by Mara Timon
‘Why? Why were they shooting at you? At us?’
‘I’m a soldier. People have been shooting at me for years.’
‘Stop making light of it,’ I snapped. ‘Portugal is supposed to be a neutral country, and that blasted road isn’t a battlefield. Who is trying to kill you? Why?’
He let go of my hand and began to pace.
‘I work in military intelligence, Angel. Or rather, counter-intelligence. You know that.’ He turned and faced me.
‘So, it’s someone you’re after who’s trying to kill you? Was this the risk that Köhler told you about?’
He shook his head. ‘I do not know who shot at us, Angel. Not yet.’
‘Köhler . . . ?’
‘Spoke of a different risk.’
‘Christ.’
Anger made me shiver and Eduard held me close. Another feeling rose, strong enough to subdue even my anger. A need to move closer, be closer. Not to feel less alone, like the night in the farmhouse with Alex. This was something more though, something I was reluctant to give a name to. My hand went to the back of his head, pulling his lips to mine. He tasted of brandy, warm and sweet. He pulled away far too quickly.
‘I am sorry Angel,’ he said, retreating again to the open window.
With the high fence surrounding the property, it was unlikely anyone would see him, or be able to take a shot, but it was also unlikely he saw anything more than the trees. If that.
Was he rejecting me? Could that really happen after a kiss like that? Or was it something else: the ghost of a dead wife?
Indecision dissipated and I followed him, sliding my arms around his waist and resting my head on his back. For a few minutes we stood like that until he turned, breathing my name into my hair.
‘Angel, you know I care for you.’
‘And?’
He remained quiet, and then I understood.
‘Oh. You want to be seen with me, but not to be with me.’ I straightened my back and tried to hide behind an aloof veneer. ‘I see.’
‘No, Angel. I do not think you do. Things are . . . uncertain here. My work. The people I must associate with. I cannot allow that to endanger you. I will not.’
‘Do you want to break it off with me?’
‘No!’ His reaction was visceral. Calming himself down, he looked at the ceiling, the floor, at the storm breaking outside, and finally at me. ‘No, although I should.’
Any association with Eduard Graf was dangerous. I didn’t want to look too hard at my reasons for wanting it to continue, only knew that I did.
‘Then the risk is mine to accept or not.’
His head was shaking before I’d finished my sentence. ‘No, Angel. I cannot allow that.’
‘Yes. You can. Stay with me.’
‘You don’t know what you are saying. We were shot at. You are frightened.’
His hand was at my nape, strangely gentle.
‘I’m not frightened. I’m angry. Stay with me,’ I pressed, even though I could see he was resolute.
I wanted to kick something. Take his gun and run out and find the assassin. Kill the bastard now to prove that without the threat, I would still want him. Me, not just Solange Verin. I might hate myself for wanting this man, this decorated Abwehr Officer, who hunted people like me. But I did want him. Despite all reason.
And I knew he wanted me as well. Or at least, he wanted Solange, and that was good enough.
‘Give me the time to figure out who is trying to kill me and why. If this, you and me, is meant to be, there will be another time. And I will look forward to it.’
He raised my hand to his lips and stood back.
‘You don’t strike me as the fatalistic sort, Eduard.’
‘No,’ he said, his voice holding a different sort of resolve. ‘I am not.’
‘Very well.’ I tried to force a rational tone. ‘But it’s not safe for you to leave. The sniper may still be outside. If you won’t sleep with me, then stay in a spare room. I won’t have you leave only to have to pick up your body outside my door tomorrow.’
Chapter Thirty
E
duard’s car was still parked outside my villa, although Andreas Neumann had picked him up shortly after dawn. Eduard had apologised, not qualifying whether it was for the shots of the night before, the rejection of my bed, or the shredding of my reputation, but mitigated the statement with a kiss that left me – and his adjutant – in little doubt of his intentions.
The storm had passed overnight, and the morning sun was bright and hot. With Claudine in isolation, Gabrielle Ribaud visiting friends in Sintra, and Julian doing whatever it was that Julian did, I spent the morning listening to the wireless and trying to sort through my own emotions. The latter was shoved aside when the formal announcement was made at midday: the Italian Grand Council confirmed that Benito Mussolini, Il Duce, had been replaced by Pietro Badoglio.
