Winter in Madrid (71 page)

Maestre sat up groggily; he looked stunned, the rats’ tails of black hair that had been combed over his head falling absurdly down one side of his face. ‘Don’t shoot me,’ he cried out in a new voice, hoarse and terrified. He held up his arm as though it could ward off bullets. ‘Please, please.’

Barbara felt Bernie take her arm, pull the gun from her hand.
He pointed it at Maestre. ‘Get in the car,’ he said urgently over his shoulder to Barbara. ‘Get Harry in. Can you drive?’

‘Yes.’

‘We haven’t much time,’ he said, ‘the other one will be back.’

Maestre was lying on his back on the grass, supporting himself on his elbows. Barbara watched as Bernie walked slowly towards him, aiming the gun at his head. The general blinked snow out of his eyes. It was coming down faster, settling on his uniform. Near him Sofia’s body was a white mound now.

Barbara couldn’t face hearing another shot, seeing someone else die. ‘Bernie,’ she said. ‘Bernie, don’t kill him.’

Bernie turned to her and she saw Maestre’s hand move to his pocket, quick as a striking snake. ‘Look out!’ she called as the general pulled out a gun. Bernie turned and fired at the same time as Maestre. The general and Bernie each jerked backwards. Barbara saw the side of Maestre’s head fly off, blood and brains spurting out as Bernie tottered and slumped against the side of the car. She heard a wild animal scream and realized it was her own voice.

‘Bernie!’

‘Hell!’ he shouted. ‘Barbara, get me in the car.’ He gritted his teeth with pain. He grasped his thigh. Blood welled through his fingers.

Harry had stood staring at the scene, a confused expression on his face, but now he seemed to come back to life. He looked at Bernie. ‘Oh Christ, no,’ he groaned.

‘Help me get him in,’ Barbara said to him. Harry stepped forward and the two of them managed to manoeuvre Bernie into the back seat.

‘Harry, please drive,’ Barbara said. ‘I need to help him. We have to get away now, before the other
civil
comes back. Harry, can you do it?’

Harry looked past her, at Sofia. ‘She’s dead, isn’t she? There’s nothing we can do for her.’

‘Yes. Harry,
can you do it
?’ She took his head between her hands and stared into his eyes. She was terrified the engine would stop again.

He took a deep breath, focused on her. ‘Yes. Yes. I’ll do it.’

B
ERNIE FELT
a heavy throbbing pain in his thigh. He couldn’t move his leg and he could feel blood welling up through his fingers, a lot of blood. Barbara had taken off her coat and was ripping out the heavy lining. In front of him he could see the back of Harry’s head and his hands, steady on the wheel. In the headlights the snow was whirling relentlessly down.

‘Where are we going?’ he asked.

‘Back to Madrid, the embassy’s our only hope.’

‘Won’t they put calls out when that
civil
gets back, try to stop us?’

‘We have to try for Madrid. Don’t talk, darling.’ She was calling him darling, just like the old days. Bernie smiled up at her, then winced as she took a pair of nail scissors and cut his trouser leg open.

‘It’s smashed your leg, Bernie. I think the bullet’s lodged in the bone. I’m going to bandage you up. We’ll get you to a doctor in Madrid. Try to sit up now.’ She began winding the strips of lining round his body with cool, practised hands.

When she had finished he fell back against the seat. He found it hard not to close his eyes. He felt for her hand and squeezed it. He passed out for a while; when he came to Barbara was still holding his hand. The snow was still whirling in the headlights. His leg felt numb. Barbara smiled at him.

‘Remember something for me, Barbara,’ he said. ‘Will you remember something?’

‘You’ll be all right. I promise.’

‘If I’m not. Remember something.’

‘Anything.’

‘The people, the ordinary people, it looks like they’ve lost but one day, one day people won’t be manipulated and hounded by bosses and priests and soldiers any more; one day they
will
free themselves, live with freedom and dignity as people were meant to.’

‘You’re going to be all right.’

‘Please.’

‘I will. Yes. I will.’

He closed his eyes and slept again.

H
ARRY DROVE FAST
and steadily, like an automaton. He tried to concentrate only on the patch of light created by the car’s headlights. Everything beyond their white glow was pitch black. After a while the snow stopped but it was still difficult, driving along the uneven road in the dark. And all the time there was a feeling like a terrible dark hole in his stomach, as though he had been shot as well. The picture of Sofia’s body raked by bullets would stab into his brain and make him want to cry out but he forced himself to push it aside, concentrate on the road, the road, the road. In the mirror he could see Barbara’s anxious face as she leaned over Bernie. He was asleep or unconscious, but at least the sound of his breathing, heavy and laboured, meant he was still alive.

