Within heartbeats, an iron grip encircled my wrist, slamming it against the wall until the gun dropped. Instinct took over and I raised my knee, aiming for his groin. Bertie slid to the side, kicking at the leg that still supported me.
‘Bastard,’ I growled. ‘It’s me.’
I rapped his shoulder twice, then punched his chin as he stepped back.
‘What was that for?’ he bleated. ‘I stopped at your signal.’
‘Smacking my wrist? Scaring the living daylights out of me? You choose.’
‘Why’re you followin’ me?’
‘Why were you trying to lose me?’
‘Didn’t know it was you at first. Not until you got into the alley. Then smelled you.’
‘Over this stench?’ I said, offended. ‘You stopped when I let you know –’
He had the audacity to laugh. ‘I stopped when I smelled you, princess. The double-tap just confirmed it. Not many tarts can afford Chanel No. 5. You might want to think about that next time you masquerade as a dock dolly.’
‘Damn,’ I muttered, rubbing my wrist. It had better not leave a bruise for Graf to see.
‘What’re you doing, following me?’
‘What are you doing, running?’
‘Time to move. You’re running me, princess. An’ I don’t have a problem wi’ that. Just don’t like some of the friends you have.’
‘Who? Harrington?’
‘Anyone.’ He straightened the fedora, drew me deeper into the passage. ‘Figure you’re like me. You don’t trust no one. They havta prove themselves first. It’s why we’re still alive.’
‘And you don’t trust me yet.’
He kept his voice low and leant in to murmur, ‘Enough to let you know I got me a job, down at the docks.’
‘You can handle the work? Your wounds—?’
‘Supervisor. Cause o’ me experience.’ He flashed a puckish grin. ‘What? What’d y’ think I did back home? Accountin’?’
‘No.’
‘Dock supervisor. Before Jerry bombed the East End to the ground. My time to get even.’
‘I have no problems with that.’
‘Good, then I’ll send word when there’s news. And sorry.’
I held up one finger before he could say – or do – what was clearly written across his face.
‘Touch me and I’ll make sure you don’t walk for a week.’
‘Until next time, then, princess.’ He winked and sauntered out of the passageway.
Cheeky little bastard.
Chapter Twenty-five
The gold silk dress was a miracle of design. Its bias cut clung in the right places, covered the scar on my shoulder, and gave my skin a warm glow. To balance the effect, my hair was arranged in loose waves, captured into a low chignon. A thick filigreed bracelet glimmered from my wrist, hiding the bruise Bertie had left.
I sprayed one last puff of perfume, reached for my shawl, and made my way to the silver BMW. Graf leant against the bonnet, smoking a cigarette and staring down the hill at the Atlantic. Claudine would have told me that Haydn Schüller was better looking, but she was wrong.
My instincts told me that this was a dangerous game, one that wasn’t likely to end well. I ignored them, burying them under my determination to get the job done. I had the skills. I knew what I was doing. Sort of.
Sensing my presence, Graf looked up, smiling.
‘Hello.’ I hadn’t felt this awkward since leaving the schoolroom. Tried to hide it behind a cool veneer. ‘I didn’t know you smoked.’
‘I don’t.’ Graf threw the cigarette butt into the shrubs and kissed my hand. ‘You look stunning.’
‘Thank you. So do you.’ I looked at the dark suit and raised an eyebrow. ‘No uniform tonight?’
‘Too ostentatious for this evening.’
While not as bad a driver as Claudine, Graf took the winding roads at a perilous speed.
‘Practising for Monte Carlo?’ I yelled over the air rushing through the windows.
He slowed down immediately.
‘Don’t,’ I laughed.
There was something about the ride, or maybe it was his company, that was intoxicating.
‘I thought we’d go for a drink first, if that’s all right with you?’
‘That sounds lovely.’
‘Have you been to the castle yet?’
‘No.’
‘The monastery? The tower down at Belém?’ He pointed to his right – towards the ocean as we sped by. ‘No? What have you done with yourself this past month?’
I’d witnessed an attack on a convoy, spied on smugglers, and seen my godfather emerge from a whorehouse. I’d had coffee with the PVDE, socialised with Germans and alcoholics and seen far, far too much of the casino. For fun, I’d ogled Eduard on his morning run. It wasn’t quite the standard tourist agenda.
‘I took the time to settle in.’
‘Lisbon is a beautiful city. There is a lot to see here.’
‘There certainly is. And as my guide for the evening, what shall we start with?’
‘The Avenida. I must meet a man there. It is only for a few moments. It won’t take long.’
It wasn’t the answer I’d expected. Was his date with me a cover for some other activity? As Graf parked the car in a side street, my curiosity had shifted from Graf to this contact. Did he know he was using a British agent as his cover? Or was he walking me into a trap?
My long strides matched Graf’s as we passed the crowded Rossio and the Estação Central, with its two main arches flanked with three smaller, less ornate ones. A clock at the top proclaimed the time to be 8.25, and we had to move to avoid the wave of people flooding from the station.
Beside it, a porter guarded the entrance to the Avenida Palace Hotel. Two uniformed men smoked not far away. They snapped off the Nazi salute to Graf and I looked away, noticing how the windows aligned on the fourth floor between the railway station and the hotel. Only the fourth floor had all the curtains drawn. Could this be the secret passage that Matthew had mentioned? Funny, I’d expected it to be below ground.
Was this the
