The Lisbon Crossing (11 page)

I didn’t notice
that the car wasn’t heading toward Santo’s place until the driver made a left turn off the coast road and we began a steep ascent into the mountains. I was about to ask where we were going but changed my mind. I’d know soon enough.

The road wound its way north up the slope until we reached a peak that provided a soaring view across the Atlantic, pink-and-yellow sky reflecting off the calm waters of the Tagus estuary, Lisbon’s lights sparkling through the silky dusk beyond. We continued to climb, making a series of hairpin turns, through the cobbled streets of a quiet old hill town, then onto a narrow lane that cut a straight line through a lush wooded area. I felt refreshed after my nap and the cool mountain air was like a drug. Settling back into my seat, I wondered what Santo had in mind for our meeting. He’d certainly picked an out-of-the-way spot.

A few minutes later the car slowed to a crawl and made a left turn through a stately iron gate. It was pretty dark by now, but I could make out the lights of a large estate at the end of a very long approach, although as we got closer I could see that the word
estate
didn’t quite cover it. Palace was more like it, with a capital
P
. I thought I’d seen
lavish, but this place made the biggest, most overdone Hollywood pretense look like the wrong side of the tracks.

The facade, painted a pale coral, featured imitation Corinthian columns, flowing floral cornices, a classic Greek pediment, and a gallery of pure white marble gods and goddesses posing along the roofline. It looked like a giant pink wedding cake that had been decorated by a band of mad pastry chefs.

The car followed the road around to the left, along one of two single-story wings that unfolded from the main body of the building, extending outward at right angles to embrace a formal garden of patterned hedgerows, tall cypress trees, and myriad ornately carved fountains. There was even a canal, lined with brightly lit lapis tiles that glistened out across the darkness. We pulled up in front of a grand staircase where a young man in a green jacket and feathered cap was standing at attention. He stepped forward, opened the door, and performed a deep bow as I descended onto the gravel.

“Nice place you got here,” I said, but he was poker-faced.

“Follow me, please, sir,” he said. I complied, trailing up the steps onto a vast empty terrace lit by a series of gas torches, flames flickering gently in the summer breeze. We continued through a decorative arch, where the air was steeped in the perfumed scent of night-blooming jasmine, and then along a lengthy colonnade that deposited us in front of a discreet entrance at the back of the palace.

My impassive guide was apparently not house-trained because he was very careful not to cross the threshold as he opened the door and ushered me inside. I stepped into an expansive hallway that was a bit like entering one of those “House of Mirrors” at the local carnival, except that those mirrors aren’t framed in twenty-four-karat gold. Waiting for me was another escort, this one in black tie and tails but equally deadpan. He mutely led the way along the mirrored corridor for a while, our images bouncing back and forth between the walls, then we changed course and entered a series of interlocking rooms that seemed to have little or no function other than to display objects of art, mostly from the Far East. Chinese vases, silk tapestries, that
sort of thing. Several twists and turns later we came upon a set of double doors that seemed to be our final destination. Yet another domestic was waiting there. Silver-haired, with ridiculously good posture, he gave me the once-over and wasn’t very impressed.

“Call him ‘sir,’” he instructed in the King’s English, “…and remain standing until he invites you to sit.”

“And keep my elbows off the table,” I added, but Jeeves didn’t appreciate my brand of humor. He stepped aside and let me pass without comment, unless you call a sneer a comment.

The door closed, leaving me alone in a small private dining room, oval-shaped, with red velvet walls, no windows, and soft, subdued lighting. An egg-shaped table, echoing the shape of the room, was set for three. Very elegant, from the silver candelabra to the ivory napkin holders. It hadn’t hit me that I’d be dining with the Duke of Windsor until somewhere along the hall of mirrors, so I hadn’t been able to think it through. I’d listen politely, nod a lot, and say as little as possible.

“Hello, Jack.” Espírito Santo entered through a door I hadn’t noticed because it was covered in the same red velvet as the wall. I was about to respond when the familiar royal figure appeared, cigarette in limp hand, traditional bemused smirk on his face. Santo pulled me forward.

