The Map

by T. S. Learner

  ‘You know Franco has a summer house here,’ she cracked, then spat over the edge of the truck, clutching the side of it as it bounced over the potholes. ‘A brave man,’ she added, cynically. The woman had transformed herself into a simple peasant farmer, with a traditional peaked hood pulled low over her ears. A kid goat sat in a bag she had strapped over her shoulder, its small pointed head sticking out, eyes wide in fear. All trace of the tough political fighter August had witnessed in the mountain hut were now erased.

  The truck rumbled along, then they turned left at the Zurriola Bridge towards the old city centre. It passed another smaller three-wheel truck driving in the opposite direction, the back of which carried that morning’s catch – a barrel of salted sardines.

  ‘Here, the people are arrantzale – the people of the sea. But I am baserritarra, farmer of the land. Whoever you talk to, trust no one. There are Carlists and Francoists among our own people,’ she advised, in an undertone. They drove down the Pescaderia, the street that led to the fish market, the streets already filling with other farmers bringing in produce from the surrounding mountains and valleys. ‘Monday – market day, full of people. I take you to La Brecha, this way you disappear.’

  Most of the cars August saw were at least twenty years old and the people looked impoverished, downtrodden. The truck shuddered to a halt beside the market. The old woman jumped down, August followed.

  ‘We leave you here,’ she told him in Spanish, her voice low and urgent. ‘Take this.’ She swung the bag with the baby goat from her shoulder and handed it to him. ‘You look less suspicious with him. He will bring you luck. If he doesn’t, you can always eat him. The bar you should look for is Bar de la Lamia, the bar of the river mermaid. If they let you, the information you seek you will find there. It’s between Bar Eceiza and Bar Manolo.’

  August swung the goat over his left shoulder, his travel bag over his right, then turned to say goodbye, but she was gone, disappeared into the milling crowd. He stood at the edge of the plaza staring up at the stone entrance of the market, the word Merondo arching over the top, watching the farmers carrying in their produce: goat’s cheese, sheep’s cheese, ham, tomatoes, beans, green peppers, lettuces and sweet potatoes. August knew there was still strict rationing, but there were still a few luxuries – chorizo, dried fruit and strings of onions.

  A row of mules and carts sat on one side of the square, along with several small ancient trucks – nearby a group of farmers stood smoking pipes and talking. One, noticing the newcomer, looked over at August, his expression a curious blend of suspicion and inquisitiveness, his gaze sweeping over August’s clothes and the kid goat on his back, as the local tried to assess who August was and where he was from. Just then August noticed a change fall over the group as something caught their attention from the other side of the plaza. He turned. Two Guardias Civiles, guns resting in their belts and batons swinging from leather belts, had entered the square. He turned back to the farmers; the men had quietly begun to disperse. August glanced back at the policemen. They were loitering at a table outside a bar while the waiter fussed over them. They hadn’t noticed August yet. As casually and nonchalantly as he could, August began following a couple of the men down one of the narrow streets lined with old apartment blocks and buildings, bars lining the kerb at street level. He shuffled along at a discreet distance, adopting the gait of a shy rural peasant, eyes down, his feet uncertain on the cobblestones beneath, the goat bleating plaintively on his back. He found Bar de la Lamia next to Bar Manolo.

  A low narrow space, with the customarily wooden counter running along one side of the room and photographs of Real Sociedad pinned up on the back wall, it was crowded with fishermen and farmers, dressed in the large black berets and checked shirts. The air was thick with pipe smoke and fragrant with the smell of rich black coffee and garlic. Several of the men were drinking salda, a fragrant chicken broth, and there was an array of pintxos, a kind of Basque tapas, displayed in the long glass cabinet that ran along the bar. As August entered, several men looked over their shoulders to see who the newcomer was and, after glancing sceptically at his clothes and beret, turned back to their coffees and pintxos, shoulders hunched over their plates. August pushed his way through to the counter.

  ‘A brandy, please,’ he said, in the thickest Basque-accented Spanish he could muster. The barman glanced at him disbelievingly and then shrugged.

