by Mara Timon
And if that was the case – if whatever they thought I knew was enough of a threat to kill me – then who else had they shared the threat with? Who else would be coming after me to retaliate for their deaths?
With the body just up the hill, the knock on my front gate was not unexpected, but I tightened the sash on my dressing gown and stepped out on to the balcony. Two uniformed officers stood on the street outside with Claudine Deschamps. I stubbed out a cigarette on the ashes of Bergmann’s burnt papers and took my time going downstairs to greet them.
‘Senhora Verin?’
‘Yes?’
They showed me their ID. They were regular police, not the PVDE – a good sign.
‘May we come in?’ The shorter of the two spoke. He was built like a barrel, but his eyes were sharp.
‘Of course. The coffee is still hot. May I offer you a cup?’
Ignoring Claudine’s look of distaste, all three followed me into the kitchen. I poured three cups and put the sugar bowl on the table.
‘I’ll fix a fresh pot,’ Claudine said.
My neighbour poured her coffee down the drain and measured fresh grinds into the bowl.
‘What can I do for you?’
Barrel cleared his throat. ‘Did you hear anything . . . ahh . . . untoward last night, senhora?’
‘Me?’ I exchanged a wide-eyed glance with Claudine. Nothing to see here, officer. No answers to give . . . ‘Nothing at all. What’s happened?’
‘Someone was killed. Farther up the hill,’ Claudine piped up.
‘A man was found dead,’ Barrel clarified. ‘We are treating it as a suspicious incident.’
Keeping my eyes wide, I gasped.
‘No! So very many suspicious incidents these days. You know about Martin Billiot and, of course, Madame Deschamps’ husband? Ghastly.’ I reached for her hand and gave it a little squeeze. Felt a slight pang of guilt when she turned away to wipe away a tear. ‘Do you know who it was? Who did it?’ I kept a straight face as I added, ‘Do I have anything to worry about?’
‘No, no, senhora. I am certain you don’t. You heard nothing? Saw nothing? I am sorry, but we must ask.’
‘No.’
‘Did you know a man called Bergmann?’
That was fast; I hadn’t expected them to discover his name so soon. My frown was genuine enough.
‘I’m afraid not. Did you, Claudine?’
She shook her head. ‘The name sounds German, but he wasn’t an officer. I didn’t know him.’
The younger policeman looked at the cast on my arm.
‘An accident, senhora?’
The cast was filthy, but the area where plaster was missing was hidden by the sleeve of my dressing gown.
‘I had a nasty fall at the castle.’
They looked between us for a few moments before Barrel nodded.
‘Very well, then, we won’t waste your time.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Thank you, senhora.’
I saw them out and locked the door after them.
‘How awful.’
Claudine’s hands shook as she poured the hot coffee into a cup.
‘Do you think it was related to Christophe? You said –’
‘Claudine, I have no idea.’
I met her eyes directly, trying to assess whether she was lying as well.
‘Do you think . . . ? Would Eduard know?’
‘The man has only just died, Claudine. Besides, you know that if Eduard knew who killed Christophe, he would have already brought the man to justice.’
Her eyes filled with tears and she squeezed my hand.
‘I know he’s busy with Herr Köhler, but could you ask him to look into it?’
‘I think you think I have more sway over Eduard Graf than I do, but I’m happy to ask. What do you know of Herr Köhler?’ I kept my voice light, hoping she’d read the question as little more than idle curiosity.
‘I haven’t met him yet,’ she said. ‘But Haydn doesn’t like him. Says he’s Gestapo, sent here because Herr Hitler doesn’t trust the Abwehr, and thinks they’re plotting against him. Haydn says he’s causing problems for everyone here. Not just the Abwehr.’
‘Problems? Do you think he was involved with this Herr Bergmann?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t think so.’ She shrugged. ‘I’m surprised Eduard hasn’t said anything to you.’
‘Why would he?’
‘Haydn says he knew Köhler in Germany. That Eduard Graf seems to be the only person Köhler isn’t looking at. Why do you think that is?’
