The Lisbon Crossing (8 page)

“Hey, Teller.”

I swung around and found myself face-to-face with the golden boy. He looked a bit awkward standing there in a dark suit, cup of tea in hand.

“Hello, Brewster,” I said.

“How are things going?…If you don’t mind my asking, that is.” He flashed the million-dollar smile.

“Could be better,” I admitted.

“So I’ve heard.”

“Don’t look so damned happy about it.”

“Look…” He took a step toward me. “I’m sorry that we got off on the wrong foot yesterday. If I was out of line, I apologize.” It sounded genuine enough, even though I knew it was nothing more than a career move. It didn’t matter, though, because I needed a Brewster more now than I had a day earlier. Even if I managed to find Eva before Ritter did, I’d have to find a quiet way to get her out of the country and some timely help from Uncle Sam would be the fastest and most reliable ticket.

“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “I was probably a bit out of line myself.”

“Friends, then?”

“Sure,” I said. “Friends.”

He nodded and glanced over at the crowd Lili was drawing a few yards away. “I don’t know what’s caused more of a buzz around here, the Windsors or Lili Sterne hitting town…What did you think of the duchess?”

I thought about it for a second. “Friendly.”

“That’s a good way of putting it,” he chuckled. “Very diplomatic.”

“So it’s not just me, then.”

“Sorry,” he grinned. “Pretty much anything in pants. It’s all tease, though. No follow-through.”

“I guess I’ll live.”

“Oh, I think she’d give you a good run for your money, all right. If you know what I mean…” Brewster got a kind of faraway look in his eye as he sized the duchess up from across the garden. I wondered what his imagination was up to. “She’s had some pretty exotic training, you know.”

“Training?”

“Sure. When she was in China, back in the late twenties, with her first husband—the duke is number three, you know…”

“Yeah, I read that.”

“Well, her first used to spend a lot of time at the brothels around Shanghai. I mean like day and night. Apparently she got tired of waiting around and decided to join in the fun. They used to go regularly.”

“They went to a brothel together?”

“According to the Brits, anyway. They have a file on the whole thing. They think she might’ve picked up a trick or two out there that helped her snare the king.”

“Maybe,” I said, pretty sure there would be more to it than that. On the other hand, the mighty orgasm—or lack thereof—has undoubtedly had a hell of a lot more influence on the course of human history than the books credit.

“Cup of tea, sir?” The freckle-faced kid looked and sounded like a refugee from Buckingham Palace.

“Is that all you’re offering?” I said.

“At the moment, sir, I’m afraid so, sir.”

“Thanks anyway.”

“Yes, sir.” He performed a perfectly executed shallow bow and turned on his heel.

“I heard about Kleinmann,” Brewster said, switching gears. “Can’t say I’m brokenhearted. It’ll make your job a lot tougher, though.”

“You know him?” I asked, suddenly interested.

“Met him a couple of times. An arrogant SOB, but aren’t they all?”

“Diplomats?”

“Funny,” he said, not laughing.

“What do you know about him?”

“Kleinmann? Not a lot. A party guy.”

“What kind of parties?” I was thinking along the lines of Eddie’s interest in the seedy side of life and wondering if there was some kind of perverted connection between them.

“You’ve been in Hollywood too long, Jack. I’m talking about the Nazi Party.”

“Oh,” I shrugged. “Right.” Maybe I had been in Hollywood too long.

“You see, there are two kinds of Germans at the embassy these days. The lifelong diplomats—educated, old-money, establishment guys…They’ve got a touch of class and they actually know what they’re doing. Then there are the party guys. Hitler’s crowd. They think they have class, but all they’ve got is clout. Like von Ribbentrop himself.”

“Who’s that?”

Brewster gave me a look. He was enjoying this. “Joachim von Ribbentrop, foreign minister for the Third Reich, and close friend and confidant of Adolf Hitler. You’ve heard of Hitler, right?”

“It rings a bell.”

“Talk about arrogance, Ribbentrop is it. Notice I didn’t use the
von.
It isn’t real. He got it ten years ago. Paid to get himself adopted by the widow of some distant cousin who’d married into the aristocracy. Even the money’s new. He was a wine salesman until he married the boss’s daughter.”

To Brewster’s country-club mind, a bourgeois wine salesman pretending to be an aristocrat was just about the greatest Nazi crime yet committed. And dropping the
von
from the offender’s name was, to him, a severe, but just, penalty.

“What did Kleinmann do?” I asked.

“At the embassy?”

“Right.”

