The Princess Spy

by Larry Loftis

  It seemed a macabre custom but, like everything in Spain, it had a long tradition. In the days when bullfighters made little money, Aline heard, an ear entitled the matador to the meat of the bull.

  When the clamor died down Aline glanced again at Schellenberg, who was speaking with the German ambassador’s wife. Wondering what Franco had thought of the fight, she turned and looked up. To her surprise she saw Edmundo sitting several rows behind her. He caught her eye and motioned toward Franco’s box. The general was gone, but policemen and Civil Guards were rushing all around it. A murmur rumbled through the crowd, and she asked Pimpinela if she could make out what everyone was saying.

  “My heavens,” she said. “Somebody tried to kill Franco.”

  * * *

  That evening Juanito came by Aline’s apartment to take her to dinner. As he was opening the car door for her, she tried to think of what to say. In less than one hour that day he had become larger than life.

  “I’ve been trying to think of some completely original compliment,” she said, “something you haven’t heard. I can’t come up with a thing. Juanito, you’re extraordinary!”

  Juanito smiled. “Thank you, Aline. Coming from an American, that is original. Few of your compatriots understand the art of the bullfight.”

  Aline made an offhand remark about the bull’s chances and Juanito gave her a sidelong smirk.

  “Don’t you think the bullring a more glorious end than a slaughterhouse in Chicago? Here, the bull has as much chance as the matador—several toreros are killed or maimed each season. The bulls are bred for that fight and crave it. They’ll attack anything that moves.”

  Aline nodded and Juanito went on. “This skill was invented by our ancestors to defend themselves against the attack of wild bulls, who always existed here. Today the corrida celebrates the courage of man and beast alike. If executed with grace, it is an incomparable experience.”

  Given what she’d seen that day, Aline couldn’t disagree. Still, she had mixed feelings. Watching that fight “overwhelmed me,” she remembered later. “I could not look at parts of it, I was shocked and determined never to return.” And yet the drama and excitement was undeniable. “Those moments of intense emotion cannot be seen in any other spectacle. What is happening in front of you absorbs your entire being. The intense fear, then the exhilaration that follows when a matador brings the enormous beast swirling around him, the sharp horns barely grazing his body, the magic of man’s power to face death with valor and grace.”

  But bullfighting affected people differently, she understood. American author John Steinbeck, not surprisingly, saw it as a metaphor for life: “I like bullfighting,” he wrote to a friend, “because to me it is a lonely, formal, anguished microcosm of what happens to every man, sometimes in an office, strangled by the glue on envelopes.”

  Aline knew that Juanito would have his own perspective and she asked him for his story—why he was a bullfighter, why he risked his life dozens and dozens of times a year. Was it the exhilaration? The fame? The money?

  Juanito paused for several moments, reflecting, and Aline sensed she had touched a nerve.

  “My story isn’t a happy one,” he finally said. “My mother was born in a poor family in Sevilla; my father also. They fell in love, and then he became the world’s greatest bullfighter. They intended to marry when he returned from his winter fights in South America. Just after he left Spain, my mother discovered she was pregnant. Her father put her out of his house, and she supported herself by sewing—until my father returned. But my father had married a rich Peruvian girl and when he returned, he refused to see my mother or me. It was only when I was ten years old that he recognized me legally. He had no choice, because I looked so much like him that people stopped me on the street to say, ‘You must be the son of the great Belmonte!’

  “I became a bullfighter, not because I liked it—to be honest with you, I don’t, Aline—but it was the only way I could become rich enough to repay my mother for all she had sacrificed for me. I know I’ll never be as great a matador as my father, but at least today I can give my mother any luxury she desires. I’ve accomplished what I care about most.”

  Aline looked at Juanito, speechless.

  * * *

  A few days later Gregory Thomas called Aline into his office and said he needed her to go to Málaga that night on the ten o’clock train. It was a simple courier run, but not without a bit of danger. He was hoping to send a more experienced agent, he added—namely Mellon or Dunev—but neither was available.

