24

Stella was sure she’d barely slept and yet woke with a start to find she was alone; she sat up, panicked.

‘Rafe!’

He dashed in from their verandah, looking concerned, although she noted he was dressed immaculately in a pale suit, his hair combed with precision, clean shaved and skin glowing as though he’d just stepped out of a movie. How had he achieved all of that soundlessly?

‘Sorry, I thought you’d gone,’ she explained. Her shoulders relaxed and so did his expression. Stella shook her head. ‘How did you fit all that into that small holdall?’ she said.

‘I cheated.’ He winked. ‘I had a suit sent on.’ His voice turned businesslike, as though closing a door on the last two days. They both stood on a new threshold and there was only one direction in which to move. ‘Time’s against us, Stella.’

The words sounded prophetic, even as she yawned.

‘I’ll be ready in a blink. Is there some tea?’

‘Coffee?’ he offered in an apologetic tone.

She rose, padded over from the bed and hugged him, not wanting to confront the issue of today that was nevertheless so tangible that she felt it was standing like a third person in the corner watching them. ‘Thank you, yes, please. I’ll be quick . . . just like you were last night.’

His grin was sheepish. ‘I’ll make it up to you, I promise.’

‘You’d better,’ she warned, not explaining that although his lovemaking had ended uncharacteristically abruptly, she had been content to hear him sigh and drift into a deep sleep.

When she emerged from the bathroom to a pot of coffee, her hair was neatly plaited back, face scrubbed of all trace of make-up. She dressed rapidly in a narrow cream skirt and a shirt, with a tan belt that she’d deliberately planned to wear today. It was neat, simple and forgettable: precisely her intent. Stella did not want to draw undue attention. Even the dark plait would be tucked beneath a hat and she dug out the glasses she’d lifted from a shelf in the nursery at Harp’s End. She put them on now and looked at herself in the mirror and blinked at the difference her careful preparations for today had made. She swallowed a few sips of black coffee in the hope of stemming the biliousness that had plagued her since the voyage. When would it end?

‘Good grief!’ he exclaimed as she swung around.

‘So?’

‘Where have you gone, my beautiful Stella?’

‘Well, I’m guessing you want me to be as invisible as I can be?’

He approached, looking awed and amused at once. ‘Are those my glasses?’

She murmured a laugh. ‘I’ve become a thief somewhere over the last few weeks too. Yes, I confess, I found them on a shelf in your study and pocketed them. With plain glass in them, I too can play your sneaky game.’

‘You look marvellous. I think you’ve aged about a decade.’

‘This is what you can expect to see in ten years, then,’ she warned. And there it was again: that hesitation before the smile.

‘Clever you.’ He distracted her by swinging her around. ‘The plait is hilarious too – I’m surprised you didn’t go the whole way and pin it into a tight bun so you can be every inch the librarian.’

‘Wouldn’t fit under my hat,’ she said, retrieving it from the bag. ‘Look.’ She plonked it on and pulled a face of pursed lips.

He laughed. ‘You would make a thoroughly good spy. Your preparations are perfect.’ His expression clouded. ‘Listen,’ he said, taking her hand. ‘It all feels amusing but I’m walking you into a serious situation.’

‘I know. I’m deliberately taking a light-hearted approach only because I know how tense you are.’

‘I wouldn’t be if I were alone. Your presence adds a layer of worry I have not experienced previously.’

‘So tell me what you want me to do.’

He blew out a deep sigh. ‘It’s hard to say because I don’t know what to expect. However, rather than groom you, I’d prefer you played it by ear as you have played life since I met you. You’re good at it, Stella; you have sound instinct for situations and you know how to fade, how to step in, when to act. I trust your judgement. The point is, I need you to understand completely that this is not a game.’

She opened her mouth but he wouldn’t let her interrupt.

‘No, wait; I need to impress upon you that whatever information Joseph is bringing with him is as dangerous as a loaded gun pointed at your heart. I want to make sure that the gun never has you in its sights.’

‘Or yours,’ she said, with a warning look.

‘Or mine. However, this is between Joseph and me . . . and whomever else is following him, if anyone is following.’

‘Will this information be written down or are you going to memorise it?’ she wondered aloud.

‘Basil Peach believes it will be on paper. So it’s truly a loaded gun,’ he warned.

‘I understand, Rafe. You want me to be ready to take that gun, I suspect.’ He stared at her and in that look she saw fresh respect. ‘I’m your decoy, aren’t I? Also your back-up, I now realise. I’ve reached the understanding that I am to take the document and its important contents if for any reason you can’t.’

He shook himself as if from a trance but Stella knew she’d surprised a man who wasn’t used to surprises. ‘You take your lead from me and if I say sit here or go there, you do as I ask. None of that fiery spirit is to show. I want you to play the part of the meek researcher.’ He took off her spectacles and gave them a shine, placing them gently on her nose again. ‘The meek, bespectacled researcher, whose only interest is helping me collate information for a new exhibit that is being sponsored through Kew Gardens for the Linnean Society of London.’

‘The Linnean Society?’

‘Started in the 1700s, world’s oldest biological society and named after Carl Linnaeus.’

She nodded, frowning. ‘And he is?’

‘A Swedish naturalist interested in all things botanical and zoological, and the word for butterfly collector is lepidopterist, by the way . . . and if you want to sound very smart, the archaic term, coming from the Latin for chrysalis and its normally golden colour, is aurelian.’ His forehead creased with concern. ‘You see how nervous you’ve made me, I’m now babbling and I never babble.’

