Authors: C. J. Sansom
‘Wonder if he went after the girly because she was his enemy’s girlfriend?’ Tolhurst mused.
‘I don’t know.’ Harry shook his head. ‘When I knew Sandy he
was still a boy, really. He’s changed. Everything about him seemed contrived, showy. Except for his being pleased to see me, that was real.’ He frowned again.
‘Use that.’ Hillgarth looked at Harry seriously. ‘What you’re doing is important. This gold business fits into a bigger picture, the question of how we handle the regime. It matters a lot.’
Harry met Hillgarth’s gaze. ‘I know, sir.’
T
HE WAITER
laid a menu before him, large and white. The choices could have come from before the war. Harry wondered if they still had food as good as this at the London Ritz. He had had a letter from Will that morning. He was being transferred to a new post out in the countryside, somewhere in the Midlands; Muriel was delighted to get away from the bombs, though worried the house might be burgled. The news from home had filled Harry with almost unbearable nostalgia. He looked up from the menu with a sigh, his eyes widened at the sight of four officers in grey uniforms who were taking seats at a table a little way off, among the well-dressed Madrileños. The officers’ harsh, clipped voices were instantly recognizable.
‘There’s Jerry,’ Tolhurst said quietly. ‘Military advisers. The Gestapo people wear civvies.’
One of the Germans caught Harry’s stare, raised an eyebrow and turned away.
‘The Ritz is such a German and Italian haunt now,’ Tolhurst continued. ‘That’s why Sir Sam likes to fly the flag now and then.’
‘Ready for tomorrow?’ Tolhurst asked quietly. ‘The dinner with our friend?’
‘Yes.’
‘Wonder if that girly knows anything?’ Tolhurst’s eyes were alight with curiosity.
‘I don’t know, Tolly.’ Harry looked down the table. Tonight’s dinner, too, had its hidden agenda: they were all under instructions to be cheerful, relaxed, show they weren’t worried by the cabinet changes. Everyone was drinking hard, joking and guffawing. It was like a rugby club dinner. The embassy secretaries, brought along to make up the numbers, looked ill at ease.
Waiters in starched white coats brought food and wine. The food
was superb, the best Harry had eaten since his arrival. ‘The old standards are coming back,’ said Goach at his elbow. Harry wondered how old he was; they said he had been at the embassy since the Spanish-American War forty years ago. No one, apparently, knew more about Spanish protocol.
‘They are at the Ritz, at least, judging by the food,’ said Harry.
‘Oh, in other places too. They’re reopening the theatres, the Opera House. I remember the old King spoke to me there once. He was very charming. Put one at ease.’ He sighed. ‘I think the Generalísimo would like to invite him back, but the Falange won’t have it. Wretched shower. They threw flour at you on Thursday, I heard?’
‘Yes, they did.’
‘Filthy rabble. He had the Hapsburg jaw, you know. Protruding.’
‘What?’
‘King Alfonso. Only slightly. The burdens of royalty. The Duke of Windsor passed through Madrid, you know, back in June. When he escaped from France.’ Goach shook his head. ‘They just rushed him through the embassy and out to Lisbon. No formal reception or anything. I mean, he
was
the King once.’ He shook his head again, sadly.
Harry looked round the table again. He wondered what Bernie would have made of this.
‘Penny for ’em,’ Tolhurst said. Harry turned to him.
‘Sometimes I feel like I’m in Wonderland,’ he said quietly. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised to see a white rabbit in a suit pop up.’
Tolhurst looked puzzled. ‘What d’you mean?’
Harry laughed. ‘They haven’t a clue what life’s like out there.’ He nodded towards the window. ‘Doesn’t it ever get to you, Simon, all the sheer bloody misery you see in this city?’
Tolhurst frowned thoughtfully. Through the chatter Harry caught the ambassador’s sharp tones. ‘This Special Operations nonsense is mad. I hear they’re using Spanish Republican exiles to train British soldiers in political warfare. Bloody Communists.’
‘Set Europe ablaze,’ Hillgarth replied.
‘Oh yes, that’s a typical Winston phrase. Purple prose.’ Hoare’s sharp voice was raised. ‘I
know
what the Reds are like, I was in Russia when the Tsar fell.’
Hillgarth lowered his voice but Harry heard him. ‘All right, Sam. I agree with you. It’s not the time for that.’