  He handed her a roll of microfilm. “In this strip are the names and addresses of Spaniards ready to hide—and aid—our agents on the underground route from Málaga to the Pyrenees. The culmination of, oh, I’d say about a year and a half of research.”

  She was to hide the film inside her dress, he said, and deliver it to a man named Blacky at two thirty the next day. They would meet at the Santa Iglesia Cathedral, on the back bench, and Blacky would be wearing a white scarf. She was to sit beside him—not too close—pray, and then pass him the film. No words were to be spoken. If he or she could not make the drop, a second attempt was to be made at the same place at six thirty that evening. If that one failed, the last attempt was to be the following day, again at two thirty.

  Aline nodded and Thomas handed her the ticket.

  “There may be trouble on the train. A new stipulation requires travelers to carry travel permits. The Germans received theirs a week ago; we’re still waiting. You probably will get by without it—your age and all.”

  Aline was pleased with the assignment. Situated on Spain’s southern coast, not far from Marbella, Málaga was said to be one of the most beautiful and interesting places in the world. It had a bullring and cathedrals like Madrid, but with a rugged terrain not unlike southern France; one could lunch at a café downtown and then dine that evening at a mountain overlook. It was known for its almonds, blue grapes, and palm groves, but Aline was thinking more of the alluring beaches.

  When she arrived home after work, she smiled at the new delivery: more carnations from Juanito. As if on cue, he called.

  “How about dinner tonight?”

  Aline hesitated. “I’d love to—but I can’t. I’m leaving for a few days.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Málaga.”

  “Whom are you going with?”

  Aline sighed. Juanito was a gentleman, but a jealous gentleman. He had already expressed concern about that dubious man she was spending time with, that Edmundo character, and always wanted to know about any competition.

  “I’m going alone.”

  Juanito tried to invite himself but Aline cut him off, reminding him that he had a fight on Monday in Barcelona.

  There was disappointment in Juanito’s voice. “Bulls I understand,” he said. “Women, never.”

  * * *

  The taxi stopped in front of Atocha Station and Aline looked up at the looming reddish façade. The same pillars, the same type of stone, as Las Ventas, only much older. Madrid’s train station had been running since 1851 and the flickering gaslights looked original. Since rail was the only form of transportation available to most people, the station was a frenzy of activity. Policemen and porters, soldiers and travelers scurried in different directions.

  She weaved her way through the crowd and found her train. Showing the conductor her ticket, she slipped into sleeper number two. It was much nicer than she had expected, with a supple sofa, mahogany table, and burgundy velvet drapes over white lace curtains. It had all the trappings, it seemed, of an Agatha Christie novel.

  The whistle blew and the coach began to rock as the train chugged out of the station. Aline put her suitcase away and then jumped at the sound of a knock on her door.

  “Who is it?”

  “Policía, señorita.”

  Aline opened the door but left the security chain in place.

  “Your passport please, señorita.”

  Aline relea
sed the chain and gave it to him. The officer looked at it a moment and handed it back. “Now your travel permit, please.”

  “Travel permit? What do you mean?”

  The officer was polite but unamused. “Señorita, you should be aware this is a new regulation for foreigners. You cannot leave Madrid without it. Surely you know this.”

  “No, I did not. I’m terribly sorry.”

  “In that case, in the morning I will have to take the señorita to the comisaría in Málaga.”

  Aline took a deep breath.

  She was under arrest.

  I. An Andalusian sherry. In most cases, the matador would take a ceremonial squirt and throw it back.

  CHAPTER 13 THE PRISONER

  Aline had never seen a jail before, much less from the inside.

  Her police escort nudged a sleeping jailer. “Wake up, Damian. You have a prisoner.”

  Aline eyed the three empty cells. Aside from the indignity, what if they wanted to search her? She couldn’t dispose of the microfilm now even if she wanted to. And how would she make the rendezvous? The situation was getting worse by the minute.

