Three

Ava

There were many ways in which one could read. Either tucked into the corner of the sofa with a strong cup of coffee or lying in bed with the book hovering above one's face—though admittedly this is not done without peril. But there were also unconventional methods, like while cooking dinner or crossing the street—sometimes even while brushing one's teeth if the story was truly that engrossing.

Apparently, sequestered in the window seat aboard a metal tube barreling far too fast tens of thousands of miles above the earth was yet another way. Thank the stars for Daphne du Maurier and her gripping tale that helped Ava forget about being on an airplane.

At least for the most part.

When the plane was gliding through the sky like a bird in flight on a clear day, it was easy to lose herself in the book spread between her fingers. However, at the slightest jolt and rattle of turbulence, fear caught her in a powerful and vicious hold, reminding her how precariously her life was held aloft by only a few inches of metal. In those terrifying moments, she couldn't help but imagine her mother and father as their plane spiraled to the earth on that fateful trip home from France. What they might have experienced, what they might have thought in those last, harrowing seconds of their lives.

Much to the disappointment of the man beside her, Ava kept the window shade snapped tightly shut. If the worst happened and the ground began rushing toward them, she did not want to bear witness to that awful event.

When they finally landed and she uncurled her death grip from the arms of her seat, it was all she could do to keep from kneeling and kissing the earth in gratitude. Knowing her new boss awaited her was a strong incentive to remain upright despite the quiver in her bones after enduring so many spikes of adrenaline throughout the journey. Instead, she ensured the felt pompadour hat with its spray of small white flowers was properly pinned over her rolled-back hair.

The air was warmer than that in Washington, DC, and the odor of jet fuel blotted out any scents of the city she might otherwise pick up. She made her way toward a cluster of people along with the other passengers of her flight.

A man with more salt than pepper in his hair held a sign with "A. Harper" written across it in a hasty, no-nonsense script. His heavy-lidded eyes were bloodshot and spoke of too many hours at work, as did the rumpled jacket of his dove-gray, three-piece suit.

"Bom dia."She set her heavy suitcases down and smiled as she presented him with her first attempt at Portuguese in Lisbon.

He stared at her as if she'd grown a second head. Surely she hadn't misspoken. How hard was it to mess up bidding someone good day?

After a moment, he scoffed and shook his head. "I wasn't allowed to bring my secretary. Why is Harper allowed to bring you?"

She lifted her brows, sure she had heard him incorrectly. But no, he was still staring at her, indignant.

"I am Harper." Jabbing a finger toward his sign, she said, "Ava Harper."

He blinked.

She should have suppressed her sigh of irritation, but she was too tired and her nerves too frayed. The exhale blew from her mouth without restraint. "You are Mr. Sims, I presume?"

"I am." He collected himself as she'd hoped he would, keeping their introductory meeting from growing too awkward. "I was expecting a man."

Perhaps that explained why he hadn't bothered to take her luggage. Not that she would let this fluster her as she bent to lift her suitcases in either hand. It was not the first time she was relocating to a new place with her life in only two suitcases. But she wasn't a little girl anymore. She had control over what she did and who she was.

Recalling his manners, Mr. Sims reached for her bags. "Let me take that for you." He grunted at the weight as she let him pull the handles from her grip, his face flushing with the effort. "What do you have in here? Bricks?"

"Books," she answered truthfully. "Only a few." There could have been far more, but most had been packed into several boxes and generously stored in the Library of Congress to await her return.

He huffed his disapproval the entire way to a glossy black Renault where he readily deposited the suitcases in the back seat and opened the door for her.

That first drive through Lisbon would be one she would always remember as they unceremoniously sped by statues and the artistically cobbled limestone sidewalks. Too swift to discern any of the lovely detail. There were sharp turns and extreme inclines throughout their journey that took them up and down many of the famed "seven hills" of Lisbon.

It was at the base of a particularly steep slope that they stopped on a street named Rua Santana à Lapa before a large white building. A line of people stretched across the front of the high fence and snaked around the corner. Not only men and women, but children as well.

"This is the American embassy, where we do most of our work." Sims stopped the car and got out, leaving Ava's suitcases in the rear seat.

"Who are all these people?" she asked.

"Refugees seeking visas to America," he answered in a matter-of-fact tone.

As she approached the line, dozens of eyes focused on her, sharp with anticipation, many of their faces incredibly thin.

She recalled the stories she'd read in newspapers in America about how the Nazis were determined to kill all Jews in Europe, how people in several countries were pushed into certain areas of the city where they were left to starvation and disease.