I sipped my coffee and shrugged. ‘I couldn’t tell you. Eduard doesn’t speak of his work to me, but I can tell you this – if Köhler isn’t interested in Eduard, it’s because he knows Eduard is loyal. And if you want me to ask Eduard about Christophe, I will. But I doubt he’ll have any answers.’
Claudine nodded, seeming to believe my words.
I only wished I did. If Eduard Graf knew Köhler back in Germany, and if Köhler knew who I was, how long would it be until Eduard handed me over to him?
*
In the middle of a hot Portuguese summer, it hadn’t taken long for Laura’s body to be found, and the count was brought down to the mortuary to identify her remains.
‘He doesn’t believe it was suicide,’ a woman at the next table whispered to her friend. ‘After all, why would the countess be in that part of town?’
‘Was there any sign of . . . well, you know?’
‘Murder?’
‘As well.’
‘The word they’re not saying is “rape”,’ Gabrielle said, sipping a glass of Pernod and staring out across the beach where a sea of tourists sunbathed. ‘There will be a post-mortem of course. And then an inquest. Count Javier will see to that. And given that Laura had the morals of a street cat, they’ll find something, although I’m not so sure it’ll be rape.’
Under the circumstances, it was safe enough to ask.
‘What do you think happened?’
‘Heaven knows, Solange. There were enough people who probably wanted to kill her, including her husband.’ She raised her shoulders in a quintessentially Gallic shrug, and tucked a strand of incongruously blonde hair behind her ear. ‘Maybe it was suicide, but why kill herself?’ She lowered her voice. ‘Unless she had a secret she didn’t want let out?’
‘Maybe she was expecting?’ Claudine suggested, staring into her own glass.
‘Well, if she was, she’d have palmed it off on her husband.’ Gabrielle flipped her hand, the sunlight dancing off her rings. ‘No, I think it was murder.’
Claudine nodded, and I followed her lead, but one thought kept scratching at the back of my mind: Laura wasn’t working alone. The inquest would find the poison, and whoever was running her would be alerted. L-pills were given out to prevent spies from surrendering their secrets; that she had one might raise eyebrows, might draw her handler into the open.
Unless of course, what drew him into the open was me. And the prospect of retribution.
Part 4
October 1943
Chapter Thirty-seven
R
etribution, if it was coming, was taking its time, and as I hunted my hunter, the Portuguese Attorney General, prodded by the British mission in Lisbon, put together the espionage case against Bendixen and his operation based on the information they’d found in the PVDE’s raid on Bendixen’s villas.
The case was tried in the military courthouse near the Baixa. It was a nondescript building in an innocuous square, but on this day it was far from average, and the courtyard pulsed with people from just about every nationality. They weren’t here to watch a trial; most wouldn’t be allowed inside. They were here to watch a spectacle: history being made, the first time since Salazar changed the law that a case was brought to trial of a foreign power committing espionage on Portuguese land, where the nation they were spying against wasn’t Portugal. No one knew what would happen. Would Salazar order the court
to take the easy way out, claim insufficient evidence of espionage and dismiss the case. Or would the men be convicted; expelled or incarcerated? Either way, Bendixen and his men were now out in the open.
The prosecutors went after the big names, including Bendixen and Schüller. People like Bertie, and even Pires, were considered too small fry to worry about, and while Pires was no doubt wondering where his next bribe would come from, Bertie had discreetly passed on information detailing how the dockside part of the network operated.
The October sun blazed down on the Rua do Arsenal. Gabrielle stretched out, trying to catch the best of the sun, while I hid under my floppy hat and dark sunglasses.
‘I heard the most extraordinary thing the other day,’ she said.
Julian and Claudine exchanged an eye-roll, but Gabrielle waited until I responded.
‘Dare I ask?’
‘Well, I overheard it from a pair of diplomats. English, you know, so I can’t vouch for it.’
Even Knut, panting at my feet, looked bored.
