‘I don’t know. If he was found guilty, surely they wouldn’t let him go.’
There wasn’t enough time to consider it; a short man in a smart suit appeared at the top of the steps. When the crowd quieted down, he relayed the verdict. His voice was lost in the crowd’s echo:
‘Guilty.’
Men filed from the building – journalists and witnesses, prosecutors and defendants. Anyone lucky enough to have a ticket to the circus. Knut barked when Eduard appeared, deep in conversation with Andreas Neumann, and dragged me through the crowd to his master.
‘It’s done?’ I asked, reaching for his hand.
He looked drained, forcing a weary smile for my benefit and ruffled the dog’s fur.
‘Every scrap of paper that was seized ended up in that damned courtroom.’ Eduard’s voice was heavy. ‘Proof undeniable, they decided, of our guilt in the matter.’
‘And the verdict?’
‘Incarceration and expulsion for anyone associated with “this unfortunate affair”, depending, of course, on the severity of their actions.’
‘Not much worse than it was before the laws changed.’
‘Never before have the English presented proof like this. Names and dates. Copies of the transmissions. And we handed it to them on a silver platter!’
‘Bendixen?’
‘Diplomatic immunity, although I imagine he’ll be recalled to Berlin.’ His words rang out like a death sentence.
‘You wouldn’t be recalled as well, would you?’ I asked, grabbing at his arm.
‘Me? I had no part in that operation.’
He sent Andreas ahead to secure a table away from the square and stood with his hand on my waist, as we were buffeted by the next wave of people emerging from the courthouse. A swarthy man spat at Eduard’s feet, signalling the mood.
The level of noise rose as Matthew appeared in the doorway, sporting a pale suit and a wide grin. Swarmed by reporters and their cameramen, he waved away the kudos, giving credit to the ‘fair and just’ Portuguese courts.
‘Was there any hint about how the Brits knew where to look?’ Claudine asked.
‘Anonymous tip.’
‘Anonymous, faugh! Someone must know something.’
Matthew swaggered forward, a wide grin on his face, and the walking stick swinging jauntily with each step. Claudine added, ‘Pretentious bastard.’
Eduard shrugged and tilted his face into the sun. He wouldn’t meet my eyes – a fair indication that he still wondered if I was the one who had betrayed them. There must have been no evidence presented to confirm that possibility and my sigh of relief was genuine enough.
Another black motor wound its way past the police lines and idled in front of the steps. It would seem that Matthew had finally begun to think of his own security. He paused on the bottom step, looked around as if about to relay a forgotten titbit, as the car door opened. Instead of a uniformed driver, a man in a dark shirt and trousers jumped out. Despite the heat, a black knitted cap was pulled low over his face. Two others, similarly clad, rushed Matthew. He moved with the grace of a younger man, sidestepping the first assailant. Dropped a shoulder and swung the swagger stick like a cricket bat, catching the other man behind the knees. The man staggered back, tripped over a step and sank to the ground. Matthew was already facing the second attacker. The crowds, contained by the PVDE, erupted in screams.
Restrained by Eduard’s hand and the press of the crowd, I remained an observer. Kidnappings were common, but this was my godfather, and no one moved to help. He stood alone, wielding the stick like a cricketer, fighting off an attack by three men. One kicked out and Matthew stumbled to one knee. The second assailant manhandled him into the back seat and tossed the stick in after him. The crowd surged again and all I could see was the car speeding past the police barrier. Unmolested.
‘One less problem,’ a German voice muttered somewhere to my left.
‘Shocking.’
The woman beside me fanned herself with a lawn handkerchief and shook her head. Eduard herded us from the square, with Julian scribbling furiously, a cigarette dangling from his lips.
What would happen to Matthew? Beaten, tortured? His body ending up like Christophe’s, mangled and bloated, spat up from the Boca do Inferno?
Not if I had anything to do about it.
*
Eduard followed me into the parlour. He wound the gramophone and a fadista’s soulful voice filled the room. I was seething, but managed to maintain a cool voice.
‘Interesting conclusion to the case. Did you know about it?’
‘It was a foregone conclusion. The evidence the Portuguese – in reality, the English – presented was overwhelming.’ He poured two brandies and handed me one.
‘Yes, you’ve said that all along. That wasn’t what I asked.’
‘Did I know that the Englishman, the one who called you “Lisbet”, would be attacked? Kidnapped? I did not.’
I scanned his face, his eyes. If he lied, he was better at it than I realised.
He raised a finger, stopping my protest.
‘I have accepted your arguments that you do not know him.’
‘But you don’t believe them.’
‘No, Angel. I do not.’ He looked tired and sad. But oddly, not angry.
‘What are you telling me, Eduard? That you don’t trust me, or you don’t care?’
His laugh grated at the back of his throat. ‘That was never the question, Angel. You know I care. Far more than I should.’
‘But you think I’m an English spy.’
It was a foolish challenge, breaking the rules of our détente. Maybe it was time.
His dark eyes captured mine; he was as willing to walk into the minefield as I was.
‘A spy, perhaps. Maybe English. You are not what you seem, but I have known that for months.’
‘And it’s never bothered you?’
‘Oh, it bothers me.’
‘But not enough to make me disappear?’
‘Jesus God, Solange, what do you think I am?’
‘Loyal to your Reich.’
‘Loyal to my country.’ He held up one finger to make his point. ‘I am German. I fight for Germany. Do not fault me for that. I have never faulted you for fighting for what you believe in.’
‘So you do think I
