‘Have you eaten today?’
*
It was still early, but the Baixa was busy – local workmen rubbing shoulders with sailors and prostitutes.
‘What sort of place are you taking me to?’ I murmured, but Eduard kept moving, and even I had to work to keep up with his long stride.
There was no sign advertising the restaurant, just a simple door, left open.
‘Are you certain this is right?’
As soon as the words left my mouth, I heard the sound of guitars. Followed Eduard through an unmarked door and down a decrepit flight of stairs to a basement that looked like it was a cave. Rough rock walls, and tables that would give my naked elbows splinters. Two men, brothers maybe, strummed guitars and crooned fado from the corner, while a table of three Portuguese men sat nearby. There wasn’t another German in sight. We followed the maître d’ to a table near the back wall, and Eduard ordered drinks before even looking at the menu. A brandy for himself, a glass of vinho verde for me.
‘Hamburg?’ I broached the subject as soon as the man left.
His shrug was unselfconscious. ‘I have friends, family there.’
‘But you’re from Munich?’
With a slight tilt of his head, his dark eyes met mine.
‘And you are French. From Paris. Do you have no relatives elsewhere?’
Once again, a Gallic shrug and a truth that was easier than a lie.
‘My grandmother was from Alsace. I was named for her.’ Sensing more than he would say, I put my hand over his. ‘I am sorry. For whatever people you have there.’ It was still the truth.
The man returned with our drinks, and Eduard removed his hand from mine. He opened his mouth to say something, and then closed it, over a rare muttered oath. Still holding my glass of wine, I followed his gaze.
One of the Portuguese men sitting near the singers turned. Large intelligent eyes catalogued every detail, before Adriano de Rios Vilar inclined his head towards me in silent greeting. An equally silent reminder of his determination to preserve Portugal’s neutrality. I had only spoken to him the once, but had sensed his attention on and off since then.
Was it a coincidence that he was in the same restaurant we were, scant hours after learning of Christophe’s death? No, he had already been here when we arrived. Did Eduard know him? Was this planned?
I didn’t believe in coincidence, although I wasn’t sure which part of the puzzle he fitted into. As far as I knew, he could still think I was nothing more complicated than a Frenchwoman stepping out with a German. Unless he knew about Veronica. Or my hunt for the grey-haired man. Or the matter of the work I was doing for Matthew, any of which would upset his delicate balance.
Focused on Rios Vilar, I almost missed the man walking down the rough stone steps. Reacquainted myself with the small details. The way he moved, like a shark through water. Cold, dead eyes. A faint scar on his cheek that gave his mouth a sardonic, cast. The pale hair, slicked back from a high forehead. As if cast from my own thoughts, the grey-haired man strode through the restaurant towards us. Dressed in a suit, rather than uniform, as he was in France, but no one could confuse this man with anything other than what he was. Two men trailed behind him; their suits were inexpensive, ill-fitting, and didn’t hide the bulge of a sidearm.
At a gesture, the two men remained at the bottom of the steps. How had they found us in this remote restaurant? Were they following us?
I fell back on my training. Not the skills learnt from Special Operations – the ones learnt from Lady Anne. I could almost feel her icy poise flow though my veins.
‘A friend of yours?’ I asked Graf.
Eduard’s face settled into a polite-but-neutral expression.
‘Not quite.’
The introductions were brief; just shy of curt.
‘Frau Verin, may I introduce you to Herr Köhler?’
I extended a cool hand to the man who had shot dead Alex Sinclair, allowing only a faint irritation that this man would interrupt our dinner to show on my face. People saw what they wanted to see, maybe even this man.
‘Good evening, Herr Köhler,’ I murmured, keeping my breathing deep and even. Extracting my hand from his, I noticed a red smudge, barely perceptible, across his right cuff.
Pale eyes clawed over me, but Köhler’s expression remained unchanged.
Eduard’s voice held a faint irritation. ‘Is there something I can do for you at this hour, Herr Köhler?’
‘My apologies, however, I need a word with the Herr Major.’ The faint mocking smile as he spoke to me.
‘Can’t it wait?’
A languid gesture took in the dinner table and restaurant.
‘I am afraid not.’
Eduard exhaled. Folded the linen napkin and placed it on the table.
‘Of course,’ he said, gesturing for Köhler to lead the way.
The two henchmen followed them up the steps as the singers’ voices swirled around each other in a crescendo.
Would both henchmen leave if they thought I was a risk? If Köhler was telling Graf who I really was? I didn’t think so, although they could be waiting outside.
What information would pass hands? Did it involve me or some other unfortunate soul?
I raised the glass only to put it down. The sgian dubh was strapped to my thigh, but how far would it get me against three armed Gestapo bastards and an Abwehr agent who, despite his loyalties, I rather liked?
At the table near the singers, the Portuguese men had stiffened, their attention on the dark velvet curtain at the top of the steps, separating the restaurant from the outside.
Why? Why be concerned when one German came to speak with another? Why were they here?
Under the tablecloth, I eased my skirt high enough to grip the
