City of Spies

by Mara Timon

  ‘What are you telling me, Eduard? That you don’t trust me, or you don’t care?’

  His laugh grated at the back of his throat. ‘That was never the question, Angel. You know I care. Far more than I should.’

  ‘But you think I’m an English spy.’

  It was a foolish challenge, breaking the rules of our détente. Maybe it was time.

  His dark eyes captured mine; he was as willing to walk into the minefield as I was.

  ‘A spy, perhaps. Maybe English. You are not what you seem, but I have known that for months.’

  ‘And it’s never bothered you?’

  ‘Oh, it bothers me.’

  ‘But not enough to make me disappear?’

  ‘Jesus God, Solange, what do you think I am?’

  ‘Loyal to your Reich.’

  ‘Loyal to my country.’ He held up one finger to make his point. ‘I am German. I fight for Germany. Do not fault me for that. I have never faulted you for fighting for what you believe in.’

  ‘So you do think I was the leak?’

  ‘No, you did not have access to Bem-me-Quer and were never inside. Do I think sometimes you pass on gossip to your Englishman? Yes, Solange, I do. However, these things are common knowledge within days. You fight with the tools you have, and while I do not like it, I accept it.’

  ‘Isn’t it your job to root out spies?’

  ‘My job has many aspects.’

  Was one of those to arrest Matthew? Me?

  The PPK was in my handbag, the sgian dubh at my thigh. Close enough if I needed to defend myself, but could I really stab Eduard?

  The answer bubbled up on a wave of despair. No. Not even to defend myself.

  Leaning against the sideboard, he watched my face, gauging my response as only a lover can.

  ‘I am a soldier, Solange. I accept that if I die in the service of my country, I die with honour. There is no honour in kidnappings. In making people “disappear”. But I am not everyone and I am frightened of the game you play.’

  ‘I’ve never played with you, Eduard.’

  ‘Yes. I know.’ His smile, tired yet genuine, didn’t last long. ‘But I know the way your mind works. I do not know what it is, but Harrington has a hold on you. I do not like it, but I am not foolish enough to think I can sever it.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘No? As you wish. All I ask is that you are careful. Whoever you really are, here you are a Frenchwoman, involved with a German officer. If you start asking about Harrington, trying to find him, the question must be asked – why is she interested? People will look at you closer. At me. I cannot allow this.’

  He was right. I would happily take risks on my own behalf, but with Köhler lurking about, I couldn’t risk drawing his attention to Eduard. Even if he was, by Claudine’s reckoning, the one man Köhler wasn’t looking at, I’d seen the Gestapo play the long game too many times to trust anything about them. To save one man I loved, would I be forced to betray the other? I sat down hard and looked down.

  Eduard’s hand covered mine.

  ‘I cannot allow you to jeopardise yourself. I would not be able to protect you.’

  ‘I don’t need your protection,’ I muttered.

  Eduard’s hand on mine was warm and secure. A knot rose in my throat, but I tried to brazen my way through this.

  ‘What makes you think I want to do anything anyway?’

  He snorted. ‘Angel, I would expect nothing less. Listen to me – this kidnapping wasn’t sanctioned. It confirms our guilt, makes us seem like animals. It is dishonourable. Do this for me – allow me to find out what happened.’

  I gasped, unable to believe what I was hearing.

  Eduard Graf took a deep breath.

  ‘Allow me to find your Englishman.’

  *

  Eduard left early the next day, the Ritterkreuz around his neck, a tangible reminder of his bravery. He rarely wore his uniform, much less the “iron necktie”, and I felt an odd foreboding when he kissed me goodbye.

  He’d asked me trust him, but how could I, when the only rationale he would give me was that he wanted to keep me safe? Why would an Abwehr officer do that?

  He couldn’t really expect me to sit around and do nothing. And he wouldn’t, of course. The only problem was that I had no plan. No starting point and no resources to find, much less free, my godfather. Certainly not without putting Eduard into Köhler’ cross hairs.

  I prowled through the house, making and discarding cups of coffee. Opening windows, only to close them moments later.

