The look on Berger’s face was enough. Devlin slipped the book into his pocket, stepped around him, holding the Walther against his leg and reached for Eggar’s hand. ‘A couple of knuckles gone. You’re going to need a doctor.’ He slipped the Walther into his pocket and turned to go.
Berger’s iron control snapped. He ran at him, hands outstretched. Devlin swayed, his right foot flicking forward, catching Berger under the left kneecap. As the German doubled over, he raised a knee in his face, sending him back against the bar. Berger pulled himself up, hanging on to the marble top and the gypsies started to laugh.
Devlin shook his head, ‘Jesus, son, but I’d say you should find a different class of work, the both of you,’ and he turned and went out.
When Schellenberg went into the small medical room, Eggar was sitting at the desk while the Legation’s doctor taped his right hand.
‘How is he?’ Schellenberg asked.
‘He’ll live.’ The doctor finished and cut off the end of the tape neatly. ‘He may well find it rather stiffer in future. Some knuckle damage.’
‘Can I have a moment?’ The doctor nodded and went out and Schellenberg lit a cigarette and sat on the edge of the desk. ‘I presume you found Devlin?’
‘Hasn’t the Herr General been told?’ Eggar asked.
‘I haven’t spoken to Berger yet. All I heard was that you’d come back in a taxi the worse for wear. Now tell me exactly what happened.’
Which Eggar did for as the pain increased, so did his anger. ‘He wouldn’t listen, Herr General. Had to do it his way.’
Schellenberg put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Not your fault, Eggar. I’m afraid Major Berger sees himself as his own man. Time he was taught a lesson.’
‘Oh, Devlin took care of that,’ Eggar said. ‘When I last saw it, the Major’s face didn’t look too good.’
‘Really?’ Schellenberg smiled. ‘I didn’t think it could look worse.’
Berger stood stripped to the waist in front of the wash-basin in the small bedroom he had been allocated and examined his face in the mirror. A bruise had already appeared around his left eye and his nose was swollen. Schellenberg came in, closed the door and leaned against it.
‘So, you disobeyed my orders.’
Berger said, ‘I acted for the best. I didn’t want to lose him.’
‘And he was better than you are. I warned you about that.’
There was rage on Berger’s face in the mirror as he touched his cheek. That little Irish swine. I’ll fix him next time.’
‘No you won’t because from now on I’ll handle things myself,’ Schellenberg said. ‘Unless, of course, you’d prefer me to report to the ReichsFuhrer that we lost this man because of your stupidity.’
Berger swung round. ‘General Schellenberg, I protest.’
‘Get your feet together when you speak to me, Sturmbannfuhrer,’ Schellenberg snapped. Berger did as he was told, the iron discipline of the SS taking control. ‘You took an oath on joining the SS. You vowed total obedience to your Fuhrer and to those appointed to lead you. Is this not so?’
‘Jawohl, BrigadeFuhrer.’
‘Excellent,’ Schellenberg told him. ‘You’re remembering. Don’t forget again. The consequences could be disastrous.’ He moved to the door, opened it and shook his head. ‘You look awful, Major. Try and do something about your face before going down to dinner.’
He went out and Berger turned back to the mirror. ‘Bastard!’ he said softly.
Liam Devlin sat at the piano in the Lights of Lisbon, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, a glass of wine on one side. It was ten o’clock, only two hours till Christmas Day and the cafe was crowded and cheerful. He was playing a number called ‘Moonlight on the Highway’, a particular favourite, very slow, quite haunting. He noticed Schellenberg the moment he entered, not because he recognized him, only the kind of man he was. He watched him go to the bar and get a glass of wine, looked away, aware that he was approaching.
Schellenberg said, ‘ “Moonlight on the Highway”. I like that. One of Al Bowlly’s greatest numbers,’ he added, mentioning the name of the man who had been England’s most popular crooner until his death.