Allen-Smythe doubled back – crossed an empty courtyard to a flight of steps at the far right side in a game of bloody snakes and ladders. I took the long way, skulking in the shadows. Climbed rough, steep steps and crouched behind the crenellations. Allen-Smythe’s frame was silhouetted against the twilight as he ducked into the watchtower. I counted the seconds until he exited. I followed him, flicking the safety off the PPK with a too-loud snick although Allen-Smythe showed no sign he’d heard it.
I edged towards the watchtower, leading with the muzzle of the gun. Expected to walk into an attack but the room was empty.
Footsteps echoed to my left and a sliver of pale skin glowed in the moonlight as Allen-Smythe crossed another courtyard. The bastard moved fast. Legs burning from the crouch I’d been forced to maintain, I followed him down the steps.
I heard the second set of steps too late. Should have been listening for them; Allen-Smythe had come here to meet someone, not just lose a tail. I’d allowed him to distract me while his partner’s firm hands on my back shoved me forward.
‘Lisbet, no!’
Matthew’s voice carried across the dreamscape, as my nails raked against the raw stone, scraping for purchase. I tried to catch myself against the archway and missed. My knee smashed against a step. Then my wrist, my hip, my shoulder. Fire exploded in my head and I heard a howl of protest, not recognising it as my own as I landed.
Two shots reverberated and someone patted my cheek. I couldn’t see anything as velvety darkness took the pain away.
Chapter Thirty-one
I woke in a strange bed, in a room that smelled of ammonia and fresh flowers. My left hand was immobile, but with enough determination, the right one rose until every muscle cried out in anguish. Ignoring the pain, I fumbled for the pistol I usually kept under my pillow, but came up empty. The gun was gone.
Where was it? Where was I? Panicking, I tried to move, but my body refused to obey. My head pounded and tears of frustration threatened. Bright light stabbed at my eyes and I extended my other senses until my eyes could adjust to the light. Cars hummed on the streets below. The low din of nearby conversation competed with the dolorous sound of a fado guitar. I wasn’t familiar with the song or the singer; the recording wasn’t mine.
Footsteps clicked by, two voices murmuring about an accident.
What the hell had happened?
Slowly, in flashes, my memory began to return. Following Allen-Smythe to the castle. Hands pushing hard at my back. Falling. Hearing my real name ringing off the stones. There was another man, the one who’d pushed me. Who was it? The same one who’d been trying to kill me, or someone else? Where was he? Something scratched at the back of my mind – a bit of information – but when I tried to pull it forward, it eluded me.
Stomach clenched, I took an inventory. My ribs felt like someone had taken a cricket bat to them, but felt bruised rather than broken. My toes finally moved; at least I wasn’t paralysed. Only my left arm refused to comply.
I counted to ten and cracked open my eyes again. The room was whitewashed, with pale curtains fluttering in the breeze. A watercolour of the seafront hung above a table holding a vase of flowers. My arm looked rather less pastoral, splinted and cushioned upon my chest.
Rupert Allen-Smythe. Next time I saw that misbegotten bastard, I’d shoot him. And if Matthew had anything to say on the matter, I’d shoot him too.
What I’d mistaken for a pillow was a thick band of cotton wrapped around my bruised chest. My head ached, but there were no bandages, save for a damp plaster near my hairline. I hoped it was only sweat, but my fingertips came back tipped with pink.
‘So. You are alive?’
The voice was deceptively calm, as the man rose from a chair near the door. His body was tense, the shoulders stiff and his dark eyes snapping with anger.
‘So it would seem,’ I croaked. I cleared my throat and tried again. ‘Where am I?’
‘Who are you?’
The voice was familiar; the tone wasn’t. I tried to raise myself to see his face, but the effort was too great and I sank back into the pillows.
He moved to the foot of the bed, staring at me for a few long seconds. Poured a glass of water and, cradling me in one arm, held me as I drank.
‘Thank you.’ I reached for his hand, but he pulled back.
‘Who are you?’ Eduard Graf repeated.
‘I thought I was the one concussed.’
From his expression, my joke fell short of the mark.
‘You are not.’
It was bad – I knew that. My medical situation, far less critical than the situation with Eduard. How many lies and half-truths would it take to recover from this? What if he’d already told the Germans about me?
‘Eduard?’
‘Who are you, Solange?’
‘The same woman I was yesterday.’
Only I wasn’t, and I didn’t need to hear him call me Solange rather than Angel to confirm that. My cover was blown and, as much as Portugal pretended to be a neutral country, Eduard could arrange for me to ‘disappear’ if he wanted to. So could Matthew. Would it be a race between the Germans trying to kill me and my godfather shipping me off on the next plane to London?
Eduard broke the silence. ‘You have one cracked rib and a broken arm. You were pushed down a flight of steps in a ruin you should not have been to. In a city you rarely visit.’ My eyes struggled to focus as he paced in front of the window counting out my infractions on his fingers. ‘Having hot-wired my car.’
I winced; I’d forgotten that detail.
‘Ah . . . I can explain that . . .’
He continued as if I hadn’t spoken. ‘You held a pistol in one hand and a knife in the other. And I
