by Mara Timon
‘You don’t need to do this, Eduard.’
‘Actually, Angel, I do.’
‘Not for me, you don’t.’
‘That’s my cue to take me leave.’ Bertie paused at the door, yanking his non-existent forelock. ‘Princess, Fritz. Try not to kill each other before we rescue the toff, will you?’
Eduard waited until he heard the outside gate open and close.
‘I told you, I need your diplomat alive. If not, everything I’ve worked for dies with him.’
He was working with Matthew? Why on earth would he be doing that?
‘I cannot let that happen,’ Eduard continued. ‘I would prefer you to stay here.’ He held up one hand, stilling my protests. ‘But I know that would be useless. Unless I tie you to the bed, you’ll find a way to be there anyway.’
‘What choice do I have? How long will he be questioned before he gives away my name? My real name.’
‘Which is?’
‘I rather like the way you call me “Angel”,’ I admitted. ‘But my parents named me Elisabeth. Why didn’t you tell me you spoke English?’
‘You never asked.’
‘I’m asking now. You can’t speak French. Your Portuguese is abysmal. But you’re fluent in English?’
‘My father liked the English. He thought it was a useful language.’ His laughter was mirthless. ‘I don’t think he understood just how useful.’ He stood up, signalling the end to the conversation. ‘I have things I need to arrange. I’ll pick you up at nine o’clock tomorrow.’
I watched him leave – this Abwehr officer who was willing to liberate a captured enemy diplomat. An English-speaking Abwehr officer, who shunned the other members of his organisation, instead socialising with the key players in Naval Intelligence. Who represented people requiring ties that Matthew Harrington could provide.
Who really was Eduard Graf?
And did Köhler know?
Chapter Forty-one
A
crisp breeze blew through the French doors, an innocent promise of autumn that belied the day’s agenda. The blonde wig was perched atop the bedpost, having refused to be coaxed into a military style; I would have to rely on pads and cosmetics, to transform my face into a stranger’s.
A motor rumbled outside, and I hid the wig inside the closet, slipped the Luger and two spare clips into my handbag and locked the doors behind me.
Eduard, dressed in his uniform, lounged against the bonnet of a black Mercedes staff car. The October sun shone off his hair, and if he was still angry from the night before, he hid it well. So did I. There would be a conversation, with the last remaining truths being aired, but not yet.
Claudine, standing on her balcony, raised a hand in greeting as I climbed into the Mercedes.
‘Maybe it was a good thing that I couldn’t arrange the wig into a knot,’ I said. ‘Claudine is a better guard dog than Knut.’
‘She thinks we are going for a picnic.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I told her so.’ Eduard started the engine and looked over at me. ‘What is wrong with Knut?’
‘He licked my hand within seconds of meeting me.’
‘He has good taste.’ He handed me his cap and put the car into gear. ‘We will stop along the way so you can change. There is a uniform in one of the bags.’ Eduard’s mood was as serious as mine. ‘Are you certain you want to do this, Angel?’
It had little to do with ‘want’. I had no lust for battle, but even if there wasn’t a threat to me, I couldn’t leave my godfather to the Nazis. It was that simple.
The trees whipped past, interspersed with the pastel houses that became less frequent the farther we drove from Lisbon.
‘Angel?’
‘It was my idea,’ I reminded him. ‘And there’s no other choice.’
The car slowed down. ‘You could stay home and let me take care of this.’
‘And wait to hear how you and that East End idiot botched it?’
Eduard reached for my hand. ‘I cannot speak for your thug, but please, Angel. Have faith in me.’
‘I do.’
Despite everything, I did have faith in him. It was trust that I struggled with – still struggling to separate Eduard the man from Major Graf, Abwehr officer. And rely on a feeble hope that he wouldn’t betray me.
So, maybe I did trust him.
He turned the car on to a dirt track and cut the ignition. Handed me a bag with a reasonably unwrinkled drab green tunic, skirt, and cap.
‘You want me to change here?’
‘We haven’t passed another car for ten minutes and it isn’t safe to use a hotel, even if we could find one. Go ahead, Angel. I’ll keep watch.’