‘And?’
I reached under the table to ruffle his fur, wondering how Eduard was faring inside the courthouse.
‘It would seem that Mr Churchill went to Parliament, and revealed that Salazar gave him approval to construct an airbase.’ She raised her sunglasses and watched us closely to gauge our responses. ‘On the Azores!’
I straightened up slowly. This was big, and potentially spelled the end of the war. I hadn’t heard anyone speak of it before, although wouldn’t be surprised if both sides hadn’t made a case for access to the islands. A base on the Azores would allow us to fight Hitler’s U-boats from the air, without having to rely on the carriers, without having to worry about refuelling. It meant we could better protect our convoys. And with fewer subs threating our shipping, and a better supply chain, it would be a strategic coup.
Between that, and the possibility of Bendixen’s intelligence network being blown apart in the courthouse a few streets away, this was shaping up to be a jolly good day for the Allies.
‘If it’s true –’ I kept my voice slow, measured – ‘it’ll give the Allies quite an advantage, won’t it?’
‘Hitler’s been pressuring Salazar for years over those islands,’ Julian noted, dryly adding: ‘Who’d have thought a bunch of rocks in the middle of the Atlantic would be so important.’
‘Who indeed?’ Gabrielle asked, leaning back with a look that almost seemed self-satisfied. More than was warranted for a bit of gossip, salacious as it was.
Before I could think about what it meant, a shout came in the direction of the courthouse.
‘It’s about to start. Let’s go.’
Julian paid the bill, and we weaved through the crowds.
‘What do you think will happen? I mean, with Gabrielle’s news?’ Claudine asked, falling into step beside me.
‘I don’t know. As you once said, Claudine, if this had happened before Mussolini fell, it wouldn’t even be in question. But when even Franco is cutting his losses, and now the Azores?’ I shrugged. ‘Heaven only knows what Salazar will do.’
It was down to Rios Vilar’s delicate line of neutrality, assuming that it still applied. I couldn’t see how Salazar could really maintain neutrality if he let the Allies build that base.
‘Has Eduard mentioned anything about it?’
‘No.’
If my voice sounded grim, it was all too genuine. If he knew about it, he hadn’t shared that news with me. Neither had Matthew, although to be fair, both were focused on the court case, tasked with relaying updates back to their respective embassies.
‘What Salazar wants, the judges will deliver. Everyone knows that,’ she sighed.
And with Bendixen gone, would the smuggling ring be broken? With less naval intelligence, less tungsten steel, and with the added threat of an airbase in the Azores, how much longer could the war last?
And what then?
Gabrielle and Julian weaved through the crowd like dancers, while our path was cleared by an 80 pound Alsatian, but that thought jostled me worse than the crowd. What will happen when the war ends? These people had become friends. And Eduard . . .
As I took a steadying breath, forcing my sudden panic into a box labelled ‘cross that bridge when I come to it’, a man emerged from a side door, back straight, body vibrating with anger. Sunlight glinted off the medals on his chest as he shoved a PVDE officer out of his way and slipped into a dark Peugeot.
‘Oh, heavens, Solange. It’s Haydn. What’s happening?’ Claudine pushed forward but the Peugeot was already out of sight. She turned to me, eyes more bereft than curious. ‘That can’t be good news.’
‘I don’t know. If he was found guilty, surely they wouldn’t let him go.’
There wasn’t enough time to consider it; a short man in a smart suit appeared at the top of the steps. When the crowd quieted down, he relayed the verdict. His voice was lost in the crowd’s echo:
‘Guilty.’
Men filed from the building – journalists and witnesses, prosecutors and defendants. Anyone lucky enough to have a ticket to the circus. Knut barked when Eduard appeared, deep in conversation with Andreas Neumann, and dragged me through the crowd to his master.
‘It’s done?’ I asked, reaching for his hand.
He looked drained, forcing a weary smile for my benefit and ruffled the dog’s fur.
