“What’s that up there?”
“That’s the Palace of Pena. Part Gothic, part Manueline, part Islamic, part Renaissance, and all put together by someone who still believes in fairy princesses and unicorns.”
Hector stared hard at the intricate silhouette gracing the hilltop. It was the most eclectic of buildings.
“You should see it in daylight. Every wall, turret, and column is painted a different color. Quite remarkable. Southern European romantic taste, I suppose. You must go visit. After—”
“Monday.”
“Yes, Monday.”
“Walter, would you mind if I looked in on Caitrin Colline? I’m sure by now sitting in the dark has cooled off her enthusiasm.”
Schellenberg gazed up at the castle for a moment and spoke without looking away. “I doubt that. Look in if you must, but take von Eisen with you.” Schellenberg nodded and strode away. Hector watched him leave, waited a moment, and walked toward the house, toward Caitrin Colline in her dark prison.
* * *
Caitrin spun away and covered her eyes as the cellar door opened and closed. There were men outside, and someone was in the cellar, she could tell. She heard the door lock. “If you have a torch, leave it turned off.”
“I’ll point it down and cover the lens with my hand,” Hector said. “I need to talk with you, Caitrin.”
“Feel free to chatter away, I’m going nowhere. For now.”
Hector fumbled his way toward her voice, and the faint light from the torch edged her face. “There isn’t much time left. Tomorrow, the British ambassador to Portugal will be invited to view the Crown Jewels as a beginning to initiate an armistice. By Monday, if Churchill still refuses to sign an agreement, the Jewels go to Germany and Leni Riefenstahl’s film is sent to British cinemas.”
“Who won’t show it.”
“There will be photographers and newspaper reporters too, including Americans, who will show it.”
“Congratulations, Hector. It’s not every man who can successfully betray his country. I’m sure your dear leader Hitler will give you and Lord Haw Haw matching medals.”
He noticed her bloodied right hand. “What happened?”
“Does it matter?”
“You are cold?” His question startled her. He flashed the torch into her face, dazzling her, and bellowed in German, “It’s not my fault you’re cold! It’s your fault. You’re stupid! Here, take this jacket!” He peeled off his jacket and threw it at her.
“I don’t want your—” Caitrin stopped because there was an odd weight to the jacket.
“It’s the last thing I do for you. The hell with you!” Hector pounded on the cellar door. “Herr von Eisen, unlock the door and get me away from this ungrateful bitch!”
The door opened, he slipped away, and it slammed shut, leaving Caitrin in the darkness again. She was cold and put on the jacket. Her right hand went into a pocket, felt the weight there, and her fingertips traced a familiar, forgotten pattern: the distinctive zigzag grooves on the cylinder of her Webley-Fosbery revolver. She broke the action to check if it was loaded; it was—and not with blanks. A note was tucked into the trigger guard, and she read it by the light filtering beneath the cellar door: Please do not burn the place down. I’m coming back for you.
40
Not every man is given the opportunity to see his prime minister naked, especially with a handful of papers and a cigar clamped in his jaws. Bodyguard Thompson rolled his eyes and wondered yet again what grievous horror he had committed in a previous life to have gotten so lucky. To be fair to Winston Churchill, he had begun the morning dressed, or at least partly covered with a towel, having just left his bathtub. But that had long since fallen away as he marched up and down the bedroom, puffing great clouds of cigar smoke and waving his arms while he worked aloud on his latest speech. “I must explain that a fire has been started that will burn brightly and increase daily until it scorches and consumes every last vestige of Nazi tyranny from Europe. And having done so, the Old World and the New can then work together building the foundations of an honorable and new freedom for all men that this time will not so readily be overthrown.” He stopped and swung to face Thompson. “What say you to that, Thompson?”
“That would be very stirring stuff, Sir,” Thompson said, which he believed was true, even if it was delivered by a naked old man who looked rather like a large, pink, cigar-puffing baby.
“Yes, it is, and it should, God willing, finally get the Americans involved,” Churchill muttered and shuffled through the papers. “And listen to this bit. ‘Countries that are still, at this moment, free of war, are astonished and humbled at the courage and tenacity of the citizens of London as they daily face the most terrible of ordeals. And which have yet to end. But from that suffering our people will draw strength to carry on. And not only endure, but grow stronger, until that day when they forge victory from adversity. It will be a glistening triumph, not only for today, but for generations to come. Their struggle to overcome the most horrific tribulations will ever be remembered. ’ I still have to edit this part.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Mrs. Hill, come in here.”
“If you don’t mind I’d rather not, Sir.” Kathleen Hill’s voice carried from the sitting room. She had long since grown used to encountering Churchill’s occasional nakedness but had also recently eaten breakfast.
“What? Why not?” Churchill growled.
“Because of this, Sir?” Thompson pointed to the towel at Churchill’s feet. He looked down at it, seemed to become aware of his nakedness for the first time, and grumbled something inaudible before saying, “All right, I shall get dressed.”
Once dressed in his blue siren suit, Churchill accepted a phone call, listened with great concentration, hung up, and strode into the living room. “I just spoke to Sir Charles Harmwood Montague Bilby, our ambassador to Portugal.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“He has gotten a most unusual message from a German SS officer, telling him he has in his possession certain objects taken from a horse box.” Churchill grinned. “The Crown Jewels are in Portugal, of all places. Where exactly remains a mystery, but Bilby is soon to find out because they requested that he see them, and I have given him permission. Softly softly catchee monkey, Thompson. Damn the Germans with their ham-fisted plans. We shall slay the Nazee monster yet.”
41
Sir Charles Harmwood Montague Bilby, KCMG, CB, VO, British ambassador to Portugal since 1937 and an elegant man with a well-groomed mustache and thick wavy hair, had celebrated his sixtieth birthday by buying himself an Aston Martin Lagonda Rapide convertible, in gunmetal gray with a red interior. The afternoon was cool but clear as, warmly wrapped and with the top lowered, he drove the winding road from Lisbon up to Sintra. He usually would have brought an assistant or a bodyguard with him, but the German was insistent he come alone, a condition to which Churchill agreed. It was all a bit of a Bulldog Drummond mystery, which he was rather enjoying. It made a change from always being polite to everyone, and the Lagonda, even though it was right-hand drive, was built for this kind of sinuous road motoring. At times, he felt a little guilty driving around Portugal in his Aston Martin while England was being bombed and use of a private vehicle there was forbidden. Fortunately, the guilt usually passed after his first meia de leite and pastel de natas. Sir Charles had developed a taste for Portuguese coffee and pastries.
He slowed as he drove uphill and turned into the town square. He had been instructed to park on Praça da República outside the Palácio da Vila. It was an odd building, white fussy Manueline architecture with two immense conical chimneys out of all proportion to the palace. This late in the year, the square was almost deserted. He checked his watch—a few minutes early. The sun would be setting soon.
A Citroën Traction Avant pulled up behind him, and a slender young man got out and walked toward him. “Sir Charles?”
“Yes.”
“Hello, Sir. I’m James.”
