City of Spies

by Mara Timon

  A few feet to my left, seven wooden doors were framed by elaborately carved masonry. The closed doors could have hidden anything from trysting lovers to assassins. He was right to be cautious.

  ‘Your news?’

  Bertie pulled a rosary from an inner pocket, crossed himself and fidgeted with the malachite beads. Head down, I struggled to hear his words.

  ‘You were right – something’s up. Portuguese man named Pires approaches me. Wants to know if I’m interested in makin’ a bit extra, on the side, like. I tell him that I lost everythin’ fleein’ France. I’m interested. He says it’s easy money. Keep an eye on what ships go in an’ out of the harbour. Let him know what flag they fly an’ the state they’re in. Bit more if I know the cargo.’

  It wasn’t a bad result after only a week in the new job.

  ‘You said yes, of course.’

  ‘Too bloody right. I’m tryin’ to find out who he really is, who he’s workin’ for.’

  ‘Good.’ I made a mental note to buy myself a rosary; they seemed just the thing to hide trembling hands. ‘Until then, make sure he thinks you’re his man. See who else he leads you to.’

  ‘Aye.’ Bertie nodded. ‘You know the Pastelaria Suíça?’

  ‘I can find it.’

  ‘Next Thursday. Two o’clock. If there’s news, I’ll leave a message in the drop. Get outta here, princess. And be careful, will you?’

  Most of the tourists had fled when the shots were fired, but a small group of French-speakers remained, the overweight tour guide determined to persevere. I waited at the back of the group as she stopped her flock. She glanced outside, her struggle to maintain a calm veneer clear, her voice breaking when she spoke.

  ‘Before we leave the nave, I must tell you: when King Philip II of Spain visited the Chapel of Saint Jerónimos, he was so taken by the saint’s terracotta likeness that he exclaimed “No me hablas, Hieronimo?” Won’t you speak to me, Jerome? And so, follow me and I will show you this wonder.’

  Unless Jerónimos was about to give up the name of my would-be assassin, I wasn’t interested. The tour moved to the next room, and I melted away.

  There was work to do.

  *

  I had been in Portugal for less than two months, and to my knowledge at least, I hadn’t blown my cover, irked, or threatened anyone enough to eliminate me. Sure, there were people who didn’t like me – the nasty Spanish countess Laura, Bertie’s old housekeeper Mrs Willoughby – but there was a fair distance between not liking someone and wanting them dead.

  What about that old battleaxe who worked in Matthew’s office? What was her name? Nicola something-or-other. Langston. Had she confirmed that there was no Mrs Sinclair at Marconi and deduced that I was a spy? And what was to say my assassin disliked me? Maybe they didn’t know me. Or maybe they pretended to be my friend. Claudine? Gabrielle?

  There was no need to limit the list to women.

  There was the grey-haired man, of course, but I was certain he was Gestapo. Killing from a distance wasn’t their style. And with a handgun? In a monastery crowded with tourists? No. Whoever it was was an amateur. Someone like Rupert Allen-Smythe? Or someone I had won money from on one of my trips to the casino?

  My head was pounding when I spotted Julian’s car parked outside Claudine’s house. It wasn’t alone; several other cars were parked along the road and the gate was open. It was too early for a party, but this was one curiosity that was easy enough to figure out.

  Instead of the maidservant, Julian stood by the door.

  ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘It’s you.’

  ‘Who were you expecting? The Pope?’

  He stood back to let me in, his face unusually dour.

  ‘Why not? Everyone else is here. And dare I say, you seem to be in a foul mood, Madame Verin.’

  From his expression, I guessed I wasn’t the only one.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘The police came this morning. They’ve found Christophe.’

  ‘Ah.’ My temper melted away, leaving me with displaced remorse and little to say. ‘Where?’

  ‘In the mortuary.’

  ‘Oh hell.’ My shoulders dropped and I rubbed my eyes. My hunt would have to wait, at least for a few days. ‘What happened?’

  ‘His body was spat up by the Boca do Inferno.’

  The same place Graf had taken me for lunch, that first time. I remembered the angry roar of the waves attacking the black rocks below. It was a beautiful and frightening place. There wouldn’t have been much left of him to identify. I wasn’t fond of the man, but not even Claudine’s husband deserved so ignoble a death.

