‘Who?’
‘The actor. You know the one – he played in Of Human Bondage and Gone with the Wind.’
I had a vague memory of a man with a long face and soft voice.
‘Oh, yes. He played Ashley Wilkes. He’s dead?’
‘You would remember that role. Not his best work, of course, but that’s what he’ll be remembered for.’
‘What else should he be remembered for?’
‘The chap was rabidly anti-Nazi. Did what he could for us. Came over with his agent for a series of talks about film, but spent time trying to shore up support with the local propagandists.’ He shook his head, frowning. ‘A very brave – and clever – man.’
‘That’s why he was shot down?’
‘So some say. Others say Jerry thought Winnie was on the flight.’
‘Churchill? Was he really over here?’
‘Doubt we’ll ever know. If he was here, I didn’t see him.’
Still holding his glass, he moved to the window and twitched aside the curtains.
‘What do you want me to do?’
‘Just mingle. Preferably with the Germans. Be friendly with everyone but friends with no one. Keep your eyes open. They’ll be wary of you, do what you can to be accepted.’ He shifted his shoulders, as if his jacket had suddenly become too tight. ‘I want to know if the things you hear are consistent with what they want us to know.’
‘They?’
‘The Portuguese. The Germans. The Italians. Hell, even the Yanks. You choose.’ He drained his glass. ‘I won’t come here again, Lisbet. We’ll arrange dead letter boxes and go-betweens. When we meet in public, pretend you don’t know me.’
‘Easy enough. Is there anyone here that might know me? From before?’
‘Before?’
‘Before I married Philip. Before I dropped out of society. Before the war.’ I shrugged. ‘Before.’
‘Lisbet, it’s been five years. With the dark hair, I barely recognised you. I doubt your own mother would.’ He had the grace to look chagrined.
‘And if she did, the old dragon would look away and keep walking.’ With a bitter smile, I forced the rage back into its cage and changed the subject. ‘What’s your link to Special Operations?’
‘I have no direct link to your little club.’ He held up a single finger, stopping my next question. ‘No indirect link either. SOE doesn’t hold much sway here.’
‘That doesn’t sound right. Buckmaster never missed a chance to get more people into France. I can’t believe his counterpart here would be so lax.’
‘Have you ever met John Beevor?’ Matthew delicately crossed one leg over the other.
‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘Headed up SOE here for a couple of years. A foolish man playing a double game.’
I sat up straight, alarm coursing through me.
‘Double agent?’
He held his hands up. ‘No, no. Double game. He established a network with the left-wingers. The Communists opposed to Salazar –’
‘So what? We did that in France as well.’
‘Yes, my dear. But Beevor also danced with the Legião Portuguesa. Heard of them? No? Bunch of chaps who formed an armed militia specifically to fight the Red Wave.’
‘Ah,’ I said.
‘Ah, indeed. And then there are the disputes between the Legião and the state police, the PVDE. Bloody amateur. His boys show up for a “little chat” with someone—’
‘A kidnapping?’
He inclined his head in silent acknowledgement. ‘Only to be met by the PVDE. Too many holes in the organisation. Too unreliable.’
‘And this is who you want me to work for?’
Underneath the horror was a vague certainty that there was more to the story than Matthew was telling me, and not just about John Beevor. I hadn’t met the man, but I had heard of him. ‘Foolish’ wasn’t a word often used to describe him.
‘Don’t be absurd. He’s moved on, but the damage is done. No, my dear. Best that no one even knows you’re in the country. You’re not going to work for Special Operations here. You’re going to work for me.’ He shrugged. ‘Call it a secondment if it makes you feel better.’
It didn’t. But I had run out of options.
*
Once Matthew left, I prowled through my new lair. The public rooms were on the ground floor: two parlours, a formal dining room, a WC and the kitchen. On the first floor, three bedrooms and a large bathroom. The enormous copper bath was tempting and I set the water running. Threw in a handful of bath salts from a jar on a shelf before undressing.
The looking glass wasn’t flattering. The woman in it had gone from slim to gaunt. Long brown hair escaped its chignon, and auburn roots showed at the hairline. Dark circles ringed tired eyes, but for the first time for weeks, they held a hint of their old sparkle.
Matthew’s offer was intriguing. Unlike the work I had done in France, where survival meant blending into the background, here I was setting myself up as live bait, and with the ability to bring the fight to the Germans. It was a welcome change.
I slipped into the cool, fragrant water. Closed my eyes and began to relax. The bath smelt of flowers and spices, the evening air of jasmine and the sea, carrying with its scent the sorrowful sounds of a distant guitar.
Matthew’s offer wasn’t philanthropic. He wasn’t looking out for me; he was looking out for himself and his country. And as long as I remembered that, and worked for the same things he stood for, he’d look out for me as well, as much as he was capable of. His attention came at a price. It always had.
When my fingertips were sufficiently wrinkled, I towelled myself dry, wrapped myself in a piece of flannel, and padded down the hall to the master bedroom. It was lovely, hung in shades of cream and beige. A large vase of flowers stood on the dressing table opposite an enormous bed.
My case and bag lay just inside the door. Across the room, the cupboard cracked open,