‘Unless you’re with Beatrice.’

‘That’s a different sort of babble. I’m entirely in control of that form.’ He turned away, hands on hips. She’d not seen this expression before. He was frightened. ‘Stella, I’ve changed my mind. Please stay here.’

‘Rafe, calm down. You’re going to meet your old friend again and share a few hours. All you have to do is give me a sign and I’ll disappear back to the hotel or . . . get me involved as you choose. Welcome7I promise I will follow your lead.’ She let go and reached for the small satchel she had also prepared. ‘See, now I completely look the part.’ She smiled, trying to push confidence into him, knowing she was his problem and yet he needed her there to add another layer to his disguise.

She watched him take a slow breath as though letting that previous fear go before he looked at his wristwatch and then at her, fully resolved to their duty. ‘Let’s go.’

Despite the warmth and humidity of the climate, Stella couldn’t deny that the atmosphere in their room of love had become so brittle that she felt she could snap it.

This will all be over in a few hours, she told herself silently. Stella gave a last glance at the bed and reminded herself that the next time she laid her head down on its pillows, all this frightening business would be behind them. They would return to London and make plans for how to be together. The thought of cold, grimy London brightened her immeasurably and she banished all doubt, stepped forward and linked her arms around his neck, grateful for the small heels.

‘Let this kiss be a promise for what we’re going to do when we get back into this room,’ she said. She kissed him slowly and with as much passion as she could load into the moments of such intense connection that even the sounds of the birds faded, replaced by the whoosh of her pulse.

Rafe stepped back, looking moved. ‘You frighten me when you kiss me like that.’

‘Why?’ She smiled tenderly, her lips still close to his.

‘I don’t want to let you go.’

‘After today I promise you never will. Come on, let’s get this over with.’

They walked in silence, a new tension settling in her throat; a lump of worry she couldn’t dislodge no matter how much fresh air she sucked in or tried to swallow. She put it down to the familiar nausea that haunted her but knew she was trying to trick herself. The fact is, she was scared, but it was easier to lie. He kept a distance from her, two paces ahead, and his stride had lengthened purposefully so that Stella felt she had to add a hurried skip every few steps to keep up. Her mental image of them made sense, though; today she was his research assistant and no emotional closeness must be detected.

She followed him through narrow streets that felt strangely familiar to her as they all looked the same. She could hear melodic yet curiously tuneless music coming from somewhere. Trance music, Rafe had told her previously, but she couldn’t remember what else he’d said about it.

It seemed that suddenly Rafe’s fears had leaped from his shoulders onto hers because he appeared fully collected now and focused. He moved with purpose but his lope had fallen into that easy rhythm and she knew he was back in control of his emotions. Her lover – the one who heard poetry in his mind and lived off emotion – had disappeared within and pushing forward was Rafe, the ruthless, cold-hearted spy.

She noticed he ruffled the hair of young children rushing to their local bakery. He smiled at the water sellers, took a moment to wave a friendly No, thank you at the fruit merchants who were yelling their wares near their laden baskets. He grinned at the man with the barrow of oranges, still dew-laden and ready to offer up their sweet juice. Despite behaving distantly he was aware of her following and looked behind him from time to time to warn her of mules and carts.

A man offered her teeth-cleaning sticks, while a nut and nougat seller caught her attention; she shook her head at both as young African men sat in an alley hammering out a catchy rhythm on their small drums that halted her. She paused to enjoy their music but Rafe scowled over his shoulder and she hurried on past other musicians, people selling hats, others selling baskets. Women reached out to offer to paint her hands with henna while men with monkeys on their shoulders beckoned.

Stella made every effort to close off her attention to all but Rafe as they entered the medina, an arresting zoo of sound and colour, smells and people moving in all directions. They crossed it quickly but once again her fascination was captured, this time by a snake charmer who sat cross-legged in the middle of the throng. His long white beard was tied into a tiny plait at its end and his scarlet turban failed to hide the white wisps of hair escaping at one edge. Stella felt the rush of helpless alarm, recoiling at the sight of the snake that could kill with a single dose of its venom swaying before its owner. She’d always thought snake charming to be a myth and felt as mesmerised by the scene as the snake appeared to be by the odd music.

Rafe had doubled back, and was now hissing in her ear. ‘Stella!’

‘How dangerous that is,’ she breathed. ‘Amazing.’

‘Not really,’ he remarked, herding her away and forwards.

‘Oh, so you can snake charm, can you?’ she asked, wishing they could have lingered.

‘I guess anyone could if the snake had its mouth sewn shut as that one had. The serpent is helpless; will likely be dead in a few days.’

Stella felt new shock rippling through her.

‘It’s just entertainment, Stella.’

He gestured down a quiet alleyway. ‘It’s not far. A couple of minutes now. Stella, it’s time you moved entirely into character.’

A new sound assailed them and Rafe tipped his head. ‘It’s salat,’ he remarked and moved on as the midday call to prayer was sounded by a reedy voice singing from a minaret in the medina.

She nodded, pulled her hat further down as she felt the wailing voice add fresh tension that knotted in her gut like a pulled thread. They walked without talking or touching as men and boys hurried past them to pause at fountains to wash before prayer.

Keep my man safe, she threw out into the universe and then, as if sloughing off a skin, she shrugged off Stella, his lover, and became Stella Myles, research assistant to Douglas Ainsworth, man of science.

After several minutes of moving in a vacuum, Stella sensed they were entering a new square. This one was almost peaceful by comparison to Marrakech’s main marketplace even though people were still busy hawking their wares.

