Chapter 12: Bedroom Maneuvers - Lisbon, January 1942

Clegg got back to his hotel. It was late. He made his way along ornate corridors with their slightly faded décor, to his suite. As he entered the suite he stopped. Draped across one of the chairs was a white silk dress. Beside the chair, a pair of high heeled sandals lay discarded on the floor.

As a result, when Clegg pushed open the door to his bedroom he wasn't surprised to see a woman in his bed. Neither was he surprised to see that it was Ilsa.

"Mrs Lazlo," said Freddie, coolly, "I think you may have the wrong room. Possibly even the wrong hotel."

She looked at him with a coy expression. Sprawled back against the pillows, a sheet pulled up almost to her neck, it was still obvious that she was naked.

"Please," she said, "call me Ilsa. Ilsa Lund. I always think it vulgar to mention my husband's name at times like these."

Freddie sat down at the end of the bed. "Vulgar to mention his name but not to appear naked in another man's bed, Miss Lund?" He was intrigued by the woman, not least because it had been an Ilsa Lund that Rick had been seeing in Paris. If this was the same woman he wondered what had happened in the intervening time. How come she was now married to Lazlo? When had she and Rick split up? In Marseilles or after that? In any case, he was wary. The last time that he had encountered a naked woman sitting up in bed he'd ended up talking himself into his current situation.

Ilsa smiled, ignoring Freddie's seeming disapproval. "Champagne?" she suggested pointing to a bottle in an ice bucket beside the bed. "I found the Piri Piri so hot earlier." She pushed a strand of hair back from her face, clutching the sheet around her with her other hand as she knelt up.

Never one to turn down a glass of champagne, especially in the company of a beautiful woman, Clegg reached for the bottle and pushed out the cork with a satisfying pop. "It was spicy, but I haven't felt the need to tear off my clothes," Clegg said.

"Is that your famous English reserve?"

"Perhaps. Maybe it's my famous English reluctance to bed another man's wife." Clegg poured two glasses of the sparkling wine and passed one to Ilsa.

"In these times? Surely with death at every door we owe it to ourselves to take our pleasures when we can."

"Perhaps. Perhaps," said Freddie. "And I am sure it would be a pleasure, indeed." Ilsa turned away from him, reaching out to place her glass on the bedside table. As she did so the sheet slid down her back and Clegg saw, emerging from behind it, a series of numbers tattooed on the lower part of her back just above her right buttock. In the same moment he knew that he had found the last of those he was searching for. He also suspected that he knew why she was there. "Well," he said, "it would be most ungentlemanly to in any way disappoint a lady. Wouldn't it help you to cool down if you removed that sheet?"