He reached into a second bag, stored in the well behind the driver’s seat. It looked heavy.
‘Extra ammunition?’ I asked.
‘And a few charges,’ he acknowledged. ‘Your man says he can set them.’
He took out four spare clips, slipping two into his pockets. Reached into my handbag and pulled out my Luger to check it, grunted, then checked his own. He leant back against the car, facing away. As awkward as I felt, he looked worse.
‘Eduard, if you’re guarding my modesty, you’re a little late.’
He snorted, but sat down again in the driver’s seat, keeping his eyes straight ahead. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d seen my breasts and despite the gravitas of the day, I wanted to tease him.
‘Eduard.’
I moved closer and ran a finger down his arm.
Eduard cast a quick glance my way. His eyes widened as we heard the hum of an engine.
‘Angel!’
I didn’t think – I reacted. Clad in skirt and camisole, I launched myself at him, my knee hitting the steering wheel as my leg straddled his. With a pang, I remembered another country, and another man’s kiss to hide behind. Alex Sinclair had fought for something he believed in. He was too young to die, and so was I.
An old wagon bumped into sight, two men in the front and another two in the back. They called out to us, and Eduard, one hand buried in my hair, waved them off, his lips not leaving mine.
‘Did they recognise us?’ I asked once the sounds of their vehicle had faded.
He shrugged. ‘I doubt they saw anything other than your breasts.’ His hands caressed me for a moment more before lifting me off his lap. ‘Get dressed. We have work to do.’
*
The old soldier stood in front of a hut, a clipboard in his hand. He was of average height, stocky, with a face scarred from weather and combat. His MP 40 Maschinenpistole was slung low across his body. I’d expected another pimply faced youth to guard the quay, not a veteran of the front lines with a paratrooper’s submachine gun. I met his gaze as he glared, first at me, then at Eduard, reclining behind me in the big Mercedes.
‘What’s an alter Hase like you doing on guard duty?’ Eduard asked.
The guard ignored the question. ‘Turn about, this area is restricted.’
‘I’m well aware of that. Please raise the gate, sergeant.’
‘Against orders, sir. None to pass.’ He raised the machine gun menacingly.
‘Herr Kapitän sent me.’
Did Eduard know which captain was in charge, or was he bluffing? From his impassive face it was difficult to tell, and I resolved never to play poker with the man.
‘I have my orders, sir.’
Dogmatic, intense. Not easy to brazen through, but for one thing . . .
The voice of a commanding officer.
‘Raise the gate, sergeant!’ Eduard barked.
His body leant forward, his voice battlefield precise. Instead of my lover, in the rear-view mirror, I saw the Panzer commander, leading his division as it trampled through France. Felt a stifling fear.
‘I’m sorry, sir. My orders are clear.’
A dark shape moved behind him, but I couldn’t look away from the weapon aimed at me.
‘As are mine.’ Eduard ordered. ‘Drive on. Run the fo
ol over if he doesn’t move.’
Crouched low, I revved the ignition and crashed through the barrier. The guard jumped back. I expected to hear gunfire, feel metal rounds riddle my body.
In the rear-view mirror, the guard aimed his weapon. The scarred finger squeezed the trigger and I braced myself for the impact.
There was a flash of sunlight on silver and the old veteran slumped into Bertie’s arms. My breath came out in a soft whoosh as I slowed the car. I hadn’t realised I was holding it.
‘Did you know that was going to happen?’
‘No.’ A fine sheen of sweat shone on Eduard’s brow, and I realised that he had never actually believed that his bluff would work. It became more difficult to breathe, and I clawed at the top button of my tunic. Eduard’s hand stilled mine, his soft voice slowing my pounding heart. ‘You did well, Angel. Stop the car and give your goon a moment to catch up.’
I forced my heart back into rhythm. It was bad enough that Eduard had seen my weakness. I couldn’t allow Bertie to witness it as well.
Bertie dragged the guard’s body into the hut and emerged moments later, wearing his uniform and holding his machine gun. He sprinted to catch up to the car.