  Why would this German officer risk his life for a woman whom he didn’t entirely trust and a man who worked for his enemy?

  I had never asked him about that first evening, when he’d met Köhler at the Avenida Palace. Never asked about Köhler at all. Or his absence in the days between his accusing me of working with Matthew after the incident in the old castle, and his showing up at my house. Never pressed him as to why he pinned the Iron Cross to his uniform, but not the Nazi party badge. Was it as he had said, that his loyalty was to his country?

  He was a good German, but maybe not a good Nazi?

  If that were the case, then what the devil was he up to?

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  T

  he Pastelaria Suíça, located beside to the Rossio and some of the best shopping in Lisbon, did a good late-afternoon business. The locals referred to it as Bomparnasse, a nod to the Parisian district Montparnasse, combined with the Portuguese phrase for ‘good legs’. An obvious reference to the risqué refugee community that congregated there for coffee and pastries.

  A group of men sat beneath the awning, speculating on what had happened to the English diplomat when security was at the point where a seagull needed to show papers at the border. It was the question on everyone’s lips.

  Bertie and I communicated via dead letter boxes and newspaper advertisements, only when he had information to relay, and I hadn’t physically seen him in months. There was no time to make the appropriate arrangements to meet, but he’d mentioned this place before and it was better than waiting down at the docks. If I was lucky, he’d head here after his shift. And hopefully it was an early shift.

  A storm was brewing, and more than just on the political front. Dark, heavy skies threatened rain, and despite this, there were no tables available outside. I sat inside, in the corner, near a rotating fan that pushed tepid air around, listening to émigrés’ stories: the Portuguese minister, now forced into retirement, who’d helped French Jews escape before they could be sent east to the work camps; the horrible acts of the Gendarmerie, bastards in Occupied as well as Free France. Speculation on how one Otto Skorzeny had rescued Mussolini from where he was imprisoned in the Apennine Mountains. And what Hitler would now do with his shamed poodle.

  Three hours and a few cups of coffee later, Bertie swaggered in with two other men. He ordered a beer and sat down with his chums. Quaffed half of it before he ran his hands over the stubble on his head. To a chorus of catcalls, he pulled out the empty chair next to me and sat down.

  ‘This seat free?’

  He spoke in French, keeping in line with his alias, and flashed a rakish smile. Charm oozed from his battered face, and even with half-healed burns, he had a confidence that Lieutenant Neumann had yet to find.

  ‘And if it wasn’t?’

  ‘It isn’t now.’ Bertie chuckled, then lowered his voice. ‘You look good as a brunette, but if you wanted to see me, princess, you coulda left a calling card.’

  I snorted. ‘It’s a hothouse in here. Let’s go for a walk.’

  ‘Ah.’

  He grinned and helped me to my feet, winking at the two men, who were now calling out advice.

  ‘Well, that was discreetly done,’ I said.

  ‘Had to maintain my reputation, princess. What can I do for you?’

  We stopped across the square at a tobacconist edged with a carved wood frame and blue tiles that featured
a frog and a crane. I bought two packets of cigarettes and handed him one. Meandered a little farther before I spoke.

  ‘I need your help.’

  ‘An’ here I thought you wanted me for my good looks an’ charming personality.’

  ‘Of course.’ My voice was dry.

  ‘My rapier wit?’

  ‘That too,’ I replied, deadpan.

  ‘My body?’ he asked, throwing his arms wide.

  ‘Don’t push your luck.’

  Dark clouds hovered over the Tagus, but the air remained still. I pulled a lace fan from my handbag and created the small breeze that Nature had withheld.

  ‘You have Nazi scum you want me to question? No? So if it’s not that, I’m guessing it’s the English diplomat you’re after. The one what was kidnapped yesterday.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘He was the one what brought you in to question me. Reckoned you’d be around, sooner or later. Figured you’d want to find him.’

  ‘Do you know where he is?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Can you find him?’

  He shrugged.

  ‘I think you can.’

