‘Naturally,’ I echoed. ‘So, what is your interest in me?’
An elegant eyebrow rose as the cup was replaced in its saucer.
‘Straight to the point, senhora? I admire that.’ He threw a note on the table. ‘Come. Walk with me.’
Despite his polite smile and cordial tone, his words weren’t a request. My right hand dropped to my lap, brushing against the hilt of the sgian dubh, hidden beneath my skirt. It was scant reassurance, but all I had.
I forced a smile and followed him out of the café into the humid Portuguese twilight.
Chapter Eighteen
‘Are you arresting me?’ I asked as soon as we were far enough from the crowded café.
‘Do I have a reason to?’ he asked.
‘In France, a reason wasn’t required. People inform on friends and neighbours. Rivals. Do you want to know why I’m here? I know there are rumours, some of them quite colourful. The truth is, I’m here because a nasty little man couldn’t take rejection. He pursued me from the start. And when he learnt of my husband’s death, he was relentless. When he finally realised that his efforts were futile, he informed on me. So it was either be detained by the Gestapo, or flee. I chose to flee.’
It made for a good story, even more because every damned word of it was true. I hoped Madame Renaud and the rest of the Resistance had caught up with Jean-Roger Demarque.
‘Were you? Part of the Resistance?’
‘Don’t be daft,’ I snapped, then continued in a more amused tone. ‘If I was part of the Resistance, do you really think I’d go to Portugal and spend my time with the Germans?’ After another few steps, I turned to face him with my hands on my hips. ‘And that’s my rather dull, rather common story. I can’t believe you shower this much attention on all émigrés.’
‘I do not, no.’
For a moment, his expressive eyes betrayed his intelligence and determination. We walked for a minute or two in silence.
‘Portugal is a small country. A neutral country, senhora. To maintain that neutrality, we must walk a delicate line . Before the war, we had few tourists, much less immigrants. And now you see, we are inundated with immigrants. Refugees. Some are desirable, they adapt to our climate, our culture. They add to our economy, and our society. Others, less so.’
Like Monsieur Billiot.
‘And you think I’m . . . ?’
‘That remains to be seen, senhora, and you have an uncanny ability to escape notice when, I think, it is convenient for you.’ Before I could voice a protest, he gestured to a pair of shopfronts. Side by side, they held similar propaganda, but each supporting different sides. Rios Vilar stopped in front of the German one. ‘They say he is the last bastion, keeping the communists at bay.’
‘So you . . .?’
‘I do not care. Let me be clear – my interest is neither with the Germans, nor the British. It is Portugal. Only Portugal.’ He held up a hand to still any comment. ‘And, as with the other internationals here, as long as you keep your business to yourself and do not trip the delicate balance, I do not care what you do. But the moment that balance is tripped, Senhora Verin, you will have more than my interest to contend with.’
There was only one answer, accompanied by a polite smile.
‘Then neither of us have anything to worry about, Senhor Rios Vilar.’
Rios Vilar consulted his wristwatch, and murmured a polite goodbye, leaving me in front of the shopfront with a photograph of the Führer staring out at me.
‘Last bastion against communism, my foot,’ I muttered, refraining from giving it the two-fingered salute.
Rios Vilar and his men had been watching me, but what had they seen? Had they come with me to Sagres, or had I lost them by then? And how much of the smuggling were they aware of – or worse, sanctioned?
He said he didn’t care who I was and what I did, as long as it didn’t tip the balance, but of course it would. That was what Matthew wanted, what I had been determined to do from the time I walked into Special Operations’ office at Orchard Court and agreed to work for them. Did he know that? Did he know who and what I was?
And if so, was he friend or foe?
Chapter Nineteen
Wary of Rios Vilar’s bufos, I took my time, ensuring they saw Solange in the crowds at the Rossio, before donning a blonde wig and a pair of dark sunglasses in a café’s lavatory. It was a rudimentary disguise, but people often saw what they wanted.
I took two trams and walked along the Rua de São Bernardo, noting again how incongruous it was that the German embassy was virtually across the street from the British embassy. Continued down a handful of side streets to the address Matthew had given me. It was an office building, rather than a house per se. The sort favoured by small organisations that couldn’t afford exclusive premises. The people coming in and out of the building were remarkably unremarkable. Much like the people who worked for Special Operations, who did a fair share of work at the flat in Orchard Court instead of Baker Street. It provided deniability, anonymity, and a venue away from the prying eyes of their neighbours.
At half past one, the lunch crowd returned to their respective buildings and I fell into step behind a pair of middle-aged men with the slightly glazed look that comes with one too many lunchtime martinis. I tucked a long blonde lock behind my ear, hoping no one noticed one more secretary returning to work. The man at the reception desk gave me a cursory glance as I swapped the sunglasses for a pair with clear lenses and tortoiseshell frames. Sweat trickled down his forehead as he fanned himself with a large envelope.
A small statue of Christ stood