Stella noticed that Rafe’s stride turned to a saunter. He swung around.

‘Would you care for a tea, Miss Myles?’

She was careful to keep the appropriate distance. ‘Only if you’re having one, Captain Ainsworth.’

His blink was the only sign of his surprise at the title she’d used. It sounded right to her, though. ‘In Morocco, they take mint tea. I grew up here so can attest to its cooling quality.’

‘Then I should like to try one, for it is certainly a warm afternoon.’

‘Over here, I think.’ He pointed. ‘These tearooms should do us.’

They ducked into the cool shadow of the awning that reached out from the nondescript building. The café had no name but she knew they’d arrived at Mustafa’s because on the wall behind them was a mural depicting a peacock. This was indeed the shisha café where Rafe had, as a boy, tried his first smoke.

The tables were empty, save theirs, although she could smell tobacco coming from the depths of the café. A waft of fresh mint drifted by and its fragrance comforted her, as if assuring that all would be well.

He spoke in Arabic to the man who arrived to serve them. Their discussion seemed to last longer than she considered plausible; she noted that the waiter glanced at her, back at Rafe, then smiled and nodded. Rafe gave him a wad of notes.

‘Is everything all right?’

‘Stay in character,’ he murmured. ‘So, tomorrow I have organised for a driver and a guide. We will be travelling into the foothills of the Andes. I really do need to sight the local butterfly of the family Hesperiidae.’ He leaned back in his chair and fanned himself with his hat.

Stella tipped out the contents from her satchel, opening a notebook and flipping through the pages. To the casual observer her jottings would make perfect sense but Rafe would recognise passages from his own notes that she’d dutifully copied out in different inks, some in pencil, as though written on a different day, in a different mood. Rafe was right – she was cunning enough to make a half decent spy. In another situation she might have enjoyed that thought but increasingly this situation was beginning to feel intense, more dangerous by the moment. Rafe’s casual pose had not changed. He was not darting his glance around to pick up potential observers, and he was avoiding her, to make her feel less conspicuous.

‘Of course the best place to view butterflies is in the High Atlas.’

She nodded, frowning over the top of her glasses. ‘Shall we be going there, Captain Ainsworth?’

Their tea arrived and was set down quickly. He sighed and sat forward as he gestured for her to enjoy.

‘Yes, I thought I might try for the end of the week. It will be much cooler up there, so you’ll need to wear appropriate layers. Butterflies prefer the cooler climes. We may sight a rosy grizzled, perhaps even the local cardinal.’

‘Oh, that would be grand, wouldn’t it?’ she said, sipping her tea. ‘Um, what time is your appointment, Sir?’

‘Noon. My guest should be here any moment.’

‘Would you like me to move, Captain . . . give you some quiet time together?’

‘Not at all. I would like you to meet him. He’s someone I have known since we were boys together in Africa.’

‘What does your friend do, Sir?’

His mouth twisted into a sort of shrug. ‘It’s hard to be specific with Joseph. He’s an administrator of some kind.’

‘So he followed a very different line of work to your academic pursuits,’ she remarked, hoping this small talk was on the mark. She smiled politely, realising he’d replied and she’d not heard a word. She was aware of her pulse escalating, could hear it, if she concentrated, pounding behind her ear. She must stay calm. She promised him she could do this. Why was she so nervous? Rafe was looking entirely at peace . . . but then he was a practised spy and she was just a trainee store buyer who dreamed of having her own tearooms in a spa town.

‘Oddly, he is the one who looks more the academic,’ he finished and smiled. She sensed he saw pride in her performance and offered encouragement . . . and something else. She blinked, lingered for a heartbeat but couldn’t read it. He looked away into the square and drank his tea in silence. Stella busied herself reading his notes – pages she’d read many times over the past week or two. She rehearsed in her mind what he’d asked her to remember.

The call by the muezzin abruptly ended. It was noon. The men of Marrakech were at their mosques praying, some in the square had unrolled small mats and faced Mecca to pray.

A gentleman, small and slim of stature, wearing pale linens, broke cover from one of the many alleys and walked across her eyeline. She shifted her attention to watch his approach. The gaze from his curiously light eyes scanned the surrounding stalls so he appeared nervous, even from this distance. He took an odd skip every few steps as though wanting to hurry but forcing himself not to. It was Joseph, all right, wearing a look of relief he clearly couldn’t help at spotting his friend. Stella watched him smile from beneath a luxuriant, dark moustache and lift an arm in salutation to Rafe. Her lover responded and she knew him well enough now that although he made it look casual enough there was genuine joy in his expression.

‘Hello, Joseph,’ he called, standing. He sounded choked.

She watched his friend arrive and had to swallow to banish her rising emotion to see these two men wrap each other in a heartfelt hug; two boys from that sweet photo with its romantic, adventuresome backdrop of the desert were reunited. Stella was sure Joseph was weeping, from the way he took off his small round glasses and whipped out a handkerchief to polish the lenses. She noted he dabbed at his eyes, while Rafe hurried to make introductions.

‘Er, Joseph,’ he cleared his throat, clearly swallowing his emotion too. ‘This is Miss Stella Myles. She is my research assistant. Miss Myles, this is Joseph Altmann, my oldest and dearest friend.’

Joseph returned his glasses and blinked behind them. His eyes were an olive green, she noticed, and were part of a series of spare, handsomely assembled features.

Enchanté, Mademoiselle Myles,’ he said and nodded over the hand she extended.

‘It’s a pleasure. What a lovely way you are introduced. That must feel special,’ she replied in French.