“No idea,” Brewster said, shrugging it off. Didn’t matter in the slightest to him. “The guy you should ask is over there. The one with the thick glasses.” He nodded toward an unexceptional accountant type who was standing inconspicuously among a half-dozen men involved in a deep discussion about something.

“His name’s Griffin Stropford,” Brewster informed me. “Financial attaché at the British embassy. That’s his cover, anyway. In fact, he’s MI6.”

I gave him a look. “MI6…?”

“See how helpful I can be?” he gloated. “British intelligence. His Majesty’s Secret Service.”

“Not
too
secret, I guess.”

“Hey, I’m giving you top-level stuff here, Jack. Between you and me.”

“How do you know I’m not a German spy?”

“Fuck you,” Brewster smiled, but he looked a little worried for a second. “Stropford’s the guy who showed me the ‘China file’ on the duchess,” he added.

“That was nice of him,” I said. “I thought we were neutral.”

“Well, there’s neutral and there’s neutral. Anyway, he wanted to know if we had anything on her. As she’s American.”

“Do we?”

“That’s not something I can talk about,” Brewster said solemnly. In other words, he didn’t know.

I was about to ask for an introduction when my attention was drawn to the other end of the garden, where the former king of England was entering. He was accompanied by a tall, urbane-looking gentleman who wore a polka-dot bow tie.

The best thing
about the duke joining the party was that they started pouring real beverages. The former monarch had a taste for good whiskey, and I took full advantage of the thirty-year-old malt that suddenly appeared. After two or three I even started enjoying myself.

Lili was in full flow, treating the crowd to her trademark performance of sexual innuendo punctuated with suggestive looks and knowing smiles. The duke happily played straight man in an impromptu double act that went down very well with the would-be courtiers. I was a bit surprised that the duchess was so willing to give up center stage, but she kept a close eye on things. I had the feeling that she could keep a close eye on things from pretty much anywhere on the planet.

Brewster drifted off to ingratiate himself with the high and mighty, leaving me to my own devices. I was hovering in the background, trying to catch the eye of a dark beauty who’d been abandoned by her silver-haired husband when I realized that the man in the polka-dot tie was standing over me.

“The wife of the Spanish ambassador,” he said in my ear. “Thoroughly devoted to her husband, I’m afraid.”

“Was I being that obvious?”

“Ricardo Espírito Santo,” he said, offering his hand.

“Jack Teller.”

“Yes, I know. Lili has been telling me all about you.”

“I hope you didn’t believe her.”

“Not to worry.” He smiled affably. “Your secrets are safe with me.”

Santo was an impressive figure—over six foot tall with a lightly tanned complexion, a prominent jaw, and a penetrating look. I put him in his late thirties, maybe forty. He oozed money. Big money.

“Do you like dogs?” he said.

“Not really.”

“You’ll like mine. Come, I’ll show you.”

“Y
our first time in Lisbon?” he asked casually as we strolled through the grounds toward the kennels at the back of the house.

“That’s right.”

“As you can imagine, we haven’t seen many Americans this year. Most are avoiding the crossing.”

“Probably something to do with those torpedoes that keep bumping into ships.”

Santo swept the idea away with a wave of his hand. “It would be quite foolish of the Germans to sink an American vessel.”

“Yeah, well, I guess some people aren’t too comfortable betting their lives on Hitler’s good sense.”

Santo smiled, but he didn’t mean it. The dogs could sense his approach and were going wild with anticipation.

“Here are my beauties!” he exclaimed as we turned the corner and the caged beasts came into view. There were three of them, each in a separate cage, all big and mean with huge heads that contained long sharp teeth. The kind of creatures you’d expect to be guarding the Mouth of Hell. Bull mastiffs, I’d say, but I’m not much of an expert. Whatever they were, I kept my distance and hoped they’d be keeping theirs.

“Highly bred,” Santo said, the proud father. “From the best blood.” He got down on one knee and admired them, although I noticed he kept his distance, too.

“Surely, you can appreciate the beauty.”

“Adorable.” I humored him.

One of the trio—a bitch—swiveled her oversized head and took a long hungry look at me while emitting a low rumbling sound from the back of her throat.

“She senses your fear.” Santo laughed as he stood up and extracted a leather cigar case from his breast pocket. He removed the cover and offered me a hand-rolled Cuban.

“No, thanks,” I said, digging out my Luckys. “I’ll stick to these.”

Santo shrugged and turned away. “Let’s walk,” he said, pointing us toward a wooded area behind the kennel. The dogs watched and whined for a minute, then gave it up and settled back into prison life.