  ‘First the goat,’ he muttered. August looked at him, confused. The barman reached out over the counter.

  ‘Your goat. Don’t worry, I won’t steal him.’

  Reluctantly, August handed the goat in the shoulder bag over to him.

  ‘Please don’t. He’s the only friend I have left.’

  The old farmer sitting next to him laughed, as the barman hung the bag with kid goat over one of the barrels of brandy. The animal, bedazzled by the noise and cigarette smoke, cowered. The barman poured a shot of brandy and pushed it to August.

  ‘It’s good to keep your friends close. Around here they have a tendency to disappear, usually to San Marcos, but unlike our good general, I promise I won’t shoot your friend.’ August, knowing San Marcos was one of Franco’s notorious concentration camps, lifted his glass in a toast.

  ‘To missing friends, eaten or shot.’ He kept his gaze level and his voice serious. The room fell silent, filled momentarily by the rattle of cartwheels as a cart passed outside, and August knew he’d stepped over the border. Now it was a question of whether or not they were going to trust him – it was a huge risk. They were just as capable of disappearing him as the fascists, if they felt he might betray them. He kept his glass raised and his hand steady. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the barman poured himself a shot and clinked his glass against August’s and the tension broke like sunshine after rain. ‘To missing friends,’ the barman replied, now smiling, his craggy face suddenly softened by the grin.

  ‘To missing friends,’ several of the men echoed, in Euskara, raising their glasses, and as August glanced around, again he wondered at the lack of visible young men and how many exiles must have fled.

  ‘You’re not from around here – the North?’ The barman indicated August’s blond hair.

  ‘No, from much, much further. But maybe you can help me. I’m here visiting Irumendi, maybe you have heard of it? I need to get there before nightfall and I need directions.’

  It was like a pulse ran through the bar at the mention of the village’s name. The barman glanced meaningfully towards the back of the room at one of the men, who exuded the sullen danger of a paid observer. The barman nodded, and the man, perched on a stool, slipped off the seat into a back room. August steeled himself, now fighting an instinct to make a break for the door. Stay calm, stay calm, keep your face open, you are who you say. The old training he used for his time in occupied France came flooding back, the techniques he knew to engender trust, to change the actual frequency, the vibration of his character.

  There was a commotion at the back of the bar. The farmers began to move aside, bowing their heads slightly in respect as an old man pushed through them. He looked to be in his eighties and he wasn’t much more than five foot tall, but his shoulders were broad and muscular, probably the result of years of physical labour. His legs looked painfully wizen and thin below the contracted bull-like torso. He hobbled up and planted himself squarely in front of August. Then stared fiercely at him, his elongated countenance naturally morose. His large ears stuck poignantly out from the wispy silver hair that framed his narrow skull, giving him a curious vulnerability – in a face that was a jigsaw of scars.

  ‘There are some places that exist on the map and some that don’t, you understand me, boy?’ he spat out in a gravelly, broken Spanish. August guessed that it was not a language he used often or with much affection.

  August glanced around. Judging from the reverence the others held for the old man, he was obviously the patriarch, a leader of some kind. August bowed his head in respect.
r />   ‘I understand.’

  ‘So, why are you interested in Irumendi?’

  At this August pulled the medal he won fighting for the Republic from inside his pocket, discreetly showing the ribbon and the metal to the old man for just a second. The old man’s demeanour changed. ‘I had a friend from there I fought alongside,’ August told him, hating himself for the lie, but knowing he needed to get the old man to trust him and fast. ‘I would like to visit his sister.’

  The old man nodded in approval but eyed August suspiciously.

  ‘It is three hours’ drive from here and the road is narrow and hazardous. How do you expect to get there?’

  ‘I have money and the goat. I need to get there, otherwise my friend the barman could lose the brand-new friend he’s just made. You understand me?’ August replied, not flinching from his gaze.

  The old man turned and murmured something to the man next to him. A moment later another farmer, tall and pale, with a long face that looked like it had been battered by both famine and poverty, stepped forward.

  ‘I will take you there,’ he told August, unsmiling.