  ‘I’m so sorry. How’s Claudine taking the news?’

  ‘As you’d expect. The well-meaning souls in there are helping her drink herself into a stupor.’

  ‘So glad she’s surrounded by friends,’ I murmured, staving off a fresh panic at how close I’d come to joining Deschamps in the mortuary.

  With a quick hand at the small of my back, Julian prevented my escape.

  ‘Come in, Solange. Join the circus.’

  ‘Were they able to confirm . . . ?’ What? How he died? Who killed him? How I was going to prevent myself from saying anything untoward? I fluttered my hand in vague clarification. ‘Were they able to confirm what happened?’

  ‘The coroner is doing the post-mortem tomorrow, but with two bullet holes in the back of his head, even the locals should be able to figure that one out.’

  An execution, and professionally done. Christophe had clearly been involved in something way over his head, but what? And with whom?

  ‘They’re certain it’s Christophe?’

  ‘Claudine identified the body.’

  I cringed. ‘Ah, Julian. She shouldn’t have had to see that.’

  ‘She identified him by his wedding ring. That and a scar on his leg. The face? Unrecognisable.’ His blunt words only underlined his sorrow, and not for Christophe, I was certain. ‘Come inside, she’ll be glad to see you.’

  He escorted me into the parlour with the piano. Its cover was down and a group of men sipped cognac around it, while Gabrielle and two other women fussed over Claudine. She shook them off as she saw me.

  ‘Solange.’ She held her hands out to me.

  I stepped through them and hugged her.

  ‘I am so sorry.’

  ‘Let me get you a drink,’ she insisted.

  I wanted to tell her to sit down, but remembered how I was after the news of Philip’s death reached me – the manic urge to keep moving, to focus on other people so that you didn’t have time to think of your own loss. I nodded.

  An older man in uniform waylaid her en route to the sideboard, whispering something in her ear. Maybe he knew the right thing to do, or say, because I didn’t. All I could offer was my presence, and hope it would be enough.

  Julian pressed a glass into my hand. A sickly-sweet cherry-flavoured swill oozed down my throat, and I struggled not to spit it out.

  ‘Are you trying to kill me, you mad Irishman? What the blazes is this?’

  ‘Ginjinha.’ He maintained a straight face. Barely.

  ‘And people enjoy this?’

  ‘Not all, apparently. Your man is in the library, by the by, if you’re looking for him.’

  ‘My man?’

  If he was referring to Schüller, I’d thump him.

  ‘The Herr Major is in the library with the other Herr Major.’

  Julian enunciated each word, as if talking to a stupid child. His nostrils flared a bit, highlighting the distaste in his voice – perhaps for Eduard, Schüller, or the two of them hiding away during a condolence call. Most likely the latter.

  ‘Really?’ I cleared my throat, grateful for an excuse to leave the parlour. ‘What’s he doing in there?’

  ‘Why ask me?’ He shrugged, smirking as my empty stomach protested a second introduction of cherry moonshine. ‘Go and find him if you’re that curious.’

  He flicked his fingers at the door a
nd sauntered away.

  The library door was closed and cigar smoke wafted from within. I raised my hand to knock but paused, hearing the low hum of their voices.

  ‘Rome, of all places,’ Schüller was saying. ‘You were right about the Allies landing in Sicily – fucking Martin – but bombing Rome?’

  The clinking of ice on crystal filled the silence, and then a second, unfamiliar voice.

  ‘It is the Italian capital, Herr Major. And thus a target. I expect there’s worse to come.’

  ‘What will they bomb next? The Vatican?’

  ‘Not unless His Holiness declares war on the Allies.’ Graf sounded amused. ‘I don’t see that happening, Herr Schüller, do you?’

  ‘You must admit it was a clever gambit,’ the second voice drawled. ‘No one, excluding yourself, Herr Graf, questioned the gold mine of intelligence handcuffed to a waterlogged corpse.’

  ‘Fucking spooks. No honour in it.’ Schüller said.

  ‘My dear Major,’ the second voice continued. ‘If that’s your opinion, you’re in the wrong line of work.’

