by Mara Timon
There was another possibility. He might not be a traitor, but I now knew, or at least suspected, that he wasn’t working for the Führer. And that made me a risk. Would he set me up to be caught with stolen documents down my blouse and blood, literally, on my hands? My hand crept to the knife strapped to my thigh. The handle fitted into my hand, and I braced myself for an answer I didn’t want to hear.
‘Eduard?’
‘Angel?’
‘We’re not going home, are we?’
‘Not yet.’
I cleared my throat and freed the sgian-dubh; keeping it close to my side. Hidden by my skirt, my forefinger tapped the tip of the blade, testing how sharp it still was.
He glanced my way and smiled, a sweet, slightly nervous smile.
Just beyond Sintra, we turned into a long drive and stopped at a gate. Thick hedges abutted it, and some way beyond it loomed the upper floor of a peach-coloured villa. Eduard fumbled in his pocket for the keys and pushed the heavy wrought-iron gate open.
He nosed the car through and returned to lock the gate. The hedges were high enough to detract the casual observer from peering through, but wouldn’t stop a determined prisoner from climbing out.
The car bumped over the gravelled road, its protests only slightly louder than that of my heart. Eduard cut the engines outside the villa and looked at me.
‘Where are we?’
‘Villa Aurora. A friend of mine gave me the keys.’ Eduard looked everywhere but at me.
‘Why?’
I put my hand on his arm to get his attention.
‘Eduard. Why are we here?’
‘Holiday?’
He stared at me. Hunger, and fear too, reflected in his gaze. Maybe nerves. He looked at the villa and spoke more to it than to me.
‘I thought it best we spend some time away from Lisbon, from Estoril. Unless, my Angel, you want to return home like that?’
Pink streaks ran down my arms. My fingernails and my soul were caked with blood. He was right. With the bufos on every corner, it would only be a matter of time before someone linked me to the massacre at the warehouse.
Who I was, what I did, the company I kept, made me a target for both sides. I leant my head against the seat and sighed.
‘And the bufos won’t have seen us here?’
‘Did you see another car?’
My hand slashed away that argument.
‘You know as well as I do that it’s the bufo you don’t see who is the most dangerous.’
He snorted. ‘I wouldn’t fancy his odds against you, Angel.’
‘Angel of Death,’ I muttered.
‘Who’s in need of a bath. Come on.’ He stepped out of the car and moved around it to open the door for me. Saw the knife in my hand and sighed. ‘There should be no one else here. You won’t need that, but hold on to it if it makes you feel better.’ He tilted his head and looked down at his own hands. ‘I really hope you do not need it. I’ve had enough killing for one day.’
So had I.
I tightened my grip on the knife and stood up, wincing as my muscles protested.
Eduard pulled a dress pack I hadn’t noticed before from the Mercedes’ boot and led the way into the villa, pointing out the various rooms we passed before stopping outside a closed door.
‘The master bedroom.’
The room was magnificent, decorated in whites and creams. The centrepiece was an enormous walnut four-poster bed, with acres of mosquito netting gathered at each corner. Dark heavy wood furniture was dotted around the room: a dressing table, a wardrobe, a chest of drawers, and a pair of night stands. The only colour was the huge bouquet of red roses dominating the dresser. Drawn like a moth, I couldn’t help sniffing the blooms as Eduard hung the pack in the wardrobe.
‘Beautiful.’
I breathed in their scent, grateful to smell something other than blood and cordite.
‘The bathroom is directly across the hall. Take your time – we’ll have a late dinner tonight.’
I kept the knife in my hand as I wandered through the villa, not sure what I expected to find.
Each room held a fragile beauty; the mistress of the house had excellent taste. One parlour was decorated in shades of blue, with Wedgwood-like designs edging the walls just below the ceiling. An ormolu clock sat on the mantelpiece above a fireplace, held upright by two bronze Cupids.
Another was more masculine. Heavy furniture upholstered in dark green leather guarded the many bookcases that lined the room. The faint aroma of pipe tobacco lingered on the air.
