We passed under the sparkling lights of an enormous chandelier. Graf ordered two glasses of dry port from a waiter and seated me in an overstuffed chair. He took the seat opposite, facing the entrance. The room was lined by columns, a pale contrast to the patterned red wallpaper.
An awkward silence rose between us. I didn’t feel comfortable with my back to the door, although the ornate looking glass behind Graf’s head provided a small perspective, and in it appeared the scarred face of Lieutenant Neumann.
‘I’m sorry, Angel. Would you please excuse me?’ He stood up with an apologetic smile. ‘I won’t be long.’
‘That’s fine, Herr Major. Your lieutenant can keep me company while you run your errand.’
I had to stop myself from slipping into the seat he vacated.
Graf snorted, and clapped the lieutenant on the shoulder.
‘Good luck, Herr Leutnant.’
‘You too, sir.’ He shifted from one side to the other, wincing slightly.
‘Sit down, Lieutenant, I don’t bite.’
I gestured to the waiter to bring a third glass and watched Graf in the looking glass until he turned down a corridor.
‘What an intriguing man,’ I murmured to myself.
‘Yes, ma’am. He is.’
Neumann eased himself onto the chair, one leg stiffer than the other. There must have been hordes of women that had chased him, before the burns. What a waste.
‘Have you known him long?’
‘Four years, ma’am. Since the start of the war.’ A half-smile rose from the beautiful side of his face. ‘I drove his tank.’
The question tumbled out before I could stop it. ‘How do you get from a tank regiment to a diplomatic role?’
‘You get wounded, ma’am.’ He looked directly at me, challenging me to look away.
‘I’m sorry. Do you miss it? The tanks?’
‘I miss my regiment. The 7th Panzers. But as you can see, I can no longer fight.’
‘The 7th Panzers? I think I’ve read about them in the papers. Rommel’s Ghost Division?’
He inclined his head. ‘So fast even the High Command had problems keeping up with us.’
‘You were at the Battle of France?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s where that –’ I made a vague gesture – ‘happened?’
He spoke without self-pity or anger.
‘One moment, we are attacking, fighting just outside Cherbourg. The next, a shell hits.’ He ignored my gasp, continuing in that same toneless voice. ‘The major pulled me from the tank.’
‘And then?’
I was fascinated by Neumann’s story – not quite able to imagine this side of Graf.
‘The Herr Major commandeered another tank. Delivered me to the medics and returned to battle. He was awarded an Iron Cross for it.’ His pride in Graf bordered on hero worship. ‘The field marshal himself pinned it on him.’
‘And you?’
‘Battlefield commission.’
It wasn’t something that was normally given for just being wounded. What else had they done?
‘And the Herr Major?’
‘The second tank was shot out. He joined me in the ward for a while.’
‘And now?’
Andreas shrugged. ‘Military attaché. As you know.’
Which translated to Military Intelligence. It was an intriguing story, but still didn’t explain Graf’s almost unheard-of move from a Panzer division to Admiral Canaris’s Abwehr. Nor did it answer the question of who he was meeting tonight.
Neumann shook himself out of his reverie.
‘I am sorry to bore you, Frau Verin.’
‘You’re not boring me, Lieutenant.’
On the contrary, Lieutenant Neumann provided a unique insight into Graf. As I waved him to continue, something in the looking glass caught my eye. Two men, plain-clothed, but with a military bearing, walked through the foyer. Graf’s tall figure was instantly recognisable, even before Neumann got to his feet and snapped off a crisp salute.
It was the other man who stole my breath. Older, average in height, a face cold and mocking. I recognised him instantly: he was the grey-haired man I’d last seen in the French fishing village. The man who had killed Alex Sinclair.
What the devil was he doing here? And with Graf? Graf was Abwehr. I’d assumed the grey-haired man was Gestapo, or one of the other SS divisions. I didn’t realise they operated outside Germany and the occupied territories.
Unless they’d followed someone here? Someone who’d perhaps killed several of their number? Someone like me? Did they know who I was? Did Graf?
No, I decided. If they were after me, I’d already be surrounded. The man’s reflection gave as little away as Graf’s did as they completed their conversation. He remained still, watching Graf move towards us.
I forced my hand away from the PPK in my bag. There was a chance that the grey-haired man wouldn’t equate the urchin in France to the elegant socialite in front of him, and I didn’t want to have to use the gun. Not here, where I had no hope of surviving a shootout.
I pretended to admire my manicure as Graf sank into the chair the lieutenant vacated, waving his adjutant away.
‘Many apologies for my absence, Angel. The meeting was unavoidable. Its length, unconscionable.’
I surreptitiously wiped my damp palm on the brocade upholstery.
‘Think nothing of it.’
A stray thought occurred to me: if I was reluctant to cause a scene in the hotel foyer of a neutral country, what if the grey-haired man was too? Was he waiting for me outside? Would Graf defend me or hand me over?
One thing was clear: if I survived the day, I would have to ignore Rios Vilar’s warning. It was time to go hunting, and at least this time I knew the face of my prey, even if I lacked his name.
I took a sip of the port, noticing that its taste had soured.
‘Was it successful?’ I asked. ‘Your meeting?’
For an instant he allowed a weariness to creep across his face.
‘Only time will tell. Finish your drink, Angel. We’re late for our reservation.’
My eyes scanned the room as I rose, but the grey-haired threat was not in sight. Feeling the reassuring weight of the PPK concealed in
