To Catch a King (19 page)

“So what about my money?”

“You'll get it, you have my word on that. Twenty thousand American dollars, just as we agreed.”

Jackson didn't wait to hear any more, but allowed himself to slide gently over the wall and dropped into the damp grass. He started back down the hill where Hannah had left the Mercedes, but it had gone.

The contingency plan had been simple: if they lost touch, to try and rendezvous at the beach house at Cascais, which was almost two miles away. As he started to trot along the grass verge at the side of the road, it began to rain.

When Hannah and Schellenberg reached the Mercedes, he held open the door for her, then went around to the other side and got into the passenger seat.

“I came by cab myself. You don't mind giving me a lift back into Lisbon, do you?”

She started the car and drove away, thinking of Joe Jackson back there at the villa. “As far as the first cab rank.”

He lit two cigarettes and passed one over to her. “You must see now what nonsense it is for you to continue to interfere in this business. The fact that you found me waiting for you in the summerhouse tonight, instead of the Duke, must surely prove to you that I have more influence in Lisbon than even your Mr. Jackson.”

As they neared the Tower of Belem they came to a night club with a neon sign flashing on and off in the dark. A couple of cabs were drawn up in front and she pulled in at the curb.

She didn't say a word and Schellenberg got out, closed the door, then leaned in at the window and smiled. “We really can't go on meeting this way, you realize that, don't you?”

She swung the Mercedes around in a U-turn and drove away rapidly.

Lights were on in the house when she stopped in the courtyard. As she went up the steps to the veranda, the door opened and Jackson appeared. He was stripped to the waist and toweling himself down.

“What happened?”

She told him.

“You missed the best part of the show,” he said, as she followed him inside. “After you'd gone, your two friends from the wharf turned up—Kleiber and Sindermann. Seems they don't exactly see eye to eye with Schellenberg. They've cooked up a plot with Captain Mota to snatch the Duke and Duchess on the way to the bull farm at Nina tomorrow. That young man is certainly in the market for corruption. Seems to be holding his hand out to everyone.”

“Can we stop it?”

“Oh, yes, I think so. I've already found out who is putting on the show in the ring at Nina tomorrow. I rang the union.”

“The union?”

“Sure—bullfighters have a union, just like anyone else. You know, I'm beginning to think this whole business this evening could turn out to be to our advantage.”

“How?”

“Never mind that now. I'll explain on the way into town. Make me some coffee while I change.”

When he reappeared five minutes later he was wearing black tie and white tuxedo. “Working clothes,” he told her. “After all, I
am
a saloonkeeper.”

She handed him his coffee. “I've been thinking. The friend of yours who laid things on for us at the villa didn't exactly come up with value for money.”

“Oh, I don't know,” Jackson said. “The Nazis have not only been printing their own money lately, but other people's as well. Their British five-pound notes are excellent and their American one-hundred-dollar bills aren't bad. As long as you don't look at them too closely, that is. Someone tried to pass a few off at my gaming tables the other month. I confiscated them, naturally, and tossed him out on his ear. Not worth bothering the police, and it did seem a use might turn up for them some time.”

“You bastard,” she said in awe.

“I like to think so.”

The café they stopped at was on the edge of the Alfama district and fronting on the river. It had no name. She could hear singing and guitar music.

“Shouldn't I be asking myself what a young girl like me is doing in a place like this?”

“This is no ordinary bar,” he said. “More like a club.”

When they went in, she saw at once what he meant. The walls were covered with posters advertising various bullfights, and several bulls' heads were mounted behind the bar.

It was not particularly busy. A young man leaned against the wall, chair tilted, playing a guitar and singing a
fado
softly. Four men played cards at another table. One of them was a small, dark, fierce-looking man with a dreadful scar on one cheek running into the eye.

He called cheerfully, “Ola, Senhor Joe! Five minutes only. I have the hand of a lifetime here.”

“I told you I phoned the union,” Jackson said. “And this is it. That's Jose Borges, local union president. He used to be one of the greatest
toureiros
in the game until he took a horn in the face and lost an eye. Lot of gypsy blood in him.”

The barkeeper brought coffee in heavy glasses and brandy, without being told, and went away again.