‘We are brothers in all but blood,’ Joseph admitted.

Rafe moved them into English, signalling to the waiter for a tea for his guest. He muttered just for their hearing, ‘Honesty doesn’t help in the spy game, Joseph, but given your candour and at risk of being reckless and especially in the presence of both of you who deserve no lies, you should also know that Stella is not only my lover but she is also the love of my life.’ Both Joseph and Stella gaped at him. He shrugged. ‘There are only three people alive in the world that I can put my hand over my heart and claim that I love and would die for. Two are seated right here,’ he said, smiling softly. ‘Why wouldn’t I want you both to know of each other’s meaning to me?’

Stella looked back at Joseph with a perplexed smile; worried now for the danger of this admission, having been so careful before about staying in character. She didn’t think anyone had heard, but even so, why take such a risk? It was as if he wanted someone or something else to take over, to make the decisions for him. She shrugged and fell in with his spirit of honesty. ‘I have never fallen for anyone until I met Rafe,’ she admitted, unsure of what else to say other than the truth. ‘I love him.’

‘As do I, so I’m not just enchanted, Miss Myles, I’m honoured to know you. It seems you and I are amongst the very few who have impressed Rafe enough to even know his preferred name, let alone be worthy of his love.’

The same waiter arrived, setting down a fresh glass of tea for Joseph. It was a convenient moment of distraction.

‘And is Brigitte as beautiful as I recall?’ Rafe enquired.

‘Radiant with her new son in her arms.’

‘Congratulations again. A son! Well done. You’re a better man than I.’

The men laughed conspiratorially. ‘No, a real man makes daughters, they say,’ Joseph offered generously, ‘but he’s such a sweet boy, we do dote on him . . . so do the girls.’ Then he pulled a face of disgust. ‘They dress him up in dolls’ clothes! Brigitte finds it amusing. I am personally disturbed but then as they do that to the dog too I have to accept these are the mysterious ways of females.’ He looked at Stella and winked.

Helplessly charmed, she wondered if both these men were pressed from the same mould. ‘Be assured, it’s very normal. I’m told you came here as youngsters,’ Stella said, sweeping her gaze behind in a casual gesture in case they were being watched. She couldn’t pick up anyone intent on them but it was so fleeting, she desperately wanted to check again but instead returned her attention to Joseph.

‘Indeed we did. I’m sure Rafe has told you about the peacock and Yassine laughing in the background as we coughed and hacked our way through our first smoke.’

‘Mother was livid with us,’ Rafe recalled in a tone of pleasur­able wistfulness.

‘And Bel was jealous.’

She watched Rafe swallow. ‘Furious we did it without her,’ he chuckled sadly, glancing at Stella. ‘Bel is my sister.’

‘I gathered,’ she replied gently, realising only now that this was the first time she’d heard his sister’s name uttered. Isabella? Annabelle? There was plenty to still learn about Rafe but as always it felt as though an invisible but enormous clock ticked loudly around them.

‘You can be frank in front of Stella,’ Rafe assured with a deep and meaningless chuckle. ‘Be calm, Joseph. She knows. Hence her disguise. She has perfect vision and beautiful hair that you can’t see and a laugh to light your world.’

Joseph shot a look of sympathy over his glasses at Stella, who wished she could take hers off. ‘My world is filled with darkness, it’s true,’ he said softly over a fresh gust of amusement, designed to fool any watchers. Stella was impressed by both of them, especially Joseph for whom she knew this must be torture. ‘I shall not waste time on preambles. I don’t believe I was followed but I live in a nation of suspicions and cannot take our safety for granted.’ He removed a small book from a leather satchel.

Rafe gasped. ‘I’m being flung back a quarter of a century,’ he gusted merrily, slapping Joseph on the shoulder. ‘I remember this!’ he exclaimed, adding in a lower voice: ‘You’re doing fine. Sip your tea. Just pretend we’re catching up on old times.’ Rafe took the album, seeming to know what to do. He began feigning soft laughter, pointing and showing photos to both of them. Stella took his lead, cast an expression of deep interest while inside she churned, wondering what was about to happen.

‘This is an old photo album that Rafe’s wonderful mother – our mother – sent to me for my seventeenth birthday,’ Joseph explained to Stella. ‘My father had moved us back to Germany and I was so missing my life with the family I loved as my own in Tangier so she filled this little book with memories of childhood. Rafe, I do think my favourite is this one of us in the tent.’ He flipped a few pages and sighed, pointing at it. Stella picked up the signal that passed between them as he tapped the particular photo she recognised from the nursery.

Rafe laughed. ‘Hell, what were we then? Ten?’ He nodded, his expression full of pleasure. ‘Got it,’ he murmured. He sipped at his now cold mint tea. ‘We couldn’t have been any older, could we?’ He made an obvious shift to show it to Stella. ‘Here, look at this,’ he offered in a light voice but his words that followed chilled her. ‘Remember it, Stella,’ he growled in the lowest of whispers.

Joseph glanced at them both. It was as if they’d reached some sort of precipice and they were all peering over the top to dizzying depths below. He grinned with effort but the words didn’t match. ‘And now let’s see if I have indeed made it all the way back to the land I love, the brother I worship, without bringing the devil with me.’ His voice shook and his fingers visibly trembled as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a sheet of paper. ‘This is why I’m here. You should know that only recently the Chancellor of Germany outlined his new foreign policy that rejects aspects of the Treaty of Versailles.’

