by Larry Loftis
How could she now move to Paris?
But she couldn’t disobey her boss’s orders, and she couldn’t tell Luis a word about the work she actually did, either.
Over the next two days she wrapped things up. She let her secretary go, terminated the office lease, and informed clients in Barcelona that the office was moving to Paris. But she wasn’t giving up on Luis. She decided to keep her apartment and the two maids. The expense was minimal compared to her salary, and the presence in Madrid would give her hope—no, an intention—of returning to Spain. And to Luis.
The following morning she ran some errands and when she arrived back, her apartment was filled with flowers. Not a bouquet like Juanito always sent—a truckload.
Luis was back from Toledo.
He called moments later with excitement in his voice. “When can I see you? How about lunch?”
Aline still had errands to finish so she told him they’d have to meet for dinner. Luis agreed, but there was a hesitation in his voice. He suspected something was wrong.
The minute she got in his car that evening, he expressed his concern.
“Tell me, what’s up? Even your voice on the phone was different this morning.”
Aline couldn’t put it off any longer, so she came out with it. “I have to go to Paris two days from now. It’s a new job, opening another office there for my company.”
“For how long?”
“I have no idea.”
“That’s impossible. I thought you liked Madrid.”
“I love Madrid, Luis. But I’m a working girl, and there’s no way I can avoid fulfilling my obligations to the company I work for.”
Luis was speechless. She explained that she would be keeping her Madrid apartment, small consolation though it was, and told him that she was miserable, too. She asked that he not make it worse.
“If you were so miserable, you wouldn’t leave.”
Luis’s voice was cold and he was hurt. In his aristocratic world, one could do whatever one wanted, each day, every day. He didn’t understand that working stiffs had no such freedom. She had no trust fund to fall back on. She also had no ring.
Remaining in Madrid wasn’t an option.
Luis stewed for several moments and then said he’d visit her in Paris. But to do so, he explained, would be exceedingly difficult. Acquiring an exit permit was rare, and on top of that, Spaniards were not allowed to take money out of the country.
Aline nodded but realized it was precisely this kind of impediment—distance—that ruined many relationships. She struggled to find a way to express her feelings but couldn’t think of the right words. Luis hadn’t proposed; he hadn’t even said “I love you.” What was she supposed to do?
It was a silent pact between them: they would both be miserable.
And they weren’t the only ones. Emilie Lassalle, Edmundo’s wife of ten years, had it worse. When Edmundo was reunited with her in Washington the second week of November, he informed her that he would be divorcing her in order to marry Princess Agatha.
No remorse. No apology. A better opportunity just came along. No hard feelings.
* * *
On November 21 Frank Ryan checked in to the Estoril Palacio, his last stop before heading home. It had been a whirlwind trip, with stops in Madrid, Paris, Zurich, Prague, Lisbon, and countless other cities. But the groundwork was set. Aline would open the Paris office, and he’d have other former OSS agents open shop almost simultaneously in several other countries. BACC was a force to be reckoned with, even without the help of Washington. Europe would begin rebuilding, and BACC would be at the head of it, directing needed commodities across the continent. And as post-war Europe’s old alliances began to shift and former friends became enemies, having a network of experienced American intelligence operatives already in place across the continent might turn out to be a very useful thing—even if nobody but Frank and his fellow board members knew anything about it.
Paris
Aline marveled at the Hôtel San Régis. It was what everyone thought of when they imagined the City of Lights: elegant nineteenth-century French architecture, iron-railed balconies with covered awnings, Old Master paintings, and impeccable service. It was a block from the Seine, a block from the Champs-Elyseés, four blocks from the Eiffel Tower, and a short stroll from the Arc de Triomphe.
That was one more thing she admired about Frank Ryan: he did everything first-class. The Yankee Clipper. The Estoril Palacio. The Madrid Palace. Now the San Régis. Truly he was a dream employer.
She checked into the hotel and looked on the map for the Hôtel Plaza Athénée. It was just a short walk from the San Régis, she saw, not even four blocks.
On Monday she met her local boss, John B. “Jack” Okie. He had been an OSS agent in Lisbon during the war, and she had met him briefly once in Madrid. At thirty, he was only a little older than she was, but he had impressed the brass in Lisbon, and Ryan apparently had heard. And since Jack had arrived in Paris first, most of the administrative matters—office, bank account, secretary—were already in place.
Together, she and Jack began calling the business contacts that Frank Ryan had supplied. At first they dealt with French companies, but before long they were establishing contacts and bartering deals in Czechoslovakia, Switzerland, Sweden, and East and West Germany.
The city was almost a full-time assignment in and of itself. With pent-up energy from four years of occupation, Paris was an around-the-clock party. Parisians, it seemed, had long awaited a time when they could enjoy getting dressed to the nines, and it was not uncommon for women to wear long gowns and chic hats to restaurants and nightclubs. Since Aline had stocked up on Balenciaga dresses in Madrid, the formal attire was not a problem, although she couldn’t resist adding two new dresses from the flagship store.
