Alan Furst's Classic Spy Novels

by Alan Furst

  “Eres limpio, yo creo,” Señora Tovar said, stepping back to admire her handiwork.

  “Gracias, mil gracias, señora,” Faye said, turning the water off and taking a rough, clean towel that had appeared from a hand in the doorway.

  The woman waved away the thanks, singing, “De nada, de nada,” as she left the room to an uproar of Spanish from friends waiting without.

  Faye’s bare feet slapped down the marble-floored hallway toward the staircase that led to the room under the eaves. Life was better than a short story, she rather thought, with an O. Henry twist at every turning that caught the heroine unaware and stunned her with the peculiarity of fortune. Could anyone have predicted that in the fall of 1936 a machine gun would buck and vibrate beneath her hands as a German plane swooped toward her from the sky? Not with any Ouija board she’d ever heard of. That her best friend would be a German communist named Renata? No, no, no. That her lover would be a forty-two-year-old Spanish draftsman from Ceuta named Andres Cardona? No a thousand times!

  Oh if they could only see her now.

  It was a narrow lane, barely one car wide, that wound its way up to San Ximene, and Khristo drove slowly, conscious of the roadside vegetation—lush and bursting weeds in every shade of purple and gold—as it whispered against the doors of the Citroën.

  At this speed he could hear the whirring of insects, could study gates made of twisted boughs that appeared from time to time, guarding dirt paths that wandered off into the fields. Once a week they drove to San Ximene, and he was beginning to recognize individual gates. Each one was built of twisted boughs, crossed and braced in every conceivable style. Once a week was probably too often to visit a safe house, but Yaschyeritsa had ordained the schedule and his word was law. Sascha, after a dreadful week, had at last discovered that vodka could be replaced by Spanish brandy and was his old self again. “Flies for Yaschyeritsa!” he would call out as they started off. Not so loud, Khristo thought, but said nothing. Sascha was a spring river in full flood, which went where it liked.

  Khristo loved this car. A 1936 Citroën 11 CV Normale. Its long hood suggested luxury, its short, boxy body suggested frugality, and the curved trunk in the rear suggested yet another French preoccupation. The sober black body was accentuated by fat whitewall tires in open wells and shiny headlamps. The spacious windshield seemed to draw every yellow bug in Spain, but he kept the glass immaculate with wet, crumpled copies of La Causa. Soaked newspaper was the thing for cleaning car windows—he’d learned that from a former Riga taxi driver who forged travel documents for the Comintern office in Tarragona. Even the car, he thought ruefully, had a file. The Citroën had been donated to the Comintern by a furniture manufacturer in Rouen. Amazing, really, how the rich in this part of the world worshiped the revolution of the working classes.

  He loved driving—he was the first Stoianev ever to operate a motor vehicle. He’d learned quickly, mastered the gearshift after a few head-snapping stutter stops brought on by a popped clutch. It was fortunate that he loved it because he spent a great deal of time behind the wheel. Intelligence operations, he had discovered, consisted principally of driving a car for hundreds of kilometers, sifting through an infinity of reports and memoranda, endlessly locking and unlocking the metal security boxes assigned to each officer, and writing up volumes of agent-contact sheets. In the latter regard, thank heaven for Sascha. The drunker he got, the better he wrote. And he had such mastery of Soviet bureaucratic language—a poetry of understatement and euphemism—that Yaschyeritsa mostly left them alone. That was fine with Khristo.

  Colonel General Yadomir Ivanovich Bloch, the illegal NKVD rezident in Catalonia—as opposed to the “legal” military attachés and diplomats under Berzin and the GRU—was secretly called Yaschyeritsa, the Lizard, because he looked like a lizard. He had a slightly triangular head, the suggestion of flatness on top emphasized by stiff hair combed directly back from the forehead. His thin eyebrows angled steeply down toward the inner corners of his eyes, which, long and narrow, were set above sharp cheekbones that slanted upward. Those eyes stared back at you emptily, without expression, watching only to determine if you were easy or difficult prey. Sometimes he licked nervously at his upper lip—the gesture, Sascha claimed, an unconscious throwback to the age when reptiles ruled the earth.