‘A fucking sergeant? What d’you think I am?’ he muttered, jumping into the back seat.
‘The same size. The colour suits you,’ Eduard said.
‘Sod off, Fritz.’ Bertie’s voice had lost his usual banter. ‘You wasn’t followed?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘I’ve been watching for that.’
‘Good. An even dozen of ’em in there, princess. Three questioning your toff.’
‘He’s still alive?’
‘He was, an hour ago. Maybe not so comfortable, but still breathin’.’
‘Where are the other nine?’
‘Around the warehouse. Place is stacked with barrels.’
I blinked, bit my lip. ‘Wolfram?’
‘Disguised as lead. See if we can get it on to the speedboat before we leave. You have my charges, Fritz?’
‘In the bag.’ Eduard passed one of the canvas satchels to Bertie. ‘Careful with them. How are they armed?’
‘Mostly sidearms. Lugers. A few have K98ks. Nothing like this.’
He stroked the lean metal of the MP 40. There was little doubt that he’d keep it after all this. A souvenir or a tool for other times, although he’d have the Devil’s own time getting that back to Shoreditch.
‘Slow the car, princess,’ he said as the first outbuilding came into sight. ‘I get off here.’
‘Don’t forget to wait for my signal.’
Bertie nodded, slid from the seat and into the trees.
I closed my eyes and prayed to a god that had long since stopped listening.
Chapter Forty-two
T
wo armed guards came out of the warehouse. They wore plain clothes but their bearing was military. The first one blocked our path, left arm raised, warning us to stop. When we didn’t, he pointed his Schmeisser at me, reinforcing the message. The other stood back, weapon ready.
Worry exploded into panic and I struggled to maintain control, stamping down on the insidious fear as well as the brake. Gravel crunched under the wheels as the Mercedes halted.
Under the soldiers’ watchful eyes, I opened the door for Eduard. His uniform was the entry key and the soldiers responded. Tall and aloof, he stalked towards the warehouse. I followed, hands clasped behind my back to hide their trembling. And the Luger tucked into my skirt.
‘Bet he’s shagging the driver,’ one of the soldiers muttered. ‘Fucking Abwehr.’
Any reply was silenced by Eduard’s icy stare.
The soldier at the door was a broad man of about thirty with the big hands of a farmer, and the demeanour of one who takes rather than gives orders. He allowed us to pass and closed the door behind us.
‘You can wait for the major in the office,’ he said, dismissing me. ‘There’s coffee.’
Once my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I scanned the warehouse. Barrels were stacked along one wall, almost to the ceiling. A catwalk ran along the back wall, perhaps ten feet deep, that ended in an enclosed room with another man standing just outside, smoking a cigarette. His rifle was propped against the wall.
In the far corner of the ground floor, under a naked bulb hanging from the ceiling, Matthew Harrington slumped in a chair with his hands tied behind him. His eyes might have been vague, but his croak was recognisable: ‘If she was blonde, she’d be a dead ringer for Veronica Lake.’
Arsehole.
The men nearest to him shrugged, and one cuffed the back of his head. So far I’d counted seven.
‘The office?’ I asked.
‘Ja. Stairs are over there.’
The guard flicked the end of the cigarette over the railing as I approached. His eyes burned with barely concealed lust as I climbed the stairs. I played it for all it was worth, slowing my pace, and adding an exaggerated wiggle. Behind him, another man sat at a desk, riffling through papers.
Eight and nine.
The soldier wolf-whistled as I sashayed past. I tilted my head and gave him a reasonable facsimile of the sultry look Veronica Lake was famous for. His eyes were glued on the expanse of my legs, although the man at the desk barely looked up. I ran my hand up my leg, raising the hem of my skirt, inch by inch.
The soldier closed the door about the time my hand reached the tip of the sgian dubh. My hand closed around the dagger and when the soldier pulled me close for a kiss, I drew his head down and plunged the knife through his tunic, under his breastbone and yanked it upwards. A rush of blood cascaded over my hands but I was already moving towards the desk.