  They were interrupted by shouting from outside, and several of the men pushed their way to the door.

  ‘They’ve arrested Xabier!’ one of the men yelled over the commotion. The old man bustled his way to the window, and August followed but he was careful to keep well out of sight of anyone outside.

  Beyond, in the plaza, he could see the two policemen hauling a young man kicking and struggling, his arms pinned behind him, towards a police van. Men and women gathered to watch silently, the sullen hostility visible in their faces.

  ‘Someone betrayed him,’ a farmer muttered.

  ‘Money makes mouths loose,’ the old man said, as a ripple of discontent ran through the bar. The old man turned back to August.

  ‘You see how we are forced to live, like cowed sheep. We might have lost the battle but the war continues. Send my regards to your uncle.’ He winked as two tall, broad-shouldered men stepped up to escort him out of a back door.

  Malcolm Hully had just pulled on his raincoat and was in the action of wrapping a scarf around his neck when the desk phone rang.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘’Ello? That is Malcolm ’ully, non?’ The accent was Parisian, authoritarian, older, male. Malcolm steadied his racing pulse before answering in perfect but private school French.

  ‘Good afternoon, Monsieur, this is indeed Monsieur Hully.’

  ‘Interpol. We have a lead on your friend, Monsieur Winthrop.’

  ‘Indeed, how interesting.’

  ‘He has appeared on our system. Calais, Rouen, Saint Jean de Luc. A customs officer wired through the details. What would you like us to do, inform MI6?’ The voice was slightly wry, no doubt the French officer was wondering why he’d been instructed to report directly to Malcolm and not through his superior, but Malcolm had decided to contain the information on Winthrop for the moment. There was far too much rivalry between MI5 and MI6; both departments were convinced the mole lay in the other. So he had called in a few favours from some of his old French colleagues from the SOE days.

  ‘No, not just yet, but very kind of you to offer, Henri, isn’t it?’

  ‘Actually, it is Mathias. Henri is on holiday.’

  It was exactly as he suspected. It must be Spain. August was heading straight into the lion’s den. For a moment Malcolm wondered whether he should tip off any of his Spanish counterparts – he did have them – unofficially. But that would be swift and ultimately uninteresting. Better to wait and find out what skeleton the Tin Man was going to reveal. But why Spain? It must be Franco-related, Malcolm concluded, but if Winthrop was working for the Russians what was in Spain that could possibly be of interest to them? And why send Winthrop, unless it was to capitalise on his old Civil War connections or perhaps assassinate someone? And how did the murder of Copps fit into the jigsaw?

  ‘Well, Mathias, if Interpol could just keep its eyes open along the Spanish – French border, particularly around the west Pyrenees area, we would be most appreciative. In fact …’ Malcolm rummaged through the top drawer of his desk, then found the file he was looking for. Balancing the receiver with one hand, he flipped it open with the other. ‘I think we might have some information on an Algerian dissident you are interested in. Bomb attack in Marseille? A Jean-Paul Mahmet?’

  ‘You know where Mahmet is?’

  ‘Let’s just say if you find me August Winthrop, I might just be able to find you Mahmet.’

  ‘You have a deal.’

  ‘Bien, merci beaucoup, Mathias.’ But the French agent had already put down the telephone. Malcolm leaned back in the chair and stared out over Curzon Street. Below, a tired-looking prostitute harassed a potential client. Ordinarily, Malcolm would have found this mildly intriguing but today he was distracted, positively perplexed. Had the Soviets sent August in? Knowing what August faced in Spain if arrested, he could only think that whatever the motivation, the stakes must be very high indeed. What was the CIA setting up in Madrid? Malcolm knew Franco was frustrated by the NATO exclusion, as well as the denial of any of the US funds from Marshall – a scheme now hugely benefiting the rebuilding of both Germany and Italy. What did Franco have to offer the Americans that would worry the Soviets enough to send in an agent? Abruptly, he knew the answer – geography. Proximity to European airspace. The possibility of military bases for US forces. Spain was also the perfect midpoint for US planes to refuel on the way to the Soviet Union – if ever the US planned to bomb the region. All of which would make the Soviets very interested indeed. But if he was wrong and MI5 went after August, it would be personally disastrous.