‘Every scrap of paper that was seized ended up in that damned courtroom.’ Eduard’s voice was heavy. ‘Proof undeniable, they decided, of our guilt in the matter.’
‘And the verdict?’
‘Incarceration and expulsion for anyone associated with “this unfortunate affair”, depending, of course, on the severity of their actions.’
‘Not much worse than it was before the laws changed.’
‘Never before have the English presented proof like this. Names and dates. Copies of the transmissions. And we handed it to them on a silver platter!’
‘Bendixen?’
‘Diplomatic immunity, although I imagine he’ll be recalled to Berlin.’ His words rang out like a death sentence.
‘You wouldn’t be recalled as well, would you?’ I asked, grabbing at his arm.
‘Me? I had no part in that operation.’
He sent Andreas ahead to secure a table away from the square and stood with his hand on my waist, as we were buffeted by the next wave of people emerging from the courthouse. A swarthy man spat at Eduard’s feet, signalling the mood.
The level of noise rose as Matthew appeared in the doorway, sporting a pale suit and a wide grin. Swarmed by reporters and their cameramen, he waved away the kudos, giving credit to the ‘fair and just’ Portuguese courts.
‘Was there any hint about how the Brits knew where to look?’ Claudine asked.
‘Anonymous tip.’
‘Anonymous, faugh! Someone must know something.’
Matthew swaggered forward, a wide grin on his face, and the walking stick swinging jauntily with each step. Claudine added, ‘Pretentious bastard.’
Eduard shrugged and tilted his face into the sun. He wouldn’t meet my eyes – a fair indication that he still wondered if I was the one who had betrayed them. There must have been no evidence presented to confirm that possibility and my sigh of relief was genuine enough.
Another black motor wound its way past the police lines and idled in front of the steps. It would seem that Matthew had finally begun to think of his own security. He paused on the bottom step, looked around as if about to relay a forgotten titbit, as the car door opened. Instead of a uniformed driver, a man in a dark shirt and trousers jumped out. Despite the heat, a black knitted cap was pulled low over his face. Two others, similarly clad, rushed Matthew. He moved with the grace of a younger man, sidestepping the first assailant. Dropped a shoulder and swung the swagger stick like a cricket bat, catching the other man behind the knees. The man staggered back, tripped over a step and sank to the ground. Matthew was already facing the second attacker.
The crowds, contained by the PVDE, erupted in screams.
Restrained by Eduard’s hand and the press of the crowd, I remained an observer. Kidnappings were common, but this was my godfather, and no one moved to help. He stood alone, wielding the stick like a cricketer, fighting off an attack by three men. One kicked out and Matthew stumbled to one knee. The second assailant manhandled him into the back seat and tossed the stick in after him. The crowd surged again and all I could see was the car speeding past the police barrier. Unmolested.
‘One less problem,’ a German voice muttered somewhere to my left.
‘Shocking.’
The woman beside me fanned herself with a lawn handkerchief and shook her head. Eduard herded us from the square, with Julian scribbling furiously, a cigarette dangling from his lips.
What would happen to Matthew? Beaten, tortured? His body ending up like Christophe’s, mangled and bloated, spat up from the Boca do Inferno?
Not if I had anything to do about it.
*
Eduard followed me into the parlour. He wound the gramophone and a fadista’s soulful voice filled the room. I was seething, but managed to maintain a cool voice.
‘Interesting conclusion to the case. Did you know about it?’
‘It was a foregone conclusion. The evidence the Portuguese – in reality, the English – presented was overwhelming.’ He poured two brandies and handed me one.
‘Yes, you’ve said that all along. That wasn’t what I asked.’
‘Did I know that the Englishman, the one who called you “Lisbet”, would be attacked? Kidnapped? I did not.’
I scanned his face, his eyes. If he lied, he was better at it than I realised.
He raised a finger, stopping my protest.
‘I have accepted your arguments that you do not know him.’
‘But you don’t believe them.’
‘No, Angel. I do not.’ He looked tired and sad. But oddly, not angry.
