‘Careful, princess, gunshots are messy.’
‘Jesus Christ, Bertie, I could have killed you.’
I slid the safety on and slapped the back of his head.
‘Better men have tried. Oh, wait. You’re not a man, are you?’
He grinned as I flicked the light switch, bathing the room in a warm glow. The East Ender looked rougher than usual – his clothing was filthy and his face streaked with dirt. His gaze followed mine to the brown stain high on his arm.
‘Nothin’ important,’ he said, dismissing the wound.
I narrowed my eyes, wondering what he wasn’t telling me.
‘Bad news?’
‘Not really.’
‘You found him?’
The little man smirked. ‘Did you ever doubt it?’
‘Well, it bloody took you long enough!’
‘Two days, princess, an’ I’m counting from the time the toff disappeared. Weren’t you taught patience in that posh school of yours?’
‘What? Between learning how to shoot and to kill people with my hands?’
Chuckling, he sauntered to my sideboard; admired the view before filling two glasses with Carlos Primero.
‘Am I going to need that much?’
My stomach rebelled against the thought of more bad news.
‘You might. Sit down.’
I shouldn’t have underestimated him; he’d found Matthew, of course he could find me. I hadn’t overtly kept him in the dark, but hadn’t offered any information on myself, my alias, and certainly not where I lived. But there were more important things to consider.
‘What have you learnt?’
‘About your life as Solange Verin? Your aspirations to becoming the next Frau Graf? Tsk, tsk. What would they say back in Blighty?’
‘I imagine they’d give me a medal, but I was asking what you found out about Harrington, not about me.’
‘Dangerous game you’re playing, just as you know. Graf doesn’t have a reputation for being a fool.’ He smacked his lips. ‘Excellent brandy. Right, right, don’t give me that look. Sir Matthew. You were spot on when you thought he was at one of the quays.’
‘You’ve found him?’
‘I found the quay. Halfway between here and Sintra. Not far from the one you showed me in June. Small, an’ up until now, active enough, pulling in half a dozen labourers to work on the docks a few times a week. Been there before, y’know. Wolfram goes in. It’s decanted into barrels – marked as lead, mind. So as if anyone’s poking around, it looks above board. Then it’s onto a speedboat an’ out to fuck-knows-where. Pardon the language.’
‘Of course.’
‘So the night before the kidnapping, they turn away the crew. No explanation, just a get-thee-hence. Repeated the next night. Now the quay’s shut for business. Boarded up, but wiv’ an armed guard at the gate, an’ men patrolling around the warehouse.’
‘Who has him?’
‘Germans.’ He held up a hand to stop the next question. ‘Not sure which group, although if I had to guess, it’s the Navy Intel arseholes, out for a bit of revenge after what happened at the courthouse. ’Sides, they know which quays the smugglers use.’
That made sense. ‘Is he alive?’
‘If he’s dead, why keep it closed?’
I hummed a response, then asked: ‘How do you propose we get him out?’
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded document. Smoothed it out on the table and used our two glasses and an ashtray to hold down the edges. It was a map of central Portugal – towns and cities shown in strong black print. Bertie had pencilled in markers along the coastline.
‘Drew this when you had me look into the smugglin’. I’ve worked out of a good number of the quays, but the one you want is here.’ He pointed to an inlet about five hundred yards from the coast road. ‘Lorries usually come down here at night, an’ leave before sunrise. Not any more.’
‘You confirmed this?’
‘Thought this was the one yesterday. Spent the night stakin’ it out. Saw men moving about but not the same – not like there was a shipment coming in, or goin’ out.’ He paused, the glass halfway to his lips. ‘You hear that?’
‘I didn’t hear anything.’ I reached for my pistol.
Bertie held up a finger for silence and grasped his gun as the front door opened. I held myself flush against the wall as Bertie turned off the lights and moved to the other side of the door.
Approaching footsteps became louder. A single set, and whoever it was made no attempt to hide their presence. I closed my eyes and said a little prayer as the parlour door swung back with an almighty crash. We moved quickly, our guns aimed at the man backlit by the hallway lights. The muzzle of his Luger alternated between us.
‘Who are you?’ Bertie demanded in French.
‘Who the hell are you?’ Eduard responded. My breath escaped with a soft whoosh.
‘Thank God,’ I whispered, sliding the safety into place. The men still had their pistols trained on each other. ‘Put your guns away, both of you.’ I turned on the lights. ‘What are you doing here, Eduard?’
‘Ah, the estimable Major Graf,’ Bertie murmured. His gun didn’t move. Neither did Eduard’s.
‘Who’s he?’ Eduard’s expression was one of grim resignation. ‘What have you done now?’
I opened my mouth but words refused to emerge.
‘Just once, Angel. Just once can you not stay away from trouble? I asked you to leave this to me. Not only did you ignore me, you rushed headlong into it with this riff-raff!’
Bertie put the gun on the table, but kept it within easy reach, palming the map and reclining in the armchair. He wore a look of sublime amusement.
‘Riff-raff?’
‘For heaven’s sake, Eduard. Do you really think I’m the sort to sit on my hands and wait for someone else to solve my problems?’ I raged.
‘Sometimes I wish you were.’
The words hung in the air. His shoulders were stiff and he looked as if he wanted to hit something. If he took one step closer to me though, at that moment, I might just have hit him.
‘Then you’re with the wrong woman.’
Eduard took another step towards me when Bertie interrupted, gun back