The warm day’s temperature felt as though it instantly plunged around their table and Stella put down her cold tea as a chill shuddered through her; they were still smiling, nodding amiably, as Rafe acknowledged what his friend was saying. ‘Equal armaments,’ he said, agreeing that he knew this much.

Joseph shook his head, his smile faltering. ‘So much worse, Rafe. The relationship with the Soviet Union will be non-existent soon, I suspect; our ambassador in Moscow told him as much this month. He is feigning moderation to London but his eye is on the Polish border. He is talking about trebling the army, creating dive bomber units.’

‘Germany’s not permitted to have an aerial capability.’

Joseph shrugged. ‘Tell our Chancellor that. I happen to know that pilots are in training. Our decorated world war ace is in his el­ement. Herr Göring and his cronies only last month established an air ministry. A Luftwaffe! Hitler doesn’t care about the Treaty or its sanctions. He has every intention to defy them.’

Rafe’s expression darkened. ‘I can’t say I’m shocked.’

‘Well, you will be when you read this.’ Joseph pushed the sheet forward. ‘These are pages from draft notes that I am horrified to admit I have acquired through dishonest means. I am betraying my own people but I have no choice because the Chancellor no longer believes that people of my heritage are Germans. From what I can tell, these notes seem to form part of a manifesto he’s drafting for Germany. He aspires for purity of the race. Aryan, he calls it.’

‘What are you talking about?’ Rafe growled, his façade falling away.

Joseph removed his hand from the sheets. ‘Read them,’ he urged, whipping out his handkerchief again to once more attack his lenses before pushing the spectacles back up his nose nervously. ‘His new racial ideology has Jews at the helm of his hate list. I couldn’t believe it, dared not, in fact. I’ve sat on this for weeks but in April a boycott began on Jewish stores, although attacks on our shops began even earlier in March. There are calls to remove Jews from the legal, medical and educational system. I have no doubt now that it’s going to happen.’

‘Hitler had the Enabling Act passed,’ Rafe explained to Stella. ‘It means he now rules simply by his own decree and can determine his own laws; no need to pass them through the Reichstag.’

Her throat felt as dry as the sun-bleached awning they sat beneath.

Joseph continued as though Rafe had not spoken. ‘It’s a steady breakdown in our society. No more kosher slaughtering of animals one month, the next we can’t send our children to school if it overreaches the Jewish “quota”. And this month students across Germany burned what they called un-German books in an action against an un-German spirit. If it wasn’t true, I’d laugh but I wept to hear that in the order of thirty thousand books were burned in a “cleansing by fire”. Jewish intellectualism, whatever that’s supposed to mean, is cited as being un-German. People are being brainwashed and the propaganda is rife.’

Stella watched Rafe nod as though he was aware of this particular atrocity. ‘I’d heard about the book burning, but I had no idea of the scope of all this racial vilification, Joseph.’

‘We’ve lived with persecution down the centuries and no one wants to tip Europe back into war, my brother, so coming to the rescue of a few persecuted Jews is unlikely to be on the agenda . . . except it’s not just Jews, it’s everyone that our dictator suddenly believes might speak up against him and his dark regime. Pacifists, socialists, liberalists, intellectuals, poets! They’re all on his list of hate. Ever since these came into my possession my perspective on the ministry has changed. I realise now that I’ve been working for a dictator who is determined to own the minds of his people so there is no more free thought. What previously looked innocent, such as the training of pilots, has taken on a new and sinister aspect. I’ve heard artists, writers, poets, thinkers – they are all wanting to flee the country. They feel the next step might be the burning of the writers themselves.’ Joseph stopped, shaking with the emotion of his fear.

Stella could see his perspiration was nothing to do with the climate and she was privately appalled that they were both being defiantly open about their discussion. If they were so worried about being observed, why were they being so obvious? It seemed Rafe no longer cared about being watched or being cautious. He’d been careful for her presumably but now felt confident; either that or he was taking a fatalistic view, which she could believe given last night’s odd behaviour and today’s honesty to Joseph. She was feeling as though he was deliberately pushing her away and yet making sure his brother knew that she was the important woman in his life. Why? And what was the charade with the photos? What should she know? Stella sensed with every ounce of perception that the clue she needed was already present even though it was invisible. Pay attention, Stella, it demanded. And so she snapped her focus to all the elements before her: photo album, two sheets of paper yet to be unfolded, Rafe outwardly calm and jovial yet there was nothing casual about his seemingly casual gesture, certainly nothing happy in that smile of his. And Joseph was now freely perspiring: frightened, nervous. She wanted to scoop up the sheets of paper, throw them in her satchel and run. They had what they came for – why weren’t they moving, escaping potential harm? She opened her notebook again in a desperate attempt to appear distracted, uninvolved. She saw the lines of writing but couldn’t read them. It didn’t matter. She was acting out the charade.

‘Read it, Rafe. Tell me this wasn’t worth risking everything for,’ Joseph was saying. ‘It’s in Hitler’s handwriting, for heaven’s sake. The persecution has already begun but maybe I was deliberately blind to it or too protected from it because of my station. Now . . .’

It felt to Stella as though her throat was closing with anxiety for them and a helpless hushing sound escaped as she tried to stem their words as a mother might to her children. ‘Is this wise?’ she asked, although it came out in a squeak just as a shadow fell across them.

‘Not at all wise,’ answered a new voice and its owner’s arm reached between herself and Rafe. He was dressed in a greyish olive linen suit that sat unhappily below receding blond hair and a pale complexion. He was smiling but there was little sincerity in it going by the cold, pale eyes that glared above it. ‘I shall take that,’ he said, clamping a hand down on the papers that Rafe had just grasped. ‘Thank you,’ he said in a sarcastic tone, withdrawing the pages.

