His escort led the way into the house. It had the feel of a hospital, green paint on the walls, blackout curtains in the windows, a powerful smell of disinfectant, not a picture nor a plant anywhere.
A sergeant in Army uniform emerged from a room at the end of the corridor. He glanced at Stefan but the question was directed at Mossman.
‘This is he?’
‘It is.’
‘Did he behave himself?’
‘Impeccably.’
‘Glad to hear it.’
He showed Stefan into a nearby office and told him to strip.
‘Leave your kit on the desk. There’s a towel on the chair there. Keep yourself decent.’
Stefan did what he was told. When the sergeant came back he followed him through a maze of corridors until he found himself in a bathroom. Four shower heads dripped water on to the cracked tiles.
‘Barely lukewarm, I’m afraid. Problem with the boiler again. You’ll need this.’ He produced a tiny tablet of soap from his pocket. ‘Don’t hang about. We’ve lots to do.’
Stefan unknotted the towel and stepped under the nearest shower. The water was icy but he forced himself to stay there until his head and shoulders were numb with cold. The soap, unscented, made absolutely no difference. By the time the sergeant returned, he was towelled and pink.
‘You want to shave that off?’ The sergeant was looking at his beard.
‘No, thank you.’
‘That’s an order, not a question.’ He nodded at a line of washbasins in the corner and gave Stefan a pair of scissors and a razor. ‘Take these as well.’ He tossed a bundle of clothes across. ‘I’m back in five minutes. You need to be dressed by then.’
Stefan did his best with the scissors and the razor but the blade was blunt and he ended up smooth shaven but bloody. He soaped his face one last time, pinking the water in the basin, then got dressed. Blue serge trousers. Cotton vest. Woollen socks. Army shirt. None of them fitted properly and the socks were badly in need of a wash. Stefan imagined the smell dogging him through the days to come. After the small luxuries of life at the German legation in Coruña, he at last felt what he’d become: a prisoner.
‘Follow me, son.’
Stefan still had his espadrilles. He shuffled back out into the darkness and across the gravel towards the nearest of the huts. The sentry came to attention as the sergeant approached and threw Stefan a sidelong glance. Inside, the hut was bisected by a long corridor: bare boards on the floor, nothing on the walls between a succession of doors. Stefan counted the doors. There were twelve in all, each with a tiny window at eye level. The sergeant consulted his clipboard and paused towards the end of the corridor. The room was like a cell: bars at the single window, two beds, not much else except for a figure sprawled beneath a blanket on one of the beds. A mop of blond hair spilled across the pillow. He appeared to be asleep. The sergeant barely spared him a glance. He told Stefan his first session would be starting in half an hour. In the meantime he might like to meet his new friend.
‘Does he have a name?’ Stefan asked. The man still hadn’t moved.
‘I expect so. Ask him.’ The sergeant took a final look round and left, slamming the door behind him. Stefan heard the key turning in the lock and sank on to the other bed. At length, his new companion yawned and turned over, blinking in the harshness of the overhead light.
‘Guten Abend,’ he muttered. ‘What did they do to your face?’
*
Gómez was out early, leaving the motel before eight. There’d been a change of shift behind the reception desk and when he asked the woman whether she knew a street called Calle Maravillas she shook her head. If he’d leave the name she’d make enquiries later. When Gómez asked whether he could use the phone on the wall she said to go ahead. He still had the scrap of paper from the Indian with the beer stall across the road. He peered at the number and fed coins into the slot beneath the phone.
‘Sí?’ A gravel voice, abrupt, not unlike Gómez himself.
‘I got your number from a friend. Who am I talking to?’ Gómez knew already that lots of people in this city did business across the border and he assumed most of them would speak a little English. He was right.
‘You want to know my name?’
‘I do.’
‘Who are you? Some kind of cop?’
‘No. I want to buy a car. Am I talking to the right guy?’
There was a silence on the line. Gómez heard a muttered conversation and the hollow clang of metal against metal. Then the voice was back on the line.