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘Because,’ I said, pausing to light a cigarette, ‘I think he’s been taken to one of the quays.’

  He hummed a response – looked interested.

  ‘One of the quays from where they smuggle wolfram,’ I amended.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘They’re remote. The security infrastructure is already in place. Do I really need to continue?’

  ‘Right. So assumin’ he was taken to a quay, d’you have any idea how many o’ those there are?’

  ‘Tens, hundreds. I don’t know. A lot. But they won’t want dock workers around while they question him. Find me a quay – another quay – that isn’t used often.’ Thought a bit, then clarified. ‘Or even better – find me one that closed recently. One that started to turn the workers away in the last day or two. It can’t be far.’

  His face was carefully blank. He raised his index finger.

  ‘One condition.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘When I find out where your toff is stashed,’ he said, crossing his arms over his chest, ‘I want in on getting him out.’

  ‘Why?’

  He shrugged. ‘Boredom.’

  ‘You’re willing to blow your cover for boredom?’

  ‘Listen, lady, I’ve been trained, same as you, to do more’n pass on gossip. You want to go in after him? Fine. But you’re not having all the fun. I’m going in with you. You got that, princess?’

  I looked up at the grey clouds amassing on the horizon and wondered if it was a symbol. None of the men I knew trusted me to do this on my own, but I wasn’t stupid. Knew I couldn’t pull this off without help. Matthew Harrington had been missing for more than twenty-four hours, and each moment that slipped by took him farther away. I’d take help from whatever quarter I could find it, whether it was an Abwehr officer, a half-English thug, or anything in between.

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  T

  he next day, the storm finally broke. Big fat drops bounced off the ground and slid off my umbrella.

  ‘Would you like to move inside, madame?’ The waiter’s once-crisp jacket stuck to his shoulders.

  ‘No, thank you, but another Pernod would be nice.’

  Moored boats bobbed in the harbour, like toys on the steel-grey Atlantic. The atmosphere on shore wasn’t much friendlier.

  Eduard had come to see me at midday. He had no news and I suspected his call was to make sure I was at home, rather than planning anything untoward. Inactivity wasn’t in my nature and after he left, I wandered through the shops and cafés, bars and restaurants, relying on the gossip mill to provide a clue as to Matthew’s whereabouts.

  ‘I heard he played cricket for Oxford,’ a woman sitting nearby said. ‘With that swing I believe it.’

  Utter rubbish. Matthew, like my father, graduated from St Andrews.

  ‘I heard he was part of the Geneva Convention after the Great War,’ another said.

  Hogwash, although he probably would have loved to play a part in it.

  ‘You’re both wrong,’ a third corrected. ‘He was in London, apprehending an East End gangster family.’

  He was a diplomat, you old bat! Not a bobby.

  Speculation was rife, and not limited to his career. A mistress in the Baixa. Another in the Algarve. Young, old, female, male. If a story could be conceived, it was attributed to my godfather. None had any substance. Whoever had taken him had paid the right people to be quiet.

  The waiter set my drink in front of me as lightning split the sky. Ozone fizzled, almost tangible.

  ‘I love what you’ve done with your hair,’ Julian drawled, interrupting my thoughts.

  The storm’s electricity had sent my hair mad. It was now secured in a twist, fastened by a well-placed pencil.

  ‘Go away.’

  ‘It suits you. Brings out an unexpected bohemian look.’

  ‘I’m armed.’

  I picked up a butter knife from the table and waggled it at him.

  ‘Of course you are.’ He slid his drink to safety under the umbrella, and sat across from me. ‘Everyone is. Especially now. Wouldn’t be surprised if you had a pea-shooter in your bag.’ He reached across. ‘Can I see?’

  I slapped his wrist.

  ‘Finally, a break from the sun,’ he sighed. ‘Weather’s turned, but then, a lot of things are turning. The Allies are crawling up the Boot, the Krauts are on the run, the Danes have lost their government and the poor bastards out there –’ he swept his arm out towards the city – ‘they’re still starving. Yet all we can talk about is the English diplomat. This whole thing’s depressed her, you know.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Claudine, of course. She’s single-handedly trying to drain her wine cellar. Drowning her sorrows – wallowing in misery. Call it what you will. Wouldn’t be surprised if her little befuddled mind has juxtaposed the Englishman for that waste of space she married.’ He paused and then crossed himself. ‘God bless his miserable soul.’

