Free The Lisbon Crossing by Tom Gabbay Page A

“informed spokesmen” source in the lead sentence suggested that the item had been planted by the government itself. If Whitehall was concerned enough about the rumors to plant a denial, then there must’ve been some truth to the “undercover moves” claim on German radio. In fact, the denial went a step further than the report by implying that the ambassador in Madrid was the go-between. It looked to me like a public warning to the plotters, a “we know who you are” kind of thing.
    Not surprising that Churchill would be worried about his rear flank. Sure, the Brits were defiant now, but “blood, toil, tears and sweat” might not sound so good when the panzers were rolling through Kent. Even if the British people were willing to fight on, you could be sure that there’d be more than a few Honourable Members of Parliament—not to mention Lords and Ladies—who would happily jump ship rather than go down with it. Churchill would be out the door as quickly as he’d come in and the great British public would wake up to find their morning papers featuring snapshots of Herr Hitler sightseeing in Piccadilly.
    I poured a second cup of coffee and put the paper aside. Like pretty much everyone back in the States, I saw the war in Europe as tragic and crazy but, most of all, far away. And nothing to do with me. The tragedy was a bit closer now—the faces of those refugees had done that—but it was still crazy and it still had absolutely nothing to do with me. I was sorry that Europe was going to hell in a handbasket but they’d have to make the trip without me.
    I knew a kid named Andy Dent, a horse wrangler on the Warner lot, who went over to Spain in ’36 to fight the good fight. He couldn’t have been more than twenty years old, a nice, quiet cowboy from Wyoming and nothing short of a genius with horses. I don’t know ifhe wanted to save the world or if he was just looking for adventure, he never said, but all he got was shot in the head the second week he was over there. Not much of an adventure and the world didn’t get saved. Sure, I thought Hitler was a nutcase and every time I saw him in a newsreel I shook my head, but the bottom line was that it wasn’t my fight. And if I’d learned anything in my first twenty-five years on this crazy planet, it was that only suckers get involved in somebody else’s fight.
    That was how it looked to me that morning, anyway, as I sat alone in the bar at the Palacio, drinking coffee and contemplating the fate of the world.
     
    T he wind had picked up by midmorning, pulling the sea onto the rocks, making the job of the small fishing boat next to impossible. Catela wasn’t on the scene yet when we arrived, so I joined Alberto on the hillside with a loaf of bread, a wedge of hard cheese, and a basket of fruit that he’d brought from home. Across the way, I noticed that the Cape Cod–style villa on the promontory overlooking the cliffs looked a bit more lived in today. The shutters were open and there were a number of cars parked in front of the main building.
    Below us, a couple of teenage boys were making dives into the Mouth of Hell, trying to attach a line to Eddie’s car, which was lying just below the surface. Once the line was secured, the idea was to float the car with buoys and let the navy trawler that was waiting offshore tow it a couple of miles west to the beach at Casçais, where it could be hauled ashore. That was the plan, anyway. The divers were having a tough time of it, though, disappearing under the waves for long periods of time, only to surface twenty or thirty yards away, dangerously close to the rocks. They’d fight their way back to the boat, clamber aboard, and, after a few minutes’ rest, go through the whole routine again.
    I was beginning to have my doubts about the whole operationwhen a long black car pulled up behind us, accompanied by a half-dozen motorcycle cops. After a moment, Catela stepped onto the road, followed by a very