  “This young lady is americana,” the officer said. “Do you hear me?”

  The groggy jailer sat up, annoyed at the disturbance. “What can I do, Don Marcelo?”

  “She’s your prisoner. She cannot leave here or speak to anyone until she has Don José’s permission.”

  Aline followed the back-and-forth. Don José was the comisario, she heard, but he was in Ronda attending a bullfight. “Please let me telephone the American consul in Málaga,” she interjected. “This matter could be cleared up immediately.”

  The officer shook his head. “Nothing of the kind, señorita. You are a prisoner of Spain. This is not America. Here it is Spanish law that will determine what is to be done with you.”

  And nothing would be done until Don José returned.

  The iron door clanged shut and Aline sat there, watching the clock. Two thirty came and went and she missed her first appointment. As the afternoon rolled on, she paced her cell. The sun was low now, and every passing minute brought her closer to the thought that she was going to miss the second rendezvous.

  At six thirty, the second meeting time, she realized she’d have to escape or risk missing the third and final drop. The jailer had dozed off again, so Aline shook the iron bars and yelled out to him: “This small cell is making me nervous. I need more space.”

  She opened her mouth to scream and the jailer held up his hand. “No, no. Have patience, señorita.” He reached for a ring of keys and ambled over to the cell. “It is against orders, señorita. But I can’t stand a woman screaming.”

  He unlocked her door and then locked the front entrance. Another officer motioned with his arm, indicating that she could mill around the lobby.

  Pacing in a small circle, Aline scanned in all directions. Every window was barred. There was a bathroom, she saw, but it had only a small opening in the ceiling. Both jailers were alert and watchful.

  Returning to her cell, she wondered what would happen if she missed the third and final drop. How many Resistance agents or escaping pilots would be arrested and executed because they couldn’t find safe houses? How many would be asking Larry Mellon why the escape chain had failed?

  Today was shot, though, so she sat back and tried to sleep.

  In the morning Damian offered a cup of something that resembled coffee, but no food. Aline hadn’t eaten since the prior morning, but the gnawing in her gut was from the time. Nine o’clock… ten o’clock… eleven o’clock. Still no Don José.

  At twelve thirty he finally arrived and the jailers jumped to their feet.

  “What a fight!” Don José belted out. “Ortega was una maravilla.”I

  He began to demonstrate Ortega’s passes when he saw Aline. “What’s this?”

  Aline managed a weak smile and Damian explained that she was American.

  “But what a way to treat a beautiful señorita,” Don José said. Reaching through the bars, he shook Aline’s hand. “Do not worry. Whatever your problem is, I will solve it. Damian, unlock this door.”

  Aline explained that she was unaware of the permit requirement, and Don José began fumbling through his desk. Retrieving a rubber stamp and Aline’s passport, he stamped and signed it. Now, he said, they simply needed someone to identify her, and he was friends with the American vice-consul; she’d be out in no time.

  Aline glanced at the clock. Finding the consul and getting him here would take a while, and she had only ninety minutes until the final rendezvous. But Don José made the call, and fifteen minutes later a handsome young man limped in.

  Don José clapped him on the back. “You won’t mind this duty, my boy. You have to identify the passport of a pretty young compatriot.” Turning to Aline, he said, “This is Barnaby Conrad, and a damn good bullfighter. That leg was a gift from a Romero bull in Mexico.”

  Aline looked at the American. He was just a kid, younger than she was. How could he be a bullfighter, much less a diplomat?

  She didn’t ask, but Conrad’s route to both had been most unusual. When he was a nineteen-year-old student at the University of North Carolina, he had enrolled for a semester at the University of Mexico to learn Spanish. Enamored with Hemingway’s Death in the Afternoon, one day he went to see a bullfight with an American friend, Adrian Spies. After the trumpets sounded a young Spanish bullfighter, Nacho Suárez, began to struggle with a monstrous beast named Pretty Boy. Nacho was scared to death and his passes were skittish and awkward. The crowd booed.