When she arrived for a second fitting, none other than Monsieur Balenciaga attended her. When he was finished, he asked if she would be willing to be photographed for Vogue in the dresses she had purchased. Aline hesitated at first, but then realized that to reject his offer would come across as something of an insult and possibly deprive him of some good publicity. She agreed.
And Balenciaga, in turn, was grateful. When Aline next visited the store to order another dress, the vendeuse told her that Monsieur Balenciaga had said he would lend her any of his evening gowns. She took him up on it.
Dates were not hard to come by in Paris and she went out almost every night, often with businessmen Ryan wanted her to meet. When Ryan was in town, he’d take her along to meet a certain contact or group, telling her in advance the information he wanted to extract.
December 25, 1945
Christmas in Paris. Alone.
The city was beautiful, Aline thought, and Christmas decorations everywhere proclaimed “Joy to the World,” but there was no joy in her heart. She missed Luis. Indeed, the sights were wonderful—it was her first time in Paris—but the Seine and the Eiffel Tower were nothing if not elixirs of romance.
Luis had been calling every few days, but the long-distance connection usually was so bad that neither could make out much of what the other was saying. When she called him, sometimes she’d have to wait hours before the call would go through, and even then the call would often drop as soon as he was on the line. What encouraged her, though, was that Luis was working on his exit permit to come visit her.
They switched to letter writing after the New Year, which was more romantic anyway, but Luis’s letters were short and, more disconcerting, he never said he loved her. But he was determined to see her—she knew that—and it was enough.
She continued wining and dining BACC contacts, and one day Luis surprised her by calling her at the office. This time the line was crystal clear.
“I’ve been reading the Paris newspapers,” he said. “What were you doing at Maxim’s with the king of Yugoslavia?”
Aline smiled. King Peter II was only three years her senior and was quite handsome. Before she could answer, Luis adde
d: “I played golf with him and he’s not only a bad golfer, but he’s also a big bore.”
Aline mumbled an answer, pleased that Luis was jealous.
January 1946
After the New Year Aline returned to New York to visit her family. She hadn’t seen her parents or brothers in two years, and she knew this might be her only chance for a year or more. Ryan allowed her to stay until the end of March, by which time she was eager to get back to work, to Europe, and to Luis.
She returned to Paris at the beginning of April and Luis cabled to say that he had finally finagled his exit permit. He would be in Paris the following Tuesday, the telegram said. She immediately called him in Madrid but couldn’t get a connection until late that evening. She was “delirious with joy,” she told him, and couldn’t wait. Luis said he was bringing his father, and that they would pick her up at the San Régis. They would have dinner, he added, at Le Grand Véfour.
Luis’s words were pearls. If he was bringing his father to Paris, would the trip not include a proposal?
Tuesday, April 9, 1946
Luis stood at the San Régis front desk with his father. There must be a mistake.
What do you mean she has checked out?
Luis scanned the lobby, but Aline was nowhere to be found.
CHAPTER 21 LA TIENTA
Washington
Like Oz pulling the strings behind the curtain, Frank Ryan considered his players across Europe. Robert Dunev was in Madrid and could be called upon if needed. Jack Okie had the Paris office running smoothly. Hans Czernin was taking care of Prague. Aline Griffith would open Zurich. Eric Erickson could help with Stockholm. Everything according to plan.
Switzerland
The train rocked along, but Aline didn’t feel like sleeping or reading. Or talking to anyone. She was sick.
Frank Ryan had struck again, and at the most inopportune time. Why did Jack Okie have to hand her the overnight ticket to Zurich just hours before she was to meet Luis and his father? Why couldn’t she meet the Eastern European agent on Thursday, or even Friday? Why was it so urgent?
With the short notice, she had no time to plead with Ryan or warn Luis. He and his father were on a train to meet her just as she was leaving the city. She left him a note at the front desk, but who knew if he’d even receive it? And even if he did, she knew he’d be livid. She couldn’t blame him.
Her dream job with her dream boss was looking more like a mistake every day. First the departure from Madrid, now the disappearance from Paris. Luis wouldn’t put up with that. Not twice, anyway.
She tried to sleep but it wouldn’t come.
When she arrived in Zurich she checked in to the hotel where Ryan had made a reservation, the Hôtel Baur au Lac, and asked if there were any messages. In the note she had left at San Régis, she instructed Luis to send a telegram here with a number where she could reach him.
No messages.
She met with the BACC contact later that day and then checked again with the front desk. Nothing. And she had no idea where Luis and his father were staying.
Several days passed and Luis didn’t call. Aline was beside herself. A week went by and she began calling Madrid but couldn’t reach him. A second week. A third week.
Perhaps it was over, she thought. Luis had had enough. She kept calling, though, and finally she reached him. As she had feared, he never received her note at San Régis, and his voice was frigid and indifferent.
“It’s obvious to me now, Aline, that I will never understand you. And I would like to add that it was most embarrassing for me to have you stand up my father as well. He’d made a great effort to accompany me on the trip.”
Aline had no defense. She stumbled through her mea culpas, but Luis was having none of it.
She waited a few days and sent him a long letter of apology. There was no reply. She sent another letter. Again, no reply.
It was over.
* * *
She opened the Zurich office and followed the procedure she had formulated in Madrid: establish contacts, attend cocktail parties and dinners, and meet whomever Ryan thought was important.
