City of Spies

by Mara Timon

  She was most likely working for the Germans. The communists had their hands full on the Eastern Front and were, at least nominally, our allies.

  She would have a safe house where she could leave her disguises and any equipment without worry that her husband would find it. Equipment. Perhaps she was a wireless operator; there were the three baubles outside Bendixen’s villa, but that didn’t seem right either. Bendixen would have staff to do that; there was no reason to be covert, especially with the Portuguese government turning a blind eye.

  With Eduard asleep in the bedroom, I couldn’t begin the surveillance until the next day. She had hunted me for the better part of a month. Tomorrow would be soon enough for me to return that favour.

  *

  With both aliases potentially compromised, I opted for a simple knitted cap, a bulky shirt, and trousers. If no one looked too closely, I could pass as a man, with the added bonus of not further constricting my still sore ribs and hiding the brace on my arm.

  Her social schedule was busy enough and, as I soon learnt, predictable. Luncheon with friends, shopping, dining out and often finishing the evening at the casino. She met one lover in his apartments in Carcavelos and another in Lisbon. And although both could be ruses to gather or pass on information, based on the sounds from within, I was relatively certain they lacked any platonic nature. It didn’t surprise me, given what I knew of her, and what I knew of espionage, but that didn’t stop distaste from blossoming.

  It was more than a week before she veered away from Lisbon’s shopping district up a short passageway and into a building, not far from the one Bertie had stayed in while he convalesced. It wasn’t the elegant town house I would have expected. On the lower side of bourgeois, it was clean enough and nondescript. Exactly the sort of safe house I had in a different part of the city. Intrigued, I slipped through the door behind her, taking note of the flat she entered and continuing up the stairs to the next landing.

  Five minutes. Then ten, and still no sound from the flat below. I couldn’t wait her out much longer, but in truth there was no need. I knew where her safe house was, and would be better served returning when there was no risk of getting caught – either by her, or by a curious neighbour. I eased myself from my perch and made my way outside into the sunshine.

  With plans to return later in the evening, I made my way to the embassy’s annexe, with the hope of encountering my godfather.

  I bought a fresh pack of cigarettes and waited for him to leave.

  From the way he was dressed, I guessed he was heading to the port, in search of whatever intelligence the dock dollies, as Bertie called them, could offer up. Within two blocks, he turned and closed the gap between us.

  ‘You’re losing your touch, old girl.’

  Digging my good hand into my pocket, I shrugged.

  ‘If I didn’t want you to see me, you wouldn’t have.’

  ‘You’re looking better than you were the last time I saw you. Nice outfit,’ he commented, avian gaze raking me up and down. ‘Although I preferred the blonde wig. And the female couture.’

  Another shrug. ‘This is better for shadowing. Walk with me.’

  He fell into step. ‘Who might you be shadowing, or should I refrain from asking?’

  ‘I’m trying to figure out why someone is trying to kill me. Someone with links to your friend Allen-Smythe. What do you know of his activities?’

  He tilted his head to the side. ‘Still frightfully little, although that’s changing by the day. We’re still trying to find the man who passed him the briefcase, as well as the contact he passed information on to. Doubt we’ll ever find out why. I don’t suppose you’ve figured that one out too, my girl?’

  ‘For money?’

  ‘What a bloody stupid question,’ he admonished. ‘I really do expect better of you. Of course for money. Although it would seem admiration also factored in. Sad, really. His father –’

  ‘I’m not concerned about his lineage. What sort of intelligence was he passing on?’

  ‘As far as I know, your name never came up, if that’s what you’re asking. You’re not listed in any of our files.’

  ‘And yet, he saw us together. Could have easily found out there’s no Veronica Sinclair at Marconi. Could have seen me in the casino or anywhere else in Estoril. Heaven knows, I saw him about.’

  He inclined his head, acknowledging the point.

  ‘So, his area of focus?’

  Matthew sighed. ‘He was one of my men working to foil the wolfram smuggling. It would seem he passed on any updates as to how we were dealing with the situation. Any new complaints, anything. To be fair, what he passed on was relatively low-level.’