‘Casa Hernandez? You find it easy. No hay problema.’
He was right. The receptionist took Gómez out on to the sidewalk and pointed towards the river. First left. Two blocks. Then a right. Watch out for the dogs.
Gómez thanked her and set off. Casa Hernandez lay at the end of a street of single-storey properties, brick construction, finished in rough stucco. The stucco had once been painted yellow but it had weathered badly and scabs of the stuff were falling off. Both windows were barred and there was a heavy chain on the iron gates that led to the scruffy area of wasteland that lay beside the house. The padlock on the chain looked new. A single tree in the middle of the wasteland threw a long shadow in the morning sun. A tyre hung from the lowest branch, swinging faintly in the breeze. No cars. And no sign of any dogs.
Gómez shook the gates. Yelled for attention. Nothing. After a while he gave up and tried tapping at the windows. Again, nothing. The house was empty. Across the road was another property, in even worse condition. He was about to knock on the door and ask where he might find the owners of the Casa Hernandez when he became aware of two figures in the middle of the road making their way towards him.
One of them had a pair of dogs on a leash. The dogs were barking already, the scent of a stranger. They were big dogs, ridgebacks, bred for hunting in the desert. The two men came to a stop in front of Gómez. He guessed they were older than they looked: black trousers, open sandals. The small one wore a leather waistcoat over the bareness of his chest. The other had a white Mountain Dew T-shirt smudged with grease. They both had the same flat Indian faces as the man at the stall the night before. Maybe brothers, Gómez thought. Best to keep business in the family.
‘You’re the guy on the phone?’ This from Shortass.
‘Yeah. Care to take those dogs someplace else?’
‘You don’t like dogs? They know that. They can smell it. Just makes it worse, not liking them.’
The conversation appeared to have ground to a halt. Gómez wanted to do business.
‘You got cars?’ he asked. ‘Only I’d hate to waste your time.’
‘We got cars.’ Shortass again.
‘They legal? Got all the paperwork? Ready to roll?’
‘Sure. You want a car?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Where you want to take it?’
‘Back home,’ Gómez jerked a thumb towards the river.
‘Cash?’
‘No problem. US dollars OK?’
‘US dollars is fine.’
‘Anything special in mind?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like a Caddy. Stretched limousine would be good. Pre-war would be even better. Are we getting the picture here?’
‘Sure. You gotta colour on that?’
‘Pink?’ Gómez frowned. ‘Maybe lime-green? I’m getting married. It’s a present. My woman, she loves all this Miami shit. Let’s say lime-green. You can help me out here?’
It was far too obvious, and all three of them knew it. All Gómez wanted was a price. For the right money, most men will sell anything.
‘You sure you want the car, señor?’ Shortass again, obviously the boss.
‘What else would I be wanting?’
‘I dunno. I guess that’s my question. You want the car, that’s fine. You want the driver, that’s maybe something different. Either way, we like to help. That’s our business, helping, selling the rig
ht car at the right price, keeping people sweet, keeping folks happy, folks like you from across the border. Why don’t you tell us a little more about yourself? You want something nice and cool to drink? Before the day gets real hot?’
He nodded at the house behind them, Casa Hernandez.
‘You guys live there?’
‘We do.’
‘So where are the cars?’
‘Someplace else.’
Gómez was weighing his options. There was the possibility of violence in the offing. He could smell it. But on the other hand these guys were at least a place to start. He was looking at the dogs. Without a firearm he was feeling deeply uncomfortable.
‘They stay outside? The dogs?’
‘Sure. They’re yard dogs. No way do we ever have them in the house.’
Gómez was looking at the tyre hanging from the tree. He’d seen set-ups like this around slum properties on the South Side in Chicago. You buy your dog for protection. You want to work its jaws a little, get the mutt in shape. And so you hang an old tyre and train the dog to jump and clamp on. Get a little closer, and he’d be looking at teeth marks in the rubber and deeper gouges where the animals tried to shake the thing to pieces.
