A week after his visit to Berlin, Christian sent for Wolfgang. When he got to the brigadier's room the four controllers were already there, drinking coffee.
'Maniacs,' Christian said flatly. 'Fools, mules and gibbering idiots.' He had been reading a long teleprinter signal; now he concertina-ed it flat and impaled it on a spike. 'Despite all my urgent recommendations to Canaris, Berlin has ordered that Krafft, Fischer, Werth and Hartmann be promoted forthwith.'
Gasps of surprise and small whoops of pleasure.
'You are all equally unworthy, so at least Berlin is consistent,' Christian said, spinning the signal on its spike like a propeller. 'Nevertheless I can explain this disastrous decision only as the evil fruits of infiltration at the highest level by the British Secret Service.'
General amusement and scattered applause.
'As an act of sabotage,' Christian added, 'it makes the burning of the Reichstag look like an infringement of the blackout regulations.'
More all-round laughter, except from Wolfgang. Nobody looked at him.
'And now to work,'Christian said.
They spent an hour reviewing the recent output of Eldorado, Seagull, Knickers and Eagle. Discussion centred mainly on Seagull's report that Britain was suddenly expanding and improving her meteorological stations in Iceland and Greenland and was planning to install a clandestine station on the Azores; the implication was that transatlantic convoys might take a far more northerly route when the weather allowed, in order to avoid U-boats. There was also a lot of interest in Eagle's news that a Cabinet Minister, an Air Vice Marshal and a bishop's wife were involved in a financial and sexual scandal which the Government had hushed up by invoking the Official Secrets Act.
Wolfgang took no part in the discussion.
'One small thought,' Christian said at the end. 'Canaris told me that the various Abwehr sections in Europe are, at present, running a total of twenty-seven active agents in Britain and Ireland. He rates Eldorado as one of the two most valuable; somebody controlled by Brussels Abwehr is the other. Eagle ranks fourth or fifth and is rising steadily.'
Everyone except Wolfgang looked pleased.
'My small thought is this,' Christian went on. 'Here we have Eldorado and Eagle, both working the same territory and both getting remarkably good results. Suppose we were to bring them back to Madrid for a very brief, very high-level conference or seminar? A chance for the top men in the Abwehr to find out how the experts operate. Does that excite anybody?'
He reorganised the papers on his desk, while the idea sank in.
Richard Fischer was first. 'I'm excited,' he said.
'It could provide the basis of a whole new training programme,' Dr Hartmann suggested.
'Just a very brief gathering,' Christian said. 'Only the very top men.'
'Eagle won't come,' Otto said.
They all looked at him.
'In my opinion it would be dangerous even to suggest it to him,' Otto said. 'Eagle made it very clear to me at the start that he wanted no personal contact with anyone, ever.'
'But surely this is different,' Fischer protested. 'I mean, Admiral Canaris himself might--'
'It's not different for Eagle,' Otto insisted. 'He won't come, I tell you. He just won't.' Otto folded his arms and tightened his lips. There had been an impressive note of conviction in his voice.
'Do we really need two speakers?' Franz Werth asked. 'What's wrong with ..." He gave up when he saw the brigadier twitch his nostrils.
'It wouldn't be the same without Eagle,' Christian said. 'The whole point is to demonstrate a contrast in styles, a difference in approach. And by the way: Otto Krafft is absolutely right to protect Eagle in the way. A good controller identifies himself with his agent utterly and completely.'
Otto ducked his head modestly.
'One last piece of business,' Christian said. 'Eldorado has recruited another new sub-agent.'
'What a man!' Fischer exclaimed. 'If he keeps this up, we shan't need to invade.'
'He's a Venezuelan studying medicine at Glasgow University,' Christian told them. 'His code-name is "Garlic". I've given some considerable thought to the choice of a controller for Garlic.' Wolfgang held his breath. 'As you know, I believe that a selfless dedication to routine work deserves to be rewarded.' He shot his cuffs, and glanced at a piece of paper, as i to remind himself of something. 'That being so, the man for the job is Dr Hartmann.'
Wolfgang let his breath out and looked away. He felt as if had swallowed a gutful of lead shot. Christian was telling Hartmann something about Garlic's scale of payment but Wolfgang scarcely heard.