I moved to the next room, finding works of art, of beauty, of a time I’d almost forgotten. When I returned to the master bedroom, I heard the sound of rushing water. Eduard had run a bath for me. Water steamed from the copper tub, carrying with it the aroma of perfumed bath salts.
‘Bathe, Angel,’ he smiled – that sweet smile that I loved. ‘Because, quite frankly, you stink.’
Without a word, I closed the door behind me, locking it. Put the knife on a countertop and delicately sniffed my shoulder. He was right; I did stink.
I cleaned the knife first with soap and water, then eased myself into the bath. I jumped every time I heard a sound, listened for the rumble of engines, the sound of voices, anything that would herald an attack. All I heard was Amália’s voice, soaring from a gramophone recording.
Slowly, I allowed myself to let the water heal me. I left my discarded clothes where they lay. I didn’t want to put them on, didn’t even want to touch them. Wrapped myself in a fluffy white towel and padded across the hall.
A silk dress the colour of double cream lay on the bedspread. Delicate lace, shot through with silver thread, raised the plunging silk neckline of the underdress to the base of the throat, leaving the arms bare. The lace continued over the sheath to drop a hair’s breadth below the hemline. Matching underwear and shoes completed the ensemble.
I looked around for Eduard, wanting to ask where he’d found such a creation. There was no sign of him.
I towel-dried my hair, combed it, and twisted it into a chignon at the back of my head. Slipped into the brassiere and underwear. Strapped the knife high on my thigh and stepped into the dress. I was fastening the shoes when Eduard arrived, wearing his dress uniform and the Knight’s Cross.
He handed me a glass of champagne and stood back to admire me.
‘You’ll do,’ he said.
‘You think?’
‘Yes. I like your hair like that. When it dries, it curls.’
He stood behind me. Placed his hands on my hips, his lips grazing my nape and sending shivers up my spine.
‘Keep it up, Graf, and we’ll never leave the room.’
He chuckled, and clinked his glass against mine. We drank in an awkward silence. Finally Eduard stood, and placed the empty flutes on the night table.
‘Are you ready?’
‘For what?’
‘I thought we might see a bit of Sintra before dinner. If that’s all right with you?’
‘That’s fine.’ I followed him outside to the Mercedes. ‘Did I tell you how much I miss your little BMW?’
‘Me too.’ He smiled but again his humour didn’t reach his eyes. ‘Andreas will deliver it tomorrow.’
‘He knows we’re here?’
‘Yes. Why?’
I stared at the retreating villa and wondered if this was a ghastly charade to keep me off balance.
‘No reason.’
We passed the town, the Mercedes growling on the steep inclines. Eduard was unusually taciturn and I stared out of the window at the scenery: the ruins of a Moorish castle at the top of the mountain; the red brick palace halfway down it. Beautiful villas and churches, bedecked with spires and turrets. Eduard parked the car along a side street and helped me out of the door. There was no restaurant in the immediate vicinity.
‘Is it far?’
‘No. You’ll be fine. Even with your high heels.’
A small tic in his jaw betrayed his nerves. From the
day or from what awaited us? Would he dress me up only to kill me?
We didn’t pass another car, another soul as we walked up the steep hill. The wind carried rose petals down to us, circling us before tumbling down the street.
A small church was tucked away around a bend. It was less ornate than some of the others, painted yellow with white trim and a large white archway. A square bell tower rose on the right side and the ground outside the double doors was strewn with more rose petals.
‘Someone must have got married today,’ I noted.
Eduard choked. I looked away, realising he’d read that as a broad hint. We’d been seeing each other for months, but there had been no talk of the future, much less one that was shared. I wouldn’t ask, and he hadn’t offered. It was something I shouldn’t want.
He looked awkward as he asked: ‘Would you like to go inside, Angel?’
I shrugged. If he wanted to say a prayer for the people we’d killed, that was fine with me, although I would struggle to muster any remorse for Köhler’s death.
Petals swirled around my feet and for a moment, I envied that bride, coming through the doors on the arm of a man she loved, safe, and secure in their future together.