Unable to remain alone with my thoughts, I went for a walk, half hoping to draw out whoever had tried to shoot at me. The afternoon passed without incident and the sun was sinking as I walked up the hill. As I passed the arched buildings at the base of the casino, a pale car slid past me, the driver hunched low in the seat, unrecognisable under a dark fedora. It idled at the side of the street for a few moments before the ignition was cut.
The best agents took pains not to stand out, but this man acted like a spy in a bad film.
I dipped my head, hiding my face under the sun hat’s brim and watched as one leg slowly emerged from the car. The rest of his body followed, pausing to look up and down the street – checking to see who else was watching. Almost unconsciously, my hand grazed my thigh, reassured by the familiar feel of the sgian dubh.
The man pulled a black briefcase from the passenger seat and adjusted his hat. He glanced right – uphill – first, and then downhill before crossing the street. He was evidently used to cars driving on the left-hand side of the street.
British? Or someone who had spent a fair amount of time there?
He adjusted his grip on the briefcase and straightened. Rupert Allen-Smythe was appearing in far too many places for a low-level diplomat.
Instinct propelled me down the incline and into the hotel. Past the first foyer and into a rose-coloured armchair near the bar as he approached the concierge. Through the glass doors, people were beginning to congregate on the patio with their pre-dinner gin and tonics. I leafed through a copy of Time magazine and watched the concierge pass a key to Allen-Smythe. There might have been a perfectly legitimate excuse for the subterfuge, but something felt wrong. The Palácio was too public – too much a British hotspot.
A small man in a crisp suit stood at my elbow. His hair was slicked back and his small moustache was shiny with wax.
‘May I help you, madame?’
His supercilious voice was inordinately loud, but he blocked me from view as Allen-Smythe crossed barely five feet in front of me into the bar.
If Allen-Smythe saw me, he didn’t show any concern. Unsurprising, as he had only seen me as blonde Veronica, not Solange, with dark hair dishevelled from a day at the beach.
‘A cup of tea, please.’
I opened the pages of my book, dismissing the waiter. When he passed from sight, I slid into the next chair over, changing my view from the arched hallway to the dark panelled walls of the bar. Allen-Smythe sat at the bar, fiddling with his cuffs. At his feet was the black briefcase.
Next to him another man sat in a low chair, a half-drunk aperitif in front of him, and to the other side, a trio of men laughed, their noses red from sun and liquor.
The exchange happened so fast I almost missed it. As Allen-Smythe adjusted his tie, the gentleman seated by himself crossed his leg, his foot sliding his own briefcase forward.
Allen-Smythe twirled the ice in his drink, and glanced again in the looking glass. He wasn’t preening – he was watching. He made a show of checking the time before draining his glass and reaching into an inner pocket to retrieve his
wallet. He dropped a note on the bar, and exited with the other man’s briefcase.
Everyone knew the Palácio was Allied territory, which made it probable that his contact was British, although Allen-Smythe’s overacting would have had him laughed out of a variety show. The Spider should have known better than to keep a bloody idiot on his books.
Allen-Smythe was waylaid at the entrance by an older couple. I scooted around him and charged up the hill, cursing myself for not letting the air out of Allen-Smythe’s tyres when I had the chance.
Hoping I hadn’t lost too much time, I threw my bag onto the passenger seat of Eduard’s BMW and fumbled for the wires, striking them together until the BMW woke with an angry roar and catapulted down the road. I was about to make the sharp right turn leading towards the Palacio when Allen-Smythe’s silver Peugeot slid past. It turned on to the Estrada Marginal, heading towards Lisbon.
Half-hidden behind his dark fedora, Allen-Smythe’s face was expressionless.
The BMW responded to the change of direction with beautiful precision. The last rays of sun glinted off the Atlantic to my right. I allowed a second and then a third car to drive between us, trying to mask my pursuit.
