Page 20 of The Librarian Spy

She looked up. “Really?”

“Yeah, we weren’t given much to work with when we first got here.” He led her down a hall that held the pervasive aroma of stale coffee. “It was just me and ole Sims when all this started up. I think that’s why he’s being so hard on you. A rite of passage so to speak.”

She didn’t reply. If she were back in DC at that very moment, she would be getting ready for her job in the Rare Book Room. In an hour, she would have strolled beneath masterpieces that celebrated intellect, to breathe in that scent of old books that she already missed like a heartbeat.

Instead, she faced some juvenile rite of passage after being flirted with by a Nazi and called out by a man who knew more about her than she did him. Aristotle once said that patience is bitter, but its fruit is sweet.

That bitterness sat on the back of her tongue now, stubborn and long-lasting.

But hadn’t the first day at the Library of Congress been difficult when she started? There was more to know than she ever thought possible to learn.

She’d taste the fruit of conquering Lisbon’s unknown and was certain it would be sweet.

Mike escorted her to a large conference room with a table at its center, like a floating island with no chairs in sight and covered in lamps. Three boxy cameras sat to one side as well as several reels of film in their round metal boxes.

“You may be familiar with these.” Mike winked. “I hear you worked with something like them at the Library of Congress.”

The burden of her frustration eased as she went to the first camera. “I did. We had stacks of newsprint that was decaying and managed to salvage the information by putting it all on microfilm.”

“Well, here we are doing it because of limited storage for mailing items back to DC to be categorized.” He popped open the side of the large camera and Ava did likewise. “We tried sending the actual periodicals, books, and newsprint in boxes on ships, but the vessels were unreliable and apparently the German paraphernalia kept being seized as contraband.” He chortled to himself. “Ole Sims is still fielding calls from the PVDE about why we have so many Nazi publications going to the States.”

That PVDE reference again.

“What is the PVDE?” Ava added the full spool on one prong and threaded the film into the empty spool on the other side.

“The Portuguese secret police.” He paused in his work, lid partially closed, and gave her a stern look. “You don’t want to tangle with them. Ever.”

She nodded and closed her own machine.

They both began the first of the eight cranks necessary to properly thread the film to the starting point within the camera. “We only have space for 165 pounds a month on the Pan Am Clipper that goes out every two weeks. So...” He patted the primed camera. “Microfilm.”

Ava paused to see what he would do. “Exactly what are we photographing?”

He indicated a table at the back wall laden with newspapers of every language as well as several haphazard piles of books, leaflets, and magazines, then held up what appeared to be a manual for a civilian gas mask. “This.”

“All of it?” No wonder Mr. Sims had been disappointed with her measly collection.

Mike took off his jacket and slung it on the table beside him, a man prepping to get down to work. “You may want to get some coffee. We’re going to be here awhile.”

Her stomach gave an irritated grumble. The hollowness of her hunger was uncomfortable enough that she swore to never miss breakfast again. She took Mike’s advice to at least grab a cup of coffee.

Warm mug in hand, she went to work alongside him, centering the content just so in the beams of light, focusing the camera and capturing the image with a tinny click that reverberated in the depths of the machine.

They worked like that for the better part of the day, taking countless pictures of anything and everything, until they both had several completed spools stacked beside them. An ache burned between Ava’s shoulders from leaning her head forward to ensure the capture window contained all the necessary information, and her lower back felt as though it might snap if she had to bend over just one more time.

“I think that’s good for one day.” Mike folded the paper he’d been photographing. “If you don’t have any dinner plans, you should come meet the rest of the team.”

“There are more IDC agents than just us?”

“Not exactly.” He pulled his jacket back on and carefully buttoned the front. “I mean the Brits.”

They took one of the streetcars to the Chiado district where high-end specialty stores touted lady’s gloves and glamorous hats. The windows displayed fashions that would never pass the ration codes in the United States and showcased more shoes than any government girl could dream of.

The scent of grilled fish flavored the air with a smoky, briny aroma that made Ava’s mouth water. Coffee only fortified a person for so long and left her with a jittery nervousness sloshing around in her otherwise empty stomach.

She had always enjoyed fresh seafood and had anticipated the fare in Lisbon, pulled straight from the sparkling waters of the Tagus River and onto a grill.

“We work closely with the Brits,” Mike said as they navigated their way up the sloping limestone path of Rua Garrett. “These boys are with The Association of Special Libraries and Information Bureau. Or ASLIB as I prefer to call it.”