  Soon it became ugly. Nacho began stepping back with every pass—cowardly, the audience felt. The boos grew louder. Patrons began throwing cushions into the ring. Some piled cushions together and set them on fire. Others urinated in their wine bottles and flung them at Nacho. Barnaby mentioned the mistakes Nacho was making and Adrian urged him to jump in the ring and prove he could do better. Perhaps it was the tequila, but Barnaby said he’d do it. The only problem was that he had no cape. Another slug of tequila.

  Not to worry. He stood, whipped off his Brooks Brothers raincoat and headed down the aisle. Of course it was illegal for a fan to jump into the ring, but on a number of occasions these amateur daredevils—espontáneos, the Mexicans called them—showed enough promise that a promoter would sign them. Barnaby jumped the fence and taunted Pretty Boy with his raincoat.

  Over the loudspeakers the announcer shouted: “Madre de Dios! There’s a gringo in the ring! A gringo!”

  Just then the bull charged and Conrad waved the animal through with a decent pass. Pretty Boy turned and rushed again, and Barnaby executed a fairly competent veronica.II The crowd cheered wildly.

  Pretty Boy came again, only this time he pulled up short and tossed his head, impaling the raincoat and ripping it from Barnaby’s hands. He was defenseless. Fortunately, the coat was covering the bull’s eyes, giving Barnaby just enough time to bolt for the fence. As he cleared the barrier, security officers grabbed him and told him he’d spend ten days in jail. Seeing this, another young bullfighter, Felix Guzmán,III removed his hat and held it toward the president of the arena, motioning back to Conrad. The official waved a white handkerchief, calling off the arrest.

  Afterward, Felix invited Barnaby to study with him, and two weeks later he fought another bull, but with a real cape. He performed extremely well, but while Felix was giving him comments after they were finished, the bull rushed unexpectedly, clipping him at the knee and damaging ligaments.

  Barnaby returned to the United States, had surgery on the leg, finished his schooling at Yale, and was off to Sevilla as the youngest vice-consul ever. But the danger and thrill of la fiesta brava drew him back to the ring. Little did Aline know, Conrad had been training with Juanito and Manolete, and was being tutored by the legend himself, Juan Belmonte, on his ranch near Sevilla. Don Juan, enamored that an American—a diplomat no less—was trying to emulate his art, was intrigued.

  Juan instructed hi
m for hours on end, and Juanito provided the equipment and clothing. As a result, Conrad’s progress had been surprisingly fast; while most apprenticed for six to twelve years to become a full matador, he was doing it in two. He fought as El Niño de California (“The Kid from California”)—a moniker coined by Belmonte—as a novillero (junior bullfighter), and was scheduled to take his alternative to become a full matador de toros (senior bullfighter) in the fall.

  But none of that came up and Conrad fulfilled his identification duties and Don José put Aline’s suitcase in the backseat of Barnaby’s convertible.

  “How about lunching with me and going to a bullfight afterward?” Barnaby asked as they got in. “You’ll never eat better seafood than in Málaga.”

  Aline paused, glimpsing her watch. It was 2:15.

  “I’m sorry,” Barnaby said. “You have plans to meet someone here? A friend, perhaps?”

  “Not at all. It’s just that I have an important errand.” Aline motioned to her suitcase. “I promised Sister Catherine back in New York that I would deliver a box of candles made by her to a priest in the Catedral de Santa María as soon as I arrived in Málaga.”

  “That’s easy, the cathedral’s on our way.”

  Aline smiled and glanced again at her watch as they were leaving. She had ten minutes.

  When they arrived at the church it was just past the drop appointment. Telling Barnaby she’d be right back, she pretended to reach for that supposed box of candles in her suitcase and hustled inside. It was dark in the church, light streaming in only through the stained-glass windows, but she could see that the back bench was empty. Had Blacky come and gone, she wondered, or was he also running late?