'I never took them seriously, anyway,' Luis said. 'You weren't likely to tell me all your big secrets on the first day we met.'
'We're not likely to tell you any big secrets, ever. I just want to be sure you don't depend on any of that rubbish when you get to England. We'll tell you anything you need to know.'
'All right.'
'It wasn't all right yesterday. That railway map showed main lines running up and down mountain ranges like polar bears on heat, and you never even blinked.'
Luis said nothing. The colonel went over to the fireplace with his putter and prodded moodily at the brickwork. 'It's not going to be like bloody golf over there, you know,' Christian said with his back to him. 'You don't get given a handicap, nobody cares about fair play. Just one little stumble and your neck's broken. I'm told they use a very hairy rope, too.'
There was a long and unhappy silence. Then Luis said: 'If you've finished, I'll take my five hundred pesetas and go.'
'What five hundred?' Christian turned; there was something black and fungoid on the end of his putter which he had prised out of the back of the fireplace. He stared at it with dislike.
'My daily expenses. Five hundred pesetas. We agreed, yesterday.'
'What a bore you are about money, Cabrillo.'
You arrogant bastard, Luis thought. And after all that death-and-no-glory warning, too! He said: 'And what a bore you are about money, colonel.'
For a moment the atmosphere in the room was brittle with anger. Luis felt that at that moment Christian was capable of doing almost anything: hurling the putter at him, kicking him out, perhaps even killing him. 'It galls me,' Christian said, and his large, muscular face twisted with disgust that was also self-disgust, 'it galls me to think that we Germans have achieved a united Europe and yet we are still obliged to depend on specimens like you.' He tossed the putter behind him and pressed a button on his telephone.
Otto Krafft came in, smiling pleasantly.
'Pay him his parasitic five hundred pesetas,' Christian ordered.
'Today, and every day,' Luis said. 'I'm not going to keep asking.'
'You're very touchy, for a whore,' Christian told him.
'And you're very clumsy for a ponce.'
Otto and Luis went out. On the way to the cashier's office, Luis mentioned the colonel's curious change of mood. Otto merely smiled and shrugged. Luis described the incident of the savage golf-ball. Otto nodded. 'But why do a thing like that?" Luis asked.
'I think there is something about games which annoys him,' Otto said.
'It was extremely dangerous.'
'Yes. Anything which annoys Colonel Christian is always extremely dangerous.'
After the cashier's office there was still half-an-hour before the working day ended. As Luis walked in step with Otto to yet another part of the building, he felt weary with so much learning. His brain was heavy with new knowledge. Outside, the air would be fresh and undemanding, and Madrid would be warm and cheerful, hugely inviting; he had his money, he'd surely earned it, now he deserved some rest and recreation . . .
That was the lingering, adolescent in Luis. The adult in him thought differently. Spying was a trade, so you had to acquire the technical skills. Despite Colonel Christian's tantrums -- and Luis was not convinced that they were all completely spontaneous-- the Germans were professionals: intelligent, experienced and clear-eyed. He was being taught by experts (and getting paid for it). It was a course in lifesaving. The life was his own.
Otto opened a door and waved him in. To Luis's amazement, the man behind the desk was Wolfgang Adler, the blond and barefoot Pongo of yesterday. His head and face were cut and bruised, one wrist was in a sling, and his right leg was propped on a stool, the foot being in plaster.
'Collect you at five,' Otto said, and shut the door.
They looked at each other for perhaps eight seconds.
'I am here to instruct you in how to protect yourself,' Wolfgang said. 'You have my permission to laugh.'
'No, no,' Luis said. 'I wouldn't dream of it.'
'Nevertheless, please make the effort.' Wolfgang's lower lip was split and swollen, making his speech deliberate. 'I think it will make you feel better.'
'But this is not a laughing matter,'Luis said. 'I mean . . .' He gestured at Wolfgang's injuries, and suddenly the situation was funny, was overwhelmingly funny, and he laughed until his ribs hurt. Wolfgang sat like a statue and watched, the only movement coming from one slightly blackened eye, which twitched.
'Sorry,' Luis said.
