They took a taxi back to the hotel.
On the way, she said: 'Thank you for dinner. It wasn't like genuine American food, but it tasted good.'
'I'm glad.'
The taxi slowed for a corner, and Luis leaned in front of her to look out of the window. He grunted with surprise.
'What is it?' she asked.
'Nothing, just an office block. It used to be a warehouse until a shell hit it. I was inside that shop when it happened. Nearly got killed. If those gunners had fired their shell ten seconds later I would have been crossing the street when it exploded. Makes you think.'
'I had a narrow escape at breakfast,' she said. 'I poured a whole cup of milky coffee straight down my throat. Just three inches to the left and I would have drowned an ear.'
'You wouldn't be making fun of it if you had been back there in 1937. What high explosive does to people is not funny.'
'My dear Luis, I have seen what high explosive does to people.' She put her head close to his and gently nipped him on the ear. 'It re-arranges their bodies in a violent and painful way. I was in London during the blitz last October and I saw it happen night after night.'
'Well, then.'
'Well phooey. More Londoners got run over by cars in the blackout than were blown up by German bombs. I mean, life is dangerous.'
Luis thought about that. 'What were you doing in London?' he asked.
She swished her hair from side to side. 'Enjoying the bombing,' she said. 'This is about the time of night that it gets really serious, usually about midnight. I bet they're flying over London right now, blowing up an orphanage here, a hospital there, an old-folks'-home somewhere else.'
'I don't believe you really enjoyed it.'
'Oh, I enjoyed the excitement. A lot of Londoners did, too. But not the mines. They drop huge mines by parachute, you know, big black bastards, if you're unlucky you can actually watch them floating down. Then there's a blinding flash and a deafening crump and suddenly everything for half a mile around is a heap of ruins. I could have done without the mines.' She twisted her head to look out of the rear window. 'Big fat moon up there tonight. They like that. Yes, I bet the krauts are bombing the bejesus out of London right this very minute.'
By now they were in central Madrid, cruising along an avenue. The traffic thickened, and the taxi gradually lost speed until it eased to a crawl and stopped. The line of vehicles on their left gained a few yards, and another taxi slid beside them. Clearly visible in the back was a quartet of German officers. They looked as if they had spent an enjoyable evening.
When Luis noticed them he was too late to distract her attention; already she was winding down the window. 'Fascist faggots!' she cried, and her twang cut sharply through the mumble of idling engines. The officers looked at her, attracted, interested, smiling. One of them opened a window. 'You fornicating fascist finks,' she told them. Luis watched their faces change, saw them look from her to him, studying, remembering. Then the traffic moved, and she sat back.
'Sorry,' she said. 'I was thinking about what they did to London. And other places. Luis shrugged. 'Why not?' he said. But he noticed that the other taxi followed them all the way to her hotel and waited while they got out, before it drove away.
Next morning at ten o'clock Luis was again summoned to see Colonel Christian. He trudged upstairs, glumly convinced that he was in for another squabble and not feeling up to it. But Christian was calm and considerate: he offered Luis coffee and he did not kick, hit or throw any piece of furniture.
'I have" had a signal from Berlin,' he said. 'They would like to know if you would be willing to change your area of operations and go to Russia instead.'
Luis sat back and stared. His first reaction was a rush of pleasure: he'd guessed right, Germany was getting ready to attack Russia. Marvellous! Now Berlin would respect Christian and Christian would respect Luis Cabrillo . . . Then the greater implications struck him: Hitler had given up the idea of invading Britain. Hitler was going to fight this war on two fronts at once. Hitler was following Napoleon eastwards. The whole world was about to change . . . 'No,' he said, 'I'm not going to go to Russia.'
'Why ever not? The work is the same, and Berlin says that you would be paid many times more than you can expect to earn in Britain.'
'In that case it can't be the same work.'
'Same sort of work.'
'What? I don't speak Russian. How many Russians speak Spanish? The idea's insane. There's no Spanish Embassy in Moscow, and Stalin hates Franco. I'd never get in. If I did get in I'd never get out.'
'Berlin can arrange to have you infiltrated through Scandinavia as a Spanish Communist refugee. There are plenty of those in Russia.'
'And none of them has ever heard of me, so they'll ask a lot of questions which I can't answer, and inside ten minutes I'll be looking down the barrel of a gun.'
