‘Silly thing to do,’ I concluded. ‘Clearly.’
‘Clearly,’ he echoed. ‘Senhora, I do not think I need to repeat myself and tell you that these are dangerous times. The war progresses, both sides are jumpy. Desperate. Both sides will do whatever they must to succeed. If you get in the way, you are in danger. If you are a part of it, you are in danger, and due no protection from the state. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Yes.’
I wondered what protection he had offered to date? How many times had I been attacked with no one to guard my back?
‘Good.’
He let his hands drop to his sides and turned to the door.
‘Senhor Rios Vilar?’
The painkillers had loosened my tongue and the urge to ask the question in the back of my mind bubbled to the surface. He paused, turning back to me with his head tilted in silent inquiry.
‘Yes?’
‘If things are as you say, and the war progresses, which side will you choose?’
‘You know the answer to this.’ His laugh was mirthless. ‘Portugal, Senhora Verin. For me, it is always Portugal. Nothing else matters.’
It was still about the fine line of neutrality. One that he might now think I’d crossed. And if he did, then my life might well go the same way as Martin Billiot’s.
Chapter Thirty-three
After three days, neither the PVDE, the Gestapo, nor Eduard came calling.
Matthew did, briefly. Long enough to interrogate me on the wireless devices. I told him of meeting Köhler, first in France and again in Lisbon. He confessed to knowing little of the man. Agreed to keep an eye on the situation but felt it unlikely the man would be here because of me.
I agreed. Didn’t think he’d be a bad enough shot to miss twice, maybe three times.
With regards to the PVDE, Matthew could shed no light.
‘Some PVDE officers favour the Nazis, as you know. But Rios Vilar?’ His shrug was no answer.
Three days. Seventy-two hours. On my own, staring out of the window, wondering what would happen upon my release. Or whether someone would tire of waiting and have me killed in here.
I was bored. I was cranky. And I was damned if I’d allow myself to be an easy target. I could brood about Eduard as well from home as I could in the hospital, and could protect myself better there as well. On a walk around the ward, I acquired a skirt one size too large, a jumper one size too small and left the hospital.
The taxicab dropped me off at a hotel in the Bairro Alto. I went in the front door, and out of a service exit in the back. Took the train to Cascais. Doubled back. It was exhausting and I didn’t have a lot of energy to spare, but if Rios Vilar still had his men following me, chances were good that they were as exhausted as I was. I unlocked my front door, turned on the wireless and poured myself a drink.
The BBC and its Spanish equivalent recounted the Allied successes in Italy, the continued bombing of Hamburg, the Russian victories on the steppes. The local English station spoke of food shortages and the resulting strikes in the Bairro, where the workers had stopped work on Tuesday and were now locked out. It had escalated into demonstrations, shots fired, and the city filled with troops. The German channels claimed these ‘disturbances’ were fostered by the British.
I lit a cigarette and took my brandy to the piano, picking out a tune with my right hand. Perhaps I could check in with Bertie. Make sure he hadn’t left something out of his last report. Wasn’t there something he’d said . . . ? Something that my memory was aware of and that I just couldn’t pull forward. What the devil was it?
A loud knock sounded on the gate.
I ignored it. An assassin wouldn’t announce his presence, and whoever else it was, could go hang.
The knocking became insistent. I walked upstairs and eased out on to the balcony. The angle was wrong, but could just barely see the top of Claudine’s head when she stepped away from the door. The last thing I needed was to be more fodder for the Estoril gossip machine.
‘Go away!’ I bellowed, not caring who heard.
‘For pity’s sake, open the door, Solange!’ Claudine shouted. ‘I’m not leaving until you do!’
‘Bloody Frenchwoman,’ I grumbled, but padded down to meet her. Yanked the door open with my good hand, ignoring my ribs’ protest. ‘What do you want?’
The black dress accentuated her pale skin and haggard appearance.
‘I heard you were in hospital! I wanted to see how you were.’
A wave of guilt overwhelmed me. I’d forgotten about her own situation, and had been unnecessarily harsh. I stood back to let her in.
‘Broken arm. I’ll be fine. The funeral?’
‘Yesterday.’
‘I’m sorry I wasn’t there.’
‘I didn’t expect you to be. I was just worried about you.’
I shook my head. ‘Nothing more than a silly accident. Forgive me, Claudine. I’m just feeling sorry for myself.’
‘I can understand that.’ She ducked under my good arm and entered my house. ‘Self-pity isn’t good for you. Did you fall off that bicycle? I told you that you should give it away and buy a car.’
‘I like that bicycle,’ I said, feeling strangely protective of it. Scratched my nose and waited for her to leave.
‘It was the bicycle! I knew it!’
‘She tripped in the old castle ruins and had a nasty fall, Claudine,’ Eduard said from the doorway.
I was shocked by his sudden presence. Had he deliberately used Claudine as a Trojan horse? He stood back, his hands in his pockets. He was casually dressed, without a tie, and a light breeze ruffled his hair.
‘Oh, you must be careful. Some of those