  Julian leant in to take a sip of his whiskey, ignoring a large drop that fell from his nose onto the back of his hand.

  ‘What’s your excuse?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘You look as rubbish as she does. Pondering great truths or are you, too, mourning the dashing Englishman?’

  ‘Mourning?’ I schooled my features to give nothing away. ‘He’s dead then?’

  ‘Who knows?’ He rubbed his nose. ‘Might be, if the right people have got hold of him, but I think that if they wanted him dead, they’d have killed him on the steps. No, they’ll keep him alive, until he tells them whatever they’re after. Assuming, of course, that he knows anything. What happened to send you on a mad crawl through half the bars in Estoril?’

  ‘Consider me a restless version of Claudine.’

  He didn’t laugh; he brayed. ‘Only you’re a lick more sensible, not as drunk, and your man might be overworked, but he’s not dead.’

  ‘You’ve seen him?’

  ‘A few hours ago, through the window of a car. Blasted thing almost hit me.’

  ‘How did he look?’

  ‘Exhausted. Aren’t you concerned for my safety?’

  ‘No. Did you dent the BMW?’

  ‘No sympathy from my dearest friends.’ He pulled a long face at my snort. ‘All right, then – a dear friend of one of my dearest friends. And, to be fair, you look like you might need sympathy more than I do. When was the last time you saw your dashing hero?’

  ‘An hour around lunchtime.’

  ‘Conjugal visit? Oh, you’re not married, are you?’ In the rain, his face softened. ‘From what I understand, between this, and Gabi’s news about the Azores, the German embassy has been set on its arse. No one claims to have the Englishman. Although whether to believe them is a different matter.’ He ran his fingers through his
slicked-back hair. ‘I do wonder if they’re related.’

  That was interesting. ‘How so?’

  ‘Just a guess, but he was in the courthouse. Was he involved in orchestrating the raid? How did he know where to raid?’ Julian took another sip of whiskey, and breathed a happy, fumy sigh. ‘Although rather a bit late, if you ask me. The proverbial horse has already bolted.’

  Unless, as Julian said, they were after whoever had passed on that information to Matthew. Me. I picked up my empty glass, wondering whether I should order another one. How long before Matthew broke? How long before it wasn’t a few random thugs who hunted me, but the whole bloody German mission?

  ‘At least in France we didn’t have this sort of behaviour. Kidnappings on the streets, in broad daylight. And no one raises a finger? Julian, this war is making savages of us all.’ I was proud that my voice didn’t wobble.

  ‘War does that, my love.’ He stared over the rocks. ‘At least they leave the everyday man alone.’

  ‘And who’s that, here? The starving hordes on the street? The refugees from across Europe? Was Christophe an everyday man? Are you? A novelist who enjoys needling one side or the other, depending on the day?’

  ‘Depending on my mood,’ he corrected, taking a sip from the delicate crystal.

  ‘So both sides alternate between loving you and hating you. What’s to say you won’t be next?’

  He leant back in the chair, the rain slick on his face. The corners of his mouth twitched and he swished his glass around. Stopped when he realised it was being diluted, and placed his hand over the top.

  ‘Ah, my dear. That’s easy. A. I’m not important enough, and B. It won’t happen to me simply because I don’t care if it does. It’s the moment that you begin to care, dear woman, when you have something that makes you want to live, that things go wrong.’

  Was that it? Had I survived this long because I’d never really cared? But now there were people I cared for: my Machiavellian godfather; the broken Frenchwoman getting drunk in the dark up the hill; even the barmy Irishman across from me. And Eduard.

  God help me.

  ‘Ghastly night to be out.’ Julian pushed my glass towards me. ‘Right then. Finish your drink and I’ll drive you home.’