'One day I hope to break both your legs,' Wolfgang said. 'But I promise you I shall not laugh. Now . . . Do I have your full attention?'
'Go ahead.'
'When you get to Britain you will face two constant dangers. One from the professional spy-hunters, the men and women of MI5, the other from the great mass of the population. I must tell you that there is very little you can do against the first, except to take every care and to go into hiding as soon as you suspect that you are in danger.
Once they decide to arrest you, there is little hope. They have all the advantages. It would be foolish to imagine that even the greatest skill in gunmanship or unarmed combat can save you once you are trapped in a building and surrounded. The spy who shoots his way out of trouble has one enormous advantage: the collaboration of his scriptwriter. Understand?'
'Um,' Luis said. He breathed deeply, looked at the ceiling, exercised his shoulders. 'Let's not be coy. What you're saying is, give up without a fight. I don't see how I can agree to that.'
'Do as you please. I'm here to tell you the facts of life. You will be given a handgun and trained to use it. In my opinion it has only one use for an agent who finds himself cornered.' Wolfgang raised his uninjured arm, poked his index finger in his ear and pulled an imaginary trigger.
'Nothing personal, I hope.'
Wolfgang looked away. 'You flatter yourself, Mr Cabrillo.'
'Sorry. All the same, I don't think I could shoot myself just because ... I mean, it seems such a waste.'
'It's better than hanging. Being hanged is a very wretched death.' He took a small automatic from a drawer and slid it across the desk. 'Rehearse.'
Luis held the weapon by the fingertips of both hands and made sure that it was empty. He gave the trigger a few practice squeezes. It didn't feel at all lethal. It felt like an office stapler. 'Does it matter which ear?' he inquired. Wolfgang looked at his fingernails. 'No, I don't suppose it does,' Luis murmured. He pressed the muzzle into his right ear, sealing off half the world with a cold and slightly oily plug of steel.
'Wrist up,' Wolfgang ordered. 'Aim for the middle.'
Luis obeyed. 'Just a small technical point,' he said, 'would the bullet go right through and emerge from the other ear? Is that possible?'
Wolfgang hunched his shoulders and twitched his nose. 'If you ever reach this stage,' he said, 'I doubt if you will be concerned with winning extra points for,neatness.'
Luis nodded and unplugged the gun. Half the world returned with a rush of sound. 'You recommend the ear, then,' he said. 'I would have thought the forehead was the traditional site.'
'Unreliable. People get the angle wrong, and the bullet bounces off the skull. The ear provides a ready-made opening. You don't want to take any chances.'
'No,' Luis said thoughtfully, 'No, I suppose I don't
Wolfgang put the automatic away and produced a small, leather-covered blackjack. 'You will be in greater danger from the amateurs than from the experts. The entire adult population of Britain is on the alert for spies, and the risk is that some idiot civilian will stumble upon some aspect of your operations. A transmission, for instance. You are in your room one evening, sending a radio message, when a stranger, say a middleaged Englishwoman, enters by mistake and sees you.' He allowed a few seconds for that predicament to sink in. 'What do you do?'
'Grab her.'
'Impossible. She's fifteen feet away and you're wearing earphones.'
'Shoot her.'
'You d
on't shoot her,' Wolfgang said patiently. 'You're in England, remember. Try and fight the enemy with his own weapons. Politeness. Pleasantness. Restraint. The British are extremely reluctant to give offence. They like everyone to be nice, and they like to be nice to everyone. You should exploit that weakness.'
'I see.' Luis gazed at the German's damaged, dogged face. 'No, I don't see,' he said.
'Look . . . Go outside and come in. Pretend to surprise me operating a secret radio transmitter.'
Luis went out and came in again. Wolfgang was tapping a pencil on his desk like a Morse key. 'I say!" Luis exclaimed. 'What the devil d'you think you're up to?'
'Ah, good afternoon . . .' Wolfgang, completely at ease, gave a warm and welcoming smile and waved Luis in, while keeping up a steady stutter with the pencil. 'Do sit down, I shan't keep you a moment... I must just finish testing this wretched machine.'
'What d'you mean, "testing"? You're a German spy!'