  “Flies for Yaschyeritsa!”

  Sascha was awake. Where the white boxes of San Ximene towered above them, Khristo rolled to a stop. Sascha brushed the hair out of his eyes and blinked for a moment, then drew the bottle of Fundador from the glove compartment and took a few swallows.

  Slowly, he twisted the cork back into place, then slapped it dramatically with his palm.

  “Now the colonel is ready for agents and debriefings,” he announced. “The following six measures can be recommended in support of the secure continuance of said operation. One: it is geese who fly the summer night to Sonya’s heart. Right, Stoianev? We trap good flies? The best flies?”

  “Only the finest. Served by the finest kitchens.”

  “Forward, then.”

  The Citroën climbed through the tight maze of alleys to the northern edge of the village. The doorways were covered by cloth-strip curtains. Each one, Khristo suspected, with its own pair of watchful eyes. He knew such tiny villages in Bulgaria. They made your heart go fast. Perhaps the next lost little place was the one where they still drank strangers’ blood in a toast to forgotten gods.

  Still, one had to have safe houses, and it was best to have them in the middle of cities, concealed by crowds, or in desolate, out-of-the-way places like San Ximene. The agent they called Andres was doing a dangerous job: infiltrating the Falange. The rezidentura in Tarragona had a long shopping list: names, addresses, planned operations, logistical systems and, ultimately, the discovery of the identities of German intelligence officers in charge of liaison with Franco’s Fifth Column in Madrid.

  To prove himself worthy of trust, Andres had to commit an act of sabotage against the Republican forces, his own side. Thus he was vulnerable to friend and foe alike, could, at any time, be executed as spy or traitor, depending on who caught him. And this, Khristo thought, was only what he knew about. There could be more. The Russians had a genius for these games, a love of darkness, a reverence for duplicities that hid deeper strategies.

  They came to a small whitewashed house with a tile roof at the end of a dirt street. A cat was sleeping on the windowsill. In a field across the road a few kids in short pants were fooling with a battered soccer ball. The air smelled like onions fried in oil and sun-heated plaster, and a radio was playing music somewhere nearby. The man known as Andres Cardona was down on his knees in the midst of a wild garden of daisies and fuchsia geraniums surrounding an old, twisted lemon tree. As they drove up, he was yanking weeds from the dry soil and throwing them over the garden fence. He stood up, wiped his hands on his pants and called, “Buenos días, buenos días,” in the voice of a man pleased to see his employees. Ah yes, there you are, fellows, so good to see you, in your absence I’ve thought of a thousand things we need to do. All of that in the tonality of a simple greeting, the way he stood, the expectation in his eyes. He was, Khristo realized once again, so very, very good at what he did.

  “And the name?”

  “Farmacia Cortés.”

  “Cortés. Refers to what?”

  “The name of the square, I suppose. Though it is near the Cortés.”

  “The … ?”

  “The Cortés. The Spanish parliament.”

  “Ah. So it is not owned by a man named Cortés.”

  “No.”

  “Hmm,” Sascha said, tapping the end of the fountain pen against his teeth. “Locate it further for me, will you?”

  “The Plaza de Cortés is elegant, fashionable. There is a hotel, the Palace—”

  “As in English? Not Palacio?”

  “No. Palace as in English. A fine hotel, quite luxurious.”

  “Who stays there?”

  “Diploma
ts. Journalists. Those who seek to approach the Cortés.”

  “Zolot!” Gold.

  “Perhaps.”

  “Nothing perhaps. It is certain. Comb this one out, thoroughly, you understand, and there would be treasure. Who has a prescription for heart medicine. Who has the clap. Who must have the laudanum syrup every week. More secrets in a pharmacy than in a woman’s heart! Better than a bank, my friend. So specific.”

  “Yes. But one could not comb him out.”

  Sascha clicked his tongue and wagged a “naughty” finger.

  “Well yes, if you tied him to a chair and all that, of course. But no other way.”

  “Not money?”

  “Never.”

  “Be sure now.”

  “I am.”

  “He likes women? Girls? Boys? Cats?”

