“Then Dot would think I’d merely popped in for a visit on a leave.” Coming here was the only way he’d ever see Abuelo. There was never any question of where Dot came by her homebody tendencies—their grandfather never left the house but to go to Mass once a week. Dot had only once met the man she was so like. “Speaking of peculiar people . . . any luck on my opposite number?”

He kept his voice even and light as he asked. Speaking English as they were, it was unlikely that any of the other patrons at the nearby tables would pay any attention, especially if there were no changes in their tones. A trick Thoroton had first taught him.

Obviously he followed suit. “Mm-hmm. I’ve a few photographs for you to look over. My best guesses.” He drew a book out of his satchel next. Poems by Robert Browning. “Here you are.”

“Many thanks.” As if just so eager to read it, he flipped the cover and a few of the pages until he found the snapshots nestled within. The first bloke he’d never seen before, so he turned another page to where another photo was lodged, and then another before he lifted his brows. “There we are. ‘The Pied Piper of Hamelin.’”

Thoroton grunted. “Not my favorite option. Mind yourself.”

Drake flipped the photo over and found a name inked onto the back. Maxim Jaeger. He committed it to memory and closed the book, handing it back to Thoroton. “I do. Haven’t had any exchanges lately.” Not since the warehouse, and he was grateful for it.

Well, there’d been an incident on a Sunday when he’d spotted the bloke, but he’d done the spotting first and managed to hide himself before the agent—Jaeger, apparently—could spot him.

“Any new poetry you’d recommend, old chap?” Thoroton asked casually.

“As a matter of fact, I’ve made you a list.” After an unhurried swig of lemonade, Drake reached into the pocket opposite the one he’d put Dot’s letters in and pulled out a little slip of paper with what he’d discovered in the weeks since he’d found the warehouse with the wolfram. Though not encoded per se, it was written in a shorthand that no one else would likely understand. Thoroton tucked it into the Browning and slid it back into his satchel. No doubt he’d read it as soon as he had some privacy, then burn it.

But the necessary information would make its way to Hall. He’d know about the money that had changed hands between the Germans and a few Spaniards who were more interested in silver than in politics. He’d know about the creaky old ship, the Erri Barro, that was due into the harbor soon and had been commissioned to carry the wolfram back out of port with it.