Eduard took my hand and led me up the steps. Inside, the church blazed with the light of dozens of candles. Enormous bouquets stood as sentries just inside the door; smaller wreaths with white ribbons hung from the end of each pew leading the way to the altar, framed by more flowers and an enormous stone arch. The evening light shone on an old priest as he rose from his chair, hands clasped and head bent. He straightened his cassock and beamed at us.
‘You are late, my children.’
‘I’m sorry, we hadn’t realised the church was closed for the evening,’ I apologised.
The priest looked surprised, but Eduard froze. Panic flashed over his face.
Panic? Now, but not when a gun was pointed at him?
‘Eduard? What’s going on?’
He took a deep breath. His mouth opened once or twice.
‘Angel . . .’ he started, then bit his lip. Wiped one of his palms on his trouser leg and tried again. ‘Angel, you are a difficult woman. You are arrogant and opinionated. You drink too much, smoke too much and keep very bad company. You gravitate towards trouble with no care for yourself, and act with a ruthlessness that is not ladylike. But you fight for what you believe in and you make me want to fight with you. For you.’
My heart was pounding, the blood rushing in my veins.
‘Eduard? What are you saying?’
He looked pained and shook his head.
‘This is not coming out right.’ He closed his eyes and tried again. ‘Angel, you are a danger to yourself. And to me, if anything should happen to you. So I must do what I can to protect you.’
He rubbed his face, muttering to himself. Reached into his pocket. My heart was pounding, unsure what to expect. What did he mean by protecting me?
A black box was open in his hand. Inside it, a small gold ring. The candlelight danced off it as he uttered a single word, barely audible over my beating heart. The world shrunk, its entirety gleaming in that band. I couldn’t take my eyes off it, or the man who held it. All humour left his face. His dark eyes were serious and he slowly sank to one knee.
‘Angel?’
‘Eduard.’
I hadn’t realised I was crying until a tear dropped on to our linked hands. There was fear in his eyes – worry that he’d gone too far and would lose me. Was he offering to marry me for just that: to keep me alive? I loved him, desperately, but I wanted more. Needed more.
I dropped to my knees so I could look into his eyes.
‘Eduard. Do you love me?’
‘Haven’t I just said so?’
‘Perhaps somewhere in the catalogue of my faults.’
He looked at the ceiling, the stone balustrade that guarded a narrow catwalk. Did it remind him of another catwalk only a few hours ago?
‘Solange, Lisbet, whatever your name really is. I love you more than my life. Will you marry me?’
I couldn’t understand the words, asked him to repeat them. The word he uttered was one I rarely heard him use.
‘Please.’
A lump rose in my throat, and the tears, previously a trickle, now poured down my face.
‘My name is Elisabeth.’ I wiped the tears away with the back of my hand. ‘Elisabeth Daria Grace de Mornay. And yes, Eduard Graf. Even though that was the least romantic marriage proposal. Ever. Yes, I will marry you.’
Part 5
Lisbon, January 1944
Chapter Forty-six
A
lmost every pier was occupied, with ships of every imaginable size, shape and nationality. Bright flags crackled overhead while skiffs ferried goods and men back and forth from the larger ships. The breeze smelt of salt water and winter.
We weren’t far from Lourenço Marques – the restricted area where English ships docked and unloaded. Special precautions had been put in place by the Portuguese government to keep the Allied ships safe, including very visible police barricades. Bertie had unloaded the wolfram shipment there last October. He remained coy about how it was managed and how he continued to fox the Germans by ‘diverting’ shipments. He was making a small fortune from it, but as long as he kept the wolfram away from the Germans, the British government was happy to look the other way.
Under heavy security, an English frigate bobbed on the tide, safe from the Nazis’ wireless operators and the planes they commanded. Or as safe as we could make it.
Eduard squeezed my hand as a young sailor approached and saluted smartly.
‘Major Graf?’
The man displayed only respect, making me wonder, not for the first time, what exactly Eduard would be doing in Berlin, and why he needed to sail to France first.