At every village or town he feared the
civiles
would appear and flag the car down, but they saw hardly a soul on the whole journey. A little after eleven they reached the outskirts of Madrid and Harry slowed down as he headed through the still white streets towards the embassy.

‘How is he?’ he asked Barbara.

‘Still unconscious,’ she replied quietly. ‘I was worried. He was in a weak condition anyway, and he’s lost a lot of blood.’ She lifted a blood-smeared hand and looked at her watch. ‘You’ve made good time.’

‘Why haven’t we been stopped?’ he asked anxiously.

‘I don’t know. Maybe that
civil
took a long time to get back.’

‘He had a radio. And the police force is the one thing that’s efficient here.’ A thought that had been in the back of his mind throughout the journey came to the surface. ‘They may be waiting to catch us here, in Madrid. He looked at her face in the mirror, pale and exhausted. ‘Where’s the gun?’

‘In Bernie’s pocket. I don’t want to disturb him. Movement could start the bleeding again.’

Harry watched the tall buildings flashing by; they were approaching the city centre now. ‘We might have to shoot our way through,’ he said. ‘Let me have it.’ She hesitated a moment, then felt in Bernie’s pocket. She passed the gun, black with dried blood, to Harry. He cradled it in his lap. He had a sudden memory of he and Sofia in the cathedral, sitting together, and jumped, then swerved to avoid a passing gasogene that was creeping and sputtering along the snowy road. The driver hooted angrily.

At last the embassy came into view. Harry drove past the entrance, drawing a stare from the single
civil
on duty, then round the corner to the car park. It was almost empty. Harry drew to a halt beside the back door. They were on British territory now. On the first floor he saw a light at a single curtained window; the duty officer. He sounded the horn. The curtain twitched and a head looked out.

Harry turned to Barbara. There was a smear of blood on her white face. ‘Someone will be down in a minute. Let’s get Bernie out. Oh, God, he looks awful.’ Bernie’s eyes were closed. His breathing seemed shallow and his cheeks more sunken than ever. Broad strips of Barbara’s coat lining were wound tightly round his trousers.

‘Can you wake him up?’ he asked.

‘I’m not sure we should move him.’

‘We have to get him inside. Try.’

Barbara squeezed Bernie’s shoulder, lightly then harder. He groaned, but did not stir. ‘You’ll have to help me with him,’ she said.

Harry stepped out of the car. He opened the rear door and took Bernie’s shoulders. He was surprised how light he was. Barbara helped him pull him into a sitting position. Blood was seeping from under the makeshift bandage. It was all over the back seat, all over Barbara.

There was a sound of bolts being drawn back. A door opened and footsteps crunched on the snow. They turned to meet the gaze of Chalmers, a tall thin man in his thirties with a prominent Adam’s apple. Even at this time of night he wore a formal suit. He shone a torch into their faces. His eyes widened at their bloodstained clothes. ‘Good God, what’s this? Who are you?’

‘I’m Brett, one of the translators. We’ve got an injured man here, he needs medical attention.’

Chalmers turned the beam on to Bernie. ‘Jesus Christ!’ He shone the torch into the car, staring in horror at the blood on the back seats. ‘Christ, what’s happened? This is one of our cars!’

Harry helped Barbara drag Bernie towards the open door. Thank God he was still breathing. He moaned again. Chalmers hurried after them.

‘What happened? Who is he? Has there been an accident?’

‘He’s been shot,’ Harry said. ‘He’s British. For Christ’s sake, man, will you stop dithering and ring for a doctor?’ Harry pushed the door open and they staggered inside. They were in a long corridor; Harry threw open the door of the nearest office and went in. He and Barbara laid Bernie carefully on the floor while Chalmers went to the desk and picked up the telephone.

‘Dr Pagall,’ he said. ‘Get Dr Pagall.’

‘How long will he be?’ Harry asked tersely as Chalmers put the phone down.

‘Not long. Listen, Brett, for Christ’s sake, what’s happened?’

The picture of Sofia’s body jerking backwards appeared in his mind again. He winced and took a deep breath. Chalmers was looking at him curiously.

‘Listen, phone Simon Tolhurst, Special Operations, his number’s in the book. Let me speak to him.’