There was a cry of joy at the card table, general laughter, and Jose Borges got up and crossed to join them.

There was a patch over his right eye, she saw that now as Jackson said, “Senhorita Winter—Jose Borges. Little Jose to every lover of the bulls in Portugal, for twenty-two years now.”

“Senhorita.” He took her hand and bowed gravely.

Jackson said, “I hear Oliveira has hired you to put on the show at his farm at Nina tomorrow for the Duke of Windsor and the Marques de Estella. A proud day for you.”

“There have been others,” Borges said modestly and lit a long black cheroot.

“I was wondering whether we can join you? Senhorita Winter, who is an American like myself, has never seen a bullfight. That being so, it seems to me she should see the best, and as you fight so seldom these days, Jose, tomorrow would really be a unique opportunity.”

Borges turned with interest to Hannah. “So, you have a love for the bulls, senhorita?”

“I'm not sure,” she said. “I'll have to see. It's the killing part of it that worries me.”

He roared with laughter. “This is Portugal, not Spain. Here, the only one to get killed is the
toureiro
if he is unlucky. Once, many years ago, the Count of Arcos was torn to pieces by a bull before the eyes of the whole court. The Queen declared that Portugal was too weak to risk the life of a man against that of a bull. Since that day, the putting of the bull to death has been prohibited.”

“The tips of the horns are covered with leather,” Jackson said. “Leather sheaths. But often, in the middle of a fight, they come off.”

“And then, senhorita,” said Borges, running a finger along his scar. “You're in trouble.”

“So, you'll take us tomorrow?” Jackson asked.

“All right. We leave at eight.”

“We'll come with you in the truck, if that's all right.”

“Fine.”

“Good.” Jackson got up. “We'd better get moving. I've got a club to run.”

The sign
Joe Jackson’s American Bar
was bright in the night and there were a great many cars parked outside. He left the Mercedes on the wharf and took her in the side entrance and up the back stairs to his office.

When he slid back a panel in the wall, it revealed a black grill through which they could look down into the gaming room. Dice, blackjack, poker—they were all doing well, but the crowd around the roulette wheel was particularly heavy.

Jackson said, “Good, there he is. You wait here.”

Colonel Fernandes da Cunha was not doing particularly well. Jackson said, “Hello, Fernandes. I always thought twelve was your lucky number.”

“Did you, Joe?” Da Cunha smiled. “Then twelve it is, by all means.”

As the wheel stopped, the ball slotted neatly into place. Jackson said, “I'd let it ride, if I were you.”

“Who am I to argue with the proprietor.”

This time, when twelve came up again, he picked up the chips the croupier pushed toward him. “You're being excessively generous tonight, Joe, I wonder why.”

“Oh, I haven't even started yet,” Jackson told him. “Come upstairs and have a drink. You might find it interesting.”

Hannah was standing at the grill looking down into the gaming room as they entered. She turned and Jackson said. “Fernandes, I'd like to introduce Miss Hannah Winter. Now, you could arrest her. On the other hand, if you're as smart as I think you are, you'll listen to what we've got to say first.”

13

I
t was a fine bright morning as the old truck rolled along the dusty road between the olive trees, women in black dresses and straw hats already at work in the fields.

Hannah and Jackson were up front in the cab beside Borges, who was driving himself. The other members of his team were in the rear.

Hannah was in a peasant dress and headscarf which Jackson had procured for her. He wore a tweed cap, a collarless shirt and an old jacket many times patched. It interested her that Borges had made no comment on their appearance.

At one point, he fished out a packet of cheap local cigarettes with one hand. She got one out for him, lit it and put it into his mouth.

“My thanks.”

“You and Joe—you've known each other long?”

“Since Spain, senhorita. We fought together against Franco. Starved together. It was a bad time, I can tell you. A few drops of olive oil in water, a handful of grapes. Sometimes we didn't see a loaf of bread for weeks.”

Jackson was dozing in the corner. She looked at him and said, “Hardly worth the money, I should have thought.”

“Money?” he laughed hoarsely. “For the last year of the war we didn't get a peso—not any of us.”

