The door gave way, and instead of seeing a pistol pointing at my head, the countess stood in the middle of the bathroom, her hands at her sides. Smirking.
She hadn’t had enough time to booby-trap the room, and there was no window to escape from, so at first I wasn’t sure what she was smiling about. Then her jaw tensed, making a crunching sound. I wasn’t fast enough to get to her before the capsule between her teeth released the arsenic, or whatever other fatal cocktail the Germans stuffed into their L-pills, into her body.
Special Operations had given me a similar pill, but I had thrown it away at the first opportunity. Why die when you could fight back? Laura held my gaze as the poison took effect. Soon she struggled to stand and sank to one knee, one pale hand on the countertop.
‘You stupid, stupid woman,’ I whispered as she fell to the ground.
Kneeling beside her head, I asked the only question needed: ‘Why?’
She closed her eyes, her slight smile spiting me until the end. If she felt any pain, she kept it to herself, along with all the other secrets she held.
‘Stupid, stupid woman’ I repeated.
My heart was still pounding, although less from exertion than it had been minutes before. Throughout the whole event, there had been no crashes, no screams. No logical reason for anyone to come and investigate, but logic had little to do with my life and I didn’t want to be found here, with the body of a dead Spanish countess, whoever or whatever else she happened to be.
I wiped down the surfaces I had touched. Any other secrets the flat held would have to be found by the police. Pulling my cap low over my eyes, I exited quickly from the flat. As far as I knew, unseen, although I wasn’t about to take the chance of the police, or worse, the PVDE arriving.
I had gone to Laura’s safe house with the intention of getting answers, not seeking her death, and despite her repeated attempts to murder me, there was neither joy nor satisfaction in it. The evening left me with sadness, anger over the unanswered questions I had, and a growing sense of foreboding. What if she’d kept incriminating information on me? Who was the German man she gave the file to and what was in it?
And what, if anything, did he know about me?
*
I was spoiling for a fight by the time I returned to Estoril. Tired of being on the run, of being attacked and stalked, I had had enough. Dressed again as Solange, albeit in dark clothes, I circled the streets around my home, looking for anything out of place. Couldn’t see anyone, but felt a presence. Was it one of Köhler’s men? One of Eduard’s? Or the PVDE?
The Deschamps’ home was dark. Not good if I had to scream for help, but at least Claudine wouldn’t be a witness to whatever happened after I managed to draw my watcher away.
I passed through the gate. Paused. Turned around to leave, sensing him following me. I moved up the hill, past the other houses and villas, until dwellings were sparse enough to have truly dark patches between them. I was tired. Past tired. My arm hurt and my ribs hurt. But at least I was alive, and wasn’t inclined to give that up.
Blending into the shadows, I allowed him to get in front of me. A large man, far taller than the gardener-bufo, and unfamiliar, but what was in his hands told me all I needed to know. First, like me, he knew that the report of a gun would bring unwanted attention. The garrotte, on the other hand, was quiet enough. And with the cast on my arm, he would think he had the advantage.
He was wrong, but I had to move fast. He must have heard me, deflected my blow and tried to get the garrotte around my neck. Raising my left arm, I stepped back, catching the wire on my cast. White pain reverberated up my arm, and I used that pain to fuel my anger. I grabbed the handles from him and lashed out with a leg.
‘Fotze,’ he grunted, stumbling, and falling to the ground.
The lights went on in a nearby house. Someone called out, their words unintelligible.
Time was running out. Garrotte in hand, I slipped behind him, sliding the wire over his hand and tightening it around his neck.
‘Who are you? Who do you work for,’ I whispered in his ear. First in German and then in English, because it didn’t matter any more if he knew who I really was. There was just enough slack in the wire that he should have been able to answer. He chose to resist instead.
With no choice left, I tightened the wire.
When he stopped moving, I patted down his body down, looking for clues. Pocketed his papers, and left him where he lay, the wire still around his neck.
Chapter Thirty-six
According to his papers, Alois Bergmann was born in Hannover and was in Lisbon for business, working for a German shoe company. Utter rubbish, of course. Shoe salesmen don’t skulk around, stalking women with garrottes and guns. Gestapo agents, however, do.
Had Laura arranged this before she died, or was this the work of Köhler? No, the grey-haired man would be here, supervising my demise, if that was the case. But the questions remained about Laura . . . until they didn’t. Sometimes the obvious answer was the right one. She might have been irked that Eduard threw her over for me, but found solace fast enough with Schüller. No, it wasn’t jealousy. The connection had to be through Allen-Smythe. If I’d seen him cropping up in all the wrong places, he might have seen me. Might have even connected Solange to Veronica.
And if that was the case – if whatever they