Stella closed her eyes momentarily, recognising the unmistakable accent of a German speaking English.

‘Greetings, Herr Altmann. Why don’t you introduce me to your companions?’

Stella was aware of three other men lurking. They’d surely materialised from one of the alleys behind the café. She glanced at Rafe, who appeared unmoved. Had he anticipated this outcome? He seemed suddenly more relaxed for the man’s arrival.

‘Karl. You of all people,’ Joseph said, his tone resigned, as though relieved the terror of discovery was now past.

‘Herr Klipfels to you from hereon, Altmann,’ the man cautioned.

Joseph nodded, as though now fully accepting the inevitable. ‘This is my friend, Douglas Ainsworth.’

‘Mr Ainsworth,’ Klipfels said. ‘English, yes?’

‘If you wish,’ Rafe said. ‘Escaping a cold German spring, Mr Klipfels?’

The German’s smile broadened but remained as wintry as his near colourless eyes whose corners didn’t so much as crinkle with the stretch of his thin mouth.

‘It’s just that your pale skin looks a little burned,’ Rafe offered, his tone full of generous concern.

‘Not yours, though, I notice,’ Klipfels replied.

‘I grew up here. The Moroccan sun is my friend, the streets of Marrakech a boyhood playground.’

‘I was under the impression you grew up in Tangier?’

‘Should I know you or have you been busy doing some homework?’ Rafe exclaimed, betraying no surprise despite his words. When Klipfels didn’t answer, he grinned. ‘I did, yes. So my skin is well accustomed.’

‘And who is this charming companion?’ Klipfels wondered, bored of Rafe’s feigned charm.

‘As you’ve done your background checks, I imagine you know that I am carrying out some special work for Kew Gardens. This is my research assistant, Miss Myles.’

‘Research?’ He laughed. ‘Is that what they call a tryst these days? How would you like to have dinner with me tonight instead, Miss Myles . . . later some German-style conviviality, yes?’ he asked, stroking her cheek.

With Joseph looking as helpless as a trapped rabbit and Rafe seemingly enjoying the tense banter, Stella felt it was left to her to disrupt proceedings and give her companions a chance to think through their escape. She pushed her chair back and stood. ‘How dare you, Sir!’

As she’d guessed he expected her to remain meek because of discovery, her fiery response took him by obvious surprise. He stepped back and Stella filled the space he’d left, taking her chance.

‘What are you suggesting?’ she snapped in breathy horror.

Klipfels glared at Joseph, then at Rafe, finally returning his unsure gaze to her. ‘My sincere apologies, Miss Myles. A wrong presumption.’

‘Presumption?’ she thundered, finding fear a helpful boost for her rage. ‘Are all Germans as poor mannered as you, Herr Klipfels?’ She watched him squirm, pushed on, buying more time for the two men still seated. ‘Well, your apology is not good enough. I’m deeply offended that you’d humiliate me in front of my employer and his friend I have only just a few moments ago met.’

‘And what were you all discussing?’ Klipfels asked, trying to wrestle back control of the situation.

‘I have no idea,’ she said, making sure none of her outrage had left her voice. ‘Surely as you arrived you could see I was reading?’ She gestured angrily at the notebook on the table.

He ignored it, reached again past the silently seated men and picked up the photo album. The air seemed to still as he did so; Stella wasn’t sure why. He flipped through the pages, his expression one of perplexed amusement. He looked up at Stella with query. ‘So what is this?’

She shrugged. ‘Why don’t you ask Mr Ainsworth or Herr Altmann? I am an assistant on her way to our next research location. We stopped for a minted tea,’ she pointed, exasperated, ‘because Mr Ainsworth had an old acquaintance to meet. As to that you’re holding, it was simply a walk down memory lane for two old friends. What on earth is this all about?’

He had haplessly paused on the very photo that Rafe had impressed upon her to remember. Her heart was pounding so loudly now she was worried that Klipfels could see it drumming against her ribcage, preparing to explode from her chest.

‘The photos, gentleman?’ He turned away from her mercifully.

‘Look here, what’s it to you, anyway?’ Rafe demanded.

‘Nothing, Mr Ainsworth,’ Klipfels answered, flinging down the album. ‘I realise, of course, it is a useless diversion for your meeting. But this,’ he said, waving the pages that Joseph had so desperately passed on, ‘is none of your business. It’s none of your colleagues’ business and certainly none of the British ministry’s business.’

‘Klipfels,’ Joseph appealed.

‘You, Altmann, are in a lot of trouble. Traitorous trouble.’ He gave a tutting sound. ‘You’re not very good at this espionage work, Joseph; you should have stuck to budgets and reporting. We were friends.’

‘I thought we were,’ Joseph nodded sadly. ‘Our children go to school together, our wives lunch, you and I take brandy of an evening. Indeed, friends.’

‘But no longer, Herr Altmann. Not now that you’ve betrayed that friendship,’ Klipfels replied.

‘I don’t see it that way. Our family’s friendship is in jeopardy through no fault of mine. Going by what our Chancellor’s new plans are for Germany, it seems he marked us as enemies in his lunatic mind so you and I have no say in it. We are mere puppets.’

Klipfels bristled. ‘We may spare your family, if you cooperate, Joseph, and tell us how you acquired these pages.’

‘Spare my . . . where are Brigitte and the children?’

‘In safe care. She is a good woman, your wife; excellent family. We know she is not to blame.’