  ‘And my work with Bertie?’

  ‘He knew nothing about that.’

  ‘Can you be certain of that?’

  Matthew pursed his lips and drew me into an empty bar, ordering two beers.

  ‘In our line of work, my dear, there is rarely certainty. We have to make do with probability. With calculated risks. So, while I don’t think he knew who you are, I cannot guarantee that. What do you want? I’d rather not extricate you with everything else going on, but I’d also rather not have you dead. Become rather fond of you in the past few decades, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Jolly good.’ He ignored my sarcasm and I continued. ‘And I’d rather not leave yet either. As far as I know, she is acting on her own.’

  ‘She?’

  ‘She. Sometimes women make good spies.’ I stated the obvious. ‘And assassins. Who would have thought it?’

  A ghost of a smile passed over his face.

  ‘Who indeed. You know who this woman is?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘And you won’t tell me?’

  ‘With the leaks in your organisation? No chance.’ I pushed the beer around in a small circle, relenting. ‘But if I can’t handle her, you’ll be the first to know. And I’ll need to get out fast.’

  ‘And your Abwehr friend?’

  ‘Knows I am more than I admit. And that someone wants me dead. Ironically, the latter bothers him more than the former.’

  ‘Does he know who it is?’

  Interesting that he was less curious about my would-be assassin than he was about Eduard Graf.

  ‘No. Not yet.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Why? Because I haven’t told him. The damned woman is working for the Germans. She’s on his side. And while he might suspect I’m more than I seem, I’d rather not confess to being a British operative. He’s bloody Abwehr, Matthew. Part of their job – his job – is to root out people like me.’

  ‘Would it make any difference if I asked you – again – to be careful?’

  I nodded and made to move away when he grabbed my arm.

  ‘I will do.’

  He released me and stood back. ‘If there’s a risk—’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I know you know.’ He cocked his head to the side, eyes narrowed as he studied me. ‘There’s something else, isn’t there? Something you’re not telling me.’

  ‘There’s always something I’m not telling you. It’s rather a quid pro quo.’

  Matthew was already shaking his head. ‘It doesn’t work like that, old girl. Not when your life’s on the line.’

  I shrugged. ‘There isn’t much you could do, even if I had proof.’

  ‘Proof of what?’

  ‘Someone is watching my home.’

  ‘This is Lisbon, my girl. Someone is watching everyone. I told you that the first day.’

  ‘It feels different. More intense. I haven’t been able to find them. Yet. Whoever they are, they’re good, but I can feel eyes on me every time I come in or go out. Bloody inconvenient.’ My blasé tone fell on deaf ears.

  ‘More than the usual bufos?’

  ‘I think so, yes.’

  ‘I don’t like this, Lisbet. Do remember to be careful.’

  ‘Always.’

  *

  She wasn’t difficult
to find. Her chestnut hair glowed in the sun as she sipped cocktails with two German women at a bar near the beach. Sensing that she’d be occupied for some time, I made my way into Lisbon and her safe house.

  Her front door wasn’t designed to deter a trained burglar, and gaining entry was easy enough. She wasn’t stupid, though, and had set up tricks to determine if anyone had been in. A tripwire near the door led to nothing more serious than a small array of potted plants, which would acknowledge an unauthorised intruder. There were also a few threads hanging from doorknobs and a book at an awkward angle where everything else was aligned. I’d used similar tricks when living in France.

  I started with the usual places, peering into drawers and closets, shoeboxes and hatboxes. Found an appalling array of clothing, but little else.

  Moved to the bookshelves. Romantic novels in Spanish, and a few on horticulture. These offered gardening tips and a handful of French letters. The other books, in German, provided a bit more insight. The countess hadn’t struck me as being interested in military history, but the language made me wonder just how far her links to Germany went.

  Frustrated, a glance at the clock on the desk confirmed that while quite a lot of time had passed, I had no proof, much less any inkling, as to why the countess had targeted me.