  ‘Don’t be daft. I find a convoy, and sink the bastards. All by the book. Do let your friend Köhler know that, will you, Graf?’

  So Schüller was behind the air attacks – fed by information from men like Bertie’s Pires – but who was Köhler, and why the enmity from Schüller? I stored the name for future use and leant closer to the door.

  ‘The only difference, Haydn,’ Eduard explained, ‘is that they drew us away from their trap, whereas you drew them into ours.’

  ‘What is more astonishing is that we fell for it.’

  The smug, sardonic voice was unfamiliar, but the other pieces of the puzzle came together. The mysterious Major Martin wasn’t a German agent; the poor fellow was a decoy used to lure the troops to Sardinia, leaving Sicily open to the Allied attack ten days ago. Mission accomplished, and may he rest in peace.

  There was a snort and the glugging sound of glasses being refilled.

  ‘Not that it matters any more. The only hope is to recover from this. And we will, gentlemen.’

  ‘Hear, hear!’ Schüller’s voice slurred.

  It was as good a time as any. I knocked and peered around the corner.

  ‘Am I interrupting?’

  Three men sat around a small table, each exhibiting exhaustion in different ways. Eduard was pale under his tan, but his calm demeanour gave little of his thoughts away. Schüller sprawled out in an armchair, his booted feet resting on an ottoman. Dark circles ringed his normally bright cat’s eyes, a fat cigar clamped between his teeth.

  The third man looked as if he expected me.

  ‘Frau Verin.’ He came to his feet and closed the distance between us, moving gracefully for an older, overweight man. ‘It is delightful to finally meet you.’

  If he was trying to catch me off guard, he had another think coming. I extended my hand.

  ‘A pleasure. I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage, Herr . . . ?’

  Eduard’s face remained impassive as the man raised my hand to his lips.

  ‘Frau Verin, may I present Herr Kapitän Bendixen?’

  Hans Bendixen. Finally, a face to match the name. He wasn’t attractive, wasn’t even memorable, except for those eyes. Dark, clever eyes.

  ‘Monsieur Reilly said you were hiding away in here. I didn’t mean to interrupt.’

  ‘My fault, my dear Frau Verin,’ Bendixen interjected. ‘I needed to pick the Herr Major’s brain for a few moments. But on a happier note, I’m hosting a small soirée tomorrow night. Do tell me you’ll come.’

  ‘On a Sunday?’ I raised an eyebrow, and Bendixen laughed as if it were a joke.

  ‘Why not? It’s just a few friends.’ He leant over my hand in a half bow. ‘I shall expect to see you gracing Major Graf’s arm.’

  And with a wolfish smile, the captain left the room.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  T

  he talk was banal, and stilted. Eduard and Schüller might be colleagues, and professionals, but they weren’t friends. Andreas Neumann’s knock on the open door was almost a relief.

  Schüller rolled his eyes as the lieutenant limped into the room. The good side of his face held a tinge of sadness beneath its usual professionalism.

  ‘You asked for an update, sir.’

  He waited for Eduard’s nod before handing him a folded piece of paper. He opened the flimsy note, frowning. A crease appeared, and then deepened between his brows.

  ‘What is it?’ Schüller asked.

  For a moment Eduard looked like he wanted to ignore the question, then handed him the note. Schüller read aloud.

  ‘“RAF bombing of Hamburg commenced 00.57. Rubble blocked passage for firefighters. Fires raging.”’ Schüller frowned at Graf. ‘I thought you were from Munich?’

  ‘I am.’ He flicked his hand in the keep reading sign.

  Schüller grunted and complied. ‘“Second attack at 16.40. USAF targets U-boat pens and shipyards.” Fucking Yanks.’ He crumpled the note into a ball and threw it in the corner. ‘I’m going down to the harbour.’

  He brushed past Neumann, slamming the door behind him. For a few moments there was an uncomfortable silence until Neumann cleared his throat.

  ‘I apologise for the Herr Major’s rudeness, Frau Verin.’

  ‘Never apologise, Lieutenant, for things that aren’t your fault.’