  “No. He is purity itself.”

  “The pig.”

  Cardona shrugged and smiled, a soft gesture that forgave the world everything. “Would you care to hear about procedure?”

  “Oh yes. We like procedure. Khristo, you’re getting all this?”

  “Yes. Most of it.” He wiped sweat from his face. Because they spoke Russian, the windows were shut tight. The sun beat down on the tile roof and the still air was wet and hot and blue with drifts of smoke. The roll of blueprints he’d taken from the trunk of the car was spread across the table, covered with coffee cups used as ashtrays, half-empty glasses of red wine, and sheets of paper covered with Cyrillic scratchings. One heard rumors of a machine that recorded the human voice on a spool of wire, but it was not to be had outside Moscow.

  Cardona lit a Ducado and blew smoke at the ceiling. “The procedure is to enter the Farmacia Cortés on the Plaza de Cortés between four and four-thirty in the afternoon. Go to the rear of the store, inquire of the clerk—always a young woman in a gray smock—if el patrón is available.”

  “El patrón. The owner?”

  “Literally, yes. But it’s a grander term in Spanish. The boss.”

  “Ah.”

  “She goes into the office, then he appears.”

  “What does she think you want?”

  “Some personal thing, not to be mentioned to a young woman. Prophylactics, perhaps.”

  “And do you buy something?”

  “No.”

  “Isn’t that asking to be noticed?”

  Cardona pondered this for a moment. “Such things go on at Spanish pharmacies, it’s not so unusual. Men, you know, and their intimate problems.”

  Sascha shot an eyebrow and snorted. “Intimate crabs.”

  “Certainly, and everything else. Anyhow, he gives me the time and place of the meeting.”

  “His name?”

  “According to the tax clerk’s office, the Farmacia Cortés is owned by Emilio Quesada.”

  “El patrón.”

  “That’s an assumption.”

  Sascha sighed. The more they knew the craft, the more they wriggled off the hook. Cardona was exactly right, but it was just such ephemera that drove intelligence people crazy in the long term. “Very well. Make a note, Khristo.” He turned back to Cardona. “I don’t suppose you’d want to ask the clerk, just once, if Señor Quesada is available?”

  Cardona simply smiled.

  “Umm,” Sascha said, “I rather thought not. He comes to the meetings, this patrón?”

  “Of course he does. But I can’t say that. We are all hooded.”

  “Describe the hoods.”

  “Silk pillowcases, a sort of light brown color, with slits cut for eyeholes.”

  “Tan, would you call them?”

  “No, not really. It’s what a Renaissance painter would’ve known as ecru, I believe.”

  “Good God.” Sascha held his head and shook it. “Khristo, make them ‘light brown.’ Ecru indeed. Moscow would love that.”

  “Each meeting is held at a different apartment, never the same one twice.”

  “I suppose you don’t go hooded in the street.”

  “No. That’s done just inside the front door, but the arrival times are staggered, and we leave one at a time.”

  “Cautious.”

  “Yes.”

  “And the meetings?”

  “Fascist mumbo-jumbo. A red candle burning in the middle of the table. A prayer to start out, a little speech—quite ferocious, really. You know how they are, Christ and blood, Christ and blood, back and forth. Then there’s news of the Falange, military victories, piles of dead miners—nothing you wouldn’t find in their newspapers.”

  “What is their morale, would you say.”

  Cardona paused a moment. “Well, it’s hard to tell with the hoods on, but I would say they’re pretty scared. Most of them, their political views were well known before the Azaña government took over. They fear their neighbors, co-workers, tradesmen.”

  “Does only the leader speak?”

  “No. After he has said his piece, an unsheathed bayonet is passed from hand to hand. Each of us holds it and makes a statement.”

  “For example.”

  “A Republican gang marched into a monastery near Albacete. The monk in charge was tied to the altar and a crucifix was forced down his throat.”

  “Others?”

  “Nuns raped and murdered, priests strung up in trees.”

  “Falangist propaganda, of course.” A muscle ticked briefly under Sascha’s eye and he blinked to make it stop.

  “Naturally.”