"There's so many," she murmured.

"Getting here early won't mean you avoid them." Mr. Sims nudged apart the line, leading her from the crowd and through a gate. "They're here at all hours."

No doubt they were attempting to flee Europe and get to America where they knew they would be safe. "That's so terribly sad."

Mr. Sims gave a hum of acknowledgment. "That's why we have the US Legation and Consulate General to handle all that. And why you don't need to worry your pretty little head about it."

Ava bit back her sharp reply lest she come across as pugnacious on her first day. It was strange how women could now attend most colleges and embark on jobs once reserved only for men. Yet in some ways, males were determined to hold "the fairer sex" in the limited and confining roles belonging to the last century.

A woman whose sandy curls were pulled back into a roll pinned with a blue flower smiled broadly as they entered. "You must be our new IDC agent. I'm Peggy, the secretary for the ambassador. You just let me know if you need anything at all, Miss Harper."

Peggy's left brow quirked upright as she stressed the "Miss" in her statement and slid a triumphant smirk toward Mr. Sims.

Ava nodded, relieved to have at least one person in her corner.

The US Embassy was surprisingly like any other office space Ava had seen. Desks were laid out in a grid-like pattern and framed art adorned the otherwise bland, neutral-colored walls.

A tall man in a navy suit stopped midstride, his arm and leg going forward with an exaggerated momentum-pulled motion as he stared at her. "Who's the dish?" He flashed a smile that revealed a chipped canine. Given his slightly crooked nose and stockier build, he seemed like the sort to have barreled his way through college as a linebacker on the football team.

Based on his baby face, that might have been only a year ago.

"You mean Petri dish?" she amended with what she hoped was a good-natured chuckle. "I only just flew in and am looking forward to cleaning up later."

"I bet your arms are tired." He grinned expectantly.

Peggy pushed at him. "Aw, c'mon and leave her be. The poor girl is probably going on about twenty hours without sleep, am I right?"

It was closer to twenty-four, but who was counting at this point?

Ava gave Peggy a grateful smile.

"That's what I thought. I can't believe you were even brought in." Peggy folded her arms and directed her razor-sharp focus toward Mr. Sims.

"I wanted to," Ava admitted. "I confess I'm a little unsure what I'm even supposed to do."

They laughed, a joke everyone knew the punch line to but her.

She lightly joined in with a chuckle, so she didn't appear as left out as she suddenly felt.

"None of us had an idea what we were doing when we got here," the linebacker said. "I'll help you get the swing of things. I'm Michael Driscoll, by the way."

Mr. Sims turned and disappeared into an office with his name on the closing door.

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Driscoll." Ava's smile stretched across her dry lips. She learned a long time ago that she said the wrong things at the wrong times, only thinking of the right reply several hours later. Usually around three in the morning when there was nothing but the isolating darkness of her room to appreciate her belated wit.

"You can call me Mike." He put an arm around her shoulders. The cheap scent of rayon informed her of the fabric of his suit despite its immaculately tailored appearance. "Stick with me and I'll show you the ropes, kid."

She was likely two or three years older than him, certainly no kid in his book. "I'm certain you can do that without your arm around my shoulders." She eased out from beneath his hold with a smile to make her words less sharp.

He swiftly withdrew from her, his hands held up in proof of his innocence. "We've heard everything about you." He wagged a finger at her. "You're smart, dig into research like a bloodhound, and know your way around microfilm."

It was a reminder of her former self from DC, one who didn't have to pretend to find humor in jokes she didn't understand, who knew what went where and why. She nodded, proud of her accomplishments.

"Tell you what," Mike said. "Gather up all the daily publications and newspapers tomorrow morning and come back here. I'll show you how to get them all back to DC for filing."

"Now that I can do." While she spoke with confidence, she felt only the quivers of trepidation. She had no idea what she was looking for or where she might find it. But after his compliment, she didn't dare inquire lest she sound stupid.

He offered her a mock salute with two fingers and an amiable wink before sauntering to one of the back rooms.

Peggy gave a good-natured shake of her head. "He's a piece of work, that one." She held up a set of keys. "Your bags are still in the car. C'mon, I'll drive you to your flat. We got you a little place just off Rossio Square, all to yourself and everything."

Ava hesitated before following Peggy. "Are you sure there's nothing I should be doing here?"

"You need to get settled," Peggy said over her shoulder. The flare of her yellow skirt was far more generous than was allowed in DC. Apparently, the cloth ration was not in effect in Lisbon.

They approached the door to leave when Ava put a hand on Peggy's arm. "Don't you need a hat?"

