Miller Caldwell - A Reluctant Spy

Hilda looked at Inka and the little cat jumped up on to her lap. She stroked her and told her she was going away. She believed that somehow Inka understood. The animal had come into her life at exactly the right time, but nothing was forever. She would leave the door open when she went, so the cat could come and go. Indeed, that would be part one of the most important decisions of her plan.

First, though, she had to buy time. She knew what she had to do. She opened the radio and put her headphones on. There was a clear line, and she received the transmission.

50… and… 34… 65… and… 32 x 22 10/3/39 came the message from New York.

Received, over and out , she replied. Then she sent her own amended message to Berlin.

47… and… 31…62… and… 31 x 22 10/3/39.

The clock was now ticking. That message would be heading promptly to the pack of submarine wolves, sending them on a wild goose chase. If they queried the information they received, they might look to her first or perhaps to Nancy in New York in order to see where the fault lay. They may have felt just unlucky not to have encountered an allied convoy. However, that might take a day or two to work out. It was time to act. She could not afford to be around when they discovered the discrepancy, and certainly not when they worked out the truth.

That night, an hour after midnight, she fulfilled her plan. First, she went to the beach. Fortunately, the moonlight was bright enough to enable her to make her way down safely. She took her towel, a jersey and an extra pair of shoes. The tide was out. She laid the towel down in a position to be seen from the road. Her shoes lay on top to prevent it blowing away. She had to make the scenario convincing; she tucked her watch in her shoe, and laid her Portuguese language book down with a bookmark three-quarters of the way through. There was no point in leaving footprints to the water and leave tracks when she came back. The tide would turn before dawn.

She stood back and observed the scene she had set with the pride of a movie director. By daybreak, it might have become a murder scene or a missing person enquiry, and to her it looked convincing. Now she had to move on, and quickly.

It was a quarter to three and still dark when she set off leaving the bike resting on the sidewall of the cottage. She walked swiftly and quietly. Mercifully, no dogs barked as she passed. She nibbled a piece of cheese to keep her going and reached the village of Sintra soon after five, heading straight for the bus park. The first bus to Lisbon set off at five thirty. She was in good time.

It was an hour’s journey, and for most of it, she was the only passenger, which was a mixed blessing. This slow-moving bus served every hamlet, but very few got on that morning. As dawn broke, they passed farmsteads with crops of barley and wheat, and huge numbers of vineyards, which supplied the Porto wine industry. Lisbon spread itself before her, much larger than she had imagined. That gave her some reassurance; she could easily lose herself in the city.

By the time the bus reached its final destination, the day had started in earnest. Hilda had wanted to arrive at the British Embassy earlier than this. If she went there now, she would be spotted. She could not take the risk; she needed another plan.

She found a small family-run hotel on the Rua da Vitania and asked for a room for the day. She signed the guest book with the first name which came into her head; she had no idea where it came from, but it would do as a cover during her enforced stay in the hotel.

Breakfast was both unexpected and a great pleasure. The owner, Deputada Theresa Soares, made her a tomato omelette, with a slice of buttered bread and she enjoyed the meal so much. She devoured it as if breakfast was the only meal she would get all day – which was quite possible. As she ate, she explained that she would be leaving very early the following morning and hoped a taxi could collect her at six. That seemed to be no problem. They understood the broken Portuguese which she had studied so carefully during her brief stay in Peniche.

She was given a room overlooking a park, beyond which was a row of dishevelled buildings which housed the poor of Lisbon. It was not the most salubrious of accommodation, but an ideal place to hide for the best part of the day. She lay down on the bed still wearing her clothes, and soon she was sound asleep.

Hilda was woken by a knock on the door and her landlady announcing that an evening meal was ready. She was pleased to find she would be dining alone and sat down with her back towards the main window. On her plate was a huge portion of lobster with melted cheese on the white meat. There were also small tomatoes, roasted potatoes, and a few runner beans. A carafe of red wine invited her to fill her glass at her leisure.

The landlady’s husband came into the dining room soon after and spoke to her in broken English.

‘English lady welcome. We welcome all spies.’ He laughed loudly, but his comment put her on edge. How could he have come to that conclusion?

‘You think I am a spy?’ She tried to sound casual and laugh a little.

‘In Lisbon you are either Portuguese or a spy.’

She laughed with him and took stock of him over the rim of her wine glass.

He opened the reception book and gave her a little bow.

‘I apologize. Spies are men, so you cannot be a spy, er… Miss Brackenridge.’

She played along with him. ‘You must be a spy detector to come to that conclusion.’

‘Yes, I suppose I am. I am Chefe de Pollicia Edmundo Soares. I am in charge of the south of the city.’

This was exactly what she did not want to hear. The clock was ticking down, and it was possible he had already been informed of a missing British woman. She finished her meal and asked to pay her bill. ‘I shall be leaving at six tomorrow morning,’ she explained. ‘Your wife said I’d have a taxi waiting for me.’

Hilda hardly slept all night, not because she had slept most of the day but because of her fear of discovery by the German Embassy. It was Friday night and Lisbon came to life as soon as it was dark. Street music and dancing went on till after eleven thirty and she watched every movement from her bedroom window. Afterwards she lay down, but she was still not ready for sleep. Her thoughts whirled around; first about abandoning poor Inka, then about sending a British ship to the bottom of the Atlantic. She felt she would never come to terms with this. She tried hard not to cry, but her heart was heavy. It was near one o’clock in the morning before she was able to sleep.

The morning was another foul one, with squalls of rain battering the cobbled streets. For her that would be useful; she could move swiftly and less obviously in the rain. She had been awake since four. No wonder her stomach was in knots. Her future was in the balance, and her eggs were all in one basket, waiting to be smashed if identified, or served at the British Embassy, if she ever got there. In addition, if she arrived at her destination, would the ambassador’s staff believe her?

The cab arrived at twelve minutes past six. Twenty minutes later Hilda paid the driver and walked smartly towards the side entrance to the embassy. A few people were on their way to set up their market stalls and some cyclists could be seen splashing through the puddles, but there were no men in suits nor suspicious-looking characters smoking on street corners and looking furtively around. The front door of the embassy was as tightly closed as a bank vault. The smell of wet vegetation caught her senses as she passed the side of the property; further round she was delighted to see a lawn with beautiful flowering chrysanthemums and creeping juniper, and a common walnut tree at the end of the walled garden.