Tolhurst came out of his brown study. ‘I suppose I’m used to it. The poverty. Cuba’s just the same.’
‘I can’t get used to it,’ Harry said.
Tolhurst thought a moment. ‘Ever been to a bullfight?’
‘I went once, in ’31. Didn’t like it. Why?’
‘The first time I went it made me feel sick, all the blood when they spear the bull, the terrified expression still on the bloody thing’s face when they brought its head to the restaurant afterwards. But I had to go; it was part of the diplomatic life. The second time it wasn’t so bad. I thought, dammit, it’s only an animal, then the third time I started appreciating the skill, the matadors’ bravery. You have to shut your eyes to the bad side of a country if you’re a diplomat, d’you see?’
Or a spy, Harry thought. He traced a line in the white tablecloth with his fork. ‘Isn’t that how it always starts, though? We deaden ourselves for protection, stop seeing the cruelty and suffering.’
‘I suppose if we let ourselves think about all the gruesome things we start imagining them happening to us. I know I do sometimes.’ Tolhurst laughed uneasily. Harry looked up and down the table, saw the forced quality of the smiles, the harsh undertone to the laughter.
‘I don’t think you’re alone,’ he said.
Someone on Tolhurst’s other side grabbed his arm and began whispering to him about two clerks who had been caught together in a stationery cupboard. Tolhurst turned away with relief to the gossip.
‘Julian, a pansy? I don’t believe it.’
Harry turned back to Goach. ‘Nice salmon.’
‘Very good.’
‘What?’ Harry hadn’t caught the old man’s reply. Among a crowd, his deafness could still be a problem. For a moment he felt disorientated.
‘I said it’s very good,’ Goach said. ‘Very good.’
Harry leaned forward. ‘You’ve been in the diplomatic service a long time, sir. I heard a phrase the other day, the Knights of St George. Any idea what it might mean? I wondered if it might be embassy slang of some sort.’
Goach adjusted his monocle, frowned. ‘Don’t think so, Brett, never heard that one before. Where d’you hear it?’
‘Oh, round the embassy somewhere. It just struck me as odd.’
Goach shook his head again. ‘Sorry, no idea.’ He glanced at Hoare for a moment, then said, ‘He’s a good man, the ambassador. For all the faults he may have, he’ll keep Spain out of the war.’
‘I hope so,’ Harry said, then added, ‘If Spain does stay out, and we win, what happens to the country afterwards?’
Goach gave a little laugh. ‘Let’s win the war first.’ He thought a moment. ‘Though if Franco stays out, keeps the Fascist element in the government under control, well, we’d have reason to be grateful to him, wouldn’t we?’
‘You think he’s a Monarchist at heart?’
‘Oh, I’m sure of it. If you analyse his speeches carefully, you can see he cares everything about Spain’s traditions, its old values.’
‘What about its people?’
Goach shrugged. ‘They’ve always needed a firm hand.’
‘They’ve got that all right.’
Goach inclined his head, then lowered it to his plate. There was a shout of laughter from the other end of the table, matched by a guffaw from the Germans, as they tried to be louder.
O
N
T
UESDAY
, Barbara went to meet Luis again. It was a fine day, still and quiet, leaves fluttering down from the trees. Barbara walked because the Castellana was closed to traffic; Reichsführer Himmler would be driven down it later on his way to meet the Generalísimo at the Royal Palace.
She had to cross the Castellana. Swastika flags hung from every building and were strung across the road, the scarlet banners with the hooked cross gaudy against the grey buildings.
Civiles
stood at intervals along the road, some cradling sub-machine guns. Nearby a parade of Falange Youth was lined up on the kerb, holding little swastika flags. Barbara hurried across and disappeared into the maze of streets leading to the Centro.
As she neared the cafe her heart was beating fast. Luis was already there, she saw him through the window. He was at the same table, nursing a coffee. His expression was gloomy. Barbara noticed again how down at heel he looked; he wore the same threadbare jacket, cheap rope-soled
alpargatas
on his feet. She took a deep breath and went in. The landlady nodded to her from beneath Franco’s portrait. She wished she could get away from the Generalísimo’s cold stare; it was everywhere, even on the stamps now.
Luis stood up with a relieved smile. ‘
Señora. Buenos días
. I thought you might not come!’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said without an answering smile. ‘I had to walk and it took longer than I thought. Himmler’s visit.’
‘It does not matter. A coffee?’