We walked in silence while Santo prepped his stogie, meticulously rolling it in his palms to warm the tobacco, neatly clipping the top, then carefully punching a hole in the bottom before firing it up with a solid-gold lighter engraved with the initials
R.E.S.
The afternoon sunlight caught the smoke as it wafted up, turning and twisting into the pine-scented atmosphere.

“Lili tells me that you are the man to discuss business with,” he finally said.

“Depends on the business, I guess.”

He paused, as if reflecting, but I had the feeling that he knew exactly where he was heading and the space was just for effect. “Lili places a great deal of trust in you, in spite of your youth, if I may say so. She is clearly not a foolish woman, so you must be a reliable sort of person…Discreet.”

“I try not to disappoint my friends,” I said.

“A good policy,” he smiled. “Do you believe in coincidence, Jack?”

“I never really thought about it,” I said. “But, sure, I guess so.”

“I’m not so certain.” Santo slowly shook his head. “Sometimes
things seem to occur by happenstance when, in retrospect, there is a sense of inevitability about them. As if it was meant to be.”

“Fate?”

“Or destiny. Whatever you choose to call it. For instance, it may seem coincidental that Lili Sterne is in Lisbon at this particular moment…But perhaps there’s a reason for it. Perhaps a very significant reason.”

“Such as?”

Santo frowned and looked at the end of his cigar to see if it was still burning. It wasn’t, but he didn’t do anything about it.

“Are you free for dinner tomorrow evening?”

“I suppose—”

“Good. My car will pick you up at the hotel. Be ready at half past eight.”

We must’ve been walking in a big circle because when I looked up I saw that we were right back at the entrance to the garden party, which was breaking up. The duke and duchess had disappeared into the house, along with Lili, who, I was told, would be wining and dining with the royal couple. Santo excused himself and I headed for the car. On the way out, I saw the Spanish ambassador with my dark beauty on his arm, and I could’ve sworn that she flashed me a smile.

“P
ardon me…”

“Yeah?”

“My name is—”

“I know who you are,” I said. “And I’m guessing you know who I am, so we can skip the introductions.”

Griffin Stropford rocked back on his heels, examined me through a pair of thick, round horn-rims, and produced an unexpected chuckle.

“Quite!” he said emphatically.

Though he must’ve been in his midthirties, Stropford had a
schoolboyish look—round face with chubby cheeks, a shock of sandy-brown hair that fell arbitrarily across his forehead, and an ill-fitting blue suit with a tie that came up about three inches short. Alberto had spotted his car as we were driving back from Santo’s place. The English spymaster couldn’t have been trying to hide the tail; at least I hope he wasn’t, because it would’ve been tough to miss a black Rover with diplomatic plates riding six feet off our bumper. He’d followed us into the hotel, parked up behind us, and jumped out from behind the wheel so he could be waiting for me at the entrance.

“So?” I said, after he’d had his chuckle.

“Richard Brewster…”

“What about him?” I headed inside and he followed.

“That’s how you know who I am. I daresay he told you about me?”

“As a matter of fact, he did,” I said.

“Quite…” he repeated, a little less forcefully this time. I kept moving across the lobby toward the reception desk.

“I, er…I thought you might like to have a little chat.” He was still smiling, but it was a bit strained now.

“About what?” I retrieved the room key.

“I daresay, you’ll find it quite interesting.”

As he stood there, hat in hand, clumsy smile spread across his face, I thought if this was the best England had to offer, they were in real trouble.

“Okay,” I said. “Follow me.”

“S
o what do you wanna know?” I threw my jacket on the back of a chair and loosened my tie.

“Perhaps you misunderstood me,” he said, looking a bit baffled. “I have information which I believe may be of interest to you.”

“Where do you live?”

“Pardon?”

“Near the embassy?”

“Near enough,” he confirmed, suspicion growing.

“In Lisbon?”

“Correct.”

“Well then.”

“I’m sorry, I’m afraid I—”

“You came forty miles out of your way because you can’t wait to help me out with some information?” I opened the balcony door to let some air into the room.

A smile crept across his face. “Oh, I see…Yes, very good.”

“So…What do you want to know?”

“Well…” Stropford took his glasses off, carefully cleaned the lenses with a crumpled handkerchief, then checked them in the light before replacing them on the bridge of his nose.

“You disappeared for quite some time with Espírito Santo.”

“That’s right.”

“May I ask what the topic of conversation was?”

“He wanted to show me his dogs.”

“I see. Do you have a particular interest in dogs?”

“Can’t stand them,” I said truthfully.

“I presume, then, that it would be fair to say that the animals were not the principal topic of discussion?”