He stood up when the others stood, moved to the door when they moved. The meeting was over and not one person had spoken to him.
'Oh, Adler,' Christian said. 'Did you want to see me about something?'
They all paused, politely interested.
'You sent for me,' Wolfgang said.
'Did I? Why?'
Wolfgang stood and looked at him.
'There must have been a reason, surely,' Christian said.
Wolfgang shifted his weight from his bad leg.
'Well, if you think of it, come back and let me know,' Christian said. The others laughed, and Wolfgang felt a drumroll of hatred building inside him. This injustice could not go on. He felt sick to death with bitterness. It would kill him if he didn't destroy it first, and that meant destroying its cause. Christian was watching him carefully, studying him. Wolfgang turned and went out.
At the beginning of the eighteenth century, Huguenot refugees settled in Derby, Macclesfleld and Leek and established the silk industry in these towns.
Luis Cabrillo put Jasper Stembridge aside and made a note: Derby /Macclesfleld /Leek -- silk. Parachutes? Knickers? He thought for a moment, and added: Black-market stockings'?
He looked up Macclesfield in the 1923 Michelin. It was 41 miles from Liverpool. There was a reference to the Cat and Fiddle public house, reputed to be the highest licensed inn in England.
He made a note of that. Seagull visits pub-owning relatives at. weekend, he wrote. Landmark? Radio station? Robot bomber?
The afternoon sun had reached the edge of his paper. He scribbled with his pen in the sunny strip, just for the pleasure of watching the ink dry, and he thought of holidays. It was summer; vacation-time. Why keep Garlic stuck in Glasgow?
Holiday Haunts had a map of the Great Western Railway routes which showed an island far out in the Irish Sea, the Isle of Man. He looked it up. In the comparatively small compass of this island are great cliffs, delightful bathing beaches, fertile valleys, lush meadows . . . heart-warming hospitality . . . exhilarating air . . . abundance of amusements . . . Just the place for an overworked overseas medical student. Just the place to put a German prisoner-of-war camp, too. Garlic might as well bring back news of all those Luftwaffe pilots shot down and captured and now --
Somebody knocked on the door.
It startled him so much that every muscle jumped. Julie put down the report she had been proofreading. They looked at each other, looked at the door, listened intently. They were listening to someone else's listening. Nobody had ever visited the office before. It was unnecessary. Nobody had any business to call here. So maybe this was a mistake.
Somebody knocked again. Confidently, rap ta-ta rap rap.
Luis tiptoed over to the filing cabinet where he kept the rusted Colt revolver. The drawer groaned and squealed like an angry pig. Julie vibrated with suppressed laughter, but he gave her such a savage scowl that the comedy abruptly evaporated and left an even greater tension. He abandoned the gun, slammed home the drawer, stamped to the door and swung it open.
The man looked baggy. His ageing brown suit was baggy, his sallow face was baggy, even his leather bag was baggy.
He looked at Luis with his baggy eyes as if Luis were the electricity meter and he had come to read it. He was a man who knocked on a lot of doors.
'Senhor Cabrillo?' he said. Luis moved his head in what might have been a nod. 'Boa tarde, senhor.' He took a very creased business-card from his top pocket and offered it.
'Ministerio da Fazenda e . . .' Luis's head recoiled. The baggy man patiently switched his bag to the other hand. . .Evidently he was familiar with this sort of reaction. Luis
said 'Desculpe-me, mas. . . Nao compreendo. O que. . .?'
'Com licenca?' The baggy man made a small and economical gesture of entry. Luis waved him in, 'Obrigado, senhor. O gerente, Id em baixo ..." the baggy man began, and they were off into a fast exchange of sibilant, switch-backing Portuguese which meant nothing to Julie except that Luis didn't seem to be winning. After ten minutes he was left moodily holding a long, printed form while the baggy man raised his baggy hat to each of them in turn and went away.
His footsteps ticked and locked down the big stone staircase until they merged with their own echoes.
'Who was he?' she asked.
'Tax inspector.' Luis sat heavily and stared at the form. "Portuguese government. Ministry of Taxation. Bloody hell.'
'They can't be serious. How can they expect you to pay taxes? You're not a real businessman or anything.'
'The manager of this building gave him a list of tenants. What am I doing renting this office if I'm not running a business?'