  The floorboards sounded solid, as did the walls, and the only thing living under the bed was a dust ball the size of a small cat. And then it was too late. A key in the lock gave barely enough time to turn off the light and crawl beneath the bed.

  Heart pounding and fighting the urge to sneeze, I watched slim ankles in Italian shoes cross the floor, followed by heavier boots. She turned in a 360 degree arc, as if cataloguing anything that might be out of place. Her skirt fell a few inches from my face, and she moved closer to the man.

  Not only was she not alone – she was about to entertain. On the bed above me.

  The skirt was quickly joined by a blouse and a lace camisole. And then a heavy clunk as the man’s belt buckle hit the floorboards. His trousers weren’t the fine material of an officer’s uniform, but the heavy denim of a workman.

  Wouldn’t it be funny if it was Bertie?

  On second thoughts, it wouldn’t be funny at all.

  From the sound of it, there was no love involved, just an animalistic coupling that made me ashamed to witness it, yet unable to escape.

  With one hand on my PPK, I closed my eyes against a growing dread about what I was about to experience, and an even bigger dread of what she might have seen if she had been watching me as closely as I now watched her.

  *

  The bandage at the top of her arm could have hid a bullet wound, and was all the confirmation I needed. She moved to the bathroom after he finished, while he sprawled, naked, on a chair in the parlour. He was fair-haired, taller than Bertie although not as tall as Schüller or Graf, with the thick body of a labourer, and as his splayed legs demonstrated, an impressive suite of assets.

  She emerged, clad in a blue silk kaftan. Her voice no longer held the husky tones of pre-sex, but the tone was low and the German consonants lacked any hint of what I had believed to be her native accent.

  She handed the man a folder from her handbag, waiting as he leafed through it. He grunted some sort of approval and tossed the dossier onto a sideboard. Perhaps it wasn’t so interesting after all.

  And then he pulled her forward. She accommodated him by raising the hem of the kaftan and straddled his hips. Locked her lips on his and guided him inside.

  What was in that folder to warrant such a reaction? And despite the plethora of French letters in the horticulture books, none were used. Did she want to get pregnant?

  A harsh rip and the blue silk fluttered to the floor; his mouth was on her breasts as she rode him.

  This time, it didn’t last as long, and the man exited while she ran a bath. I crawled out from under the bed and locked the door to the flat. The folder was gone, but she was alone. It wasn’t going to get much better than this. I sat on an armchair facing the bathroom door, PPK in hand, and waited.

  She took her time cleaning herself up. I didn’t blame her; I felt as if I needed a hot shower myself.

  The door opened and she stood for a moment, silhouetted by the gaslights, towelling dry her long chestnut hair. Her eyes widened when she saw me, but she quickly hid her surprise behind a calm demeanour. Her chin lifted a notch, defiant.

  Feeling oddly calm, I smiled.

  ‘Guten abend.’

  Chapter Thirty-five

  S

  he seemed equally calm; only a slight narrowing of her eyes warned that she was about to move. She threw the towel at my face and I batted it away as she bolted backwards into the bathroom. My bruised ribs made me slower than usual, as I jumped over the low table and braced my good arm against the door. I slid my foot into the breach to prevent her from locking me out. Heard a drawer roll open and pushed hard, taking the chance that with her attention diverted, I could get inside.

  The door gave way, and instead of seeing a pistol pointing at my head, the countess stood in the middle of the bathroom, her hands at her sides. Smirking.

  She hadn’t had enough time to booby-trap the room, and there was no window to escape from, so at first I wasn’t sure what she was smiling about. Then her jaw tensed, making a crunching sound. I wasn’t fast enough to get to her before the capsule between her teeth released the arsenic, or whatever other fatal cocktail the Germans stuffed into their L-pills, into her body.

  Special Operations had given me a similar pill, but I had thrown it away at the first opportunity. Why die when you could fight back? Laura held my gaze as the poison took effect. Soon she struggled to stand and sank to one knee, one pale hand on the countertop.

