‘Do you know the place?’ Berger said.
‘Oh yes, quite well. Also in the old quarter. I should warn you, the customers tend to the rougher side. Rather common round here.’
The scum of this life never give me a problem,’ Berger said. ‘Now show me the way.’
The high walls of the Castelo de Sao Jorge lifted above them as they worked their way through a maze of narrow alleys and then, as they came into a small square in front of a church, Devlin emerged from an alley and crossed the cobbles before them towards a cafe.
‘My God, it’s him,’ Eggar muttered. ‘Exactly like his photo.’
‘Of course it is, you fool,’ Berger said. ‘Is this the Lights of Lisbon?’
‘No, Major, another cafe. One of the most notorious in Alfama. Gypsies, bullfighters, criminals.’
‘A good job we’re armed then. When we go in, have your pistol in your right pocket and your hand on it.’
‘But General Schellenberg gave us express instructions to…’
‘Don’t argue. I’ve no intention of losing this man now. Do as I say and follow me,’ and Berger led the way towards the cafe where they could hear guitar music.
Inside, the place was light and airy in spite of the fact that dusk was falling. The bar top was marble, bottles ranged against an old-fahioned mirror behind it. The walls were whitewashed and covered with bullfighting posters. The bartender, squat and ugly with one white eye, wore an apron and soiled shirt and sat at a high stool reading a newspaper. Four other men played poker at another table, swarthy, fierce-looking gypsies. A younger man leaned against the wall and fingered a guitar.
The rest of the place was empty except for Devlin who sat at a table against the far wall reading a small book, a glass of beer at his hand. The door creaked open and Berger stepped in, Eggar at his back. The guitarist stopped playing, and all conversation died as Berger stood just inside the door, death come to visit them. Berger moved past the men who were playing cards. Eggar went closer as well, standing to the left.
Devlin glanced up, smiling amiably and picked up the glass of beer in his left hand. ‘Liam Devlin?’ Berger asked.
‘And who might you be?’
‘I am SturmbannFuhrer Horst Berger of the Gestapo.’
‘Jesus and why didn’t they send the Devil? I’m on reasonable terms there.’
‘You’re smaller than I thought you’d be,’ Berger told him. ‘I’m not impressed.’
Devlin smiled again. ‘I get that all the time, son.’
‘I must ask you to come with us.’
‘And me only halfway through my book. The Midnight Court and in Irish. “Would you believe I found it on a stall in the flea market only last week?’
‘Now!’ Berger said.
Devlin drank some more beer. ‘You remind me of a medieval fresco I saw on a church in Donegal once. People running in terror from a man in a hood. Everyone he touched got the Black Death, you see.’
‘Eggar!’ Berger commanded.
Devlin fired through the table top, chipping the wall beside the door. Eggar tried to get the pistol out of his pocket. The Walther Devlin had been holding on his knee appeared above the table now and he fired again, shooting Eggar through the right hand. The police attache cried out, falling against the wall and one of the gypsies grabbed for his gun as he dropped it.
Berger’s hand went inside his jacket, reaching for the Mauser he carried in a shoulder holster there. Devlin tossed the beer in his face and upended the table against him, the edge catching the German’s shins so that he staggered forward. Devlin rammed the muzzle of the Walther into his neck and reached inside Berger’s coat, removing the Mauser which he tossed on to the bar.
‘Present for you, Barbosa.’ The barman grinned and picked the Mauser up. The gypsies were on their feet, two of them with knives in their hands. ‘Lucky for you you picked on the sort of place where they don’t call the peelers,’ Devlin said. ‘A real bad lot, these fellas. Even the man in the hood doesn’t count for much with them. Barbosa there used to meet him most afternoons in the bullrings in Spain. That’s where he got the horn in the eye.’