‘Please, Klipfels, don’t take this out on my darling family.’

‘Then help me to keep them all safe.’

Stella tasted sourness in her throat at the undisguised threat. It wasn’t just fear, she really did feel sick and maybe retching over Klipfels’ cream leather shoes was the answer for breaking this awkward deadlock. Instead, in her panic, she bumbled into another diversion of her own inspiration.

‘Oh, Captain Ainsworth, there’s that charming couple you introduced me to a couple of days ago.’

Everyone, including Klipfels, looked to where Stella was pointing at an elderly man and woman who had wandered arm in arm into the square. They were foreigners; the pale linens gave them away, along with their oversized hats and his walking cane and flouncy kerchief poking out from his outside breast pocket ‘Um, let me recall, Mr and Mrs Harpsend, isn’t it?’ she offered in panic. ‘They were fossicking when we found the skipper.’ She could barely believe the ridiculous notions she was fabricating.

Klipfels looked understandably baffled.

Rafe in contrast looked amused. He glanced back at her, vague astonishment ghosting before he grinned. ‘Oh, yes, poor old Dick and Daisy who were lost, you mean? Of course,’ he said, turning back to look at them.

‘They’re so interested in your work as a lepidopterist,’ she gushed. ‘Shall I call them?’ She didn’t wait for his reply but raised a hand and yelled to the couple – perfect strangers – who mercifully heard an English accent and predictably turned towards it. ‘Hello again, Dick,’ she repeated. They raised their hands, obviously confused, but no English couple would risk being rude, and that’s what she counted on.

Instantly the atmosphere surrounding their table changed to urgent.

‘I wish you hadn’t,’ Klipfels warned.

Stella frowned at him. ‘Hadn’t what? Been polite to people we know? Look, what do you want with us, Sir? I have work to do for Captain Ainsworth.’ She reached down, opened the notebook she’d studied and began reeling off details about the Linnean Society of London and the trail of the butterfly they were hunting.

‘. . . . drawing of a Moroccan small skipper, Thymelicus hamza, but we’re looking for Pyrgus onopordi, er . . . the rosy grizzled skipper, for the uninformed.’ She pressed on, desperately trying to be as dull as she could. ‘Any amount of Moroccan meadow browns – hundreds – and graylings, more than I could bear to count, but our task this trip —’

‘Do be quiet, Miss Myles,’ Klipfels ordered.

‘Karl.’ It was Joseph who sighed. ‘Release Miss Myles. She is here purely by coincidence. I suspect you’re making her nervous.’

‘Release!’ Stella’s voice was huffy but the Harpsends were frowning, discussing whether to come over. She knew Klipfels had an eye on them too. Precious seconds ticked by. ‘What does that mean? I’m no prisoner to be released!’ She looked between the two men. ‘What’s in those pages?’

It was Rafe’s turn. ‘Something Herr Klipfels is embarrassed by. Run along, Miss Myles.’ The Harpsends seemed to have made a decision and were tottering in their direction. ‘Hurry up, Klipfels. Perhaps she can stop them.’

‘Take your things and leave, Miss Myles,’ Klipfels directed and she could feel Rafe’s relief like a sharp gust of wind shoving her away.

‘Miss Myles,’ Rafe continued, matter-of-factly, ‘I shall meet you back at the hotel. It looks like today’s excursion into the foothills is a lost cause until we sort this business out.’

‘What business?’ she said, looking between Rafe and Joseph. She didn’t want to leave either of them.

‘Certainly not yours,’ Klipfels urged. ‘Gentlemen? Shall we retire to somewhere where we can talk in private?’

‘Stella . . . please,’ Rafe appealed but without the usual tenderness in his voice. ‘It’s best you leave. Write up yesterday’s notes, especially regarding those fossils we found.’ He closed the album, closed her notebook, piled them up and gave them to her, covering her hand with his own, which she felt like a farewell. There was a warning in his gaze that only she could sense.

‘What about you, Sir? When shall I see you?’

‘This afternoon.’

She knew he lied. They were all liars. All acting out the charade.

‘Run along now,’ Rafe added, his tone cuttingly off-hand.

‘As your employer says,’ Klipfels sneered.

She ignored him, eyes only for Rafe. ‘And you will be all right . . . Sir?’

‘I shall be fine,’ he assured. He began to move, Joseph dejectedly doing the same.

‘No scenes now,’ Klipfels warned, ‘or we shall have to have you accompany us, Miss Myles. And I should warn I have other colleagues posted who are carrying pistols. Let’s all stay calm and no one gets hurt.’

Rafe shot her a beseeching look of warning.

‘I’m sorry, Miss Myles,’ Joseph said, his face corpse-grey. She remembered that colour well from her parents. Was he a dead man? Was Rafe? She was torn. Should she shout for help and hope against hope they might all get away, or listen to Rafe now and hope he knew what he was doing? If he’d been in hot water previously he’d clearly got away. He was smart, clever, silver-tongued. He would keep them safe, wouldn’t he? Klipfels just wanted the pages. Joseph and Rafe were of no use to them beyond that, surely?

Joseph was muttering another apology.