‘At ease, man. Give me a few moments to say goodbye to my wife. I’ll be with you directly.’
The sailor picked up Eduard’s case and stepped back to allow us the illusion of privacy. Lieutenant Neumann had already taken Knut aboard, and the only goodbye I had left was the one that was most difficult.
I brushed a lock of my hair out of my eyes, hoping Eduard didn’t notice as I struggled to maintain my composure. He tucked the strand behind my ear and pulled me close.
‘Maybe next time it’ll be red, yes?’
His expression was so hopeful that I had to laugh.
‘We’ll see.’ I leant into his kiss and whispered, ‘Remember your promise, Eduard – nothing stupid.’
His smile didn’t reassure me.
‘It is not me that I worry about. Be careful, Angel. It is not safe here. Not yet.’
‘Berlin isn’t safe either, Eduard. Not with everything going on. Köhler’s investigation –’
He put a gentle finger over my lips to silence me.
‘Has gone nowhere.’
I stepped out of his reach and glared.
‘If you die on me, I swear to God, I’ll dig you up and shoot you myself.’
‘I know.’ He pulled back and reached into his pocket for a small velvet box. He stared at it for a few seconds before handing it to me. ‘Something to remember me by while we’re apart.’
‘As if I could forget.’ I snorted, but took the box. ‘What is it?’
‘Open it and see.’ He smiled.
A white-gold locket rested on a bed of black velvet. Filigreed flowers styled after Mucha’s paintings were etched around the edges. In the centre a young girl knelt in front of a box, her long hair flowing behind her as she held a sapphire set as a star.
‘It’s beautiful,’ I breathed.
‘Pandora. She reminds me of you. If someone tells you not to look in a box, you will find a way to peer inside.’ Eduard’s voice was tinged with amusement. ‘Watch.’
His fingers showed mine the hidden catch and the locket sprang open. A tiny copy of the photograph the priest had taken of us on our wedding day was set on one side. Eduard looked formal
, perhaps afraid of what he was getting himself into. He was more relaxed in the other one, grinning from the ramparts of the Moorish castle.
‘You can change the photographs if you wish.’
‘They’re perfect,’ I whispered, holding up my hair so he could fasten the locket around my neck.
‘You’re crying.’
‘I’m not good at goodbyes.’
‘It’s not a goodbye, you little fool.’ He dropped a kiss on the tip of my nose. ‘I will be back before you know it.’
I held my breath and tamped down the tears. My first husband had said the same thing to me once. Only he didn’t come back. And I wasn’t as sure as Eduard was that the threat from the Gestapo was gone. As if he knew what I was thinking, Eduard touched the locket at my neckline.
‘I promise.’
Eduard’s last kiss was over far too quickly. His tall frame broke away, leaving me feeling bereft. He strode after the sailor, turning once to mouth the words ‘I love you’.
A cold breeze blew, ruffling his hair. I stood on the jetty watching him disappear into the hatch of a U-boat. I turned to the sea, with a rising sense of déjà vu.
‘You’ve already taken two men from me,’ I said to the sea, shielding my eyes from the sun. ‘You cannot have this one, damn you.’
*
Through the haze of tears and misery, I drove Eduard’s BMW back to Estoril. A little white envelope fluttered to my feet as I opened the gate. I brought it into the house, poured a glass of cognac, and lit a cigarette. Placed my hands on the countertop and resisted the urge to cry. Then gave in to it.
I raged at the fate that had made me fall in love with a German officer, only to have him summoned to Berlin. Even if he arrived safely, the Allies were bombing Hitler’s capital on a regular basis. And if the bombs didn’t find him, there was the Gestapo. When would it end?
The fury dissipated, leaving me exhausted. I flicked the envelope through my fingers. There was no name, no return address, no distinguishing marks. I ripped it open, finding Claudine’s childish scrawl:
I know you won’t want to be alone just now. Julian, Gabi and I are having cocktails this afternoon at the Tamariz. Come and join us! Any time after four . . .
