundred escudo penalty a Portuguese woman would be fined for dressing inappropriately.

  The tourist book open on my lap was Spanish, pinched off a careless couple an hour before, just before Bertie escorted Mrs Willoughby out of the door. He blew the battleaxe a kiss as she departed, suitcase in hand and a thunderous expression marring her face.

  Grateful for a rare dose of good timing, I knew that Mrs Willoughby had been given her walking papers for a reason: Bertie was about to disappear. It was sensible; too many people knew where he was. And with those injuries, he would be easy to find. Nonetheless, Bertie was well-trained; he’d have a safe house somewhere.

  Within minutes, Bertie emerged from the flat, his head hidden under a battered fedora, a small case held in his hand. He walked gingerly, but looks could be deceptive. When he turned the corner, I threw a handful of coins on the table and followed.

  For twenty minutes, he led me a merry dance, up steps, down hills, through more alleyways than I’d seen in my life. Bertie was good, and he knew how to shake a tail. Only this tail wasn’t about to be lost.

  Not until I allowed myself to be distracted by a woman arguing with a shopkeeper, then Bertie was gone.

  ‘Damn,’ I muttered, standing in front of a major intersection.

  Motor cars of every sort flew past, but there was no sign of the little thug. I backtracked again, this time finding a passageway too small to be an alleyway, heading off from a flight of steps. It was dank and dark, blocked by a rubbish bin and smelling strongly of urine. It was the sort of place I would have used if I was being tailed. I slid my fingers around the reassuring weight of the PPK and stepped into the alley.

  Within heartbeats, an iron grip encircled my wrist, slamming it against the wall until the gun dropped. Instinct took over and I raised my knee, aiming for his groin. Bertie slid to the side, kicking at the leg that still supported me.

  ‘Bastard,’ I growled. ‘It’s me.’

  I rapped his shoulder twice, then punched his chin as he stepped back.

  ‘What was that for?’ he bleated. ‘I stopped at your signal.’

  ‘Smacking my wrist? Scaring the living daylights out of me? You choose.’

  ‘Why’re you followin’ me?’

  ‘Why were you trying to lose me?’

  ‘Didn’t know it was you at first. Not until you got into the alley. Then smelled you.’

  ‘Over this stench?’ I said, offended. ‘You stopped when I let you know –’

  He had the audacity to laugh. ‘I stopped when I smelled you, princess. The double-tap just confirmed it. Not many tarts can afford Chanel No. 5. You might want to think about that next time you masquerade as a dock dolly.’

  ‘Damn,’ I muttered, rubbing my wrist. It had better not leave a bruise for Graf to see.

  ‘What’re you doing, following me?’

  ‘What are you doing, running?’

  ‘Time to move. You’re running me, princess. An’ I don’t have a problem wi’ that. Just don’t like some of the friends you have.’

  ‘Who? Harrington?’

  ‘Anyone.’ He straightened the fedora, drew me deeper into the passage. ‘Figure you’re like me. You don’t trust no one. They havta prove themselves first. It’s why we’re still alive.’

  ‘And you don’t trust me yet.’

  He kept his voice low and leant in to murmur, ‘Enough to let you know I got me a job, down at the docks.’

  ‘You can handle the work? Your wounds—?’

  ‘Supervisor. Cause o’ me experience.’ He flashed a puckish grin. ‘What? What’d y’ think I did back home? Accountin’?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Dock supervisor. Before Jerry bombed the East End to the ground. My time to get even.’

  ‘I have no problems with that.’

  ‘Good, then I’ll send word when there’s news. And sorry.’

  I held up one finger before he could say – or do – what was clearly written across his face.

  ‘Touch me and I’ll make sure you don’t walk for a week.’

  ‘Until next time, then, princess.’ He winked and sauntered out of
the passageway.

  Cheeky little bastard.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  T

  he gold silk dress was a miracle of design. Its bias cut clung in the right places, covered the scar on my shoulder, and gave my skin a warm glow. To balance the effect, my hair was arranged in loose waves, captured into a low chignon. A thick filigreed bracelet glimmered from my wrist, hiding the bruise Bertie had left.

  I sprayed one last puff of perfume, reached for my shawl, and made my way to the silver BMW. Graf leant against the bonnet, smoking a cigarette and staring down the hill at the Atlantic. Claudine would have told me that Haydn Schüller was better looking, but she was wrong.

  My instincts told me that this was a dangerous game, one that wasn’t likely to end well. I ignored them, burying them under my determination to get the job done. I had the skills. I knew what I was doing. Sort of.

  Sensing my presence, Graf looked up, smiling.

  ‘Hello.’ I hadn’t felt this awkward since leaving the schoolroom. Tried to hide it behind a cool veneer. ‘I didn’t know you smoked.’

  ‘I don’t.’ Graf threw the cigarette butt into the shrubs and kissed my hand. ‘You look stunning.’

  ‘Thank you. So do you.’ I looked at the dark suit and raised an eyebrow. ‘No uniform tonight?’

  ‘Too ostentatious for this evening.’

  While not as bad a driver as Claudine, Graf took the winding roads at a perilous speed.

  ‘Practising for Monte Carlo?’ I yelled over the air rushing through the windows.

  He slowed down immediately.

  ‘Don’t,’ I laughed.

  There was something about the ride, or maybe it was his company, that was intoxicating.

  ‘I thought we’d go for a drink first, if that’s all right with you?’

  ‘That sounds lovely.’

  ‘Have you been to the castle yet?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘The monastery? The tower down at Belém?’ He pointed to his right – towards the ocean as we sped by. ‘No? What have you done with yourself this past month?’

  I’d witnessed an attack on a convoy, spied on smugglers, and seen my godfather emerge from a whorehouse. I’d had coffee with the PVDE, socialised with Germans and alcoholics and seen far, far too much of the casino. For fun, I’d ogled Eduard on his morning run. It wasn’t quite the standard tourist agenda.