'No fear of that,' Christian said reassuringly. 'The Russians shoot people in the back of the head.'
'Not me.'
'No, of course not. As you say, the idea's insane, but Berlin instructed me to put it to you. Evidently your discovery impressed them.'
'I see.' Luis put his hands in his pockets and waited calmly for Christian to say something more. He sensed that their relationship had shifted slightly, away from master-and-servant and towards tutor-and-student. Maybe even tutor-and-gifted-student.
'Anyway . . .' Christian buffed up his moustache. 'Next time you get hold of something like that, come and see me straight away.' He set off on a little walk, carefully following a seam in the carpet, each foot sliding along the line. 'You know, Cabrillo . . . the Abwehr can be a curious organisation at times. Berlin doesn't really understand how we work in Madrid. They can be remarkably crass, as you've just seen. We have to spell things out for them. Never give them a choice, they'll choose the wrong thing every time. Understand?'
'Yes, of course,' Luis noted a new tone in the colonel's voice, a suggestion of wariness, perhaps even of defensive-ness.
'We're not in competition, you and I, Cabrillo.'
'I certainly hope not.'
'We need each other, to succeed.'
'Indeed we do.'
'And after what you've told them concerning the Russian situation, Berlin will be expecting great things from you in England.' Christian's seam had led him to the baby grand. He raised the top and raked his fingers across the strings, making a dry, anxious noise. 'We mustn't disappoint them, must we?'
'I certainly intend to earn as much money as I possibly can.'
'Good. Good.. A great deal depends on it. Now there is someone I want you to meet.'
Christian thumbed his desktop buzzer, and Otto came in with a man who brought a fresh charge of life to the room.
He was introduced as Frederick Ryan. As soon as Luis shook hands he felt encouraged and stimulated, like an actor meeting a star who is going to revitalise a play. Ryan was middleaged, medium height, and looked very fit. He was dressed in a dark suit which, for discretion, taste and cost, was better than a letter of introduction from a banker. He was cleanshaven and his face had a keen, alert expression. Soft brown hair was brushed back from a wide and tranquil forehead, and he knew how to stand without fidgeting his fingers or twitching his feet. His voice was interesting and sounded genuinely English. Luis looked at Frederick Ryan and was more than impressed: he was utterly charmed. By a man who had done nothing but walk ten paces and shake hands! Watch out, dummy, he warned himself.
'I have decided that it is time for you two to get to know each other,' Christian said. Otto smiled and rubbed his hands.
'You seem very happy,' Luis remarked.
'I believe this could be a great combination,' Otto said. 'The Rolls-Royce of German espionage.'
'That makes me Henry Royce," Ryan said, 'because you, Luis, must obviously be the young Lord Rolls, who died at the sadly early age of thirty-three.'
Everybody laughed.' Ryan spoke so easily and unaffectedly that he was irresistible.
'Let's make it Mercedes and Benz,' Luis said.
'Make it Donner and Blitzen, Castor and Pollux, or cheese and pickles,' said Christian, 'but just make it work. You'll both be going to England at the same time. I want you to co-operate and help each other. From now on you'll train together.'
'Splendid,' Ryan said. 'At last I have someone to talk cricket with.'
'I said training,' Christian told him sharply, 'not gossip.'
'My poor fish, understanding the gossip is part of the
training,' Ryan replied, and Luis saw how confidently the
Englishman countered. 'It's no good tapping a British general's line if you don't know what he means when you hear him say he's going to open his shoulders.' Ryan blinked three times. 'For instance.'
Christian looked at the dots of dust eternally wandering through the bars of sunlight. Otto breathed deeply and held his breath as if waiting for orders. 'What does it mean?' Christian grunted.
'Oh, it means he's going to try to collar the bowling and biff it for six,' Ryan said, smiling gently. Otto exhaled. Christian frowned at him. 'You might say it means he's thinking of stepping down the wicket and using the long handle,' Ryan added. 'Wouldn't you say?' he asked Luis
'Possibly,' Luis said. 'An awful lot depends on what school the chap went to.'
'That's enough of that,' Christian said. 'Now go and work.' He looked stiff and uncomfortable.
'Damned huns have absolutely no sense of humour,' Ryan remarked as they walked down the corridor. 'Isn't that right, Otto?'
