‘Is this why you wanted to meet? To let me know the political lie of the land?’
He laughed – a deep rich sound. ‘If you didn’t know that by now, I’d be tremendously disappointed, old girl.’
‘Why break your own rule and request a meeting? Awful lot of effort to lose a tail, for a social call.’
He sipped his brandy and replaced the glass carefully on the table. One fingertip rubbed the rim – delicate against the heavy tumbler, too delicate for the rough cotton shirt he wore.
‘I saw you at the beach last week.’
‘So?’
‘The day the British sailors were washed ashore.’ He watched me with hawklike eyes.
It was easier to talk about Mussolini’s imminent fall, but I would never admit that to Matthew.
‘So?’
He cleared his throat. ‘So not everyone died.’
My pulse, which had been keeping beat with the guitar, accelerated.
‘Well, that’s good news.’
‘It is, indeed.’
He was giving nothing away, and I was in no mood for games.
‘All right, Spider. What do you need from me?’
He snorted. ‘I was rather hoping you’d forgotten that nickname. What I need from you, my dear, is a favour.’
Another one?
‘What sort of favour?’
‘A survivor was washed up. Farther down the beach, near Carcavelos.’
‘One of the men from the ships that sunk the other day?’
‘You heard about that?’ Matthew whispered. He looked around, but no one appeared to be interested in us.
The young fadisto accepted a glass and a searing look from the waitress. Patted his face with a towel and picked up his guitar.
‘What do you think last night’s reception was in honour of, Matthew?’ He grimaced and I continued, ‘Someone’s keeping the Luftwaffe informed about the convoys. Someone with a wireless stashed nearby, I’d guess. Something needs to be done about that.’
‘With four ships sunk in the last month, and a fifth damaged, we have some of our best men working on it.’
‘If you’ll allow a woman to speed things up, have one of your men look into Major Haydn Schüller. Not sure what his role is or where he’s based, but I’m working on it.’
He nodded, rubbing his eyes. ‘Appreciate that, my dear. Good job.’
‘So – about this sailor. You want me to question him?’
‘He’s not a sailor. He’s one of yours. Caught a ride home with our boys after he got into a spot of trouble.’
The fadisto launched into a new song. I didn’t understand the words, but he sang with his heart and soul. It didn’t distract me from one nagging worry: why would the Spider risk my cover when there were others better equipped to debrief the man?
‘Ask one of the chaps here in an official capacity.’
‘I can’t.’ His face darkened under the heavy make-up. ‘I won’t. I need you to do it.’
‘Why me?’
‘Because you were in France, and you got out. You know what it’s really like.’ He twirled the brandy in its glass and we both watched the amber liquid rise and fall in waves. ‘I want to make sure he’s genuine.’
‘I thought you didn’t want me compromised by showing up to one of your parties.’
‘If anyone can disguise herself without – how did you say it? “Lisping like a little girl”? – it’s you.’
His hand caught mine, and he brought it to his lips. He gave me directions and finished his drink.
‘I’ll expect you tomorrow. Shall we say three o’clock?’ he said to me before leaving.
A middle-aged couple at the next table looked at me, the woman with curiosity, the man as if I emanated a bad smell. Women didn’t sit by themselves in bars – at least not women with a decent upbringing. His lips pursed and he made a strange wheezing sound. The woman slapped him lightly on the arm.
With a bright smile, I made a show of lighting a cigarette and ordering another drink, enjoying the disgust that passed over the man’s face.
*
I left the bar in the Bairro Alto and took my time wandering around the city, stopping in Chiado to buy a new hat, a scarf, and a pair of espadrilles. At each stop, making the slight changes that would return my looks to something the gardener-bufo would recognise.
He found me not long after I entered the Rossio, and this time I made eye contact with him. Walked to a café smaller, and less frenetic than the Chave d’Ouro, ordered two cups of coffee, and waited.
The man who joined me ten minutes later wasn’t the gardener. This man was about my height, a couple of inches shy of six feet, slim, with olive skin, and large, beautiful black eyes – the sort that made people want to trust him, even if it was against every inclination. This man might be more of a spider than Matthew.
‘Not so many years ago,’ he said in softly accented French. ‘these cafés were almost exclusively male.’
I looked around at the women and families surrounding me.
‘Quite a lot has changed since then.’
‘Yes, senhora. Even here.’ He sat down across from me.
‘I don’t believe I invited you to join me, sir.’
He indicated the cup of coffee, cooling in front of him. ‘Have you not, Senhora Verin?’
‘Who are you? How do you know who I am?
He nodded, expecting this reaction. ‘My name is Adriano de Rios Vilar. You have heard my name?’
There was no point in feigning ignorance. Not yet.
‘I believe you were the officer who informed Madame Billiot of her husband’s demise?’
‘Ah, yes. It was an unfortunate accident,’ he said. ‘And avoidable.’
‘How does one avoid an accident?’
‘He indicated that he was travelling in one direction, when in fact his intention was otherwise.’ Little effort was made to veil the warning, and his forthright expression dared me to challenge him. ‘Most regrettable.’
‘Regrettable? For whom?’
The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them. What was I thinking of, toying with the PVDE?
A glimmer of amusement lit his eyes. ‘For Senhora Billiot. And her husband, naturally.’
He raised the
