'Could it be "groins"?' 'No. Show me.'
She came in, smiling brightly and utterly naked. Her breasts swayed slightly in counterpoint to the easy swing of her hips. She looked very white and very lithe. Luis's head jerked as if someone had tugged his hair. Here it is.' She leaned gently against him and showed the page of notes.
'That' not "loins",' he said. 'That's "dynamite".' Is there a difference?' She walked back to her office, king the long way round. Her buttocks twinkled neatly. Luis took a deep breath and picked up his work, but the words had lost their meaning. One minute later Julie was back. This time she drifted slowly over to his desk, walking on tip- toe and smoothing the back of her hair while she held a different sheet of paper at arm's length. In the reflected sunlight her skin had a sheen like new satin. 'Look,' she said, placing the paper in front of him. 'It must be jelly, cuz jam don't shake like that.'
She had ringed one word. 'That's "dynamite" again, Luis said.
'Really?' She put her arm around his neck and leaned so that one nipple brushed his cheek and touched his lips 'Dynamite, huh?'
'For God's sake!' Luis roared. He heaved himself out of his chair as she took her paper and walked away. Throwing off his coat and shirt and kicking off his shoes he followed her into her office, where she had already begun typing.
'Sorry if I disturbed you,' she said.
'Forget that," he told her, dragging off his trousers with some difficulty. 'Come to bed.'
She paused with her hands on the keys, while he stood, panting and rampant. 'You do realise that it's not a tax-deductible expense,' she remarked.
'Oh, balls!' he cried.
'Well, if you put it that way,' she said, 'how can a lad refuse?'
They ripped open the packets of sheets and covered the bed. The cotton rustled stiffly against their bodies. One of the bed-springs squeaked. 'Did you really think I got this just for when you worked late?' Julie asked.
'Yes,' Luis said defiantly. He tucked his head under the sheet and blew a series of raspberries against her breasts until it made her laugh and and she hugged him to stop it. 'Anyway,' he mumbled, 'when a woman arrives in your office with a bed at half-past ten in the morning, it's not easy to know exactly what to do next.'
'Poor Luis,' she said. 'Still, you seem to be getting the hang of it now, don't you?'
'Beginner's luck,' he said.
Luis slept for half an hour, and woke up to see Julie curled beside him, reading a Portuguese guide book. 'Let's go to Oporto,' she said. 'It's all green and blue up there. Lots of rivers and mountains. Have you ever been to Oporto?' He shook his head. 'Couple of hundred miles north,' she said.
He lay sideways and enjoyed watching her.
'Coimbra looks good too. And Santarem. Nazare. Grandala. Beja. Louie. Terrific old places, built by Moors and Romans. We should go take a look.'
'It would be nice.'
'Well, we can afford a week off.'
Afford the money, yes. What about the time? What about the work?'
It'll still be here when we come back.'
Luis almost laughed. 'Madrid wouldn't be very pleased to hear that the war has been adjourned for two weeks,' he said.
'Can't you cook something up? Tell them that Seagull's got mumps, Knickers got married, Garlic's working double-shifts at the hospital and Eldorado ... I don't know, Eldorado's been run over by a bus.'
'That still leaves Nutmeg.'
Jailed for shoplifting.'
Luis grunted, and looked away. 'They're easy enough to destroy," he said, 'but they're damn difficult to create. In any case, I want to recruit a new man soon.'
Julie slowly raised her head and looked over the top of the guide book. 'Not another sub-agent, for heaven's sake?' she said.
'Certainly. He's a homosexual lecturer at the University of Birmingham. Code-name "Wallpaper".'
She moved until she was kneeling and sitting on her heels, looking down at him. 'Luis, tell me something. Why are you doing all this?'
He shrugged. 'You know why.'
'No, I don't. I don't mean how did it happen, I mean what's the purpose of this whole damn great operation? Where is it getting you?'
'It's getting me rich, of course. What else?' He made a wide-open gesture.
'But you are rich, now.' She stared at him, determined so make him explain. 'How much do you make per year a: the moment?'
'In dollars? About . . .' He worked it out. 'Maybe sixty or seventy thousand a year. 'That's before taxes and expenses,' he added hurriedly.
