Five

Ava

Ava set the five publications she'd procured onto Mr. Sims's desk. She personally had scoured through them to ensure the contents seemed pertinent to what might aid the American war effort.

He gave them a cursory glance and returned his attention to a file open in front of them, clearly uninterested in her findings. "Where are the rest?"

"These seemed to have helpful details," she replied. "I could only read the ones in English, German, and French."

Mr. Sims pinched the bridge of his nose in a manner that suggested she had just ruined his entire day. "You are to obtain any publication you can get your hands on."

"I was given no instructions, but will certainly acquire more next time," she said with measured deference. "I also would have appreciated being notified that some Nazis pretend to be Austrians."

His head shot up. "Why? What happened? What did you say?"

She shook her head so swiftly, she felt one of the pins holding a rolled-back curl slip. "Nothing, but you might have told me regardless."

"In that case." He put the flat of his palms on his desk. "Don't talk to Germans. They're the enemy and also involved with the PVDE from time to time." His eyes bored into hers.

She was about to ask what the PVDE was when he returned his focus to the folder and muttered, "And here I thought you were supposed to be smart."

His words were a slap that made tears sting her eyes. She looked down quickly to keep him from seeing them.

"Want me to show you where we do our photography?" Mike asked abruptly from the open doorway. No doubt he had heard. Likely everyone in the office had.

Ava nodded, her gaze still fixed on the floor. "That would be wonderful, thank you." But when she turned to go, Mr. Sims gave a short whistle.

He gathered the papers in his meaty hand. "Don't forget your generous haul."

Her face burned with humiliation.

Mike took the small stack and nudged Ava with his elbow. "You got three more than me on my first go of it."

She looked up. "Really?"

"Yeah, we weren't given much to work with when we first got here." He led her down a hall that held the pervasive aroma of stale coffee. "It was just me and ole Sims when all this started up. I think that's why he's being so hard on you. A rite of passage so to speak."

She didn't reply. If she were back in DC at that very moment, she would be getting ready for her job in the Rare Book Room. In an hour, she would have strolled beneath masterpieces that celebrated intellect, to breathe in that scent of old books that she already missed like a heartbeat.

Instead, she faced some juvenile rite of passage after being flirted with by a Nazi and called out by a man who knew more about her than she did him. Aristotle once said that patience is bitter, but its fruit is sweet.

That bitterness sat on the back of her tongue now, stubborn and long-lasting.

But hadn't the first day at the Library of Congress been difficult when she started? There was more to know than she ever thought possible to learn.

She'd taste the fruit of conquering Lisbon's unknown and was certain it would be sweet.

Mike escorted her to a large conference room with a table at its center, like a floating island with no chairs in sight and covered in lamps. Three boxy cameras sat to one side as well as several reels of film in their round metal boxes.

"You may be familiar with these." Mike winked. "I hear you worked with something like them at the Library of Congress."

The burden of her frustration eased as she went to the first camera. "I did. We had stacks of newsprint that was decaying and managed to salvage the information by putting it all on microfilm."

"Well, here we are doing it because of limited storage for mailing items back to DC to be categorized." He popped open the side of the large camera and Ava did likewise. "We tried sending the actual periodicals, books, and newsprint in boxes on ships, but the vessels were unreliable and apparently the German paraphernalia kept being seized as contraband." He chortled to himself. "Ole Sims is still fielding calls from the PVDE about why we have so many Nazi publications going to the States."

That PVDE reference again.

"What is the PVDE?" Ava added the full spool on one prong and threaded the film into the empty spool on the other side.

"The Portuguese secret police." He paused in his work, lid partially closed, and gave her a stern look. "You don't want to tangle with them. Ever."

She nodded and closed her own machine.

They both began the first of the eight cranks necessary to properly thread the film to the starting point within the camera. "We only have space for 165 pounds a month on the Pan Am Clipper that goes out every two weeks. So..." He patted the primed camera. "Microfilm."

Ava paused to see what he would do. "Exactly what are we photographing?"

He indicated a table at the back wall laden with newspapers of every language as well as several haphazard piles of books, leaflets, and magazines, then held up what appeared to be a manual for a civilian gas mask. "This."

"All of it?" No wonder Mr. Sims had been disappointed with her measly collection.

Mike took off his jacket and slung it on the table beside him, a man prepping to get down to work. "You may want to get some coffee. We're going to be here awhile."

Her stomach gave an irritated grumble. The hollowness of her hunger was uncomfortable enough that she swore to never miss breakfast again. She took Mike's advice to at least grab a cup of coffee.

Warm mug in hand, she went to work alongside him, centering the content just so in the beams of light, focusing the camera and capturing the image with a tinny click that reverberated in the depths of the machine.

