There was no sign of Bertie, and with Allen-Smythe lurking less than a ten-minute walk away, I hid my unease behind a bland veneer, blending in with the clergy and tourists to admire the architecture, the statues, the fountains. There was still no sign of my thug when I circled back to the archway fifteen minutes later. Had he been compromised already? Or was I being set up?
With heightened senses, I’d almost expected the shot that rang out. Just not its proximity. Dropping to the ground, I held my hands protectively over my head. While terrified screams swelled and plaster rained down on my shoulders, a few things were clear: one, there was no familiar punch as the bullet tore through my flesh; two, the gun sounded like a revolver, and based on its pitch, German; three, the shooter was an idiot – revolvers were unreliable at distances. Unless this was a crime of opportunity, and if that was the case, was I the target?
Tourists moved slowly, stunned by the ugly reality of war in this holy place in neutral Portugal. Most had never heard a gun before. After a quick scan to confirm that no one had been hit, I rose, searching for a glimpse of the shooter.
A second shot rang out and something drove me on to the ground. The force was accompanied by the smell of unwashed man and I reacted, trying to flip him off me.
‘Stay the hell down. You can strangle me later, princess,’ Bertie growled, his weight on mine ensuring my compliance.
Over his shoulder I saw a jagged hole in the masonry marking the spot where my head had been only moments before. Bile rose in my throat along with the realisation that I was the target, and that without Bertie’s intervention, I’d have been dead. My muscles released and I closed my eyes. I would not be ill. Not here. Not now. And not in front of Bertie Jones.
‘Stay here.’ He shifted to his knees, and I hoped that in his frayed and stained clothing, he made less of a target than I did. ‘I don’t see him. Bastard’ll be long gone by now.’
He helped me up and threw his dusty jacket over my shoulders. Hidden in the crowd of tourists, he half carried me into the chapel.
‘Christ almighty, princess,’ he murmured. ‘Someone’s out to get you.’
The grey-haired man? No. He wouldn’t have used stealth, even here, where his jurisdiction was limited. And he wouldn’t have missed. Allen-Smythe? Possibly, although as far as I knew, he had no reason to kill me.
Whoever it was, was someone new. Shaken as he was, at least I could rule out Bertie. I didn’t trust him any more than I needed to, but it was reassuring that it wasn’t him. As with the grey-haired man, Bertie wouldn’t have missed.
Which made this assassin as much a coward as they were incompetent. It wasn’t a comforting thought; even incompetents got lucky sometimes.
Hiding behind bravado, I joked, ‘Good thing their aim is rubbish.’
He snorted a reply, but his arm was firm against my back, leading me past a bewigged statue and a few tombs. When my legs would no longer carry me, I sank on to a wooden pew.
‘Did you spot him?’
‘No.’
‘Did anyone else notice that I was the target?’
He shrugged. ‘Don’t reckon so.’
It could have been anyone: Allen-Smythe, the man he was talking to – anyone. But it was too soon after my potential sighting of the grey-haired man to discount that possibility. What was worrying was that I was dressed as Veronica. Was she the target or had someone connected her to Solange?
‘Whoever it was, disappeared right quick. Bloody daft though. Could have taken down a battalion, much less you, princess, with a rifle from one of them turrets.’
Struggling to get my pounding heart under control, I didn’t bother to correct his terminology.
‘You said you had news?’
He leant back in the pew, wincing as it creaked. Slid a few inches away and bowed his head in a reasonable facsimile of religious devotion.
‘Turn away from the wall,’ he murmured. ‘Someone might be watchin’. You don’t want them readin’ your lips.’
A few feet to my left, seven wooden doors were framed by elaborately carved masonry. The closed doors could have hidden anything from trysting lovers to assassins. He was right to be cautious.
‘Your news?’
Bertie pulled a rosary from an inner pocket, crossed himself and fidgeted with the malachite beads. Head down, I struggled to hear his words.
‘You were right – something’s up. Portuguese man named Pires approaches me. Wants to know if I’m interested in makin’ a bit extra, on the side, like. I tell him that I lost everythin’ fleein’ France. I’m interested. He says it’s easy money. Keep an eye on what ships go in an’ out of the harbour. Let him know what flag they fly an’ the state they’re in. Bit more if I know the cargo.’
It wasn’t a bad result after only a week in the new job.
‘You said yes, of course.’
‘Too bloody right. I’m tryin’ to find out who he really is, who he’s workin’ for.’
‘Good.’ I made a mental note to buy myself a rosary; they seemed just the thing to hide trembling hands. ‘Until then, make sure he thinks you’re his man. See who else he leads you to.’
‘Aye.’ Bertie nodded. ‘You know the Pastelaria Suíça?’
‘I can find it.’
‘Next Thursday. Two o’clock. If there’s news, I’ll leave a message in the drop. Get outta here, princess. And be careful, will you?’
Most of the tourists had fled when the shots were fired, but a small group of French-speakers remained, the overweight tour guide determined to persevere. I waited at the back of the group as she stopped her
