Jack Higgins - The Eagle Has Flown

‘No rough stuff needed,’ Schellenberg said. ‘I hope we can persuade him to come back peaceably. I have a job to offer him that could be rather lucrative.’

‘Fine,’ the Baron said. ‘Just remember that our Portuguese friends really do value their neutrality. Even more so now that victory seems to be slipping away from us. However, Captain Eggar, my police attaché here, should be able to assist you.’ He picked up his phone and spoke to an aide. As he put it down he said, ‘I caught a glimpse of your companion.’

‘Sturmbannführer Horst Berger – Gestapo,’ Schellenberg said.

‘Doesn’t look your sort.’

‘A Christmas present from the Reichsführer. I didn’t have much choice.’

‘Like that, is it?’

There was a knock at the door and a man in his forties slipped in. He had a heavy moustache and wore a brown gaberdine suit that didn’t fit too well. A professional policeman, Schellenberg recognized the type.

‘Ah, there you are, Eggar. You know General Schellenberg, don’t you?’

‘Of course. A great pleasure to see you again. We met during the course of the Windsor affair in nineteen forty.’

‘Yes, well we prefer to forget all about that these days.’ Schellenberg passed Devlin’s photo across. ‘Have you seen this man?’

Eggar examined it. ‘No, General.’

‘He’s Irish, ex-IRA if you ever can be ex-IRA, age thirty-five. He worked for Abwehr for a while. We want him back. Our latest information is that he’s been working as a waiter at a bar called Flamingo.’

‘I know the place.’

‘Good. You’ll find my aide, Major Berger of the Gestapo, outside. Bring him in.’ Eggar went out and returned with Berger and Schellenberg made the introductions. ‘Baron von Hoyningen-Heune, Minister to the Legation and Captain Eggar, police attaché. Sturmbannführer Berger.’ Berger, in his dark suit with that ravaged face of his, was a chilling presence as he nodded formally and clicked his heels. ‘Captain Eggar knows this Flamingo place. I want you to go there with him and check if Devlin still works there. If he does, you will not, I repeat not, contact him in any way. Simply report to me.’ Berger showed no emotion, and turned to the door. As he opened it Schellenberg called, ‘During the nineteen thirties Liam Devlin was one of the most notorious gunmen in the IRA. You gentlemen would do well to remember that fact ‘

The remark, as Berger immediately knew, was aimed at him. He smiled faintly, ‘We will, General,’ turned and went out followed by Eggar.

‘A bad one that. You’re welcome to him. Still …’ The Baron checked his watch. ‘Just after five, Walter. How about a glass of champagne?’

Major Arthur Frear was fifty-four and looked older, with his crumpled suit and white hair. He’d have been retired by now on a modest pension leading a life of genteel poverty in Brighton or Torquay. Instead, thanks to Adolf Hitler, he was employed as military attaché at the British Embassy in Lisbon where he unofficially represented SOE.

The Lights of Lisbon at the southern edge of the Alfama district was one of his favourite places. How convenient that Devlin was playing piano there although there was no sign of him at the moment. Devlin, in fact, was watching him through a bead curtain at the rear. He wore a linen suit in off-white, dark hair falling across his forehead, the vivid blue eyes full of amusement as they surveyed Frear. The first Frear knew of his presence was when Devlin slid on the stool next to him and ordered a beer.

‘Mr Frear, isn’t it?’ He nodded to the barman. ‘José here tells me you’re in the port business.’

‘That’s right,’ Frear said jovially. ‘Been exporting it to England for years, my firm.’

‘Never been my taste,’ Devlin told him. ‘Now if it was Irish whiskey you were talking about …’

‘Can’t help you there, I’m afraid.’ Frear laughed again. ‘I say, old man, do you realize you’re wearing a Guards Brigade tie?’

‘Is that a fact? Fancy you knowing that.’ Devlin smiled amiably. ‘And me buying it from a stall in the flea market only last week.’

He slid off the stool and Frear said, ‘Aren’t you going to give us a tune?’

‘Oh, that comes later.’ Devlin moved to the door and grinned. ‘Major,’ he added, and was gone.

The Flamingo was a shabby little bar and restaurant. Berger was forced to leave things to Eggar who spoke the language fluently. At first they drew a blank. Yes, Devlin had worked there for a while, but he’d left three days ago. And then a woman who had come in to sell flowers to the customers overheard their conversation and intervened. The Irishman was working another establishment she called at, the Lights of Lisbon, only he was employed not as a waiter but as a pianist in the bar. Eggar tipped her and they moved outside.

‘Do you know the place?’ Berger said.

‘Oh yes, quite well. Also in the old quarter. I should warn you, the customers tend to the rougher side. Rather common round here.’

‘The scum of this life never give me a problem,’ Berger said. ‘Now show me the way.’

The high walls of the Castelo de São Jorge lifted above them as they worked their way through a maze of narrow alleys and then, as they came into a small square in front of a church, Devlin emerged from an alley and crossed the cobbles before them towards a café.

‘My God, it’s him,’ Eggar muttered. ‘Exactly like his photo.’

‘Of course it is, you fool,’ Berger said. ‘Is this the Lights of Lisbon?’

‘No, Major, another café. One of the most notorious in Alfama. Gypsies, bullfighters, criminals.’

‘A good job we’re armed then. When we go in, have your pistol in your right pocket and your hand on it.’

‘But General Schellenberg gave us express instructions to …’

‘Don’t argue. I’ve no intention of losing this man now. Do as I say and follow me,’ and Berger led the way towards the café where they could hear guitar music.

Inside, the place was light and airy in spite of the fact that dusk was falling. The bar top was marble, bottles ranged against an old-fahioned mirror behind it. The walls were whitewashed and covered with bullfighting posters. The bartender, squat and ugly with one white eye, wore an apron and soiled shirt and sat at a high stool reading a newspaper. Four other men played poker at another table, swarthy, fierce-looking gypsies. A younger man leaned against the wall and fingered a guitar.

The rest of the place was empty except for Devlin who sat at a table against the far wall reading a small book, a glass of beer at his hand. The door creaked open and Berger stepped in, Eggar at his back. The guitarist stopped playing, and all conversation died as Berger stood just inside the door, death come to visit them. Berger moved past the men who were playing cards. Eggar went closer as well, standing to the left.

Devlin glanced up, smiling amiably and picked up the glass of beer in his left hand. ‘Liam Devlin?’ Berger asked.

‘And who might you be?’

‘I am Sturmbannführer Horst Berger of the Gestapo.’

‘Jesus and why didn’t they send the Devil? I’m on reasonable terms there.’

‘You’re smaller than I thought you’d be,’ Berger told him. ‘I’m not impressed.’

Devlin smiled again. ‘I get that all the time, son.’

‘I must ask you to come with us.’

‘And me only halfway through my book. The Midnight Court and in Irish. Would you believe I found it on a stall in the flea market only last week?’

‘Now!’ Berger said.

Devlin drank some more beer. ‘You remind me of a medieval fresco I saw on a church in Donegal once. People running in terror from a man in a hood. Everyone he touched got the Black Death, you see.’