‘Enough to get myself into trouble.’ Once his laughter subsided, I continued. ‘Their operas aren’t brilliant – I didn’t spend a lot of time learning them.’
‘And Portuguese?’
‘People lie when they claim that if you know Spanish, you can understand Portuguese. What about you, Herr Major?’
‘Eduard,’ he corrected. ‘I am not very good at languages, I’m afraid.’
Evidenced by his mistranslation of my name. Not that I was about to correct him.
The waiter returned with our drinks and Graf clinked his glass against mine.
‘To one less thief on the streets.’
‘And to Galahad, who arrived too late to save the damsel in distress.’
‘Ouch.’ He smiled. He might not have the movie-star looks of Schüller or Robert, but he was the sort that became more attractive as you got to know them. ‘Although the damsel did quite well on her own. The sardines here are quite good.’
‘No thank you!’
‘Are you not a fan of fish?’
‘Herr Major—’
‘Eduard.’
For a German, he was remarkably informal.
‘Eduard, then.’ The white wine was going to my head and I began to feel giddy. ‘A human body has 206 bones. Those things have twice the amount, every one honed to razor sharpness. Thank you, but no sardines for me. Not unless they’re de-skinned, decapitated, and most importantly, de-boned.’
‘Doesn’t that take the fun out of it?’
‘Life is dangerous enough.’
‘Yes,’ he murmured. He waved the waiter over and ordered, again without asking for my input. ‘Look over there, Angel.’ He pointed out of the window towards the ocean.
I could hear the thunder of the surf against the Boca’s cliffs, but beyond it the ocean was tranquil enough.
‘Yes?’
‘She’s quiet today. Like Lisbon.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Look at it. Blue. Serene. Underneath there is a maelstrom – an undertow that could bring you down before you noticed you were in trouble. Lisbon is not a safe city. Never forget that, Angel.’
‘Why are you saying this to me?’
He straightened the silverware in front of him.
‘I do not know.’
‘So you don’t warn off everyone?’
‘No.’ A half-smile. ‘I never felt the need to.’
‘I can take care of myself,’ I reminded him. Changed the subject before it led to more dangerous ground. ‘How long have you been here, Eduard?’
‘Just over one year.’
‘And before that?’
‘Wherever I was sent.’ This time his smile was flat and he turned the conversation again. ‘As an expert, Angel, what do you think of the Portuguese music?’
At least he’d found a safe topic.
‘Fado? I love it.’
‘You’ve been to the Café Luso?’
‘No.’
The waiter arrived with a bottle of wine. Presented it to Graf. Uncorking it, he poured a measure. As he waited for Graf to taste it, he smiled at me.
‘Café Luso? You must go, senhora. Most renowned fado in Portugal, not just Lisboa.’
Graf smiled and the ghost of a dimple appeared in each cheek.
‘Would you like to go?’
‘With such a testimonial, how could I say no?’
If the waiter had said it was a gutter dive populated by thugs, whores and murderers, I’d still have gone.
‘Amália sings tomorrow, senhor,’ the waiter said, placing the bottle into a silver wine cooler. ‘If you wish, I can arrange?’
‘If the lady is available?’
What had happened to make me want to go with this man, this German? It was more than just wanting an informant within the Abwehr. More than the danger, the thrill of dancing with the Enemy. It was this man. For whatever reason, he intrigued me, drew me to him. Before I knew who and what he was, and even now, after the penny dropped. It was dangerous, it was foolish. And still, feeling as if I was standing at the edge of a cliff, with the full knowledge that more than just my heart was at risk, I murmured: ‘I’d be delighted.’
He nodded and the waiter retreated, stopping first at the gramophone in the corner to change the record. The sound of a fado guitar, and then a woman’s voice soared, intense, compelling.
‘Amália?’
Graf laughed. ‘I think he’s trying to convince you.’
‘Shouldn’t you be working harder to convince me?’
‘Why would I? You already said you would go. I assume you understand that it will be in my company, not Pedro’s? Of course, if you tell me you’d prefer his company . . .’
‘Then I’d suggest you take your countess and we could make an evening of it.’
The waiter turned at Graf’s bark of laughter.
‘And risk you providing more entertainment than Amália? No, Angel. I think it safest to keep the party small.’
I sipped the crisp white wine, hoping that I didn’t live to regret this moment.
Chapter Twenty-four
The high I’d felt in Graf’s company dissipated as the little silver BMW disappeared down the hill. What the hell did I think I was doing? This wasn’t just playing a role, or doing my job. Playing with Graf would be like playing with a grenade. There were other men who could be just as useful, if not as interesting, to have on my arm. Fully aware that if I had any sense at all, I’d have turned down the date, but hadn’t been able to force the words out.
Self-flagellation was never my thing, and rather than examine my actions too closely, I made my way across the street. While I didn’t trust her, Claudine had become the closest thing I had to a friend in Lisbon, and she was going through hell.
She stood in the foyer, her back resting against the wall and the telephone’s receiver pressed against her ear.
She waved me into a seat and finished her call with a resigned, ‘Yes. Yes, I understand. Thank you for your help.’
She replaced the receiver in its cradle and made a rude gesture.
‘As if you gave me any help at all, you miserable son of a misbegotten whore.’ She spoke with no rancour; it must have burned itself out several hours ago.
‘No luck?’ I asked.
‘Only of the bad variety. No one has seen Christophe. No one knows why he disappeared, or where he might be. Frankly, Solange, no one cares.’ She sank to a settee