“Your Royal Highness,” he said. “Allow me to present Jack Teller…”

“Hello, Jack.” The duke smiled affably and offered a warm handshake. “Thanks so much for coming.”

“My pleasure,” I said, remembering at the last minute to add a “sir” on the end of the sentence.

“I do hope we haven’t kept you waiting.”

“No, sir, I just got here.”

“Good,” he said. “Excellent. Well then…Shall we?”

He slipped into his place at the head of the table. Santo and I waited behind our chairs, facing each other until the duke was settled, at which point he impatiently waved us into our seats.

“Sit down, for God’s sake,” he said, as if he hadn’t noticed our deference. “We needn’t stand on ceremony.”

We took our seats and Santo turned to me.

“I apologize for the secrecy, Jack, but it is important that His Royal Highness is not compromised in any way. I’m sure you understand.”

I told him I did, but it occurred to me that if the duke was going to be compromised, it would be because he was hanging out with a guy who was doing business with Adolf Hitler, not because he was having dinner with Jack Teller.

The hidden door opened again and a waiter in white gloves appeared with a bottle of chilled white wine in hand. Assuming the manner of a matador about to face the most celebrated bull in the land, he ceremoniously planted himself at the head of the table and presented the bottle to the guest of honor. The duke had a good long look before giving the go-ahead, at which point the matador, with great aplomb, produced a corkscrew from his vest pocket and extracted the cork. Snapping to attention, one arm fixed rigidly behind his back, he poured a measure of wine into the duke’s crystal goblet. The duke took equal care with his part of the performance, holding the drink up to the light, swirling it around a couple of times, and giving it a good sniff before finally bringing the glass to his lips, gently sucking air over the top of the liquid as it decanted onto his tongue. After a moment of intense gustatory scrutiny, the duke nodded and pronounced the vintage “very nice indeed.” The waiter took a bow in the form of an almost imperceptible nod of the head, then proceeded to fill the remainder of the glass. After making his way around the table, pouring mine and Santo’s with a lot less aplomb, he made a smooth exit.

“I understand it has quite an interesting history,” the duke said, sipping the Chablis. Santo hesitated for a moment, not sure what he was talking about. “The palace,” Windsor clarified.

“Ahhh, yes…” Santo stumbled to catch up. “Yes, yes indeed…It does have quite a history. In fact, it was no more than a modest
hunting lodge, perhaps ten rooms, when Dom Pedro the Third commissioned it as his summer palace…”

“A wedding gift for his fiancée, I believe,” the duke interjected.

“Exactly so,” Santo confirmed.

The duke shot me a knowing look and raised a strategic eyebrow. “Who also happened to be his niece,” he said. I wasn’t sure if he was making a comment on the good old days when kings could marry whoever they pleased, but I took it that way. “That’s the sort of history one can get their teeth into,” he added with a thin smile.

“I’m impressed with Your Royal Highness’s knowledge,” Santo soft-soaped. The duke batted the compliment away with a flick of the royal wrist and turned back to me.

“Tell us about yourself, Jack.”

“There’s not much to tell,” I said, hoping I could leave it at that.

“I don’t believe it, not for a minute,” the duke grinned. “Any man with the good fortune to accompany Lili Sterne halfway round the globe must have a story to tell.”

“Lili and I are just friends,” I explained.

“She’s an extraordinary woman. Absolutely extraordinary.”

“Yes, sir, she certainly is.”

“How did you two meet?”

“A couple of years ago,” I explained. “On the set of one of her pictures…”

“Which one?”

“A very bad western called
Ride the Wild Wind…
”

“Starring Errol Flynn,” the duke proudly declared.

“Yes, sir, that’s right,” I said, more than a little surprised that he was familiar with a movie that even the critics had mercifully forgotten. “Now I’m the one who’s impressed.”

“Oh, I’ve seen all of Lili’s films,” he said.

“I’m not sure she would’ve wanted you to see that one.”

“Mmm, she was given rather short shrift,” the duke mused in all seriousness. “And the film was the worse for it, too. But then I’m a terrific fan, you see. I love all her pictures, no matter how dreadful.
There’s something about her that I find hard to describe. Something quite magical. Very elusive…Perhaps it’s our shared ancestry.”