They worked like that for the better part of the day, taking countless pictures of anything and everything, until they both had several completed spools stacked beside them. An ache burned between Ava's shoulders from leaning her head forward to ensure the capture window contained all the necessary information, and her lower back felt as though it might snap if she had to bend over just one more time.

"I think that's good for one day." Mike folded the paper he'd been photographing. "If you don't have any dinner plans, you should come meet the rest of the team."

"There are more IDC agents than just us?"

"Not exactly." He pulled his jacket back on and carefully buttoned the front. "I mean the Brits."

They took one of the streetcars to the Chiado district where high-end specialty stores touted lady's gloves and glamorous hats. The windows displayed fashions that would never pass the ration codes in the United States and showcased more shoes than any government girl could dream of.

The scent of grilled fish flavored the air with a smoky, briny aroma that made Ava's mouth water. Coffee only fortified a person for so long and left her with a jittery nervousness sloshing around in her otherwise empty stomach.

She had always enjoyed fresh seafood and had anticipated the fare in Lisbon, pulled straight from the sparkling waters of the Tagus River and onto a grill.

"We work closely with the Brits," Mike said as they navigated their way up the sloping limestone path of Rua Garrett. "These boys are with The Association of Special Libraries and Information Bureau. Or ASLIB as I prefer to call it."

"Why do we all have such ridiculously long names?" Ava mused.

Mike cocked his head like a puppy, then shrugged. "Beats me." His attention darted forward. "Ah, there they are now."

Two men were already seated at a table outside beneath a dark green awning, with a third standing at their side. The gentleman turned as they approached, and Ava suppressed a groan.

James MacKinnon.

The busybody Brit who had chastised her earlier that day for "consorting with Nazis" was apparently one of the men she would meet with often. Marvelous.

Her stomach growled to her even as she considered begging off dinner. She could cite exhaustion from the day and fogginess from her travels, and grab some food to go on the way back to her apartment. But even as the thought came to her, the other two men turned in her direction. To bow out now would be more awkward than staying. After all, in a group of five, she would hardly even have to speak to him.

Her discomfort wasn't easy to swallow, but she allowed herself to be pulled over to the table by an overzealous Mike. "Hey, fellas. This is Miss Ava Harper." He gestured to a man with rosy cheeks and chestnut-colored hair carefully combed to one side. "That's Theo."

Theo nodded, his brown eyes keen but affable as he assessed her in the benign way one would a building.

"And that's Alfie." Mike pointed to a red-haired young man with a smattering of freckles that dotted his fair skin like stars. A flush blossomed under the constellation as he ducked his head.

"And James." The Englishman slid into the space beside her and flashed a grin. "To whom you've already had the pleasure of being introduced."

It wasn't much of a pleasure, but Ava didn't say as much aloud. He pulled the seat out for her, which she sank into with a nod of thanks. Then, to her chagrin, he occupied the chair directly beside her, near enough that she detected the light, clean scent of whatever soap he used.

"We've been anticipating your arrival," Alfie said in a soft, shy voice.

"You should have seen Sims's face when he came back from the airport after learning A. Harper was a woman." Mike slapped his knee with a laugh and pulled a chair over to add to the end of the table. "Just like Peggy said."

"Are you librarians as well?" Ava asked the other two, pointedly ignoring James.

"We are," Theo replied. "I've been with the London Library for nearly a decade now, and Alfie started this past fall. From what I hear, your research skills and ability to unearth difficult information will be integral to our success."

Ava fingered the menu, both proud and slightly vexed that she had a reputation preceding her—especially when such a thing would lead to expectation. "So long as I can figure out exactly what I'm doing."

They all laughed.

Irritation prickled at the back of her neck despite her forced smile. She'd had way too much coffee and not nearly enough food to be dealing with yet another joke whose punch line she didn't get.

Alfie regarded her with an observant sympathy and his mirth swiftly faded. "Unfortunately, your country has a habit of sending your people over quite woefully unprepared."

"I can show you around, if you like," James offered. "Where to go to find what, which contacts are necessary to obtain certain information."

Ava glanced back toward the empty counter of the restaurant. Surely the waiter should be approaching them now. When she returned her attention to the table, she found everyone watching her expectantly, waiting for her answer.

She waved her hand dismissively. "You don't need to take time from your day on my account. I'm sure you have plenty more to do than show me around Lisbon. And Mike can assist with whatever I need...?" She tried to keep the desperation from her face as she looked to her coworker.

"Actually, that would be a great help, James." Mike tugged at his tie, so it hung slack from his collar. "I've been swamped."

"Smashing." James cast a victorious grin in her direction. "We can start tomorrow morning at nine."

Before she could put up any sort of protest, the waiter miraculously appeared. James held up a finger to command his attention. "Super Bocks all the way around."