Wolfgang seemed not to hear that. He smiled amiably and twiddled an imaginary knob. 'I'm sorry if the noise disturbed you. These BBC emergency kits are dreadfully loud, aren't they?'
'BBC what?
'Haven't you been given one? Everybody's supposed to have one, in case of emergency.' Wolfgang tapped away unhurriedly. 'You'd better check whether your name's on this list.' With his spare hand he opened a desk drawer.
Luis came forward and looked into the drawer. Wolfgang flicked him gently on the back of the head with the blackjack. The blow thundered around his skull. He lurched away, legs dissolving, and sat harden the floor. 'Oh dear,' he mumbled. His voice sounded remote, and climbing up the back of his throat came a hot and angry nausea. He swallowed and swallowed and .at last it grudgingly subsided. He breathed deeply and looked up. Wolfgang was watching him, without concern or contempt; he simply watched. 'I hope you know what you're doing with that thing,' Luis muttered. He felt too ill to be angry, but all the same a part of him was getting fed up with the hazards of the German Embassy.
'It doesn't make a noise and it doesn't make a mess,' Wolfgang said. 'You never need to load it or keep it sharp. Used correctly, it produces immediate unconsciousness.'
'And what do you do before he comes round? Flush the body down the toilet?'
Wolfgang gave a little snort of amusement. 'He doesn't come round. He's dead.'
'I thought ..." Luis heaved himself into a chair. His head buzzed and dots of light wandered across his eyes. 'I mean, surely--'
'You thought that when a man gets hit on the head he merely falls asleep, then wakes up, blinks, and rushes back into battle. As in the cinema.'
Luis sighed, and said nothing.
'The human skull,' said Wolfgang, taking one from his desk, 'has certain weak spots.' He displayed it like a piece of sculpture, aiming his finger down. 'Here . . . and here . . . and especially here. A firm blow at that point will certainly kill." He put the skull away. 'At another time we shall practise. On a dummy,' he added.
Luis began to resent the man's thoroughness and competence and eternal self- assurance. 'There is still the body to dispose of,' he reminded him.
Wolfgang raised one eyebrow; the other eye was still too bruised to respond. 'I was told that you have read many English detective stories. Yes? Well, then: do as the English do. Leave the body in a trunk in the left-luggage office at the nearest railway station.'
Luis groaned.
'Listen, my friend: what has been good enough for several hundred English killers is good enough for you. But first, start thinking like an Englishman. Remember that they would sooner die than cause an embarrassing scene. Take advantage of that willingness. Be nice. Apologise, smile, reassure, offer to help, and then whack!'
'And if it's a lady, should I take my hat off first?' Luis asked sourly.
'Yes, of course,' Wolfgang said. He was quite serious. 'She would suspect something if you didn't, and she would never turn her back on you. Definitely take your hat off.'
The corridors were busy with homegoing embassy staff as Otto led Luis towards a side door. 'Starting tomorrow, I shall meet you each morning at a different location and drive you straight into the embassy garage,' he said. 'Otherwise someone might notice that you are spending your days here. Tomorrow's rendezvous will be outside the Prado, main entrance, at nine.'
'All right. Can I bring my bludgeon?'
' "Bludgeon"? What is "bludgeon"?'
'Club for hitting people. Everyone around here has one.'
'I haven't.'
'Get one fast and use it, Otto. You don't want to be left behind. All the best people are doing it, the Colonel, Wolfgang ...'
'Ah. I understand, Wolfgang hit you a little bit. Well, you threw him out of the window.'
'Was that a mistake?'
'Oh no. Quite the opposite.'
'But now he hits me on the head and pretends it's just part of the lesson. Is that fair?'
'Life is not fair. In particular your life--'
Luis had stopped. They were opposite the waiting room, and he was staring past the rows of people at a woman in a red dress. She was doing a crossword puzzle.
'That's Mrs Conroy,' he said. 'You promised to deal with her problem this morning.'
Otto came back and looked. 'We did. We got a telegram from Paris. It answered her question.'
'She is still here.'
'So are many others.'
'I don't care about them.'
Otto seemed slightly put out. He looked at the American woman, at the portrait of Adolf Hitler, at his watch. 'Don't you think you are behaving somewhat presumptuously?' he asked.