I had learnt my lesson at Sagres; my PPK was hidden in the bottom of my bag. It would be difficult to get to while driving. There was a chance that Eduard kept a spare in the glove compartment. Keeping one eye on the Peugeot, I rummaged in the glove compartment at the first stop sign. Papers that I would review later. A crushed pack of cigarettes – strange, I’d only seen him smoke that once – and a French letter. What the blazes was he doing with that? The bloody fool had a French letter in his glove compartment and turned me down? Half the Abwehr were shagging their secretaries and he turned me down. What was wrong with him?
I muttered a curse, and stepped on the accelerator.
If he was shagging his secretary, I’d kill him.
If he was shagging anyone, I’d kill him.
Allen-Smythe turned off near Oeiras, but instead of heading towards the beach and Schüller’s rooms, he weaved through small streets, sometimes speeding, sometimes creeping – doing a bloody poor job of trying to shake a would-be tail. It was a miracle he had survived so long.
Another red light allowed me to extricate the PPK from my bag.
Allen-Smythe picked up the Estrada Marginal again, passing a monument and continuing along the south front of the Praça do Comércio. He turned up the Rua da Prata into the Baixa. A right turn led us past the little church of St Maria Madalena and the larger cathedral.
It was difficult to keep cars between us now. This was territory I hadn’t been trained for. On foot, I could pick up a tail or lose one as easy as breathing.
Allen-Smythe wasn’t subtle. He might be taking detours but was heading inexorably towards the Alfama district. He turned off and cut his engine. I drove past his parked car, certain that his destination was the ruined Castelo de São Jorge. Convinced there was no above-board reason he would want to visit at this hour, I ditched Graf’s BMW near Santa Luzia and continued on foot.
My espadrilles allowed me to scale the steep, cobbled streets with barely a sound. The Bairro Alto would be kicking off soon, but this side of town was quiet enough for sounds to carry. Garlic and fish battled with the stench of sweat and urine. Short dark men, stocky and sullen watched from a restaurant lit by lanterns as I paused for breath at the base of the castle ruins, only looking away when a young woman arrived with a tray of drinks.
What could these men recount? A European brunette following an Englishman around the castle? They didn’t know me; didn’t travel in the same circles I did. What was the worst they could say? That I was a jealous woman, following my lover? And bad taste in men was neither a crime, nor overly noteworthy.
I waited just beyond the entrance to the ruins, the PPK a reassuring weight in my hand. Seconds ticked into minutes with no sign of Allen-Smythe. And the minutes ticked into an aeon. The shadows lengthened, but it was still too early for the searchlights to scrape the sky. Finally, muffled footsteps approached. I moved closer to the wall and held my breath. Still carrying the briefcase, he slipped past with a furtive grace.
What a bloody stupid place for a meeting, although given Allen-Smythe’s gross incompetence, it shouldn’t have surprised me. The more interesting question was who he was meeting. The man he was with at the Torre de Belém? Whoever he’d commissioned to kill me?
He skirted the perimeter of the ruins, passing under archway after archway, only occasionally pausing to look over his shoulder. At the base of the fortress, he veered right.
I gave him enough time to clear the alley and cross the arched bridge into the fortress. Crouching low to avoid being exposed, I scurried after him. Picked him up when a falling rock gave away his position on the ramparts. I clambered up the steps on my left and stopped just short of the top. When Eduard had brought me here, we’d followed the rampart around to a dead end. Allen-Smythe must have known about it. I eased back, evading that trap.
Allen-Smythe doubled back – crossed an empty courtyard to a flight of steps at the far right side in a game of bloody snakes and ladders. I took the long way, skulking in the shadows. Climbed rough, steep steps and crouched behind the crenellations. Allen-Smythe’s frame was silhouetted against the twilight as he ducked into the watchtower. I counted the seconds until he exited. I followed him, flicking the safety off the PPK with a too-loud snick although Allen-Smythe showed no sign he’d heard it.
I edged towards the watchtower, leading with the muzzle of the gun. Expected to walk into an attack but the room was empty.