The other man fumbled for his sidearm, and in an instant I recognised him: he was the man from Laura’s apartment. The lover she’d given the folder to.
I dropped to one knee, as I’d seen Alex Sinclair do so long ago in that field in France, and flicked the little knife.
‘Crazy whore!’ His words were cut off with a gasp. He stared at the blade sticking out of his chest, his pistol clattering to the floor. I closed the distance, pulled the knife out and sliced his throat.
‘Fucking Nazi.’
I returned the compliment, kicking his corpse for good measure. Grabbed the papers and stuffed them under my tunic for safekeeping. Laura had been dead for months. These wouldn’t be the same papers, but they might be of interest to someone at the embassy.
A quick glance at the wall clock confirmed that it had been less than five minutes since we entered the building. If Bertie’s numbers were right there were only ten of them left. And we still had the element of surprise. I slipped my knife back into its sheath, took the rifle and stepped on to the catwalk.
This crazy plan might actually work.
*
Bertie was perched high on the barrels across the way. He held up his hand, thumbs up, maybe congratulating me, maybe asking if I was OK. I held up two fingers, letting him know there were two fewer men to deal with.
He held up three with a smug grin. Not counting the guard, that brought the count down to eight, and the action – the real action – had yet to start.
Down below, Eduard stood above Matthew. One of my godfather’s eyes was swollen closed and there was a gash at his temple. But he was breathing.
‘Get up!’ Eduard barked.
Matthew didn’t move, and I looked away. A pack of cigarettes was perched on the balustrade and I would have given anything in that moment for the chance of lighting up. Instead, I loaded the dead man’s rifle, and moved into the shadows, before anyone could notice me.
‘What did you do to him?’ Eduard asked one of the men. ‘Drugs?’
‘Not yet. Orders were to hold off until an interrogator arrived.’
‘Yes, I can see how well you followed them.’
Sarcasm was lost on the man, who spat at Matthew’s feet.
‘Open your eyes, you English bastard!’ Eduard barked, removing his sidearm and sliding the saf
ety off. I picked up the rifle and lined up my shot, and waited for Eduard to make his move.
The strange thing about a Luger: when it fires, the knee joint mechanism jerks up, so fast it’s a blur. Clever thing. It jumped twice and the two men to the left of Matthew fell. With a loud report from my rifle, the third sank to the ground. Eduard kicked Matthew’s chair, toppling it to the ground. He knelt, worked on the ropes.
Pandemonium.
I aimed just ahead of the soldier running at Eduard. The bullet clipped his arm. He roared but didn’t stop. With one fluid movement, Eduard picked up his gun and shot the soldier through the heart.
A tremendous explosion rocked the warehouse and I fell to my knees. Watched helplessly as the rifle dropped over the balustrade. Reached for my pistol, bracing myself for the second charge.
Eduard had thrown his body over Matthew’s to protect him. Now he knelt with his Luger clutched in both hands while Matthew acquired a sidearm from one of the bodies.
Two; three; another three . . . no – four. Assuming no one was killed in the blast, perhaps another three men were left. Other than the greedy flames, there was no movement below. No stutter of gunfire; no soldiers racing at us. I edged down the stairs, my back skimming the wall.
At the base was a small stack of barrels. Over the hissing of the fire, I heard breathing, and tightened my grip on my pistol. The man’s weapon was in front of me seconds before I could locate the rest of him through the smoke. The flames glinted off his fair hair, and the pistol in his hand.
For a moment, I thought it was Köhler, but the eyes, the cheeks were wrong. I straightened my back and squared my shoulders, watching as recognition dawned.
‘You,’ he said. ‘You’re that woman. The one that was following the English spy.’
Was that it? Laura was worried because of what she’d thought Allen-Smythe revealed. She was targeting me to protect her asset. And then, presumably herself when I connected them. The flames were coming closer; the smell of burning wood, oddly comforting. They moved up the walls and now licked at the ceiling, coming closer and closer.
‘The countess mentioned a tall woman. One that just wouldn’t die. Me, I can fix that.’
