The Lisbon Crossing (12 page)

“At some point in the very near future…” Santo began slowly, tasting each word before letting it slide off his tongue, “His Royal Highness’s voice will be heard around the world, in a live radio broadcast. At that time he will propose a plan for an immediate and permanent end to hostilities between Germany and England. It will not be an empty plea, but will contain specific points that can be accepted by both sides…No one else is in the position to make such a proposal. Because of His Royal Highness’s continuing popularity among his people, and the enduring respect they have for him,
his declaration will rally the country to his side, and enable those who support peace—some of whom are in the British cabinet—to come forward. There is good reason to believe that the German government will be favorably disposed to the plan, allowing for an early end to the war.” He paused for effect. “You are being entrusted with something very important, Jack. This will be a speech to change the course of history. One that will be remembered for a thousand years to come.”

Santo sat back and awaited my reaction. I tried hard not to have one. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it sure as hell wasn’t that the former king of England was negotiating with Hitler behind Churchill’s back in order to initiate a revolution among his former subjects. He might see it as a historic peace mission, but most would see it as high treason. I’d just been thrust onto some very dangerous ground and I knew that I had to step carefully.

“What is your view of that idea, Jack?” the duke said, quiet gaze fixed firmly on me.

“I think you’d be doing the world a great service, sir,” I answered without hesitation, and he smiled humbly.

“Well, somebody must step forward.” He offered me a cigarette, which I accepted. “I’m sorry to say that the British ministers of the day are not up to the task. I fear they’re no match for the likes of Hitler and Mussolini. These are strong, decisive men who know how to lead.”

I nodded sympathetically.

“I’m counting on your help, Jack.”

“Yes, well, to be honest, sir, I’m having a tough time seeing how I figure into this.”

The duke smiled cryptically and turned to Santo again.

“His Royal Highness would like Miss Sterne to carry a personal message to President Roosevelt,” he said. “A letter.”

“I see,” I said, swallowing hard. “What would the letter say?” I didn’t really expect a straight answer, but the duke seemed eager to give me one.

“I believe that Roosevelt has an inaccurate understanding of the strategic situation in Europe,” he said. “I suspect that he is receiving bad advice from men who profess neutrality but, in truth, wish to see America enter the war. They are convinced that Hitler must be defeated, no matter the cost. It is, of course, understandable that Roosevelt might be susceptible to those voices—England is the mother country, after all, and when the mother is attacked the natural instinct of the child is to come to her aid. But, in this case, the child must stand aside. Should the United States become involved, it would extend the war by ten years, perhaps longer. Western Europe would be reduced to nothing more than a pile of rubble and we know what would happen then. The armies of Russia would simply march in. Communism would be victorious.”

He paused to take a long drag on his cigarette and slowly exhale the smoke.

“My letter to the president,” he said, “will outline those points—in a slightly more circumspect manner, of course—and it will request that the United States support my plan for peace when it is announced. The best way to save England, Jack—probably the only way—is to force her to make peace. It may be accomplished now or it may be accomplished after she has been bombed into oblivion by the Luftwaffe. But, one way or another, it must happen.”

Christ, I thought. He makes it sound like a goddamned threat.

The crowd—mostly Brits—had grown in number as word spread through the hotel of the report coming in on the World Service. They gathered around a radio that had been placed on the bar and listened in transfixed silence:

The broadcast paused, leaving only static to fill the room. People exchanged looks with each other, but no one spoke. After a moment, the announcer returned, with a hint of urgency in his voice.

More static, for quite some time. People didn’t move, just stood there in uneasy anticipation, knowing they were caught in a moment they would never forget. Then, abruptly, Gardner’s voice came in—agitated, excited, but in control:

I wondered if the duke was listening, and if so, what he was thinking—he seemed to almost relish the idea of his countrymen being bombed into submission. There was an underlying bitterness in him that you didn’t see in the newsreels, a sense that what he wanted more than anything was to get even. I’d always had my doubts about “The Love Story of the Century” angle, and now I was convinced that there was more to the abdication of Edward VIII than met the eye. While he was clearly in love (or some version of it) with Wallis Simpson, he didn’t strike me as the type of guy who’d easily walk away from all that power and glory. Who knows what kind of palace plotting had dethroned the king, but it was clear that he wasn’t quite finished with the intrigue.

I felt a tugging on my sleeve and looked around to find a dirty face looking up at me. He must’ve been eight, maybe nine, one of the kids that hung around the hotel entrance hoping to catch a handout as the big cars came in and out. I was surprised that he’d been able to make it through the lobby and was about to reward him with a coin when he produced an envelope.

“Senhor Teller?”

“That’s right.”

“For you.”