‘OK.’ Gómez nodded at the house. ‘I could use a drink.’
Shortass produced a key and led the way to the door. His compadre dragged the dogs towards the padlocked gate. The dogs were going crazy again, looking round. Disappointment on legs, Gómez thought.
The inside of the house was cold after the warmth of the sidewalk. He stepped down on to a tiled floor. To his surprise, the place was clean, nicely furnished. A big refrigerator hummed in the kitchen area and there was even a vase of flowers in the space reserved for a leather sofa and a couple of chairs.
Shortass was pretending to occupy himself in the kitchen, busying about, doing nothing. He’s waiting for his buddy, Gómez thought. And he was right.
‘This drink of yours …’ Gómez began. Then the door to the yard opened and the compadre stepped in. He was loading a shell into a shotgun. He snapped the barrel shut, then levelled it at Gómez’s chest. From five yards he couldn’t miss.
‘I thought you guys preferred knives,’ Gómez grunted.
‘Guns are quicker.’ Shortass again. ‘Though we still have to clean the place afterwards.’
He told Gómez to put his hands in the air, then he patted him down. Both arms, neck area, torso, crutch, both legs. Impressive attention to detail.
The compadre was watching with interest.
‘Nada?’
‘Nada.’ Shortass sounded disappointed.
‘What are you guys expecting?’ Gómez this time. ‘You think I’m here to shoot you?’
‘We don’t know why you’re here. Except you don’t want to buy no lime-green Caddy.’
‘You’re sure about that?’
‘Yeah.’
‘You know where to find one?’
‘Might do.’
‘But it’s gonna cost me, right?’
‘Yeah. You want to find the owner? Big bucks.’
‘How much?’
‘A thousand.’
‘A thousand? You’re kidding. How many cars do I get to keep for that?’
Shortass shook his head. It felt like genuine regret though Gómez could read disappointment in his eyes. Shotguns frightened most men. Not this one.
‘You’re some kind of comedian now?’ Shortass wondered. ‘You figure we’re not serious?’
‘I’m sure you’re serious but I have a problem with the money you want. A thousand is a joke. I could buy this place for a thousand and have change for the shitheap across the road. Why don’t we start lower?’
‘Like where?’
‘Like a hundred.’
‘A hundred is an insult. For a hundred you get nothing. For a hundred we might even shoot you.’ He muttered something under his breath before conferring with his buddy. For a moment, Gómez anticipated violence but he was wrong.
‘On your way, gringo.’ Shortass nodded at the door to the street. ‘Count yourself lucky. And don’t fucking bother us again.’
20
The first session started at what Stefan judged to be late evening. There were no clocks that he could see and no one appeared to be wearing a watch. When he’d asked his new room-mate what this place was called he’d shrugged and said it had no name.
‘The English call it the Centre,’ he’d said. ‘We call it das Scheisshaus because they just want to flush us away.’
Das Scheisshaus. Matelot slang for the toilet.
It was the sergeant who came to fetch him. They stumbled through the darkness outside, towards the looming shape of the house. The interrogation room was on the first floor. It was bigger than Stefan had expected and it had a bareness that was slightly intimidating: high ceilings, two windows shrouded in blackout cloth and a long oak table.
‘Sit.’
The invitation had the force of an order. The sergeant had snapped a salute and disappeared. Two men sat behind the table, both in greatcoats. It was freezing.
Stefan settled on the single chair. The bigger of the two men was studying him with a frown that spoke of a deep impatience. He had a monocle in his right eye. His Brilliantined hair was swept back from a high forehead and the way he sat at the table – fingers tapping, shoulders hunched – suggested that this might be the end of a very long day.
‘You will refer to me as Colonel,’ he said. ‘My colleague you will call Major. We will conduct this interview in German.’
His colleague was a smaller, rounder man. Unlike the colonel, he had a face made for the smaller courtesies. He offered Stefan a nod of welcome, even apologised for the temperature. The boiler again. The usual difficulties in getting hold of enough coal.