He glanced over, checked my reaction before continuing. I smiled and nodded.

“Of course I’m even more besotted now I’ve met her in the flesh…I’ll have to be careful not to get carried away, though…Being a married man, as I now am.”

“A very fortunate married man,” Santo chimed in. The duke smiled graciously, and I thought I’d better second the opinion. I said something about the duchess being every bit as charming as she was beautiful.

“Yes, she is an exceptional woman,” the duke affirmed. “Unlike any I’ve met…” He seemed to go distant for a brief moment, but he came back quickly with a smile.

“I propose a toast to exceptional women…”

He raised his glass and we followed.

“To Lili Sterne and my wife…Not necessarily in that order, you understand.” He started to drink, but pulled up short. “What about you, Santo? Is there an exceptional woman you’d like to add?”

“Several,” Santo grinned mischievously.

“Touché!” the duke laughed. “Well, good luck to you. I fear those days are gone for me…And do you know, I don’t envy you a bit!”

As we drank, a pair of waiters appeared from behind the hidden door with our first course of poached fish under a creamy white sauce. It smelled delicious.

“Interesting that you should mention Errol Flynn, Jack,” Santo said casually as they started serving. “I met him several years ago, at a cocktail party in Mayfair, and then again, here in Lisbon. Do you know him well?”

“I was his stunt double on six or seven pictures,” I said, and the duke’s ears perked up.

“You were Errol Flynn’s stunt double?”

“Yes…”

“How fantastic! And here I was thinking you were just another Hollywood hustler.”

“That, too,” I assured him.

“Well, hats off to you, on both accounts. We ran across Mr. Flynn ourselves, a couple of years ago, in Paris. Charming fellow, absolutely charming. Wouldn’t you say, Jack?”

I didn’t think it would go over too well to say what I really thought—that he was an arrogant pig—so I shaded the truth a bit, Hollywood style.

“I couldn’t agree more,” I said, cutting into my fish. “Charming fellow.”

D
inner proceeded along those lines, the conversation pretty much limited to Hollywood gossip, Portuguese cuisine, and the wines of Europe, until we hit dessert. As I bit into a piece of honey-soaked sponge cake with caramelized pears on top, Santo and the duke exchanged a glance. The duke waited until the servants had left the room before getting down to business.

“Have you been to London, Jack?”

“No, sir, I haven’t,” I said. “I hope to someday.”

“Yes, you must see it. I only hope it will still be standing.” He put on a worried puppy look. “I hate to think what will happen. I fear it will be devastating, absolutely devastating.”

“It must be difficult for you,” I said, which seemed to strike the right chord. He put down his fork and turned to show me the pained expression on his face.

“I’ve been desperate, absolutely desperate…My wife and I were in Antibes when news came of France’s surrender. Shocking turn of events, but there you are, it’s happened. We’ve had to abandon our house in Paris, with all its possessions. Not an easy thing to accept, but we must all take a good hard look at reality now, and someone…
Someone
must put an end to this, this…insanity before thousands
more are killed and maimed. And for no other reason than to save the faces of a few stubborn politicians…” His voice trembled with emotion and his hands balled up into tight fists. Santo took over, his voice as smooth as silk.

“The English are in a hopeless position,” he said. “It’s only a matter of time before they are forced to come to terms with the new reality of Europe. The only question is how long it will take—and how much must be destroyed before they come to the realization.”

“It should be obvious to all”—the duke took over again—“that modern warfare no longer allows us to speak in terms of victors and vanquished. The world is at a critical juncture—this cannot be put too strongly, Jack. The course of the next hundred years will be decided in these coming weeks. If Germany and England are allowed to continue along the current path, Europe will be left in ruins, ripe for the taking by the bloody Bolsheviks…It may sound silly to put it this way, but the time has come when someone needs to say, you two boys have fought long enough and now it’s time to kiss and make up.”

The duke turned to Santo, cueing him to take over. The banker leaned forward and looked me square in the eye.

“You understand that our conversation must remain strictly confidential,” he said. “It must not go beyond this room.”

“Jack can be trusted,” the duke assured him. “I’m certain of it.” They looked to me for confirmation and I nodded.

“Of course,” I said.