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.”
“Why do we all have such ridiculously long names?” Ava mused.
Mike cocked his head like a puppy, then shrugged. “Beats me.” His attention darted forward. “Ah, there they are now.”
Two men were already seated at a table outside beneath a dark green awning, with a third standing at their side. The gentleman turned as they approached, and Ava suppressed a groan.
James MacKinnon.
The busybody Brit who had chastised her earlier that day for “consorting with Nazis” was apparently one of the men she would meet with often. Marvelous.
Her stomach growled to her even as she considered begging off dinner. She could cite exhaustion from the day and fogginess from her travels, and grab some food to go on the way back to her apartment. But even as the thought came to her, the other two men turned in her direction. To bow out now would be more awkward than staying. After all, in a group of five, she would hardly even have to speak to him.