Once the man disappeared to fulfill the order, James turned to Ava. "You do like beer, don't you?"

True to his word, James was outside Ava's apartment at exactly nine in the morning the following day, making her almost regret providing him with her address the previous evening.

"We can't start a day in Lisbon without bica and pastéis de nata." He extended his arm toward her in a gallant show of chivalry.

She didn't accept and certainly didn't need the support, having opted for a more sensible pair of shoes. "This isn't a date."

"I would never presume." James pulled his elbow back to his side with a haughty expression belied by the glint in his eye. "I was merely being a gentleman."

She adjusted her green hat with the white flowers, a careful adornment to the pale yellow shirtdress she wore. "I would be fine with tea as well, if you prefer."

He paused at the street as a trolly whooshed by, clanging its bells. "We're in Portugal, we'll do bica."

"Technically, tea is very Portuguese," Ava replied.

"Ah, yes, because of Princess Catherine of Braganza wedding King Charles II in the seventeenth century?" James strode onward as the traffic created a gap.

She studied him curiously. "Yes, actually."

"Don't be so surprised." He led them around a corner. "I know British history as well as any lad. And while it is kind of you to consider my tastes, I do quite well with a stiff cup of coffee in the morning. I'll also wager you've not had the chance to try the Portuguese sort yet."

Of course, he was right.

Mirrors and polished wood adorned the walls of the café they entered, and the counter sported a massive metal contraption that hissed and gurgled. A waiter approached as they slid into the chairs at a small table for two near the open entrance. The April morning was crisp with a light breeze that ruffled Ava's skirt against her knees. James spoke to the man in perfect Portuguese with a speed that left her unable to grasp even a single word from her very limited vocabulary.

It was not often she found herself in a position where she did not speak the language.

"How long did it take you to learn Portuguese?" she asked, envy as green as her felt hat seeping into her tone.

"You'll pick it up quickly enough." He crossed his left ankle over his right knee and looked out at the city slowly coming to life on the street. "I should apologize for how we met. I meant my chiding to be in jest."

"It didn't come out as one."

He gave a warm chuckle. "Clearly."

The waiter brought out a small plate of pastries with browned custard at their tops and two porcelain cups no taller than Ava's pinky.

"Stiff" was exactly the right choice of word for bica, which packed the entire force of a cup of coffee in a tiny mug with a bit of tan foam frothing at the top. Apparently, James required the edge taken off his drink as he added a helping of sugar so generous that it would make any ration-following American cringe.

Ava was far more impressed by the pastéis de nata. The delicate pastry on the bottom cradled the custard center, the tops toasted golden.

"Do you know the history of these?" James indicated the food.

Ava lifted one from the plate, surprised at the heft of such a small treat. "Monks used the egg whites to starch their laundry and had yolks aplenty left, which is perfect for custard. They were the first ones to bake pastéis de nata and they've been a part of Portugal ever since."

"Bravo." James lifted one and tapped his to hers in mock cheers before taking a bite.

The custard was warm and thick, the crust crisp and the entire concoction was perfectly sweet and delicious.

"If you like this, you'll have to try the baked goods the refugees sell." He laid some escudos on the table.

Ava pulled up her purse, but he shook his head. "Today is on the Crown. Has your research led you to the Livraria yet?"

"I don't know where anything is, but I'm always game for a book store." She stood from her seat and swung her bag over her shoulder, ready to embark on the guided trip through Lisbon.

"You needn't worry," he reassured her. "You'll become well acquainted with it all soon enough. As well as the other bookshops in Portugal and the news kiosks and stationery shops." He held up a hand to the waiter in a departing farewell and led her from the café.

She joined him. "Stationery shops?"

"You'd be surprised how many gems are lurking among stacks of paper and cups full of pens." He continued looking forward as they walked, but spoke in a lower, quieter tone. "It would appear the police have caught on to your presence."

"What?" The word came out in far more of a squeak than she'd anticipated.

"Don't look," he warned.

She stopped midturn and fixed her gaze straight ahead as he did.

He winced slightly. "Maybe laugh or something of the like as though I've said something witty. To keep from being so terribly obvious."

Ava forced a laugh, grateful she had not fully turned around before his warning. She really was a terrible spy.

"If anyone asks, you are simply an American librarian." He maintained the pace he'd set before, but now the casual stroll seemed far too slow with the stares of the police burning at her back.

"But I am an American librarian," she hissed.

He winked. "Exactly." Indicating to a store located at the corner of a large building, he beamed. "Ah, here we are now."

Blue and white tiles adorned its walls, a tradition in Portugal known as azulejos. Were they not being followed by the police, Ava might have leaned closer to examine the glossy surface to see if pin-sized holes dotted the glaze suggesting the tiles were made prior to modern advancements.

