‘You were there?’
‘I was at sea. It was July. My mother had sent me a cake for my birthday. We got back to Lorient in August and the cake was waiting for me. It was in bits. Just like Hamburg.’
‘You made a visit?’
‘Of course. We all knew the bombing had been very bad but they never tell you the truth.’
‘So how was it?’
‘Terrible. The end of the world.’
‘And your family?’
‘Gone. Dead. Burned in the firestorm. Except my brother’s wife. Her name was Angelika. She told me what happened, how it had been.’
‘And?’
Stefan looked at her, then shook his head. How do you explain the loss of everything? How do you describe the moment when you realise your entire life has been erased? Wiped out? That you have literally nothing left? The images he’d seen that weekend in the ruins of the city he’d loved still haunted him. Even now, even here, he couldn’t make sense of them.
Eva said nothing. There was nothing to say. Then she stirred.
‘All the barbers in Barcelona were anarchists,’ she said. ‘One of them was called Juan. We were friends. He made me laugh. He made me dress in black. We went everywhere together. He was brave and often foolish. I loved that man.’
The early days of the revolution in Barcelona, she said, were like a fiesta. Everyone sharing everything. Hola instead of Buenos días. Flags everywhere, and posters and music and dancing. All the beggars gone. Then the people of the left began to quarrel and the fighting started in the streets and she and Juan went to Madrid where everyone said things were better organised.
‘And were they?’
‘Yes. The Communists are good at war. Very strict. They organised everyone. Even us. I went to the trenches to take photographs for the Communists. The Fascists were outside the city. They wanted to break us. They wanted to kill us all. The fighting never stopped. Also the bombing.’
‘Germans?’
‘Sí.’
Stefan nodded. The young pilots in the Condor Legion, he thought. School heroes like Dieter Merz. Playing God.
‘The city fell,’ he said. ‘In the end.’
‘Sí.’
‘But you got out.’
‘Sí.’
‘And Juan?’
‘Juan was arrested in the place where we were living. I wasn’t there that night. They put him against a wall outside the flats. They shone lights from the headlights of the cars. Then they shot him.’
‘You know that?’
‘Sí. Next day I went to the place of the dead, the place where they kept the bodies. The robbers were there before me. They stole gold from the mouths of the dead. Someone had been messing with the bodies. Someone had put a churro in one mouth, a cigarette in another. There were old men in pyjamas, young men with no chest left where the bullets had taken them. One man still had his glasses on. I thought he was asleep.’
‘And Juan?’
‘I thought he was asleep, too. One shot. Through the back of his neck.’ Her eyes began to fill at the memory but when Stefan leaned forward to try and comfort her she shook her head. This story had an ending and she was determined to share it.
‘You know what’s so crazy about war?’ she said. ‘It turns you into an animal. You learn tricks, you learn to survive because you have to, because there’s no other way. You know the trick in Madrid? When we knew the Fascists were coming? When we knew it was the end? Every corner you went round, you raised your arms, just in case. Every corner, and the corner after that. A whole city with its arms in the air.’ She paused for a moment, her hands knotting in her lap. Then her head came up again. ‘You know what happened to us? In that war? The rest of Europe left us alone so we could carry on killing each other.’ She closed her eyes. ‘Madness.’
10
Hector Gómez spent another two days in Chicago, prowling the streets, peering into shop windows, drinking alone at a bar he’d often used near Soldier Field. The temptation was to look up old buddies, sink a beer or two, talk about the old times but he had no taste for any of that. The war had moved everyone on. Something this huge, that’s what happened. You slipped your moorings. You drifted along with the tide and if you were lucky you washed up some place else and started another life.
He was staying in a cheap hotel he knew a couple of blocks from the stockyards, down in the southern reaches of the city. His dad had worked here in one of the abattoirs before he’d gotten that first job on the railroad. Gómez hadn’t even been born then, but in the middle of the night – woken by the clank-clank of the incoming cattle wagons – he’d lain in the dark, trying to measure the lifetime’s gap between the strapping young wetback he’d seen in the family album and the ruin of a man he’d just left at the Lakeview Sunshine Home. In ways he didn’t fully understand, he loved both of them and the following day, after he’d bought flowers to lay on his mother’s grave in the Catholic cemetery, he returned to the home.