I reached for the envelope, but it disappeared, replaced by an empty palm. I covered it with a dollar bill, got a devious smile and the envelope in return.

“Who—?” But the kid had already vanished.

I walked out into the lobby to have a look around, hoping to get a clue about the source of the letter, but aside from the desk clerk, the place was deserted.

I wandered into a private corner, unsealed the envelope, and removed the thin piece of folded brown paper it contained. In the middle of the page was a scribbled message:

R
UA
E
SPERANÇA,
66

2
P.M.
—P

“Hello, old chap!”

Harry Thompson appeared out of nowhere, looking unusually bright-eyed and bushy-tailed in a crisp white cotton suit with a splashy red tie to match his complexion.

“Looks like the curtain’s finally come up, eh?”

“Curtain…?” I stuffed the letter into my pocket.

“The fate of the world, dear boy. Or haven’t you heard? The Jerries are giving us a good old pounding this morning.”

“Oh, right…Yeah, I was just listening…”

“Although I expect this will look pretty tame by the time we’re through.”

“You’re probably right,” I said. “Well, good to see ya, Harry.” I gave him a pat on the back and headed for the door. He followed.

“What news of Hollywood? Have you found the legend’s little friend yet?”

“Afraid not.”

“Was our elusive rodent of any help?”

“Not yet.”

“Not to worry. I have a feeling he will be.”

“We’ll see,” I said.

“How about a drink? I’m buying today…”

I swung around to face him. “What do you want, Harry?”

“Just being social, old boy…I thought I owed you a round…”

“Cut the shit, will ya?”

He smiled. “Well…Since you put it like that…A little bird told me about an intimate little dinner up at the Palacio Queluz last night…A threesome, I understand. I thought you might like to comment. Off the record, of course.”

“Why would I want to do that?”

He shrugged. “Because you have a soft spot for me?”

I laughed. “Try again, Harry.”

“Just tell me what you want to hear, dear boy.”

I paused, gave him a look. “You wouldn’t know anyone who drives a late-model Buick with a broken windshield, would you?”

“Sorry, old man, but I’m hopeless when it comes to motorcars. They all look the same to me.”

“Well, thanks, anyway,” I said, heading outside, where Alberto was waiting.

“Hold on, Jack.” Harry kept pace. “I can certainly look into it…Or perhaps there’s something else I can offer…Perhaps we could come to some sort of financial arrangement…”

“How much?”

“Well…I don’t know. What if we were to say—”

“A thousand dollars.”

Harry looked startled. “Look here, old chap…”

“A thousand bucks to find out what your former king is up to. It’d be worth every penny, I promise you.”

Harry looked me over, trying to decide if I was serious. “I’ll, ah…I’ll have to see what I can do,” he said, and that was enough to clinch it for me.

“You know, Harry, up until a minute ago I bought the act.”

“I’m not sure I follow you, Jack. What act is that?”

“The washed-up-newspaperman-at-sea-on-a-bottle-of-whiskey act.”

“I’m not that good an actor,” he laughed. “That’s me, I’m afraid, for better or worse.”

“Forget it, Harry.” Alberto opened the back door for me, but Harry grabbed me before I could get in.

“Hold on,” he said.

“What?”

“I think I can get the money…In fact, I’m sure I can…”

“Forget it.”

“For Christ’s sake, Jack, what—?”

“Look, Harry, I’m sympathetic. I hope you guys beat the shit out of the Nazis, but, in the end, it’s your war, not mine.”

“I’m just looking for a story.”

“Sure you are…You can tell Stropford I had a very nice dinner with the duke, but, as much as I enjoyed it, I don’t plan on seeing him again. I’ve got other things to do.”

“What are you talking about, Jack?”

“Don’t bother to deny it, Harry.”

He paused and finally gave in with a shrug. “All right, then. Let’s not play games. But this is important, Jack. Very important. If you could just—”

“If you ask me, you guys should forget about the Duke of Windsor and start worrying about Hitler.”

“Yes, well, thanks for the advice, old chap, but forgive me if I say that you don’t have a fucking clue what you’re talking about.”

“I’m sure you’re right, Harry,” I said, slipping into the backseat. “But that’s because, like I said, it has nothing to do with me.”

I pulled the door shut and we drove away, leaving Harry standing there on the sidewalk, in a substantial huff.

P
opov was leaning against a patch of cracked and faded blue tiles that hadn’t yet fallen off the exterior wall of Rua Esperança 66, a scruffy three-story building on the fringes of the Alfama. I told Alberto to pull the car up short, not wanting to attract any more attention than necessary. Popov tossed his cigarette aside and watched me as I made my way up the incline.

