‘Fair enough,’ I said, closing my eyes.
The first time I saw Robert was outside the red bricks of the manor house that Special Operations had taken over. His face was turned into the sun, too good looking for his own good, but without the arrogance that usually accompanied a pretty face. He was an athlete – a leader. At the front of the pack, maybe not always the first, but near enough. What had happened to that man? What made him turn his back and run? I knew I’d never know the answer, but that wouldn’t stop me mourning my friend.
Matthew glanced at a clock and closed the file.
‘Finish your drink, old girl. Looks like you could use it.’
‘Expecting someone else?’
‘Not at all.’
He flicked an imaginary dust mote from his sleeve, and glanced at a file on the corner of his desk, lying beside the one I’d brought in earlier.
I didn’t want to go home; I didn’t want to be by myself, with only my ghosts for company. I grasped at excuses.
‘Anything interesting?’
A vertical line formed above his aquiline nose as he decided how much he could share with me. He moved to the window, clasping his hands behind him as he studied the German embassy across the road. The sun silhouetted him, granting him a halo that I knew he didn’t deserve. His shoulders tensed when he turned back to me and asked:
‘What do you know of wolfram?’
Chapter Twenty
Irritated at myself for not being as connected to the Portuguese scene as I’d thought, I hedged.
‘I don’t think I’ve met him yet.’
Matthew shook his head, not quite disappointed. ‘Tungsten?’
My mental catalogue yielded the same results.
‘Sorry.’
He sat back in the chair. ‘It’s not a who, old girl. A what.’ He rubbed the bridge of his nose. ‘It’s a metal, non-ferrous, with a very high density and a ridiculously high melting point.’
Half of that sentence flew completely over my head, but I understood enough to hazard a guess:
‘Weapons?’
‘Put it in a shell head to harden it and it cuts through armour like butter. Our Teutonic adversaries have used it in anti-tank and anti-aircraft rounds for years.’
I tried to concentrate on what Matthew was saying, but chemistry and metallurgy, neither a strong suit of mine, were battling against my dead friend’s Rhett Butler smile.
‘Portugal produces most of Europe’s wolfram. Spain has deposits as well, but produces maybe a tenth of what’s done here. Despite our best efforts, Salazar sends a ready supply to Germany each month.’
‘Can’t we out-buy the Germans?’
‘It’s not like we’re not trying. Hell, Lisbet, even the Yanks are trying. We’re rationed. They appear not to be. Portugal shipped Jerry about six hundred tons last year. No reason to believe they’re cutting that this year.’
‘How much do we import?’ He pursed his lips and I winced. ‘Rather a lot less than six hundred tons? Can’t we complain?’
Matthew tapped the folder. ‘Copies of the letters sent to Salazar and his monkeys. Enough complaints to outmatch your mother. This one smacks of a naïveté that should be outlawed. It asks –’ his voice took on a mincing tone – ‘“whether the smuggling is done with the full knowledge and approval of the government”. Bloody moron. Of course it is! Nothing happens here without Salazar’s approval!’
One word snagged in my mind. ‘Smuggling?’
Other images crashed through my mind: lorries unloaded at night; barrels transferred to a ship. Chemistry turned to mathematics: how many barrels passed through the quay that night? How many other quays conducted similar operations? How often?
‘Oh yes. What the Portuguese don’t officially export, they do so unofficially. Portugal is a small country with a big coastline. We have men monitoring the traffic in and out of the mines. In and out of the warehouses. But for every quay and inlet we watch, how many more are active? We can’t monitor everything, and our complaints fall on deaf ears.
‘Do you know what these men report, Lisbet?’ His voice lowered. Matthew was never one to scream. He didn’t need to; the soft vicious tone was far more effective. ‘The warehouses aren’t sealed. The double locks Salazar promises don’t materialise or are left open. Some are guarded, some aren’t. Lorries frequent the warehouses, with men hiding their cargo under sheepskin and blankets.’
He had described the activity I’d witnessed on the way back from Sagres perfectly. Another piece of the puzzle was beginning to emerge.
Matthew began to pace, anger and frustration emanating off his lean body. His words tumbled over themselves.
‘We are given empty promises. There are no instructions given to the local authorities to prevent the Germans from taking what they want. One man . . .’ He took a deep breath, and slowed down. ‘One of our men reported confronting a guard. The guard told him that once the wolfram had left the garage, his responsibility ended. The fool wasn’t supposed to let it leave the garage in the first place!’
I understood his anger, and his words gave me a better perspective about what was being smuggled from that quay near Sagres.
‘You mentioned the Americans. What are they doing about this?’
‘Duplicating every blasted thing we’re doing!’ He banged his hand against the desk. ‘Their colonels would rather work independently than build on what we’ve already learnt. Don’t get me wrong – they are helping, but we’d get there a bit faster if we could pool knowledge. Resources.’
Thousands of lives was a high price to pay for a lack of trust.
‘What do you think should be done?’
‘There’s nothing we can do while Salazar sleeps with the Germans.’
‘But . . . ?’ I prompted.
His head tilted from side to side as he considered the problem.
‘The only way to stop the smuggling is to prohibit it. Seal up the warehouses, the quays. Instruct the guards to only allow movement of the ore with the correct authorisation. Hell, put