He’d called at a kiosk by the tram stop to buy a bunch of comics. His dad was still in bed, trying to cope with the remains of his breakfast. He sat beside him, spooning the grits into the slackness of his mouth, and when his dad was done chewing he soaked a flannel in the washbasin in the corner and washed his face. The big rheumy eyes followed his every movement and afterwards, with the comics on the bedside table and Gómez ready to leave, his dad reached up and caught hold of his hand.
‘Appreciate it, son.’ The old man was close to tears. ‘You better believe it.’
Gómez took the train to Washington. He slept fitfully during the night and awoke to the lush green spread of the Pennsylvania hills. The train was full of soldiers, officers mainly, and soon the compartment was blue with cigarette smoke. By lunchtime, they were easing into Union Station and Gómez stepped out into the crisp autumn air. On the phone, Agard Beaman had given him directions to his new apartment. Walk south towards the Anacostia River. Look for the Library of Congress, then the Marine Barracks, then the Navy Yard. Cross the river and you’re nearly home.
It was a bright early afternoon and Gómez took his time. In his years in the FBI he must have visited this city maybe a dozen times but it never felt like he really knew it. The very middle, where the government camped, was like a film set: wide boulevards, handsome buildings, everything white. This, he told himself, was the beating heart of the free world, one of the few Allied capitals that remained physically untouched by the events of the last three years. It was from here that the nation was fighting not one but two wars, and the evidence was all around him.
Men in uniform striding briskly to their next conference. Typists and secretaries snatching a stand-up lunch in one of the diners along Massachusetts Avenue. Men in suits bent over payphones on the sidewalk. The arsenal of democracy was transacting its business as the conflict thundered to its end and Gómez fancied that many of these guys were starting to jostle for position. The taste of the coming peace was in the air. Eisenhower’s armies were closing on the German border. Islands were falling like skittles across the Pacific Ocean. By next year, certainly, maybe even by Christmas, the fighting and the bloodshed would be over.
Really? Gómez wasn’t so sure. From his perch on the Hill, plumb in the middle of the most secret place on earth, he’d spent the last fifteen months watching the comings and goings of these crazy young scientists. He had no detailed knowledge of what they were up to but he’d listened hard every time he could – at the commissary, at the weekend dances – and he sensed they were turning the language of science, the very composition of matter, on its head. Some strange new alchemy was happening right there on the Hill, right there in the Tech Area, and when some of them began to whisper of a twenty-megaton bomb he had no choice but to believe them. He couldn’t imagine an explosion that big but he knew that these guys were halfway round a very dangerous bend in the road and that nothing would be the same afterwards.
Twenty thousand tons of high explosive? He stood by the Anacostia R
iver, looking back towards the heart of the city. Beside him was the industrial sprawl of the Navy Yard. Beyond, he could see the dome of the Capitol, bone-white in the sunshine, and the long stone finger of the Washington Monument. Drop a bomb like that on Union Station and it would turn the nation’s heart to ashes. There’d be nothing left.
Beaman was living in a top-floor apartment half a mile south of the river. The area looked comfortable. There was shade from the trees at the roadside and kids were playing on a patch of grass beyond a timber fence. The houses were three-storey timber construction, white clapboard with overhanging eaves. Beaman’s place badly needed a coat of paint.
Gómez let himself in and made his way up the stairs. The smell of charring meat hung in the air and on the landing at the top he disturbed a sleeping cat. It yawned and stared up at him, then went to sleep again. From somewhere close by, Gómez could hear the sound of a guitar, chords strummed at random, then the hint of a tune.
It was Beaman. He answered Gómez’s knock, the guitar still in his hand. Jeans, grey T-shirt, bare feet. In another city he might have stepped off the beach. He was very pleased to see Gómez.
‘Missed you,’ he said simply, opening the door wider.