Peggy tilted her head. "Why would I need a hat?"

Heat effused Ava's cheeks. "Won't you...be...taken for...a...?"

Peggy lifted her brows for Ava to continue.

"Prostitute," Ava whispered in a rushed breath, glancing around after to ensure no one heard.

To her great surprise, Peggy burst out laughing. "I'm guessing you read that OSS manual on Lisbon?"

Ava straightened her spine an inch taller. "Of course I did."

"A lot's changed since they wrote that straitlaced piece." Still chuckling to herself, Peggy waved for Ava to follow. "C'mon, let's get you to your new place so you can get settled."

The ride to Rossio Square only took a few minutes—likely too far to walk, but almost too short to drive. Peggy drove slower, allowing Ava to take in the ornamented sidewalks throughout Lisbon with detailed chunks of limestone and basalt laid out in an ancient art form called cal?ada, a practice dating back to Mesopotamia. Some spreads were in specific patterns and others merely a smattering of stones fitted together like perfectly made puzzle pieces. But the one Ava had most anticipated from her research was that of Rossio Square.

She pulled in a quiet breath as the black volcanic stone and white calcified rock formation came into view, its wavelike pattern shifting against the eyes depending on how one looked at it.

"Rossio Square." Peggy gestured to the stretch of ornate stonework and the statue of King Pedro VI of Portugal atop a towering column at its center. "I don't know what they call that patterned walkway, but it's lovely, isn't it?"

"Mar Lago,"Ava replied. "The wide sea."

"That's fitting." Peggy pursed her lips, thoughtful. "But be warned, when those cobblestones get wet, they're slippery as a spy. How do you know that anyway? About the Mar Lago stuff?"

"I'm a librarian," Ava answered proudly. "I love to learn."

"You're perfect for this job. Don't ever let Mr. Sims tell you different."

Peggy pulled the car past the square. As she did so, Ava's attention was drawn from the cal?ada to the swarms of people. Chairs and tables spilled from the cafés into the sunlit pavement in such numbers, it was impossible to tell one establishment from the other.

In Ava's research through the OSS manual and other various books in the library, Portuguese women did not spend time in cafés. However, there were scores of women leaned casually back in the wooden and metal-framed seats, their legs absent stockings as they blew out graceful streams of cigarette smoke. Not a single one wore gloves, let alone a hat.

"The refugees have changed things a bit here." Peggy turned down a side street called Rua de Santa Justa and pulled the car to a stop. "Don't let this casual setting fool you. These people are in desperate circumstances. They don't care if they have hats on their heads or stockings on their legs. They're all biding their time, churning in the endless hell of transit visas, exit visas, whatever other kind of visas that can trip them up."

"Like those outside the embassy." Ava sobered as she recalled the crowd of people.

"Right." Peggy frowned to herself. "If they're lucky enough to get those visas, then they need tickets to boats that might never come and cause the crazy cycle to start all over again. You'll see."

She slid out from the car. Each woman took one of the suitcases, though Ava ensured she grabbed the heavier of the two, and lugged them up a flight of stairs in a town house to a door marked 101. Peggy pulled out a set of keys and opened the door. "It's small, but it's more than most have. Housing and hotel space is tight. Lucky for you, it was available just before your arrival."

Ava walked into the narrow apartment where the living room, kitchen, and dining room were all rolled into one central location and a door to a bedroom was off to one side. Yet another door revealed her own bathroom, a luxury she'd never had.

"It's perfect." She set her suitcase down. "I'm from DC. This is practically a mansion."

"In that case, you're welcome." Peggy handed the apartment keys and a thick envelope to her. "Escudos, the local currency, and quite a bit. Get some rest, then snap up as many publications as you can tomorrow morning. There's a kiosk just down the street where you can get most of what you need. Someone will be by to pick you up around noon to take you back to the embassy."

Ava held the envelope. "Is that all I need to do? Buy a few newspapers?"

Peggy shrugged and headed for the door. "You'll be fine. You're made for this job."

The door to Ava's apartment slammed closed, and she was completely alone with two packed suitcases and soul-deep exhaustion.

In DC, Ava was made for the job in the Rare Book Room, a library where she could name the artist of each painting and sculpture, where the history of every nook and cranny was as familiar to her as her own. She knew the catalog of ancient tomes like the back of her hand as well as her fellow librarians and the etiquette surrounding the hushed splendor of the Library of Congress. Lisbon was a city she had only a week to study for, like a dilettante cramming for a final exam, where she didn't know the language and everything she'd learned about the culture was wrong.