‘Special Operations? Jesus.’ Chalmers frowned; the regular staff disliked the spies. He rang another number and passed the receiver to Harry. A sleepy voice answered. ‘Hello, yes?’

‘It’s Harry. It’s an emergency. I’m at the embassy with Barbara Clare and an Englishman who’s been shot. No, not Forsyth. A prisoner of war. Yes, the Civil War. He’s badly injured. There’s been an – an incident. General Maestre’s been shot dead.’

Tolhurst was surprisingly quick and decisive. He told Harry he would be there at once, he would phone Hillgarth and the ambassador. ‘Stay where you are,’ he concluded. As though there was anywhere else they could go, Harry thought as he put the phone down. He remembered Enrique and Paco; at home, waiting. They
would be wondering where he and Sofia were. This would be the end for Paco. ‘I told her not to come,’ he whispered aloud.

T
HE DOCTOR
and Tolhurst arrived at the same time. The doctor was a middle-aged Spaniard, still blinking sleep from his eyes. He went over to Barbara and she explained what had happened. Tolhurst took in the sight of Bernie lying on the floor, his and Barbara’s clothes spattered with blood, with surprising calmness.

‘Is that Miss Clare?’ he asked Harry quietly.

‘Yes.’

‘Who’s the man?’

Harry took a deep breath. ‘He’s an International Brigader who’s been held illegally in a labour camp for three years. He’s an old friend of ours. We had a plan to rescue him; it went wrong.’

‘Christ, I’ll say.’ Tolhurst glanced at Barbara. ‘The two of you had better come to my office.’

Barbara looked up. ‘No, I’m a nurse, I can help.’

The doctor looked at her. He spoke quietly and his eyes were kind. ‘No,
señorita
, I will be better alone.’ He had begun unwinding the bandages. Harry glimpsed red pulp and white bone underneath. Barbara looked at the wound and swallowed.

‘Can you – can you help him?’

The doctor raised his hands. ‘I will do better if you will all leave me. Please.’

‘Come on, Barbara.’ Harry took her elbow and helped her stand. They followed Tolhurst out of the room and up a dark staircase. Around the building lights were clicking on and voices muttering as the night staff prepared to deal with the crisis.

Tolhurst switched on his office light and ushered them to seats. Harry thought, I was here yesterday, only yesterday. In another time, another world. Sofia was alive. Tolhurst sat behind his desk, his plump features composed into a stiff alertness.

‘All right, Harry. Tell me exactly what’s happened. What the hell’s this about Maestre being shot?’

Harry told him the story, from Barbara coming to Sofia’s flat and telling them of her plan, to the rescue that afternoon. Tolhurst kept
glancing at Barbara. She had sunk into her chair and was staring into space with a glassy-eyed look.

‘You did all this without telling Forsyth?’ Tolhurst asked her sharply at one point.

She replied indifferently, ‘Yes.’

Harry told him about the ambush in the clearing. ‘They shot Sofia,’ he said and for the first time his voice broke. ‘I asked Maestre why and he said because Spaniards need keeping in order.’

Tolhurst let out a deep breath. Help us, Tolly, Harry thought, help us. As he went on to describe how they had escaped, Tolhurst’s eyes widened and he stared at Barbara again.

‘You ran over one man and shot another dead?’

‘Yes.’ She met his gaze. ‘They left me no choice.’

‘Have you the gun now?’ he asked.

‘No. Harry’s got it.’

Tolhurst stretched out a hand. ‘Give it to me please, old chap.’

Harry reached into his pocket and passed it over. Tolhurst placed it in his desk drawer, grimacing with distaste at the blood on it. He wiped his fingers carefully on a handkerchief, then leaned forward.

‘This is
bad
,’ he said. ‘A government minister killed and an embassy official involved. And after what Franco said to Hoare yesterday – hell.’ He shook his head.

‘It wasn’t murder,’ Barbara said flatly. ‘It was self-defence. Sofia was the only one who was murdered.’

Tolhurst frowned at her as though she was someone stupid who couldn’t understand what was important. Harry felt a weight of disappointment settle on top of the dull heavy grief. He had thought Tolly might help them somehow, speak for them. But what could he have done?’

Tolhurst’s head jerked round as the telephone on his desk rang. He picked it up. ‘Right,’ he said. He took a deep breath. ‘The captain and the ambassador are here. I’ll have to brief them.’ He got up and left.

Barbara looked at Harry. ‘I want to see Bernie,’ she said flatly. He noticed there was a smear of blood on her glasses.