'Then I don't understand. What more do you want?'
'It's a business, Julie. You can't stop it growing if the market wants it to grow. All I'm doing is meeting the demand.'
'What the hell are you talking about, Luis? You create the demand! You create all these nobodies! I mean, how many more do you need, for Pete's sake? What are you trying to do: make yourself the first spy millionaire?'
Luis looked at the ceiling and smoothed his moustache.
'Holy cow,'Julie said, in a voice flattened by amazement. 'I just aimed ten feet high and hit the target.'
Luis got out of bed, and stretched. 'Duty calls!' he said.
Luis successfully launched Wallpaper, hinting not only that his homosexuality was the lever which Eldorado had used to recruit him, but also that-- in the decadence of Birmingham University-- it won him access to secret research being done for the War Office. Wallpaper's first report was on experiments with hypnosis to reduce sexual tension among submarine crews. He ran up an impressive bill for entertaining his informants, which Madrid paid without question.
Bradburn & Wedge was also doing well. Julie sold a second consignment of lemonade crystals to the firm of Joachim von Klausbrunner. The degreasing patents which she had taken in payment from the bankrupt dealer lay on her desk for a while, until she advertised them in Diario (Patentes Anti-Lubrificantes -- Grande Uiilidade -- Oportunidade Exceptional). This brought an enquiry from a firm of engineers, who bought a five-year licence on the patents. Her accountant urged her to invest the money in Portuguese Government bonds; instead she spent it all on soap.
'Very American,' Luis said when she told him.
'Listen, you're more American than I am. At least I get some fun out of business. All you ever want to do is make money.'
'All I want to do is succeed. Would you prefer me to fail?'
'Oh, forget it.'
'The money comes afterwards. It's just a measurement of success, that's all.'
'Okay, you're rich! You're successful! So why can't we at least take a weekend in Oporto?'
Luis shook his head. 'We've been over that. You go, if you want to.'
'You're a goddam addict,' she said. 'Any time you're not making money you're afraid you're going to die. The more you get, the more you crave.'
He smiled, and steered her to the door. 'I always know when you're hungry,' he said, 'because that's when you stop making sense.'
It was drizzling and gloomy, so he took her to a restaurant made warm and cheerful by its charcoal fire. They ate grilled chicken made even hotter with piri-piri sauce, drank beer, and said little.
A man walked past their table, stopped, half-turned his head, and then came back. 'Hullo,' he said. 'This is a surprise.'
He was in his mid-thirties, with a plump, friendly face and hair that was thick but surprisingly grey. His suit was a smart and comfortable lovat tweed, and his manner was easy and confident. Luis went on chewing his chicken and looked at him warily. 'Is it?' he said.
'You're Luis Cabrillo. You don't remember me, do you?'
Luis's moustache briefly straightened in a polite smile. 'No, and I'm afraid you are mistaken.'
'You're not Luis Cabrillo?'
Luis handed him a business card. 'My name is Bradburn,' he said, 'and this is my partner, Senhora Wedge.'
'Jolly good.' He didn't even glance at the card. 'The last time we met, I was a very smelly deserter, you were driving a car, and Madrid was getting the daylights shelle
d out of it.'
Luis leaned back and stared. 'Charles Templeton,' the man said.
'For heaven's sake.' Luis recognised traces of the haggard and ragged figure that he had once watched swigging brandy and chatting over-brightly to the newspapermen. 'Come and sit down. I thought you were dead. You look very well. How on earth did you get out of Spain?'
'The old-boy system, old boy. Met a chap I knew at school.' Templeton sat. 'I take it you're still in the skullduggery business?'
'What makes you think that?'
Templeton held up the card. 'Bogus name, old chap. I mean, it doesn't matter, I'm not offended, or anything.' He stopped a waiter and ordered more beer. 'It happens to be my line of work too, at the moment. If I may say so without offence, you don't look like a Miss Wedge.'
'I'm Julie Conroy,' she said. 'Luis is too cheap to get me a decent alias.'
'You look rather like Lauren Bacall.'
'Don't tell him that. The thought of the expense will give him palpitations.'
'What are you doing in Lisbon?' Luis asked.
'I'm with the British Embassy. I got a job with the Secret Service, organising skullduggery.'