Gómez didn’t know what there was to miss. When Beaman tried to give him a hug, he played along for a moment then stepped away.
‘Enough,’ he said.
Beaman had laid hands on a supply of coffee beans. The ancient grinder belonged in a museum. The percolator might have come from a war bonds sale. But the coffee, once it had brewed, was superb. Gómez, filling the tiny sofa, thought briefly of his dad back in Chicago.
‘Appreciate it, son.’ He nodded down at the mug. ‘You’re doing good.’
Beaman was full of news. Thanks to Mrs Roosevelt’s helping hand, he’d established contact with black organisations across the country. In a couple of weeks’ time, hundreds of delegates would be descending on Washington for a big pow-wow. The First Lady had fixed for a bunch of them to get to see the President. They wanted fresh guarantees of their status in the workplace and at the front line. They figured their time was coming and Beaman was so, so happy – and so, so proud – to be part of that revolution. He was one of many speakers who’d be talking to all these folks and tonight, as it happened, he’d be meeting with some of the movement’s leaders in a white diner in Alexandria.
‘These are black guys?’
‘Sure. And one Hispanic.’
‘Why Alexandria?’
‘The government are putting up dwellings there, thousands of units. There are twenty thousand of our people living in alleys in this city. No running water. No sanitation. Squat all. So guess who gets to live in these new places?’
‘Whiteys.’
Beaman nodded. Gómez took a sip of the coffee. An evening in Alexandria sounded a terrible idea.
‘You want me to come?’
‘Yes.’
‘How many people?’
‘No idea. Maybe a half dozen. Maybe more. This situation’s very dynamic. Eleanor’s favourite word.’
‘She means dangerous.’
‘She does. You’ve got a gun? Like last time?’
‘I have.’
Beaman said nothing. He was on his feet, rummaging among a pile of paperwork on the Formica table beneath the window that served as a desk. When he found what he was after he turned round.
‘Guy called O’Flaherty? He called this morning. He says he has something for you.’ He nodded at the phone. ‘Help yourself.’
Gómez took a cab back across the river. O’Flaherty occupied a single room in the bottom half of a neat, heavily secured FBI house on Q Street, north of the cathedral. Two agents sat outside in a plain black Chevvy and someone else was doubtless posted out back. Gómez paid off the cab, tucked his briefcase under his arm and approached the house. Unlike Beaman’s place, the paintwork was immaculate. One of the agents got out of the Chevvy and demanded Gómez’s name.
Gómez gave him his Army ID. One glance and the agent stood aside.
‘Bottom bell,’ he grunted. ‘He’s expecting you.’
O’Flaherty was on the phone. The cable stretched into the hall. Gómez followed him into the room at the front. There was a desk pushed against the back wall, a couple of filing cabinets, plus a two-seat sofa that might have come from a dentist’s waiting room. On the beige carpet stood one of the grey metal boxes the Bureau used for shipping items around the country.
‘Help yourself, buddy.’ O’Flaherty had covered the mouthpiece with his hand. ‘Came up this morning from Albuquerque.’
The conversation on the phone resumed. Gómez knelt beside the box. It was unlocked. Inside was an untidy mass of paperwork, a couple of road maps, a wall calendar, two bunches of keys and an unopened bottle of Jack Daniel’s.
Item by item, Gómez began to sort through the paperwork. Most of it was routine stuff, the small print of Donovan’s domestic life: a notification of forthcoming events from the neighbourhood school, a reminder that Francisca was due a dental check-up, a flyer for a war bond offer, a gimme from the local branch of the Salvation Army.
Only when he got towards the bottom of the pile did Gómez find what he was after. It was a letter from a local car dealership. It confirmed the sale of a Cadillac Stretch Limousine to Mr Frank Donovan. Paper-clipped to the letter was a colour photo of the Caddy. It was lime-green, encrusted with gleaming chrome. It had whitewall tyres, a black top and an impressive chrome décolletage. The photo bore an official stamp Gómez recognised. He was holding it up against the light when O’Flaherty came off the phone.