“That would be fair to say, yes.” I flopped into a big armchair, kicked my shoes off, and stretched my legs out across the coffee table. Stropford was waiting for an invitation, so I motioned for him to sit down. He slid into the seat across from me but kept his wing tips firmly planted on the ground.

“So, you’re a spy, huh?” I said, taking him by surprise. “I think you might be the first one I’ve ever met. But then I guess you don’t always know with spies, do you? That’s the whole point…Although you don’t seem to make much of a secret about it.”

“The cloak-and-dagger side of things is somewhat exaggerated in the public’s mind,” Stropford said. “The result of overzealous authors, no doubt.”

“What do you do, then?”

“I write a great many reports.”

“Interesting,” I said, and left him hanging. There was a lull in the conversation while he thought about how to get back on track.

“I, er…I understand that you have an interest in learning more about Dr. Kleinmann.”

“I’m curious how he ended up in the trunk of Eddie Grimes’s car with a bullet in his head,” I said. “But I don’t suppose you know the answer to that.”

He shook his head. “I’m afraid not. But, as I said earlier, I believe you’d be quite interested in what I do know.”

“Try me.”

He cleared his throat. “Perhaps we can effect a mutually beneficial exchange of information?”

“Why are you so interested in what Santo and I talked about?”

Stropford leaned forward in the chair. “How much do you know about him?”

“Just that he’s got money. Banker, isn’t he?”

“Amongst other things.”

“Such as?”

“Wolframite.”

I gave him a look.

“Wolframite is a raw material found in abundance in the Serra da Estrela mountain range to the north. It’s the source of tungsten.”

“Sorry,” I said. “Still doesn’t mean much to me.”

“Tungsten is the ingredient used to harden steel. Quite handy for manufacturing tanks and artillery and that sort of thing. Espírito Santo has been making a great deal of money by selling it to the Germans. At highly inflated prices, I might add.”

“So you’ve got the former king of England rooming with a guy who’s in bed with the Nazis,” I said. “Yes, I can see your problem.”

“Quite,” Stropford confirmed.

“Does he know?” I asked.

“Pardon?”

“Does the duke know about Santo’s business dealings?”

“One must presume not, but one can never be sure.”

“Why don’t you tell him?”

He chuckled nervously. “Hardly my place, is it?”

“It must be somebody’s place.”

“Indeed, but not mine. My place is to learn as much as I can about the situation and to relay it to London. Which, in answer to your previous question, is why I’m so interested in what Santo had to say.”

“You want me to spy on him?”

“Not in so many words, no.”

“What then?”

“Well, if you could tell me what you discussed at the garden party this afternoon…”

“Sounds like spying to me.”

“If you like,” he said, straining to smile.

“What’s in it for me?”

“Well…er…What do you have in mind?”

“How about a knighthood?”

“Well, I…er, I don’t—” He realized I was pulling his leg. “I see,” he said with a chuckle. “Very good.” Stropford was growing on me. At least he knew how to laugh, even if it did take him a minute.

“Truth is I don’t know what Santo wants,” I said.

“I see…”

“Not yet anyway.”

“Oh?…How so?”

“I’m supposed to have dinner with him tomorrow night. I guess he’ll lay it out for me then.”

“Hmm…” Stropford stared into the table. “You’ll go?”

“I said I would.”

“Good…Tomorrow night, you say?”

I nodded.

“Right…It’s Monday today, so that’ll be Tuesday.”

“Makes sense.”

“Why don’t we meet up Wednesday morning, early…Someplace out of the way…I know just the spot…”

“Hold on a second,” I said, sitting forward. “I don’t know what Santo wants to talk to me about, but whatever it is, it’ll be with the understanding that it’s private.” Stropford started to say something, but I kept going. “Now, I understand that you’ve got a job to do and that’s fine, maybe I’m even sympathetic, but I work for Lili Sterne. She pays the bills and I take care of her business. It’s an exclusive arrangement, just like yours is.”

He leaned forward and folded his hands together, interlocking his fingers like he was about to say a prayer.

“Let me say this,” he began. “There are, well…questions…questions about the duke. Important questions about his…his…judgment.” Stropford was choosing his words so carefully that he could barely get them out. “Can we agree at least on the following? That if Santo’s proposal has anything to do with the Duke of Windsor, you will let me know…”

“I can’t promise anything,” I said.

“But you’ll consider it?”

“Sure. I’ll consider it.”

“Good!” Stropford stood up sharply. “I won’t take any more of your time, then.” He headed for the door.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” I said. He gave me a quizzical look, then remembered.