Hannah glanced again at Jackson, perplexed. “But I thought…”

“That we fought for money, Joe and I? But you are wrong.”

“Then why did you fight?”

“I ask him that question myself once. For me, it's simple. I'm a Communist, but Joe just said he didn't like Franco.” At that moment, they rumbled past a small inn with tables outside and half a dozen houses. “Ah, Rosario. We'll soon be there.”

“You know something?” Joe Jackson said, without opening his eyes. “You talk too much.”

In the rear of the Buick, Primo de Rivera was seated opposite the Duke and Duchess.

The Duke said, “It really is too much. Wallis received a bunch of flowers this morning. Anonymous, mind you. The card said:
Beware of the machinations of the British Secret Service. A Portuguese friend who has your interests at heart.
Have you ever heard such rot?”

“Such talk is common in Madrid,” De Rivera said.

“Good God, Primo, it's absolutely bloody nonsense. I mean, there is no British Secret Service in Lisbon at the moment. Well, hardly anything worth speaking about. I know, believe me.”

The Buick slowed as they came alongside the police truck parked at the side of the road. Captain Mota approached and saluted. “I regret the inconvenience, Your Royal Highness. A minor breakdown and soon rectified. If you would continue to Rosario and wait for us there.”

“Very well,” said the Duke and nodded to the chauffeur. “Drive on.”

Kleiber and Sindermann arrived at the inn at Rosario at ten-thirty in a rented car from Lisbon. Kleiber paid the driver off and they went inside. It was a poor place—rough-cast walls, stone floor, and wooden tables—and there were no other customers.

An old woman appeared from a room at the rear to serve them. They ordered red wine and a plate of olives for something to do and sat at a table by the window.

Kleiber glanced at his watch. “Check your gun.”

They had both obtained Walthers from the armory at the Legation. The Sturmbannführer handled his with conscious pleasure as he pulled the slider, putting a round into the breech, and slipped on the safety catch with difficulty because of his sling.

The two police motorcyclists roared by, raising dust outside. “Not long now. I'd like to see Schellenberg's face when he hears about this.”

“Why wait?” Schellenberg said, walking in from the kitchen followed by Da Cunha and a couple of policemen with machine pistols.

“I see you've beaten us to it, gentlemen,” Da Cunha said. “We, too, are here to see the Duke drive past.”

“Colonel da Cunha is head of the Security Police,” Schellenberg explained. “He's just had the distressing task of arresting one of his own officers.”

“An unfortunate case,” Da Cunha said. “A most corrupt young man.”

At that moment, the Buick appeared and slowed to a halt. Da Cunha straightened his tunic and went out. They saw him salute, then lean down at the window. He drew back and the Buick continued.

He returned. “Right, I'll follow them to Nina personally, just to make certain the rest of the day passes uneventfully. You are returning to Lisbon now, I presume, General?”

“Yes, I think so,” Schellenberg said. “My thanks, Colonel.”

He went out through the kitchen, and Kleiber and Sindermann followed. The Embassy Buick was waiting in the yard, Zeidler standing beside it.

“We could have had him, damn you!” Kleiber said. “Don't you realize that?”

“Interesting,” Schellenberg remarked. “The Duke and I having the same car, I mean. It proves something, though I'm not sure what.”

Bullfighting in Portugal when performed in gala dress is a spectacular sight. The De Oliveira ranch boasted its own ring and for the royal party mounted a dazzling performance.

The first two bulls were fought from horseback in approved style, their host himself, as is common with many Portuguese noblemen, taking part dressed in cloth of gold with satin breeches and a tricorn hat with ostrich plumes.

But the Duke and Duchess soon found the display, in spite of the incredible skill with which the horses were ridden, a bore.

The spectacle which followed,
las pegas,
was much more interesting. The
torril
was opened and a bull launched himself like a black thunderbolt into the sunlight. He stood there, pawing the ground. A line of men, in traditional costume, moved into the arena, headed by Jose Borges.

The Duke said, “What do they intend to do?”

Primo de Rivera said, “It's rather fascinating. Your Royal Highness has visited Greece, of course. On Cretan vases you will see depicted the dances of the sacred bull in which young men did handsprings on the bulls' horns.”