She let him fetch her a cup of the filthy coffee. She lit a cigarette but this time did not offer him one. She took a deep breath and looked him in the eye. ‘Señor Luis, before we discuss this further there is something I must ask.’
‘Of course.’
‘Last time you told me you left the army in the spring.’
‘That is correct, yes.’ He looked puzzled.
‘But you also told me you spent
two
winters out there. How could that be? Cuenca was in Red hands until the surrender last year.’
Luis swallowed hard. Then a sad smile settled over his face. ‘
Señora
, I said I had spent two winters up on the
meseta
, not at Cuenca. The previous winter I was in another part of it. A posting at Teruel. You remember that name?’
‘Yes, of course.’ It had been one of the war’s most savage battles. Barbara tried to remember exactly what words he had used.
‘Teruel is over a hundred kilometres from Cuenca, but it is still the
meseta
. High and cold. During the battle there men with frostbite had to be taken out of the trenches to have their feet amputated.’ He sounded almost angry now.
She took a deep breath. ‘I see.’
‘You were afraid I was not telling you the truth,’ he said bluntly.
‘I have to be sure, Señor Luis. I’m risking a lot. I have to be sure of everything.’
He nodded slowly. ‘All right. I understand. Yes. It is good you are careful.’ He spread his arms. ‘You must ask me anything at any time.’
‘Thank you.’ She lit another cigarette.
‘I went to Cuenca last weekend,’ he said. ‘As I promised.’
Barbara nodded. She looked into his eyes again. They were unreadable.
‘I stayed in the town and Agustín came to see me. He confirmed there is a prisoner in the camp called Bernard Piper. He has been there since it opened.’
Barbara lowered her head so Luis would not see how affected she was by the mention of Bernie’s name. She must keep calm, in control. She knew from her refugee work how desperate people would seize on any hope.
She looked up, gave him a firm stare. ‘You understand,
señor
, I will need proof. I need you to get your brother to tell you more about him. Things I haven’t told you or Markby, things you couldn’t know. Not that he’s fair-haired, for example, you could see that from the photograph.’
Luis sat back. He pursed his lips.
‘It’s not unreasonable,’ Barbara said. ‘Thousands of International Brigaders died in the war, you know how slim the chances are of his having survived. I need proof before anything else happens.’
‘And I am poor and could be making up a story.’ He nodded again. ‘No,
señora
, it is not unreasonable. What a world we live in.’ He thought a moment. ‘If I were to ask Agustín to tell me everything about this man, then, and give the details to you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Have you spoken with Señor Markby again?’
‘No.’ She had tried, but he was still away.
Luis leaned forward. ‘I will go to Cuenca again, though I cannot go too often to visit my brother or people may get suspicious.’ He looked strained now. He rubbed his brow with his hand. ‘I suppose I could say our mother has got worse. She is not well.’ He looked up. ‘But time may be important, Señora Clare. If you wish us to do something. You know the rumours. If Spain were to come into the war, you would have to leave. And your Brigader, if he was a Communist he could find himself handed over to the Germans. That is what has happened in France.’
It was true, but she wondered if he was trying to frighten her, hurry her.
‘If you were to do something,’ she repeated. ‘You mean –’ she lowered her voice – ‘escape?’ Her heart began thudding, hard.
Luis nodded. Agustín thinks it can be done. But it will be dangerous.’
‘How?’ she asked. ‘How could it be done?’
He leaned forward and lowered his voice. ‘Let me explain how the camp works. It is surrounded by barbed wire. There are watchtowers with machine guns.’ She shuddered involuntarily. ‘I am sorry,
señora
, but I must explain how it is.’
‘I know. Go on.’
‘It is impossible for someone inside the camp to get out. But labour details go out every day – to repair roads, lay pipes, and to work in a quarry up in the hills. Piper has been on the quarry detail for some time. If Agustín can get himself a place as a guard on that work detail, perhaps he could help your friend to escape. Perhaps
he could make some excuse to escort Piper away somewhere; then Piper could pretend to assault Agustín and get away.’ He frowned. ‘That is as far as we have been able to plan as yet.’
Barbara nodded. It sounded possible, at least.
‘That is the only way we can think of. But when the escape is discovered, Agustín will be questioned. If the truth is found out, he will be shot. He will do it only for money.’ Luis looked at her seriously. ‘Let us be frank now.’
She nodded, trying to take deep breaths to still her heart without letting Luis see.