She must still have paused somewhat as James's hand caught the crook of her elbow and half tugged, half nudged her into the shop. Inside, a man wearing a dark suit looked up. His stare lingered too long to be innocent before he turned to the side. Apprehension prickled over her skin.

"This way." James led her deeper into the store and her entire focus became the splendor that was the Livraria Bertrand.

Books layered wooden shelves from the ground all the way up to the striated-brick ceiling rising above them.

"We can only look for now," James cautioned. "Best to wait until we lose our new friends before engaging in any purchases."

Ava scarcely heard him. Her gaze was running over the outward facing spines, the titles all in Portuguese. Even still, her mind tried to coax out the meanings, as if she could will them into translation. Suddenly, she could read the words and realized they were in French. And then in German. Then several more she could not discern. Polish, perhaps?

In that moment, she had a profound desperation to not only be fluent in Portuguese, but also in Polish. And Russian. And Greek. And all the other languages that appeared to be represented on those crowded shelves of the Livraria.

Her fingertip settled on a copy of La Séquestrée de Poitiers by André Gide, one of the many authors whose works the Nazis banned from Germany. A sudden need to draw the book to her chest nearly overwhelmed her, to cradle it to her bosom protectively like a child. To keep the text from those who would let flames lick over it until the pages curled into brittle, flaking ash. She pulled its edge to bring it toward her from the stack. The books were so tightly packed together that several others on either side flexed forward as well, nearly tumbling from the shelf.

"Did you hear me?" James asked.

She just managed to catch the remaining books and ease them back into place after liberating Gide's works. "What?"

"We ought to consider an abrupt departure." He slid a discreet glance toward the man at the door.

She hugged the novel. Surely one book wouldn't compromise them.

James lifted a brow. "You look like a girl with a lost puppy you're going to ask if we might keep."

"There, you're wrong." She turned toward the front of the store. "I'm a grown woman with my own money who intends to purchase this to save it from the bowels of Nazi destruction." She marched to the register and bought the book. As she did so, the man perusing a shelf near the door caught her attention again. His hair was perfectly combed back, his perceptive gaze bright.

Awareness of his focus settled heavily over her as she was led to various shops through Lisbon despite not encountering him again. But like a painful memory, her thoughts drifted back toward the incident a thousand times over.

For the remainder of the day, she heeded James's prudent suggestions. By the time he saw her home that evening, Ava was entirely drained. She scarcely recalled what he said to her as she pushed through the building's large green door.

A dark apartment greeted her; a rare phenomenon she hadn't experienced with her roommates in DC who always managed to make it home before her. She clicked on the lights, tucked the book she'd purchased alongside her small collection from home, and collapsed into bed.

She wasn't sure how long she slept when an insistent pounding jarred her from her sleep. Dazed and bewildered, she shoved from her bed and stumbled into the living room, her steps visible by the glow of light lining her door.

Outside in the hall, Portuguese was spoken in aggressive tones, followed by a hollow thump and a man exhaling in an agonized grunt. Someone had been struck.

She clapped her hand over her mouth to keep from crying out herself and tiptoed to the peephole. Breath held, she silently slid the metal cover from the hole and leaned closer to peer through.

Men in black suits exited through the door at 102. They did not bother to look around to ensure they weren't seen; they weren't careful to be quiet. They didn't care who knew of their presence.

Between two men, hanging by his arms with his bare feet dragging behind was the neighbor who had asked Ava for the copy of Time magazine. His hair was mussed and his head lolled toward his left shoulder.

The men slammed his door closed behind them and carried him down the stairs, beyond the scope of her vantage point. Shaking, she released the metal disk to return over the peephole as she backed away from the door, her bare feet silent. Her knees trembled, and she leaned against the wall for its support, her hands clasped over her frantically thudding heart.

Suddenly a vague memory of her own words rushed back to her.

You should have seen how happy my neighbor was with a copy of Time.

What a fool indeed. That statement had been said without thought, without the realization of what kind of repercussions it might have. She hadn't thought Lukas was a Nazi, or that the Portuguese secret police might follow her, or that they might be in league with Lukas. But then, she hadn't thought it such an issue to give away a copy of an American magazine.

There were only two apartments on their floor of the narrow building—hers and his. The PVDE would have no difficulty discerning which belonged to the man she'd given the magazine to.

And now her foolish words meant to fill in a gap of awkward conversation had caused her neighbor to be arrested in the middle of the night. Perhaps she might be next.

The thought was enough to jolt her from her fear-induced paralysis. She slid down the wall to the floor and hugged her legs to her chest, staring at the door.

If they came for her next, she did not want to be caught unaware.