Lucie grinned. “I like the sound of that.”
LISBON
FRIDAY, FEBRUARY27, 1942
Paul hunched low in the backseat of the cab as it approached Lisbon’s seaplane base—Aeroporto Maritime de Cabo Ruivo.
Over the past month in hiding at the seedy hotel, the beard and clothes of Jean Bonnet had come to feel natural.
Would the Abwehr agents recognize him? They knew he had a ticket on today’s Pan Am Clipper, and they couldn’t afford to let him escape. And Paul couldn’t afford to let them succeed.
The only thing Paul had left was his engineering brain, and he’d do his best to protect it.
A band tightened around his chest. Not knowing Lucie and Josie’s fate had made the past month miserable. He didn’t dare give in to despair, but he didn’t dare hope too fervently.
He couldn’t cable home, since the Gestapo monitored telegraph wires. He couldn’t visit the American Legation, since the Abwehr would keep it under surveillance. So he’d hidden in his room, only leaving to buy food.
The cab entered a roundabout in front of the seaplane base.
A man stood about six feet from the front door with a suitcase by his feet, smoking a cigarette. Helmut Eckert.
Paul groaned and fingered the outline of the pocketknife in his jacket. He’d roughed up his suitcase. Maybe Eckert would think Paul had come to repair something.
About a hundred feet past Eckert, Paul tapped the cabdriver’s shoulder and pointed to the curb. The man pulled over, and Paul paid him generously.
Paul opened his pocketknife, pulled his cap low, and stepped out of the cab. Eckert stood to Paul’s left, between him and the door. On the far side of the door stood another man looking suspiciously casual. Paul had to pass one or the other.
With his suitcase in his left hand, he palmed the pocketknife in his right hand, the blade against his forearm.
Every nerve fired, on full alert.
Paul walked with a clumpy gait, his shoulders hunched. As he drew nearer, he struggled not to look directly at Eckert.
His legs itched to run, but he kept his pace.
A black car sat at the curb between the agents, with a driver and no passengers. Paul gritted his teeth. They planned to shove him in the car and abduct him.
Not on his life. And he meant that. He’d use the knife, he’d let them shoot him, but he would never get in that car.
His breath threatened to gallop, but he kept his gaze steady, his step sure.
He drew near to Eckert, and the man glanced past him. Did he notice? Did he see past the feeble disguise?
Paul gripped the knife hard, passed Eckert, lifted his suitcase hand, and opened the door.
The second Abwehr agent pushed from the wall and eyed him.
Paul strode hard into the terminal and pocketed his knife.
“Com licença, senhor.”A young man, the doorman, hurriedalongside, speaking Portuguese rapidly and indignantly. Probably telling Paul the service entrance was to the side.
Paul kept walking, determined to get out of sight of the Abwehr agents. “I have a paid ticket and an American passport,” he said in English.
“Sir, you must leave. You don’t belong here.”
“I have a paid ticket on today’s flight.” His posture straight and businesslike again, he passed a couple dozen elegant passengers, all gaping at him.
“Sir!” The doorman sounded exasperated.