To everyone, she was perfect for this job. Everyone, that is, except her.

She took nearly an age to fall asleep that night and struggled to rise at eight the next morning, her internal clock still set to DC time. Her suitcases were unpacked, her clothes pressed with an old iron she found in the closet, and her books were neatly shelved in the living area. With the exception of Louisa May Alcott's Little Women, which sat on the nightstand near the bed, where it always lay no matter where she lived.

When her mother was alive, they often read the same books together. It started with Anne of Green Gables when Ava was eight. She'd spoken of the story with such ebullience that her mother read it after her. The shared story made for many hours of lively conversation between them, smiling at Anne's witty commentary and lamenting over the foulness of that nasty Josie Pye. Ava and her mother always read the same books after that—at least, until her mother's death five years later.

Her mother had read Little Women first, as she often did when it came to books she feared might be too old for twelve-year-old Ava, and deemed it not only age-appropriate, but a masterpiece to be shared. Ava finished the story in her mother's absence and was near bursting with all the things she wished to discuss. Knowing her mother was scheduled to arrive the next morning, she left it on the nightstand so she could grab it first thing.

Except the plane carrying them back from France had been caught in a terrible storm and crashed into the sea. When Ava ran out of her room that morning, it was not her mother and father who waited for her, but her nanny, red-eyed and sobbing.

The copy of Little Women by Ava's bed did not mean her mother would come home, of course, but it was forever a reminder of her mother and their shared love of books that seemed to—even now—bring them together.

Somehow that small piece of her childhood, the familiarity of a beloved book, made these foreign surroundings feel more like home. She hadn't realized how much she'd craved the comfort until it settled around her like an embrace and bolstered her determination.

While she was no polyglot, she knew French and German and even a bit of Spanish. Surely she could puzzle out more Portuguese than she anticipated. And she would only be on her own until noon when she was to go to the embassy. How hard could her first day be?

Ava almost left her hat behind, but at the last minute fixed a black pillbox to her victory curls and slid into her new black pumps to match her dark A-line wraparound skirt and pink sweater. When she opened the door to her apartment, the man on the other side was just leaving his.

His hair was mussed with threads of silver at his temples and a weariness slackened the skin under his eyes. He took one look at her and his heavy brows shot up. "You are American."

Ava frowned. Was it so obvious?

"Do you have any American magazines?" he asked in accented English. "Time, perhaps?"

"Actually, I do," she answered slowly. The magazine had been purchased on impulse at the airport before her flight in a bid to settle her nerves. It hadn't worked and now lay on the table, still untouched.

"May I have it?" he asked.

It was such a bold question, without preamble or decorum, and she was so taken aback that she agreed before her thoughts could catch up. She slipped back into the apartment and reemerged with the magazine, its cover still crisp and glossy.

She might as well have delivered the Gutenberg Bible to him for the joy lighting his face.

"Thank you." Then before anything else might be said, he opened his door and disappeared within once more.

The strange encounter concluded, Ava made her way down the stairs, escudos nestled safely in her purse. She exited the building and opted to go left where the bustle of people seemed to be flowing. Several paces later, her heel slipped on the slick limestone walkway.

She righted herself before the misstep could be noticed and put more focus into her gait. The stonework she had admired so ardently earlier swelled and dipped beneath its uneven paving from long ago, leaving the surface rolling like frozen waves and markedly treacherous for one in heels.

Rather than return to her apartment for more sensible footwear, she carefully navigated to a kiosk with several newspapers pinned to boards set before the small stand and along its base.

The Daily Mail occupied one section, its date two weeks behind on April 8, 1943, with a headline proclaiming, "Allies Close in as Rommel Runs."

Das Reichwas at its side, mentioning nothing of the defeated German general. For that matter, nor did Le Nouvelliste—a French distributed paper that appeared to be from Lyon. She reached for the Lyonnaise newspaper to examine it more closely when a man's fingers brushed hers.

They both snatched back their hands and looked at one another. The man was tall, his blond hair swept effortlessly to the side, eyes as cerulean blue as a perfect spring sky. He gave her a broad smile that showed a dimple in his right cheek.

Adonis.

If she'd ever wondered how a god in true form might appear to mere mortals, now she knew. She had never been one for falling for any man on appearance alone, but that dimple could sweep even the most stoic of ladies away with romantic notions.

"Forgive me," he said with a light Bavarian accent.

"You're German." She stiffened, doused with icy reality. Suddenly her breathlessness had nothing to do with his good looks and everything to do with his nationality.

"Austrian," he corrected her.

