Page 23 of The Librarian Spy

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.