At one party a friend of Aline’s, Helga Nehring, introduced her to Argentina’s ambassador to Switzerland, Benito Llambí. Llambí had been a military officer and a close associate of Argentina’s president, Juan Perón. Everyone knew that the Perón government had been closely aligned with Hitler during the war, and countless Nazis—including war criminal Adolf Eichmann—had slipped quietly into the country as the Third Reich crumbled. And from what she and Helga had heard, the Argentine embassy in Switzerland had bank account information for many Nazi fugitives.
Given her previous work on Safehaven, Aline couldn’t resist the opportunity to get to know Llambí. It was possible, just possible, that he knew details about the art looting or money transfers she’d been investigating before the OSS was dissolved. In any event, all diplomatic contacts were useful in her new work and she handled him accordingly.
Llambí, who at thirty-nine was thirteen years Aline’s senior, was smitten. Aline had not the slightest romantic interest in him but kept on friendly terms. Some weeks later Aline received a call from Pearl River. It was her father.
Benito Llambí had asked permission to marry her, her father said.
Aline was floored. What? Benito was crazy, she replied. Absolutely deranged. She had zero interest in the Argentine and had no idea how he could have thought otherwise. Her father said he understood and Aline hoped that was the end of it.
Back to Spain
A few weeks went by and Aline asked Frank Ryan if she could schedule a month’s vacation to return to Madrid. Ryan approved, but said they’d need to wait until he could get someone to cover for her while she was away.
They decided she could go in June, and Aline was hoping that she could repair things with Luis. It was a long shot—she had not heard a word from him since the call in April. But aside from Luis, she also missed Madrid. She missed her apartment and her cheerful maids, Angustias and Cecilia. She missed the bullfights and flamenco, the midnight dinners on the Castellana. Spain was home, with or without Luis.
She took the train from Zurich to Paris, where she changed for one headed to the border. It terminated at Hendaye, France, the famous border site where in 1940 Franco had deceived Hitler about joining the Axis and allowing German troops onto Spanish soil to attack Gibraltar.
Franco’s actions, she remembered, had proved that this seemingly unimpressive man was actually quite savvy. All along he had been coy, leading Hitler to believe that Spain would eventually join the Axis, but always mentioning conditions that had to be met before Franco could commit. Hitler negotiated with Franco for seven hours, but the Generalissimo’s conditions—such as Spain acquiring Gibraltar and French Cameroon, along with significant shipments of food, oil, and arms from Germany to Spain—were so onerous that Hitler became frustrated. He would later say that he’d rather have had three or four teeth extracted than to suffer another meeting with Franco.I
After everyone disembarked from the train, Aline and the other passengers were informed that they’d need to walk across the Bidasoa Bridge to Irun on the Spanish side for the next train. It was yet another Franco move that had been subtle but brilliant: to make Hitler’s invasion of his country more difficult, Franco had Spanish train tracks narrowed, thus eliminating the possibility of locomotives full of German troops and equipment steaming across the border.
When she was halfway across the bridge spanning the Bidasoa River, she stopped and scanned the horizon. The sun was setting and history seemed to open before her. How many Spanish and French kings had met on this very spot over the centuries? she wondered. In the first century Irun had been a Basque Roman town called Oiasso, and before that, it was the home of the Vascones.II It was a hub of civilization.
Along the banks, fishermen were casting their lines, and she couldn’t help but wonder if Luis was doing the same. Was he dating Casilda again or had he found someone ne
w? Even if he wasn’t, would he want to see her again?
She strolled along, catching up with the other passengers, and wondered if she really loved Luis as much as she thought. It would certainly be easier if she could just forget him.
She boarded the Madrid express, fixed up her bed, and fell fast asleep.
When she awoke the train was pulling into El Escorial station. She was only an hour away from Madrid now, and she could feel the butterflies stirring. Sliding back the velvet and lace drapes, she gazed at Castile as the train moved out. The parties at Hohenlohe’s El Quexigal seemed only yesterday, and the orange tiled roofs and ancient structures flashing by brought everything back.
All of it reminded her of Luis.
As the train rolled into Madrid, Angustias and Cecelia were waiting, waving and calling to her from the platform. On the drive to the apartment neither of her maids disclosed their little secret, and Aline opened the door to find flowers everywhere: red roses, lilies, forsythia, and narcissi. Their guilty grins confirmed it—they had told Luis when she was arriving—and her heart began to race once again. Luis had called them multiple times, they said, asking for news of her.
Just then the phone rang. It was Luis, who said he’d pick her up for dinner at nine thirty. It couldn’t come fast enough. When he knocked, she rushed to the door before Angustias or Cecelia could get there.
Luis was all smiles. “I was wondering all day if you were going to stand me up again.”
Aline flushed. Embarrassed. Lovesick. Luis looking as handsome as ever—tan, fit, and composed.
“Are you going to invite me in?”
She grinned and stepped aside. Luis walked directly to her bar and, as if nothing had ever happened, poured himself a whiskey and soda. Raising it, he said, “In the future, my beauty, you’re not going to fool me so easily.”