'But you were a Communist,' Luis said, 'you fought with the International Brigade, you were on the run--'
'Stand on your chair, Luis,'Julie said, 'the people at the back can't hear.'
Templeton laughed. 'That's all right, I've got diplomatic immunity nowadays.' The beer came. 'I suppose it must seem a bit odd to you,' he said. 'It's the old-boy system again. I met a chap I knew at school who was looking for chaps of the right sort, and here I am.'
They reminisced about the civil war, until Julie interrupted and told Templeton that Luis had met a colleague of his at the embassy. 'Yes?' Templeton said.
'Walter Witteridge,' Luis said.
'Oh, he's quite useless. He used to write books, I believe.
You can't expect anything from a man who writes books for a living.'
'You used to paint pictures,' Luis pointed out.
'Ah, yes, but they didn't sell. I mean, nobody, bought them. Whereas Witteridge's stuff used to sell by the cartload. Fearfully popular man, he was. Did you find him useless?'
'Utterly.'
'There you are, then.' Templeton drank his beer with an air of satisfaction.
'Perhaps Luis should go and see someone else,'Julie said.
'About what?'
'Getting a job,' Luis said. 'You know, working for your people. I have certain . . . qualifications. Special qualifications.'
Templeton was shaking his head before Luis had finished. 'I can't honestly see it happening, old chap,' he said. 'It's not that you couldn't do a splendid job, I'm sure you'd be absolutely first-rate; but they have rather funny ideas in my department. They rather like to have public-school chaps. I suppose it's to make sure we all understand each other.'
'I see.'
'Bloody silly, I know, but there you are.'
Templeton was returning to the embassy, and so he shared their taxi. 'I tell you what might make a difference,' he said. 'If you could find out something we wanted to know, that would be a sort of a foot in the door, at least.'
'I could try.'
Templeton looked at the driver and lowered his head. Our chaps have caught wind of an enemy agent, called Eagle,' he whispered. 'He travels all over England but that's as much as we know. That and his code-name, Eagle.'
'All right,' Luis grunted. They straightened up. 'Awfully nice place, Lisbon,' Templeton said.
'Do you need any soap?'Julie asked.
'Well, I could always do with the odd bar, I suppose.
'I've got half a ton.'
'Goodness. If I were you, I'd try the inhabitants of Jarama, in central Spain. The ones I met were always in desperate need of a bath.'
Julie wrinkled her nose. 'Waste of time. Only clean people buy soap.'
The remark saddened Templeton. He looked at the wet, black streets, and sighed. Soon they reached the embassy. He got out and waved goodbye.
As they drove on, Julie said: 'Now I know why Hitler decided not to invade England. He didn't go to the right school.'
Luis nodded, gloomily. 'He wouldn't have got along with the other chaps, poor devil.'
'Not that he wouldn't have done a splendid job.'
'Oh, I'm sure he'd have been absolutely first-rate.'
'Of course. It's just that ...'
'Yes. I mean, how could one chap say to another chap, "Look here, old chap 'I'd like to meet a chap I knew at school, chap called Adolf Hitler"?'
'I can't honestly see it happening, old chap,' Julie said.
'Shitheads,' Luis muttered. 'They don't deserve to win.'
Chapter 53
The Russian winter began unusually early in 1941: snow was falling near Leningrad in the first days of November. German commanders noticed its effects when their sentries, lacking winter clothing, froze to death at their posts. In Madrid, Brigadier Christian noticed that his office was surprisingly chilly in the mornings, and ordered a log fire.
When Otto Krafft brought in Eagle's report on the state of the British lightweight alloys industry, Christian read it while standing in from of the fire, one hand behind him to raise the flap of his hacking jacket.
He finished the last page and gave a snort of satisfaction.
'I very much doubt if the British Ministry of Aircraft Production could improve on that,'he said. 'It's complete, it's concise, and it reads like Hemingway.'
'Yes, sir. I suspect that Eagle is an admirer of Mr Hemingway, especially in view of Mr Hemingway's recent articles opposing American involvement in the war.'
Christian nodded, too pleased to pay much attention. 'The short, declarative sentence!' he said. 'So easy to translate. It helps them enormously in Berlin, I know. No damned subjunctives!'