‘Albuquerque field office,’ he said. ‘They interviewed the dealer. That’s where the photo came from. Car used to belong to a buddy of his. Guy swears it was a steal.’
Gómez shook his head. No car was a bargain these days, not with the auto assembly lines given over to tanks and airplanes.
‘How much?’
‘Fifteen hundred. Plus that pick-up of his. The guy paid in cash.’
‘Fifteen hundred? You’re sure about that?’
‘Yep.’
Gómez’s eyes returned to the photo. Donovan shot vermin for a living. Where did he lay hands on fifteen hundred bucks?
‘We’ve got a registration for the car?’
‘On the back of the letter. Again, from the dealer.’
Gómez turned the letter over. New Mex plate.
‘Did he talk to the dealer about any plans he might have? Donovan?’
‘Not that the dealer’s saying.’
‘Never mentioned leaving town?’
‘Nope.’
‘What about the neighbours?’
‘One side was empty. The other side never had much to do with Donovan. Didn’t like the look of the man. Or the family.’
Gómez nodded. The neighbour he’d spoken with had told him exactly the same.
‘Across the road maybe? Your guys try any more doors?’
‘Sure. The guy right across the street didn’t even know they’d gone. Seemed pleased, though. Never liked the truck.’
‘Anyone else?’
‘Yeah.’ O’Flaherty went to his desk. ‘The guys from the field office were shaking the place down when a guy came calling. Said he was a friend of Donovan, helped him out sometimes. Turns out Donovan did auto repairs, and home decorating, and pretty much whatever else he could turn his hand to. Guy was happy to lend a hand.’
‘For money.’
‘Of course. He said Donovan was real keen to get down over the border, see a little of Mexico. The guy was surprised because Donovan never seemed to have any money saved but that suddenly wasn’t a problem.’
‘So how did he get paid, this guy?’
‘Cash. Always cash. Same-day payment. Donovan took the money off the client, split the proceeds.’
‘No checking account?’
‘Not that we can find.’
‘Shame.’
Gómez returned to the box while O’Flaherty got b
ack on the phone. Gómez was looking for evidence that Donovan had once been in the Navy. An honourable discharge after the wound he’d described would come with a pension, a money order delivered regularly through the mail.
At the bottom of the box he found an envelope. He fetched it out. The stamp was from abroad. Correos Mexico, orange, a shot of a steam train, ten centivos. The postmark was hard to make out. Gómez gave up for a moment and peered inside the envelope. Empty. He looked at the address again. It was typed. Mr Frank Donovan, 12 Yucca Street, Corrales, Albuquerque.
He put the envelope to one side, waiting for O’Flaherty to come off the phone. When he was through he asked him about the border police.
‘Your people check?’
‘Yeah.’
‘And?’
‘You were right. He took Route 10. Plumb south. Went over the El Paso crossing six days ago. Ten minutes to four in the afternoon.’
‘How many of them?’
‘Two adults. Three kids.’
‘Destination?’
‘Unknown. Seems like no one asked the question.’
‘First place the other side?’
‘Ciudad Juarez. Big city.’
Gómez nodded. He hadn’t felt a rush like this for years. Not since his days in the Bureau.
‘Take a look at the postmark.’ He showed O’Flaherty the envelope with the Mexican stamp. ‘What do you see?’
O’Flaherty studied the postmark, then grinned.
‘You got it, buddy. Ciudad fucking Juarez.’
*
It was raining when Stefan eased himself out of bed. Eva had got hold of a pair of crude wooden crutches she borrowed from a neighbour down the street and after a painful rehearsal, slowly criss-crossing the room, Stefan had mastered the knack of throwing his injured leg out straight, while taking the weight of his body on the crutches and his other leg. Now, he manoeuvred himself through the narrow door and on to the landing. He could hear Tomaso down below, coughing his lungs out. The rasp went on, day and night, as he tried to hoist the balls of phlegm into his throat. Then, with a gasp, he’d spit the stuff out. Stefan tried not to imagine the bowl beside him, waiting to be emptied. Another chore for Eva.
Finisterre Page 14