  “But they are conscious of the gangs.”

  “Oh yes. They fear them—with the fear of children—and recite their names. Lynxes of the Republic, Red Lions, Spartacus, the Furies, Strength and Liberty. It is almost as though a constant naming of the terrors will keep them away in the night.”

  “ ‘The purpose of terrorism …’ ” Sascha quoted half the Lenin axiom, a shrug in his voice.

  Khristo finished the phrase silently: “… is to cause terror.” These two, he realized, had something between them quite outside the agent-case officer relationship. They were not the Mitya type—blunt-headed peasants with a red catechism in their mouth and a rifle in their hands. They were intellectuals: they would say the catechism and use the rifle, but they would not delude themselves. Their status demanded knowledge—and admission, no matter how inferential—of the truth.

  “Now,” Sascha said, shifting in his chair, “we come to the blue lantern.”

  Cardona drew a deep breath and expelled it slowly. “I’m still piecing it together.”

  “General Bloch was quite pointed in his remarks on the subject.”

  “I can imagine. Well, you may tell him that I do not think it mattered that the action went awry. They accept the hand of fate, even if General Bloch does not. What matters to them, the Falange, is that I executed the plan. Its failure, I think, will not damage their trust in me.”

  “But you’ve not met with them since it happened.”

  “Nor was I scheduled to do so. Tomorrow I go to the pharmacy.”

  “Have you any idea what went wrong?”

  “Not really. I went to the roof, lit the lantern. Somehow, the lantern was removed, taken to another building, and the attack failed.”

  “Another building?”

  “Yes.”

  “We are told there was an American involved. A woman.”

  “Neighborhood gossip. I have heard it.”

  “Find out for me who she is—her name, anything you can learn. There are many Americans who come to Spain now, Moscow perceives this as a critically important opportunity. Thus, if you wish your star to shine …”

  “I’ll do what I can.”

  “Tell me, was there no guard at the Avenida Saldana? Did they simply fill up a building with guns and ammunition and leave it there?”

  “This is the Spanish war.”

  They were both silent for a moment, then Cardona went on, leaning across the table. “A story, if you like. One of the cinemas on the paseo is showing Duck Soup, the Marx Brothers film. I attended las
t week, the theater was packed full. In the row in front of me were three artillery officers on leave. For most of the time they were silent. But then, there is a scene where Groucho Marx is playing a colonel, and he stands before a map and says, ‘A child of three could solve this problem.’ He pauses, then adds, ‘Bring me a child of three.’ At that, the officers laughed—laughed bitterly, one could say—and nudged each other.”

  Khristo and Sascha both smiled.

  “Humorous,” Cardona continued, “it is that. But maybe not so funny when you reflect on what it implies. To answer your question directly I will tell you that the Avenida Saldana armory was protected by the POUM, the anarchists, and in all probability the guard had something more important to do and off he went and did it. I carried the lantern up there with a knife in my hand, but there wasn’t a soul.”

  Dutifully, Khristo tried to keep up with him, writing as fast as he could. Sascha sighed and sat back in his seat.

  “Bloch and the others,” he said, “are getting quite fed up with the anarchists. Quite thoroughly fed up. And given The Great Stalin’s attitude toward Trotsky, who sits in Mexico and pulls the strings of his puppets, this lack of discipline is going to receive close attention. I advise you to stay away from them, Andres, if you wish to keep your knees unsoiled.”

  “Naturally Moscow is upset. Obedience is everything to them, but this is the way of it and you will not change the Spaniards. They have itched all their lives to stop dreaming, to act, after twenty years of talk. And it is their freedom they love most of all, because it is chained to their manhood. Stick your nose in at your peril.”

  Sascha held his hand up like a traffic policeman. “No treason, comrade, it’s too hot today.”

  “I intend none. But find a way to tell them the truth.” The implied ending of the sentence, for a change, hung in the smoky air.

  Sascha brought forth a crooked smile, in which all the ironies in his life danced and played. “Very well,” he said, “I shall certainly start tomorrow. But, for today, let me first put you on the proper path. We have an alternate plan—not so good as the armory, but it will have to serve.”