“Is she here?” I said, looking the building over.

“No, but not far.”

“Lead the way.”

He hesitated. “I, of course, have complete trust in you, but—”

“But not really?”

He shrugged and grinned nervously. “After I show you, maybe you’ll think you don’t need to pay.”

“You’re confusing my scruples with your lack of them,” I said.

“Still…” he said

I reached for what was left of my bankroll. “Here’s four hundred,” I said, peeling them off. “With the hundred I gave you yesterday, that’s half. I’ll give you the other half when I see her.” He shrugged and happily stuffed the bills away.

“Come,” he said. “I take you.”

The shops were closed for lunch, the streets more or less deserted. Popov took his time, leading us on a twisted route through a maze of cobbled lanes and fragrant alleyways. He kept glancing over at me, like he was building up to something.

“This woman…” he finally ventured. “Eva Lange…”

“What about her?”

“The interest is personal or—”

“It’s private,” I said.

“Sure, sure,” he nodded. A woman hanging laundry out a second-story window watched us closely as we passed. “Lili Sterne…” he persisted. “She knew the girl in Berlin…?”

“That’s right.”

“They were friends…?”

“Like I said, Roman, it’s—”

“Yes, private, I know. But I wonder…Why does a big star like she make such a big effort now to find her friend? Why not before?”

“What difference does it make?”

“Only curiosity,” he mumbled.

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” I said. “You get your money and she gets her friend. Everybody’s happy.”

“I’m not so sure of this,” he said uneasily.

“Why not?”

He stopped walking and looked up, across the narrow street. Following his gaze, I realized that I knew this place. I’d been here three days earlier, standing in the same spot in front of the same dreary facade of the Imperial Hotel, the place Eddie Grimes called home in his last sleazy days, where Eva Lange found him in a state of sweaty perversion on the night he fell into the jaws of hell. It took me a minute to get it. Then I realized why Lili wouldn’t be happy—Popov wasn’t looking at the hotel. He was looking at the building next to it.

“She’s dead,” I said, and he nodded. “I understand now why you wanted to be paid in advance.”

“You don’t pay the rest…” It was more of a statement than a
question, but I answered anyway, just to be sure there wouldn’t be any misunderstandings.

“No, I don’t.”

“You didn’t say that she must be alive.”

I wasn’t interested in arguing the point, and he didn’t really expect me to give him another five hundred for handing over a corpse. “How did she die?” I asked him.

“You can talk with Senhor Baptista. He expects you.” Before I could object, Popov had slipped away, disappearing into an alleyway.

As I walked through the door of the funeral parlor, I felt sick to my stomach. Maybe it was the sweet perfumed air mixed with the bitter taste of formaldehyde that made me want to gag, but it didn’t help knowing that I’d have to face Lili with the news.

“I
wasn’t sure that I’d see you again,” she said, looking uncharacteristically chastened.

“Here I am.”

She produced a half smile and opened the door to let me in. The room was a mess, stale from old smoke, and I wondered if Lili had been out at all in the thirty-six hours since we’d fought. It didn’t look like it.

“Want a drink?” she said. “I promise not to throw it in your face.” It was as close as Lili would get to an apology, and it was more than I’d expected.

“Believe it or not,” I said, “it’s not the first time that’s happened to me.”

“You must be doing something right.” She passed me a scotch on the rocks and looked me straight in the eye. She knew why I was there.

“You found her…”

“Yes…”

“She’s dead, isn’t she?”

“Yes.”

Lili didn’t react at first. Nothing. She just stood there looking at me, stuck in the moment. She looked tired and alone and vulnerable. I wished there was something I could do for her, but Lili wasn’t the type you could wrap up in your arms and make everything all right.

“Did you see her?” she said, the edge back in her voice.

“Yes.”

“Are you certain it was Eva?”

“She was using her own passport.”

Lili nodded and dropped onto the sofa.

“How?”

This was the tough part. I stalled and Lili gave me a look. “How did she die, Jack?”

“She, uh…She killed herself.”

“What?”

“She killed herself.”

Lili shook her head back and forth. “How?”

“She jumped…from a window.”

“When?”

“Last night.”

“Last night,” she repeated in a whisper, then lowered her head, supporting it with her right hand as it massaged her brow. I was standing over her, wondering what I should do, when the phone rang.

I picked it up. “Yeah…?”

“Capitan Catela would like to see Miss Sterne.” It was the concierge.

“Is he here?”

“Standing in front of me.”

“He’ll have to come back,” I said. “Miss Sterne is—”

“I’m afraid he is quite insistent, senhor.”

I drew a deep breath. It didn’t take Catela long to get here, I thought. I wondered how much Popov had made on that end.