'I'm afraid Eagle's travelling expenses are especially heavy this time,' Otto said. 'Southampton, Coventry, Newport -- the one in south Wales, that is-- Wolverhampton, Fort William in Scotland, and he even went to Northern Ireland for the bauxite works at Larne because--'
'Pay it.' Christian waved impatiently. 'We're lucky to have a man who has access to all these plates. There's only one way to be sure and that's to go and see for yourself. I know; I've done it.' He flourished the report like a flag. 'You don't gather intelligence of this calibre by sitting on your ass in London. There's only one tiny thing that puzzles me.'
Otto cocked his head and looked receptive.
'English spelling,' Christian said. 'Eagle spells "tyre" with a "y", not an "i". He writes "aluminium" instead of "aluminum". Strange?' He hoisted his shaggy eyebrows.
Yes and no, sir,' Otto said cautiously. 'After all, Eagle is getting all his information from English sources. He must be accustomed to talking about aluminium by now. And he was a Rhodes Scholar.'
'True.' Christian tossed him the report. 'Code it and forward it, top priority. Eagle gets a one-hundred-percent bonus and I want Dr Hartmann in here at once.'
Christian offered Hartmann a glass of dry sherry, sat him inside the fire, and together they reviewed Garlic's output. You know, it's time Garlic broadened his horizons,' Chris-can said. 'I want you to get him to concentrate on the lightweight alloys situation in Britain. Who makes them, where, how much: you know the sort of thing.'
'Yes, sir. Is there a deadline?'
'No, but . . . Stir him up a bit. Hint that there's big bonus money available if ... Wait a minute. You have to brief Garlic through Eldorado, don't you?'
'That's right.'
Christian thought for a moment. 'Let's see if we can't use Eagle to stimulate Eldorado. Tell Eldorado something about Eagle, not too much, just that Eagle's doing very well over there and as a result certain funds may have to be diverted from Eldorado or his sub-agents . . . Get the idea? Make it look like an act of courtesy on your part.'
'I gather the objective is to encourage a certain amount of healthy rivalry.' Hartmann said.
'You gather right,' Christian
declared, 'and if it works, we .shall all gather a rich reward.'
When Dr Hartmann went out, Wolfgang Adler was waiting at the door. This time he was not holding his folder. 'Request permission to see Captain Mullen," he said before Christian could speak.
'I see.' Christian bared his teeth and scratched an incisor with the nail of his little finger. 'Well, you have a right to go over my head, I suppose. See Otto. He will arrange it.'
Ten minutes later Otto found Wolfgang staring out of a window. 'Two o'clock in Mullen's office,' he told him. Wolfgang grunted. 'Look, I think you're making a mistake,' Otto warned. 'I can easily cancel it, if you like.'
Wolfgang breathed deeply, in and out, until his shoulders slumped. 'Not me,' he said softly. 'The mistake is not mine.'
At three minutes to two, he took the lift to the top floor. He carried his folder. The fingers of his right hand were throbbing and his palms were sweating slightly.
Mullen's outer office was empty. Wolfgang knocked on the inner door and pushed it open. Waiting for him behind the big, curved, mahogany desk was Brigadier Christian. 'Come in, Adler,' he said. 'Mullen's gone, posted. I've got his job now. So what d'you want?'
Wolfgang was shocked but not beaten. He took some stapled papers from his folder and dropped them in front of Christian. 'That's a copy of an Eldorado report,' he said.
It stinks with error and I can prove that. On page three he refers to St Pancras in central London in a context which suggests that he thinks it is a church. St Pancras is in fact a large railway station.' Christian linked his fingers behind his head and leaned back in his chair. 'The next paragraph,' Wolfgang went on, 'concerns supplies of coolant fluid for a certain radial-engined bomber. All radial engines are air-cooled.' Christian's eyelids drooped slightly. 'And worst of all, if you care to look on page six," Wolfgang said in a voice flattened with anger, 'you will find Eldorado relating with enthusiasm the views of a supposedly experienced aeronautical engineer about an advanced version of the Hurricane fighter which he claims is fitted with no fewer than four cannon-guns. Four seventy-five millimetre cannon-guns.'
The Eldorado Network Page 37