  For a split second Malcolm toyed with the idea of ringing a guy he knew in the CIA over in Washington, but stopped himself. The British Secret Service had lost enough credibility with the Yanks in the Burgess debacle. August, as the errant son of a highly respected ex-senator, could prove to be even more embarrassing, especially if they turned out to be mistaken about him. No, if Malcolm was to keep his job, he would have to handle the situation as quietly and as independently as possible. Who knows, it might even lead to a promotion.

  There had to be someone else he knew who could confirm his theory. But who? Then he remembered an old American girlfriend of August’s who was now dating someone high up in the embassy. August had broken her heart and Malcolm happened to know she was still bitter about it – if anyone would be willing to corroborate his theory, it would be her. He sat back down at the desk and in the gathering darkness of the office, picked up the telephone.

  9

  The two horses strained as they hauled the cart to the top of the crest. They’d been climbing for hours, hugging the side of a mountain. The road was strewn with rocks and pebbles and it would have been impossible to drive a car up it. Already cloud had descended over the surrounding peaks, cloaking them in white. They turned a sharp bend and the view of a deep valley below with a river snaking its way along the base opened up in front of them. His companion pulled the reins up sharp and turned to August.

  ‘Look!’ He pointed down and in that moment the mist cleared and a thin sheen of sunlight ran over the valley like quicksilver, illuminating a small village nestling in the fork of the river, an old church tower standing in the centre, the top of it catching the light for a second.

  ‘The village of …’ – here his hand circled the area and August could clearly see the peaks that ringed them – ‘… the three mountains.’ He grinned, displaying an impressive row of gold teeth – the first smile in hours. ‘Now you might understand why we were reluctant to take you here. It is one of our best-kept secrets – it was one of our strongholds during the war. You can only travel here by mule and then only during the day. And it is most unfriendly towards foreigners. Most unfriendly. It still isn’t too late to change your mind, my friend – I can take you back with me tomorrow morning.’

  August glanced back at the mountains. The silhouette of th
e three peaks defined by the craggy outposts and sharp dips was distinctive set against the sky, and instantly recognisable to him. Even more extraordinary, it appeared virtually unchanged after three hundred years. The ancient physic Elazar ibn Yehuda’s mountains, one of the secret places he’d described, it was astounding to August to think that Elazar had visited here in 711 and then Shimon Ruiz de Luna in 1610 and now here he was standing right in their footprints.

  ‘I’ve arrived,’ he whispered, in English.

  ‘Whatever you say,’ his companion cracked back in Spanish then shook the reins. Reluctantly, the horses began their descent.

  He had asked the driver to drop him off with his bags and the goat at the edge of the village – it was his strategy to enter quietly, unannounced; he would need to scout out the geography and the people before he could plan how and where he would stay. Close up, the village was smaller than he’d imagined, the dwellings the traditional whitewashed steep-roofed Basque cottages with their picturesque red or green shutters. Most of the buildings looked as if they had been constructed in the Middle Ages and it appeared little had developed since then. But some looked even older, ancient – crafted from a grey-yellowish stone that, August guessed, was local. He pulled his shepherd’s hood up. Walking along the narrow stone lanes, his abarkak silent against the cobblestones, the kid goat bleating behind him in the rucksack, August was struck by how quiet Irumendi was, almost as if it were a ghost town, as if some sudden disaster had mysteriously wiped out its occupants. Then he remembered that it was Sunday.

  He turned the corner and arrived at a small plaza with a moss-covered fountain in the middle. Opposite stood a tiny town hall with a balcony and clock set into the façade. Beside it was the police station with the obligatory Spanish flag hanging from a pole, but the flag was ripped and did not looked loved. The police station was right next to a school, one of the walls of which had been made into a fronton – a pelota court, with bleachers to the left. A mangy dog, neglected and hungry-looking, slinked out of a doorway, followed August for a few yards, then gave up to collapse onto a doorstep.