And jerked awake as the conductor called out ‘Sagres!’
Grabbed my book and handbag. A glance in the other compartment confirmed that Adam’s Apple had already disembarked.
The platform was all but empty. A woman stood next to a man with a set of binoculars hanging from his neck, and a harried-looking mother herded three small children back to where her husband checked the times for the return journey. There was no sign of Adam’s Apple.
With no pressing engagements waiting in Lisbon, I opted to remain on the chance that Adam’s Apple was in Sagres. I rented a red bicycle that reminded me of the one I’d ridden from Paris, and asked directions to the lighthouse.
More irritated with myself than with Adam’s Apple, I followed the coast road west. The sun began to dip as I tired. I’d gone as far west as I could without a swimming costume – which meant that this was Cabo de São Vicente. I might not have found Adam’s Apple, but I’d see first-hand that sunset he had raved about.
I left the bicycle and wandered to the cliff’s edge. I shouldn’t have followed Matthew. Should have stayed in Lisbon. What the devil was I doing, chasing after a man I didn’t know, on an impulse?
The low thrum of the waves caressed the rocks. The water was a deep blue, the beautiful colour too unreal to be on anything other than a gaudy painting. Farther out, a school of dolphins played and seagulls frolicked above the lighthouse farther along the coast. In a place like this, it was hard to believe there was a war on.
I stood up and dusted off my bottom. I’d check the lighthouse, and if Adam’s Apple wasn’t there, I’d return to Sagres. Worst case, I’d spend the night there and return to Lisbon in the morning.
In the distance, a trio of merchantmen steamed into sight. They were escorted by two frigates – British, by the look of them. If Philip were alive, would he be on one of those ships? I felt a pang in my heart, no longer the stabbing pain, but a longing for the man who’d been my husband for less than three years.
A seagull dipped into the water, shrieking its joie de vivre, and a different face superimposed itself over Philip’s. A military man in a dinner jacket, whose dark eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled.
‘Where the hell did that come from?’ I muttered, picking up a pebble and flinging it into the sea.
I’d never spoken to the man; what possessed me to even think of him? I gritted my teeth and concentrated on the rush of the waves.
Until they got louder.
And louder.
And the first plane screamed past. German Focke-Wulfs. I dropped to the ground, but there was nowhere to hide. There was just me, cowering on the blasted cliffs. But it wasn’t me the Focke-Wulfs were hunting. A second plane thundered past, then a third, racing towards the convoy in the distance.
The fighters engaged, and the ships’ enormous guns, rotating, retaliated. A Focke-Wulf disengaged, hit, but not severe enough to splinter. A German bomb hit a merchantman. Black smoke billowed from the ship as it listed to the side. Another Focke-Wulf was damaged, but dropped a bomb on a second merchantman before it peeled off. The bombers retreated, turning away as the British sailors jumped from the damaged ship.
The right wing of the damaged Focke-Wulf rose as it turned towards me. I cried out, pressing my hands closer over my head, as if by drowning out the sound, that awful roar, I could drown out my imminent death. My heard pounded, blood rushing though my veins. I was too young to die; I hadn’t done what Matthew had brought me here to do. Hadn’t completed my mission.
The Focke-Wulf screamed towards the lighthouse. If it exploded, I’d be caught in the conflagration. The plane passed, deafening as it screamed overhead. I braced myself for the stutter of machine guns but heard nothing over the roar of the plane, the waves, and my own blood.
The plane flashed past. It turned, this time over the ocean, and screamed out of sight.
‘You bastard!’ I howled, my hands still cradling my head.
Hating him for what he’d done; hating myself for my fear. I crawled forward, cursing and crying. The remaining two Focke-Wulfs were gone, and the convoy was slowing, picking up sailors from the water. The damaged hull of the merchantman was left behind, limping towards shore. I turned away; I could do nothing. Couldn’t save those sailors any more than I could have saved my husband. Or myself, had the Focke-Wulf opened fire on me.
Streaks of lavender and pink replaced the oily smoke as sunset gathered. When the lights of the merchantman melted into the growing night, I picked up my bike and cycled into the dark.
Chapter Fourteen
The moonlit night reminded me of France. This time, I wasn’t hauling my wireless, wasn’t heading for a drop site, but every sense was still on edge.
The return to Sagres felt longer than the way out. Tired and cranky, I contemplated stopping to ask for directions, but the lorry that rumbled past moved at pace, and to avoid getting run down, I leapt onto the hard shoulder. Shielded by brush, all I could see was two men in the cab and a canvas cover concealing some cargo. It turned off the coast road, heading towards the ocean and a cluster of flickering lights.
I followed. The warehouse was two storeys tall, and well lit. Beyond it, a single speedboat was moored at the pier. Men milled around, looking bored, well-armed yet out of uniform.