  I looked down for a moment, not sure how to feel, but knowing that the flames wouldn’t be limited to the docks. I’d been in London during the air attacks of ’40 and ’41. The Blitz. Knew what it felt to survive systematic attacks, day and night. Knowing that you weren’t safe wherever you went. Going to bed with shoes pointing towards the door; skirt and cardigan and handbag nearby. To carry all the important things with you, because your home might not be there when you returned.

  Did I wish that on the Germans? No. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.

  ‘Any news of them?’

  Eduard’s voice was calm, but his face was taut. There was something wrong, something that went beyond the sadness for the people of Hamburg, or the strategic loss this would entail. Something . . . personal.

  ‘No, sir. Too early for that.’

  Eduard nodded, his eyes on the wall above the lieutenant’s shoulder.

  ‘Dismissed,’ he murmured.

  Neumann didn’t linger. I was torn between allaying my curiosity and asking, and allowing him the time alone, in Claudine’s library, with his own thoughts. Sensing his reluctance to talk, I reached for my bag, surprised when his soft voice stopped me.

  ‘Have you eaten today?’

  *

  It was still early, but the Baixa was busy – local workmen rubbing shoulders with sailors and prostitutes.

  ‘What sort of place are you taking me to?’ I murmured, but Eduard kept moving, and even I had to work to keep up with his long stride.

  There was no sign advertising the restaurant, just a simple door, left open.

  ‘Are you certain this is right?’

  As soon as the words left my mouth, I heard the sound of guitars. Followed Eduard through an unmarked door and down a decrepit flight of stairs to a basement that looked like it was a cave. Rough rock walls, and tables that would give my naked elbows splinters. Two men, brothers maybe, strummed guitars and crooned fado from the corner, while a table of three Portuguese men sat nearby. There wasn’t another German in sight. We followed the maître d’ to a table near the back wall, and Eduard ordered drinks before even looking at the menu. A brandy for himself, a glass of vinho verde for me.

  ‘Hamburg?’ I broached the subject as soon as the man left.

  His shrug was unselfconscious. ‘I have friends, family there.’

  ‘But you’re from Munich?’

  With a slight tilt of his head, his dark eyes met mine.

  ‘And you are French. From Paris. Do you have no relatives elsewhere?’

  Once again, a Gallic shrug and a truth
that was easier than a lie.

  ‘My grandmother was from Alsace. I was named for her.’ Sensing more than he would say, I put my hand over his. ‘I am sorry. For whatever people you have there.’ It was still the truth.

  The man returned with our drinks, and Eduard removed his hand from mine. He opened his mouth to say something, and then closed it, over a rare muttered oath. Still holding my glass of wine, I followed his gaze.

  One of the Portuguese men sitting near the singers turned. Large intelligent eyes catalogued every detail, before Adriano de Rios Vilar inclined his head towards me in silent greeting. An equally silent reminder of his determination to preserve Portugal’s neutrality. I had only spoken to him the once, but had sensed his attention on and off since then.

  Was it a coincidence that he was in the same restaurant we were, scant hours after learning of Christophe’s death? No, he had already been here when we arrived. Did Eduard know him? Was this planned?

  I didn’t believe in coincidence, although I wasn’t sure which part of the puzzle he fitted into. As far as I knew, he could still think I was nothing more complicated than a Frenchwoman stepping out with a German. Unless he knew about Veronica. Or my hunt for the grey-haired man. Or the matter of the work I was doing for Matthew, any of which would upset his delicate balance.

  Focused on Rios Vilar, I almost missed the man walking down the rough stone steps. Reacquainted myself with the small details. The way he moved, like a shark through water. Cold, dead eyes. A faint scar on his cheek that gave his mouth a sardonic, cast. The pale hair, slicked back from a high forehead. As if cast from my own thoughts, the grey-haired man strode through the restaurant towards us. Dressed in a suit, rather than uniform, as he was in France, but no one could confuse this man with anything other than what he was. Two men trailed behind him; their suits were inexpensive, ill-fitting, and didn’t hide the bulge of a sidearm.

  At a gesture, the two men remained at the bottom of the steps. How had they found us in this remote restaurant? Were they following us?

  I fell back on my training. Not the skills learnt from Special Operations – the ones learnt from Lady Anne. I could almost feel her icy poise flow though my veins.