‘Sorry doesn’t cover it, Mr Altmann. We had plans,’ she said, burying the truth in hollow words, surprised she could still remain in character and not reach for Rafe, scream for help. He wouldn’t want that, though. He had likely anticipated that this might happen, hadn’t he? Dawning entered her mind in a blindingly sharp manner, as though she’d stepped out of a dark room into bright sunlight. No, he’d known it would happen as he’d known that Joseph was no spy; Joseph wouldn’t know if he were followed; wouldn’t have a clue of the skills of espionage. She had a better training in duplicity through her work on the sales floor than Joseph Altmann did in his senior administrative role, whatever it was. It explained Rafe’s odd mood, his getting drunk, it even explained the argument on the ship and his manoeuvrings to give both of them one full day and night of loving together, because he’d known in his heart there would be no more. And he’d anticipated she would be smart enough to get herself away; that he would manipulate the situation to enable it and that she would use her perceptiveness and alertness to live up to his estimation of her. But he’d wanted that precious time alone with her first. In her moment of clarity, she believed it was likely Rafe who had whispered to Grace about Georgina’s lineage, reminded her of that argument between himself and Beatrice and words spilled that shouldn’t have been uttered in Grace’s presence.

All of that risk and hurt because Rafe wanted to hold Stella . . . alone, without prying eyes. His farewell.

One last dance, Stella, his voice echoed in her mind like he was wishing her adieu.

Stella wilted, pain and terror combining to double her up. He was already out of reach. ‘Rafe!’ she cried to him, but it came out as a whisper.

He looked back, ignoring her suffering. ‘And if for any reason I’m held up, do get that stuff to old Fruity, would you? He’s waiting for it – you know what a stickler he is for deadlines.’

And then he and Joseph were gone, hurried from her by their German escort as the elderly pair arrived.

‘Oh, my dear,’ said the woman as Stella crumpled against them. ‘Harold, darling, quick, she’s swooning.’

When Stella regained her wits, she was in the shadows of the café being fanned by the elderly woman, with her husband and one of the waiters watching on, concerned. Her head snapped back with the eye-wateringly pungent smell of ammonia laced with an astringent top note of lavender.

‘There you are, that’s better,’ her companion said, fanning harder. ‘Take this, Harold,’ she said, handing off a tiny, clear glass bottle. Her husband stepped forward and obediently took the smelling salts. ‘How are you feeling?’

‘I’m . . . I’m fine. Did I faint?’

‘I think you did, my dear,’ her new friend admitted. ‘Would you like to use my fan?’

Stella shook her head, everything flooding back now. ‘Have they gone?’

The woman blinked. ‘Er . . . ?’ She looked around at her companions and it was the waiter who answered in French.

‘The men have left, Madam,’ he confirmed.

Stella moved slowly to stand. ‘Did you see the men I was with?’

Harold nodded. ‘We did. They were leaving and you called us over.’

Harold’s wife, exasperated with his explanation, took over. ‘Should we know you, my dear? I’m sorry, perhaps our ageing minds are letting us down but we don’t recognise you. You’re not the Hampton-Cooper girl, are you?’

Stella felt nervous laughter warbling in her throat, knew her emotions were rising towards hysteria and clamped her mouth shut. She coughed it out instead, shook her head in response, forcing a sense of control about herself. When she felt she could, she answered properly. ‘I’m sorry, no. I’m Stella Myles.’

They looked at her blankly, then at each other as if running the family name of Myles through their collective memories.

‘You don’t know me. Forgive me.’ It would make no difference to explain so she fibbed again. ‘I mistook you for another couple.’

‘Oh,’ the woman exclaimed with gentle understanding. ‘That’s quite all right. Happens all the time.’

‘Which direction did they go?’ she asked the waiter in French.

‘He does not wish you to follow,’ he replied, dark eyes fixing her with an implacable stare.

‘Tell me.’

‘He has paid me not to,’ he said.

She was aware of the couple’s attention darting back and forth between them. ‘I shall double whatever he paid. Triple it!’

He stood unmoved. ‘I am not for sale,’ he answered.

Her mouth quivered in her sense of helplessness.

‘He also paid me to escort you back to the hotel.’

‘I don’t want you near me.’

‘Nevertheless,’ the man said, ignoring her. He was older and something in his tone overwhelmed her natural desire to imagine herself hypothetically spitting at his feet, but her combined sorrow and rage was such that she could imagine such a heinous display of poor manners to make her dead parents fidget unhappily in their graves.

‘My dear?’ the woman asked.

‘I’m sorry. I came over so light-headed. I had no idea that I would faint.’ She gave the woman a peck. ‘You’ve been so kind, Mrs . . . ?’

‘Margaret and Harold Eversham. Card, Harold, dear,’ she said, turning to her husband who instantly dug in his waistcoat pocket. She took it and passed it to Stella.

She read it, nodding, taking a slow deep breath to steady herself and her nerves. ‘Norfolk,’ she said, unsure of what else to say. ‘How nice.’

‘Beautiful. We live on the Broads. You’re most welcome to visit some time.’

‘You’re very kind.’

‘Well, you seem sad, my dear. Norfolk might cheer. Can we do anything for you?’

She shook her head. ‘No, this man will guide me to where my friends are. Thank you for being so generous and understanding.’

Harold tweaked his white moustache, mumbled something about it being no trouble at all. His wife squeezed her hand. ‘We’re staying at the Hotel Gallia . . . it’s a fine riad, my dear, must have been a rich old merchant’s home before it changed over to a guest house. Feel free to look us up there. We’re staying for another couple of days before we go to Tangier.’

‘Thank you.’ Stella set her shoulders and forced a smile. ‘I’d better go find my friends,’ she said, feigning brightness. ‘Thank you again.’ She nodded at the waiter.

‘I am Zarif,’ he said, bowing slightly, hand over heart.

‘Thank you, Zarif. Shall we?’ she said in English this time.