‘He picked the wrong tourist,’ I mumbled, feeling my blush notch up another level. Feeling the need to explain, I gave him the only acceptable answer I could. ‘I have three brothers. They taught me how to defend myself.’
He stood up and closed the gap between us.
‘They taught you well. You saw him off before I could.’
‘The bad end to a bad day, I’m afraid, Herr Graf.’ The wall of braid across his chest made me realise he was in uniform. It didn’t take long to decrypt the insignia, or to realise with a sinking feeling that he was part of the Abwehr, the military intelligence agency known for shagging their secretaries. Or in his case, Spanish countesses. ‘Or should I say, Herr Major?’
‘You may call me Eduard. Why has it been a bad day? You saved your purse, and maybe taught the boy a lesson.’
‘I took Claudine Deschamps to the police station to file a report on her missing husband.’
‘Ah.’
My hands were still trembling. I clasped them behind my back and hoped Graf didn’t notice. Despite the Abwehr’s reputation, at least in Portugal, for being inept, instinct told me not to underestimate this man.
‘I’m told this is not uncommon. Disappearances.’
‘Too many.’ Graf fell into step beside me. ‘I am sorry for your friend, sorry for her husband’s situation.’
‘Why? You had nothing with it.’ I slanted a look up at him, surprised at how tall he was. I was five foot ten, but he had several inches on me. ‘Or did you?’ I asked, trying to sound normal. Why was he here?
‘Me? No. So there would be no point in trying to beat a confession out of me.’
The corners of his eyes crinkled. And as if I wasn’t humiliated enough, a deep rumble emanated from my belly.
Please, God, let a tidal wave come and sweep me away!
But the sea remained calm, confirming the fact that God and the universe hated me.
Graf looked away, but I could still see his smile. He spoke after a few steps.
‘Please allow me to take you to lunch. Perhaps it will go a small way to improving your day.’ My heart picked up its pace, almost to halt at his next words: ‘And I missed seeing you on my run this morning.’
‘So much so, that you came looking for me?’ The words escaped before I could stop them, but what if he had?
‘Not at all. Should I be?’
His eyes crinkled at the corners again; he was amused, damn him, although it confirmed that I wasn’t – yet – enough of a target to pique his professional interest. His personal interest, however, he was making clear.
A Spanish countess clung to him, and while he wore a wristwatch, there were no rings on his fingers. He was probably sought after by half the women in Lisbon, for one reason or another. While I wasn’t keen to add to their ranks, I’d be a fool to turn him away completely. He’d provide Solange Verin with a better, and far more interesting, reason for circulating with the German contingent than Schüller, and if I learnt something from him, maybe about the bombed convoys, so much the better.
‘Come, Angel. I offer no more than lunch and if I misbehave, you may punch my nose.’
Angel? If that was how he saw me, I wasn’t about to correct him.
‘I’m not sure I could reach it.’
My blush returning, I followed him to a little silver BMW. He opened the door and stood back, expectantly. I couldn’t help staring at him.
‘If your friend needs to file a report on you tomorrow, there are witnesses who see you getting in to my car. If you disappear today, I shall end up in new accommodation, courtesy of Dr Salazar.’
I dropped into the seat. ‘From what I understand, your friends are close with Salazar. You might get a medal.’
‘Why? Who else have you punched?’
Punched? I wanted to laugh. Shot and stabbed, as well, not to mention being a member of Special Operations. If he captured me, he would indeed get a medal. How depressing.
Graf drove through Cascais to a small fishing village on the far side. Large houses clustered together, crouching behind high walls and hedges. Over Graf’s shoulder, the Atlantic threw her waves against the black rocks with such force that the sea spray splashed the road. He stopped the car in front of a small restaurant.
‘Welcome to the Boca do Inferno,’ he said.
The mouth of Hell. It seemed rather appropriate for the day I was having. And yet, despite the name, it was an oddly idyllic location. The lunch crowd had already departed, leaving the restaurant empty save for the staff cleaning the front room. The maître d’ greeted Graf, bowing reverently.
‘Senhor. Your usual table?’
‘Yes, thank you.’
A boy hastily cleared a table in the corner, next to a wall of open windows, letting in the afternoon sun, the smell of jasmine, and the roar of the Atlantic, a pleasant bass to the folk music playing on the gramophone. A ceiling fan stirred the air around us.
‘Beautiful,’ I murmured, as Graf held out my seat out.
He laid his napkin on his lap. ‘I hope this is acceptable?’
‘Perfectly.’
‘Good.’ He accepted a menu from the waiter, placed it to the side. ‘Two bianchi e’mari to start.’
The waiter nodded and retreated.
‘White and bitter?’ I asked, translating the Italian.
‘White wine and campari. An Italian friend introduced me to it. It’s quite refreshing.’
‘I can order my own drink.’
‘I’m sure you can,’ he said. ‘Please. Order what you like.’
‘It’s fine,’ I told the waiter, wondering why Graf didn’t sound as arrogant as Schüller, and despite myself, feeling as if I was playing with fire.
‘You speak Italian as well?’ he asked.
I nodded, opting for the truth. ‘I studied music and found it useful to know what I was singing.’
‘How many languages do you speak?’
‘French and German, of course. Italian and some Spanish, albeit with an Italian accent.’
He chuckled. ‘English?’
Tricky question – and one I couldn’t deny if I learnt languages