Julie came over and looked at the form. It was enormously complicated. 'What did you tell him?' she asked.
'Oh . . . rubbish, nonsense. I said I was only an agent, I was looking for products to sell, nothing doing yet, no income to speak of. He didn't actually say he didn't believe me, but he's coming back next week.'
'Then we'd better got out, fast. You can keep your files in the apartment.'
He got up, hands in pockets, and shouldered the door shut. 'I hate working at home," he said. 'It doesn't feel right. This is a business, it belongs in an office. So do I.'
'You'll belong in jail if you don't pay your taxes.'
He reached up and hung by his fingers from the coat-hook on the back of the door. 'Then ... I shall have to pay taxes.'
'Oh, sure.' She wandered across and put her arms around his neck. 'And you're going to register with the Portuguese Government as a foreign spy," she said into his right ear.
'That tickles.'
'Yeah, it's hilarious.' She chewed gently on a lobe. 'They probably have a special rate for foreign spies. After all, Lisbon's full of them.'
'Let's go back to the beginning.' Luis gently rubbed the point of his chin against her neck. 'The Portuguese want to tax me because they believe I am doing business. Therefore the answer is to do business so that the Portuguese can tax me. Then they will be satisfied and go away.'
'What sort of business, Luis?'
His neck muscles tensed. 'You have no idea how much that tickles,' he said. 'I don't know, any sort. Buying things, selling things. Business business.'
'But Luis, my sweet,' she whispered insistently, 'you've got no experience in selling--'
His right ear rebelled, his head jerked sideways, the coat-hook wrenched free under the strain, and they both fell to the floor.
'I told you that tickled,' he complained. They lay in a heap and looked at the ceiling. 'It's a pretty lousy office where a chap can't even hang himself behind the door.' He threw the coat-hook at the wall.
'What it comes down to is this,'Julie said. She made her head comfortable on his chest. 'Can you afford to pay real taxes on an imaginary business? How much money are you making now?'
'Not much. Including Garlic's pay, about seven or eight hundred dollars a week, I suppose.'
'Good God.'
'But it won't be an imaginary business, Julie. I'll deal in something genuine, so that if anyone wants to know what I do, there it is. Coal, or olive oil, or plywood, or--'
'Eight hundred bucks a week? And we're pigging it in this
crappy walk-up on the four hundred and twenty-sixth floor
the most boring office block in town?' She banged her lead against his chest until he gasped. 'You're going to move, you tight bastard!'
'All right,' he wheezed. 'All right! We'll move tomorrow Jesus, I think you've broken a rib.'
They got up, and Julie beat the dust out of her clothes 'It really is a hell of a thing,'she complained, 'when a spy has to actually go out of his way to pay his lousy taxes.'
Luis wasn't listening. 'Business expenses,' he said. 'We'll meed to keep records of them. Receipts, invoices. Postal charges.'
'It's not so much the disgrace as the disillusion. Damn it all. doesn't tradition mean anything anymore?'
Luis polished his right shoe on his left trouser-leg while he looked at her, seriously. 'An accountant,' he said. 'Where ran I get a good accountant?'
It took them a week to find and move into new offices. They began the search together, but after a couple of hours Luis began worrying about a report from Knickers (on R.A.F. experiments with a new high-altitude anti-aircraft shell made out of plastic) which would soon be overdue; so he went back to his desk while Julie kept looking. Eventually she found a place in the Bairro Alto, the high ground just to the west of the Rossio. It was the third floor of a newish building; it had a lift and a telephone; it was clean, quiet, carpeted, and decently removed from any embassies, con-relates or legations. There were good bars and restaurants within walking distance. Luis signed a twelve-month lease and they shifted their files into the new premises that same might.
Julie had bought a bottle of wine, to christen the place.
They touched glasses, and Luis said: 'Well, here's to . . . uh . . . Here's to ...'
'Yeah, sure. I'll drink to that.'
They toasted whatever it was they were toasting. He strolled around, opening doors; glancing at the view across the centre of Lisbon to the great, hunched bulk of the castle; testing the pile of the carpet with his feet. 'I suppose a business as prosperous as this should really have a name,' he said.
'Cabrillo and Conroy,' she suggested. 'Or Cabroy, for short.'
'Cabroy is awful.'