The exchange happened so fast I almost missed it. As Allen-Smythe adjusted his tie, the gentleman seated by himself crossed his leg, his foot sliding his own briefcase forward.
Allen-Smythe twirled the ice in his drink, and glanced again in the looking glass. He wasn’t preening – he was watching. He made a show of checking the time before draining his glass and reaching into an inner pocket to retrieve his wallet. He dropped a note on the bar, and exited with the other man’s briefcase.
Everyone knew the Palácio was Allied territory, which made it probable that his contact was British, although Allen-Smythe’s overacting would have had him laughed out of a variety show. The Spider should have known better than to keep a bloody idiot on his books.
Allen-Smythe was waylaid at the entrance by an older couple. I scooted around him and charged up the hill, cursing myself for not letting the air out of Allen-Smythe’s tyres when I had the chance.
Hoping I hadn’t lost too much time, I threw my bag onto the passenger seat of Eduard’s BMW and fumbled for the wires, striking them together until the BMW woke with an angry roar and catapulted down the road. I was about to make the sharp right turn leading towards the Palacio when Allen-Smythe’s silver Peugeot slid past. It turned on to the Estrada Marginal, heading towards Lisbon.
Half-hidden behind his dark fedora, Allen-Smythe’s face was expressionless.
The BMW responded to the change of direction with beautiful precision. The last rays of sun glinted off the Atlantic to my right. I allowed a second and then a third car to drive between us, trying to mask my pursuit.
I had learnt my lesson at Sagres; my PPK was hidden in the bottom of my bag. It would be difficult to get to while driving. There was a chance that Eduard kept a spare in the glove compartment. Keeping one eye on the Peugeot, I rummaged in the glove compartment at the first stop sign. Papers that I would review later. A crushed pack of cigarettes – strange, I’d only seen him smoke that once – and a French letter. What the blazes was he doing with that? The bloody fool had a French letter in his glove compartment and turned me down? Half the Abwehr were shagging their secretaries and he turned me down. What was wrong with him?
I muttered a curse, and stepped on the accelerator.
If he was shagging his secretary, I’d kill him.
If he was shagging anyone, I’d kill him.
Allen-Smythe turned off near Oeiras, but instead of heading towards the beach and Schüller’s rooms, he weaved through small streets, sometimes speeding, sometimes creeping – doing a bloody poor job of trying to shake a would-be tail. It was a miracle he had survived so long.
Another red light allowed me to extricate the PPK from my bag.
Allen-Smythe picked up the Estrada Marginal again, passing a monument and continuing along the south front of the Praça do Comércio. He turned up the Rua da Prata into the Baixa. A right turn led us past the little church of St Maria Madalena and the larger cathedral.
It was difficult to keep cars between us now. This was territory I hadn’t been trained for. On foot, I could pick up a tail or lose one as easy as breathing.
Allen-Smythe wasn’t subtle. He might be taking detours but was heading inexorably towards the Alfama district. He turned off and cut his engine. I drove past his parked car, certain that his destination was the ruined Castelo de São Jorge. Convinced there was no above-board reason he would want to visit at this hour, I ditched Graf’s BMW near Santa Luzia and continued on foot.
My espadrilles allowed me to scale the steep, cobbled streets with barely a sound. The Bairro Alto would be kicking off soon, but this side of town was quiet enough for sounds to carry. Garlic and fish battled with the stench of sweat and urine. Short dark men, stocky and sullen watched from a restaurant lit by lanterns as I paused for breath at the base of the castle ruins, only looking away when a young woman arrived with a tray of drinks.
What could these men recount? A European brunette following an Englishman around the castle? They didn’t know me; didn’t travel in the same circles I did. What was the worst they could say? That I was a jealous woman, following my lover? And bad taste in men was neither a crime, nor overly noteworthy.
I waited just beyond the entrance to the ruins, the PPK a reassuring weight in my hand. Seconds ticked into minutes with no sign of Allen-Smythe. And the minutes ticked into an aeon. The shadows lengthened, but it was still too early for the searchlights to scrape the sky. Finally, muffled footsteps approached. I moved closer to the wall and held my breath. Still carrying the briefcase, he slipped past with a furtive grace.
What a bloody stupid place for a meeting, although given Allen-Smythe’s gross incompetence, it shouldn’t have surprised me. The more interesting question was who he was meeting. The man he was with at the Torre de Belém? Whoever he’d commissioned to kill me?
He skirted the perimeter of the ruins, passing under archway after archway, only occasionally pausing to look over his shoulder. At the base of the fortress, he veered right.
I gave him enough time to clear the alley and cross the arched bridge into the fortress. Crouching low to avoid being exposed, I scurried after him. Picked him up when a falling rock gave away his position on the ramparts. I clambered up the steps on my left and stopped just short of the top. When Eduard had brought me here, we’d followed the rampart around to a dead end. Allen-Smythe must have known about it. I eased back, evading that