Stefan said nothing. Their German was fluent. They spoke the language with the same ease as the military attaché in Lisbon but in every other respect the contrast was obvious. Talking to the military attaché had been a pleasure. Sitting here, trembling with cold, was anything but. Already this felt like a court of law, with himself the accused and the colonel keen to bring matters to a head. He was leafing through a pile of notes. Stefan thought he recognised the brown foolscap envelope the steward had handed to Mossman on the pontoon at Poole. The colonel looked up.
‘This voyage of yours,’ he said. ‘We don’t seem to be able to find the boat.’
‘It was wrecked. That’s why I’m here.’
‘The fishing boat, Mr Portisch. The one you say you took from O Barquero. It had a name, this boat?’
‘The Esmeralda.’
‘And the fisherman?’
‘A man called Santos.’
‘Describe him.’
‘Thin. Dark complexion. Maybe forty. Maybe older. A tough man. At sea all his life.’
‘Did you talk to him?’
‘I couldn’t. I don’t speak Spanish. He didn’t have any German, or even English.’
‘Then how did you know he’d been at sea all his life?’
‘Eva told me. Eva was at the house where I was staying.’ Stefan nodded at the notes. ‘I explained about Eva to your man at the embassy.’
‘You paid this Santos?’
‘I did.’
‘How much?’
‘Three gold coins. Probably more than he earns in a year.’
‘So he’ll be a rich man now? When we find him back in O Barquero?’
‘He may not go back to the village.’
‘How do you know? If you never talked to him?’
It was a good question, forcefully put. The colonel had dug a hole with contemptuous ease and Stefan had obliged him by toppling into it.
‘I don’t know, Colonel.’ Stefan was trying to sound patient. ‘I’m simply hazarding a guess.’
‘What was the weather like? En route?’
‘Calm.’
‘And sunny?’
‘Yes.’
‘So why are you that colour? So white? So pal
e? Three days at sea, you’d be sunburned, turning brown.’
‘I was resting up.’ Stefan’s hand found his leg. ‘I was injured when I came ashore from the wreck. Lying down eases the pain.’
‘There was a cabin?’
‘Yes.’
‘Bunks?’
‘Yes.’
‘How many?’
‘Two.’
‘And you stayed there all the time?’
‘Most of the time.’
‘For three whole days?’
‘Yes.’
‘Describe the cabin. Tell me what you could see from this bunk of yours.’
Stefan looked from one face to the other. He knew he was in trouble again and he cursed Erwin for his choice of transport south. A series of lifts on those crazy roads down the coast would have been so much easier, he thought. Stefan passed from hand to hand like a parcel.
‘The cabin was very small,’ he said. ‘Very primitive.’
‘Colour?’
‘White. And dirty.’
‘You could cook down there?’
‘Of course.’
‘How?’
Stefan hadn’t a clue. He thought about the tiny galley on the submarine, about cooking facilities on a yacht he’d once helped crew on the Baltic. Nothing helped.
‘It wasn’t really cooking,’ he said at last. ‘We had bread. Cheese. Wine. Hard-boiled eggs. Onions. Fruit. Enough for three days.’
‘You said you could cook down there.’
‘I was wrong. You couldn’t.’
‘So why did you make it up?’
‘I didn’t make it up. I just got it wrong.’
The colonel nodded and glanced sideways at his fellow officer. The major was still bent over his pad. He hadn’t stopped writing since the interview began.
‘Tell me about this bunk again.’ The colonel was back with Stefan. ‘You had blankets?’
‘Yes.’
‘How many?’
‘One.’
‘What colour?’
‘What colour?’
‘Yes, Mr Portisch. Surely you must know. By your own account you spent three days lying under this blanket. Those same three days when you weren’t up on deck enjoying the sunshine, enjoying the view. So I’ll ask you the question again: what colour were the blankets?’
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