Footsteps echoed to my left and a sliver of pale skin glowed in the moonlight as Allen-Smythe crossed another courtyard. The bastard moved fast. Legs burning from the crouch I’d been forced to maintain, I followed him down the steps.
I heard the second set of steps too late. Should have been listening for them; Allen-Smythe had come here to meet someone, not just lose a tail. I’d allowed him to distract me while his partner’s firm hands on my back shoved me forward.
‘Lisbet, no!’
Matthew’s voice carried across the dreamscape, as my nails raked against the raw stone, scraping for purchase. I tried to catch myself against the archway and missed. My knee smashed against a step. Then my wrist, my hip, my shoulder. Fire exploded in my head and I heard a howl of protest, not recognising it as my own as I landed.
Two shots reverberated and someone patted my cheek. I couldn’t see anything as velvety darkness took the pain away.
Chapter Thirty-one
I
woke in a strange bed, in a room that smelled of ammonia and fresh flowers. My left hand was immobile, but with enough determination, the right one rose until every muscle cried out in anguish. Ignoring the pain, I fumbled for the pistol I usually kept under my pillow, but came up empty. The gun was gone.
Where was it? Where was I? Panicking, I tried to move, but my body refused to obey. My head pounded and tears of frustration threatened. Bright light stabbed at my eyes and I extended my other senses until my eyes could adjust to the light. Cars hummed on the streets below. The low din of nearby conversation competed with the dolorous sound of a fado guitar. I wasn’t familiar with the song or the singer; the recording wasn’t mine.
Footsteps clicked by, two voices murmuring about an accident.
What the hell had happened?
Slowly, in flashes, my memory began to return. Following Allen-Smythe to the castle. Hands pushing hard at my back. Falling. Hearing my real name ringing off the stones. There was another man, the one who’d pushed me. Who was it? The same one who’d been trying to kill me, or someone else? Where was he? Something scratched at the back of my mind – a bit of information – but when I tried to pull it forward, it eluded me.
Stomach clenched, I took an inventory. My ribs felt like someone had taken a cricket bat to them, but felt bruised rather than broken. My toes finally moved; at least I wasn’t paralysed. Only my left arm refuse
d to comply.
I counted to ten and cracked open my eyes again. The room was whitewashed, with pale curtains fluttering in the breeze. A watercolour of the seafront hung above a table holding a vase of flowers. My arm looked rather less pastoral, splinted and cushioned upon my chest.
Rupert Allen-Smythe. Next time I saw that misbegotten bastard, I’d shoot him. And if Matthew had anything to say on the matter, I’d shoot him too.
What I’d mistaken for a pillow was a thick band of cotton wrapped around my bruised chest. My head ached, but there were no bandages, save for a damp plaster near my hairline. I hoped it was only sweat, but my fingertips came back tipped with pink.
‘So. You are alive?’
The voice was deceptively calm, as the man rose from a chair near the door. His body was tense, the shoulders stiff and his dark eyes snapping with anger.
‘So it would seem,’ I croaked. I cleared my throat and tried again. ‘Where am I?’
‘Who are you?’
The voice was familiar; the tone wasn’t. I tried to raise myself to see his face, but the effort was too great and I sank back into the pillows.
He moved to the foot of the bed, staring at me for a few long seconds. Poured a glass of water and, cradling me in one arm, held me as I drank.
‘Thank you.’ I reached for his hand, but he pulled back.
‘Who are you?’ Eduard Graf repeated.
‘I thought I was the one concussed.’
From his expression, my joke fell short of the mark.
‘You are not.’
It was bad – I knew that. My medical situation, far less critical than the situation with Eduard. How many lies and half-truths would it take to recover from this? What if he’d already told the Germans about me?
‘Eduard?’
‘Who are you, Solange?’
‘The same woman I was yesterday.’
Only I wasn’t, and I didn’t need to hear him call me Solange rather than Angel to confirm that. My cover was blown and, as much as Portugal pretended to be a neutral country, Eduard could arrange for me to ‘disappear’ if he wanted to. So could Matthew. Would it be a race between the Germans trying to kill me and my godfather shipping me off on the next plane to London?
