I shrugged. ‘There isn’t much you could do, even if I had proof.’
‘Proof of what?’
‘Someone is watching my home.’
‘This is Lisbon, my girl. Someone is watching everyone. I told you that the first day.’
‘It feels different. More intense. I haven’t been able to find them. Yet. Whoever they are, they’re good, but I can feel eyes on me every time I come in or go out. Bloody inconvenient.’ My blasé tone fell on deaf ears.
‘More than the usual bufos?’
‘I think so, yes.’
‘I don’t like this, Lisbet. Do remember to be careful.’
‘Always.’
*
She wasn’t difficult to find. Her chestnut hair glowed in the sun as she sipped cocktails with two German women at a bar near the beach. Sensing that she’d be occupied for some time, I made my way into Lisbon and her safe house.
Her front door wasn’t designed to deter a trained burglar, and gaining entry was easy enough. She wasn’t stupid, though, and had set up tricks to determine if anyone had been in. A tripwire near the door led to nothing more serious than a small array of potted plants, which would acknowledge an unauthorised intruder. There were also a few threads hanging from doorknobs and a book at an awkward angle where everything else was aligned. I’d used similar tricks when living in France.
I started with the usual places, peering into drawers and closets, shoeboxes and hatboxes. Found an appalling array of clothing, but little else.
Moved to the bookshelves. Romantic novels in Spanish, and a few on horticulture. These offered gardening tips and a handful of French letters. The other books, in German, provided a bit more insight. The countess hadn’t struck me as being interested in military history, but the language made me wonder just how far her links to Germany went.
Frustrated, a glance at the clock on the desk confirmed that while quite a lot of time had passed, I had no proof, much less any inkling, as to why the countess had targeted me.
The floorboards sounded solid, as did the walls, and the only thing living under the bed was a dust ball the size of a small cat. And then it was too late. A key in the lock gave barely enough time to turn off the light and crawl beneath the bed.
Heart pounding and fighting the urge to sneeze, I watched slim ankles in Italian shoes cross the floor, followed by heavier boots. She turned in a 360 degree arc, as if cataloguing anything that might be out of place. Her skirt fell a few inches from my face, and she moved closer to the man.
Not only was she not alone – she was about to entertain. On the bed above me.
The skirt was quickly joined by a blouse and a lace camisole. And then a heavy clunk as the man’s belt buckle hit the floorboards. His trousers weren’t the fine material of an officer’s uniform, but the heavy denim of a workman.
Wouldn’t it be funny if it was Bertie?
On second thoughts, it wouldn’t be funny at all.
From the sound of it, there was no love involved, just an animalistic coupling that made me ashamed to witness it, yet unable to escape.
With one hand on my PPK, I closed my eyes against a growing dread about what I was about to experience, and an even bigger dread of what she might have seen if she had been watching me as closely as I now watched her.
*
The bandage at the top of her arm could have hid a bullet wound, and was all the confirmation I needed. She moved to the bathroom after he finished, while he sprawled, naked, on a chair in the parlour. He was fair-haired, taller than Bertie although not as tall as Schüller or Graf, with the thick body of a labourer, and as his splayed legs demonstrated, an impressive suite of assets.
She emerged, clad in a blue silk kaftan. Her voice no longer held the husky tones of pre-sex, but the tone was low and the German consonants lacked any hint of what I had believed to be her native accent.
She handed the man a folder from her handbag, waiting as he leafed through it. He grunted some sort of approval and tossed the dossier onto a sideboard. Perhaps it wasn’t so interesting after all.
And then he pulled her forward. She accommodated him by raising the hem of the kaftan and straddled his hips. Locked her lips on his and guided him inside.
What was in that folder to warrant such a reaction? And despite the plethora of French letters in the horticulture books, none were used. Did she want to get pregnant?
A harsh rip and the blue silk fluttered to the floor; his mouth was on her breasts as she rode him.
This time, it didn’t last as long, and the man exited while she ran a bath. I crawled out from under the bed and locked the door to the flat. The folder was gone, but she was alone. It wasn’t going to get much better than this. I sat on an armchair facing the bathroom door, PPK in hand, and waited.
She took her time cleaning herself up. I didn’t blame her; I felt as if I needed a hot shower myself.
The door opened and she stood for a moment, silhouetted by the gaslights, towelling dry her long chestnut hair. Her eyes widened when she saw me, but she quickly hid her surprise behind a calm demeanour. Her chin lifted a notch, defiant.
Feeling oddly calm, I smiled.
‘Guten abend.’
Chapter Thirty-five
She seemed equally calm; only a slight narrowing of her eyes warned that she was about to move. She threw the towel at my face and I batted it away as she bolted backwards into the bathroom. My bruised ribs made me slower than usual, as I jumped over the low table and braced my good arm against the door. I slid my foot into the breach to prevent her from locking me out. Heard