'I expect so.' Krafft was checking through some typewritten papers. 'If all goes well, you will finish your training at the end of next week and leave for England as soon as possible.' He folded the papers and put them away. 'Until then, you are not to meet outside the embassy.'
'What rubbish,' Ryan said.
'Colonel Christian's orders.'
'Christian's an ass. Of course we shall meet outside. Come and have a game of tennis at my club, Luis.'
'A pleasure, Frederick.'
They looked at Otto. 'I shall have to report this to Colonel Christian,' he muttered.
'Well, tell him he can come too: we'll need a ball-boy. This place is quite extraordinary," Ryan said to Luis. 'I haven't met so many buffoons under one roof since I was cashiered from the Royal Horse Artillery.
Luis enjoyed the next few days enormously. They were busy, funny, well paid, and laced with sex. He had never slept so soundly nor woken with such an appetite. Everything gave him pleasure, because it involved being with either Freddy Ryan or Julie Conroy, and they were delightful companions. Different, but delightful.
With Freddy the work was always fun. He treated the embassy tutors with a kind of cheerful contempt, as if they were tradesmen of low intelligence, or distant relatives who had to be discouraged from trying to borrow money. Franz Werth in particular did not know what to make of him. Freddy usually took charge of their Morse-buzzer lessons after the first two minutes: just long enough for Franz to start sounding authoritative, for instance on the subject of consistency:
'This cannot be overemphasised. Never rush your transmission, no matter how long the message, no matter what pressures you may feel. The first essential--'
'What have you got there?' Freddy asked.
Franz looked at the sheaf of papers with which he was gesturing. 'Today's test messages. They--'
'Don't be a complete idiot, Franz, we did that lot last week.'
'No, these are new. I--'
'Chuck 'em over.' Freddy stretched out a hand.
'You cannot have seen them before.' Franz tapped the papers nervously against his palm. 'It is impossible.'
'Soon tell you that. Come on, let's see the evidence.' Freddy's critical tone, steady gaze and outstretched hand were too much for Franz. He surrendered the papers.
'Hmm . . .' Freddy gave half to Luis. They glanced through them in silence. .;,-: Franz began: 'I assure you--'
'Hush!' Freddy collected the papers again. 'What do you think, old chap?' he said. 'Deadly dull, isn't it?'
'I never thought much of it the first time,' Luis replied.
Freddy got up, dumped the papers in a waste basket and dusted his hands. 'Now then!' he said briskly, 'let's see what else you have in stock.'
'Why . . . nothing.' Franz headed for the waste basket but Freddy stepped into it and began trampling the papers. 'Those were new messages,' Franz insisted, 'I chose them myself--'
'Don't try and deceive us, you dreadful hun. We're professionals at the game, remember? Fortunately for you ..." Freddy, still casually trampling, pulled a book from his pocket: Lady Chatterley's Lover. '. . . I have a humorous novel which should fill the gap nicely. Will you wash or dry?' he asked Luis.
'Dry,' Luis said. He opened the message-pad. Freddy sat down at the buzzer. 'Chapter 17 is pretty fruity,' Luis suggested.
'I shall make a real effort to stop my hand trembling.' Freddy began transmitting. 'You're too immature for this stuff, Franz,' he said without looking up. 'Go and get some coffee.'
Franz's chubby features sagged with guilt and worry.
'And doughnuts,' said Luis, scribbling and dough before he caught himself and crossed it out and got back to the transmission.
'This cannot--'
'For God's sake stop interrupting.' Freddy paused, and pounded the book flat with a sudden angry thunder. 'What do you want? Money?'
'No, no--'
'I should bloody well think not. Luis, you haven't been lending him money, have you?'
Luis sucked his breath in and shook his head.
'Damn right, old chap.' Freddy rapped out an indignant stutter of Morse. 'Damn right.' Franz walked away and looked out of the window while they got on with the lesson. After a while he went out and came back with coffee. "The thing you have to understand about the English,' Freddy was saying, 'is they're all snobs. Even the meanest, sorriest, most wretched of them'. They looked up. 'No doughnuts,' Franz said. They looked at each other, eyebrows raised in silent disapproval. 'And that is the last time I ever bring you coffee!' Franz shouted. He put the tray down so violently that he spilled the stuff.