  ‘You stupid, stupid woman,’ I whispered as she fell to the ground.

  Kneeling beside her head, I asked the only question needed: ‘Why?’

  She closed her eyes, her slight smile spiting me until the end. If she felt any pain, she kept it to herself, along with all the other secrets she held.

  ‘Stupid, stupid woman’ I repeated.

  My heart was still pounding, although less from exertion than it had been minutes before. Throughout the whole event, there had been no crashes, no screams. No logical reason for anyone to come and investigate, but logic had little to do with my life and I didn’t want to be found here, with the body of a dead Spanish countess, whoever or whatever else she happened to be.

  I wiped down the surfaces I had touched. Any other secrets the flat held would have to be found by the police. Pulling my cap low over my eyes, I exited quickly from the flat. As far as I knew, unseen, although I wasn’t about to take the chance of the police, or worse, the PVDE arriving.

  I had gone to Laura’s safe house with the intention of getting answers, not seeking her death, and despite her repeated attempts to murder me, there was neither joy nor satisfaction in it. The evening left me with sadness, anger over the unanswered questions I had, and a growing sense of foreboding. What if she’d kept incriminating information on me? Who was the German man she gave the file to and what was in it?

  And what, if anything, did he know about me?

  *

  I was spoiling for a fight by the time I returned to Estoril. Tired of being on the run, of being attacked and stalked, I had had enough. Dressed again as Solange, albeit in dark clothes, I circled the streets around my home, looking for anything out of place. Couldn’t see anyone, but felt a presence. Was it one of Köhler’s men? One of Eduard’s? Or the PVDE?

  The Deschamps’ home was dark. Not good if I had to scream for help, but at least Claudine wouldn’t be a witness to whatever happened after I managed to draw my watcher away.

  I passed through the gate. Paused. Turned around to leave, sensing him following me. I moved up the hill, past the other houses and villas, until dwellings were sparse enough to have truly dark patches between them. I was tired. Past tired. My arm hurt and my ribs hurt. But at least I was alive,
and wasn’t inclined to give that up.

  Blending into the shadows, I allowed him to get in front of me. A large man, far taller than the gardener-bufo, and unfamiliar, but what was in his hands told me all I needed to know. First, like me, he knew that the report of a gun would bring unwanted attention. The garrotte, on the other hand, was quiet enough. And with the cast on my arm, he would think he had the advantage.

  He was wrong, but I had to move fast. He must have heard me, deflected my blow and tried to get the garrotte around my neck. Raising my left arm, I stepped back, catching the wire on my cast. White pain reverberated up my arm, and I used that pain to fuel my anger. I grabbed the handles from him and lashed out with a leg.

  ‘Fotze,’ he grunted, stumbling, and falling to the ground.

  The lights went on in a nearby house. Someone called out, their words unintelligible.

  Time was running out. Garrotte in hand, I slipped behind him, sliding the wire over his hand and tightening it around his neck.

  ‘Who are you? Who do you work for,’ I whispered in his ear. First in German and then in English, because it didn’t matter any more if he knew who I really was. There was just enough slack in the wire that he should have been able to answer. He chose to resist instead.

  With no choice left, I tightened the wire.

  When he stopped moving, I patted down his body down, looking for clues. Pocketed his papers, and left him where he lay, the wire still around his neck.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  A

  ccording to his papers, Alois Bergmann was born in Hannover and was in Lisbon for business, working for a German shoe company. Utter rubbish, of course. Shoe salesmen don’t skulk around, stalking women with garrottes and guns. Gestapo agents, however, do.

  Had Laura arranged this before she died, or was this the work of Köhler? No, the grey-haired man would be here, supervising my demise, if that was the case. But the questions remained about Laura . . . until they didn’t. Sometimes the obvious answer was the right one. She might have been irked that Eduard threw her over for me, but found solace fast enough with Schüller. No, it wasn’t jealousy. The connection had to be through Allen-Smythe. If I’d seen him cropping up in all the wrong places, he might have seen me. Might have even connected Solange to Veronica.