"You're a Nazi," she exhaled, unable to stop the hiss of accusation.

Even as she did so, she acknowledged the sorrow at her immediate reaction. Once, the German language had made her recall fond memories of her father, whose grandparents had immigrated to America from Cologne before his mother and her sisters were born. It was their legacy that encouraged his studies and his passion for their heritage. It was why Ava had wished to learn the language as well. And now it had been sullied by the Nazis.

"A refugee," he corrected. "I came here five years ago to avoid Anschluss."

Heat seared her cheeks. She shouldn't have been so quick to judge. Reading of nothing but German aggression in the papers back home had given her a knee-jerk reaction she needed to temper.

While she couldn't remember much about refugees in Lisbon prior to 1940 from the little bit she'd managed to research, she was aware that Anschluss was the Nazi war effort that occupied Austrians were forced to join.

"I see," she replied shamefaced. "Please forgive me."

"The accent." He grimaced and gestured to his strong throat. "It is an understandable mistake."

She gave a nervous laugh that came out something like a giggle. She cut it short, resisting the urge to cringe.

"I am sure I can forgive you if you would join me for coffee and pastéis de nata." His lips widened into a full, devastating smile. "I'm Lukas."

Pastéis de nata.

She bit her lip to keep from agreeing, if nothing else than for the opportunity to sample the custard pastry she'd read about.

He held out his large hand. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing his tanned, strong forearms. She gave his warm hand a quick, firm shake, then forced her attention to the newsstand. "I'm afraid I have a few things to gather here first."

He chuckled, the sound a rich, rumbling timbre in his chest. "Everyone is so concerned with publications these days."

An awkward silence settled between them as the conversation volleyed back to her. "You should have seen how happy my neighbor was with a copy of Time," she offered for lack of anything more interesting to say.

Better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to speak and to remove all doubt.The quote from Abraham Lincoln rushed at her in that moment, and she wished she could snatch the words back from the air like pages caught on the wind.

Lukas's eyes narrowed. "American magazines are a rare find here in Portugal."

He said it in a way that suggested she might have done something wrong in giving it away.

"I can only imagine he was elated with such a gift." The shrewd expression eased into a smile once more. "I hope I may see you around, Miss..."

"Harper." She flicked a glance up and wished she hadn't when she saw the interest evident in his handsome gaze.

He nodded to himself, pleased as he backed away from her, still watching with an appreciation she should find offensive.

A dark-haired gentleman stood near her in a black suit with a robin's-egg blue tie, his stature diminutive by comparison and the corners of his mouth elevated in an amused smirk at the exchange.

She turned away from him and lowered her head to the publications that should have been the whole of her focus. A fool indeed.

"I don't recall that Americans are ones for fraternizing with Nazis."

She startled and found the dark-haired man beside her. British, judging by his clipped accent.

"What?"

"That man you were speaking with." He indicated the direction where Lukas had disappeared, melting into the crowd.

"He's not a Nazi." She sniffed and examined a page of the Evening Standard without focusing on the text. "He's Austrian."

"Let me guess..." The man put a finger to his chin, his expression deeply pensive. "He arrived here five years ago as a refugee to flee the Nazis? And whom Portugal has somehow kindly allowed to stay this long without kicking him out despite the people they arrest daily for such an offense as expired visas?"

Aware he had made his point, he lifted his dark brow.

But there was no rejoinder Ava could offer that would cool the heat of her humiliation, especially when she was so unfamiliar with Portuguese laws.

"If it makes you feel a modicum better, they do say that to all the American women." He offered her a genuinely apologetic bow. "And all the American women fall prey to them."

Ava stared hard at the various publications in front of her. Had she done so from the beginning, she would not be in this mess.

"I should like to start again." He cleared his throat. "It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I am James MacKinnon. You are Miss Harper, correct?"

"You heard my name mentioned to...the Austrian." She caught herself before calling him Lukas. If James was right, Lukas was doubtlessly not his name.

"While I confess I did receive confirmation of your identity from accidentally overhearing your exchange, I actually happen to know much about you."

"You do?" Ava studied his long face. He had a large nose that gave him a look of self-importance, but a spark in his eyes that suggested he didn't take himself too seriously.

"I've been eager to meet the librarian everyone has been talking about." He lifted his fedora half an inch from his head. "I look forward to seeing more of you as we run in the same circles, Miss Harper." He dropped his hat back into place and was absorbed into the crowd before she could summon a sufficient response.

As she searched through the sea of unfamiliar faces, worry nipped the pit of her stomach.

Whatever her role was in this war, she clearly had already failed the first step.