'I've changed my mind,' Luis said. 'I'm not going to England after all. The weather there is bad for my chest.' He coughed resonantly. Purple echoes lost themselves in the vaulted corners of the rooms.
Otto went over to the official on duty, talked, came back. 'It seems she has another problem, in Brussels. We are dealing with that, too.'
'Good, good. My chest is much better now.' Luis coughed again, just as vigorously. 'Hear the difference?'
'You obviously have an interest in this American lady,' Otto said. 'I suggest you consider your position very seriously before ..." He shrugged. 'Before you involve yourself.'
'She happens to be the daughter of J. Edgar Hoover. A very valuable contact.'
'It's not a joke. Just remember what I said. You have no private life any more; everything about you is the Abwehr's business.'
'May I leave now?'
'Yes, you may.' Otto glanced at Julie Conroy, who was on her feet, talking to the official. 'She is very attractive. Do you know much about her?'
'Not much, no.'
Otto gave her another long glance. 'I'll bet you ten to one that what little you know is all lies.'
'Oh? What makes you say that?'
Otto took his time before replying, and then he gave Luis a sad smile. 'It's wartime, Spain is neutral, and nine out of ten people you meet are spying for the countries at war.'
'Then she is the tenth.'
'The tenth,' said Otto, 'is spying on the other spies.'
Chapter 18
Madrid in the early evening was magic.
The sky had softened from its earlier remote, ceramic purity to a warm and gentle blue, like a vast and seamless tent. Against this friendly backdrop the richness of palaces and fortresses, churches and statues, looked more theatrical than ever. It was not possible to believe that all these outbreaks of soaring towers and embroidered facades and wedding-cake extravagance had been built for serious purposes by serious, long-dead men. On a mild May evening they added up to the best free stroll in Europe; especially in 1941, when a great deal of Europe was not free to be strolled in unless a German said so. Madrid was different. Madrid had already had its war and now it was happy to be out of this one. The lights came on like an affirmation of peace, big-city jewellery brought out to help celebrate the night's enjoyment. It seemed that one half of Madrid was sauntering through the streets and squares while the other half watched f
rom windows and balconies and cafe tables.
But not Luis Cabrillo and Julie Conroy. She was temporarily tired of people and he was simply tired. After leaving the embassy she went to her hotel, ordered some ice, took a long bath, made herself a large scotch and ginger ale, and read the airmail edition of the New York Herald-Tribune. He went to his apartment, took an aspirin, and slept for two hours. Outside, Madrid was magic, which was nice for Madrid, but it couldn't compare with the wonders worked by a stiff drink or a soft bed.
They met in the lobby of the Hotel Bristol at 9.30. Luis brought a single long-stemmed red rose, and offered it with a slight bow. 'Terrific,' she said. The doorman and the desk clerk smiled at each other in approval: Mrs Conroy was the brightest part of their day. Luis said: 'I thought it would enhance the beauty of your hair.'
'Genius.' She twirled the rose and they stood and looked at it. 'Now what do I do with it?'
Luis had not considered that. 'Behind the ear?' he suggested.
She tried it. 'I feel like I'm wearing one navigation light,' she said, looking sideways.
'Pinned to the bosom?'
'I don't have one. You've got to be forty to have a bosom. The hell with it, I'll just carry the thing and use it to beat off the Gestapo.'
They walked through the old city to a rambling restaurant called the Dos Amigos. It rambled over two floors and both floors had several levels. This meant that almost everyone could see almost everyone else, as the upper floor was pierced in the middle with a large, round hole. Underneath this a band played. The place was half-full and noisy, the waiters doing a lot of shouting and customers leaning over the upstairs balcony to call down to friends eating below.
As Luis and Julie walked past the band, the trumpet-player (gaunt-faced and greyhaired, with a jaunty stance and insomniac eyes) followed them around with his trumpet. He played a greasy, sleazy little tune, deliberately cracking some notes and ending on a slow downhill phrase like mockery. It won him laughter and applause from a few customers. He acknowledged this with a chirpy little bugle-call as he turned back into his original melody.
'Friend of yours?' she asked when they got to their table.
The Eldorado Network Page 15
