Eldorado Network

by Derek Robinson

  “There’s another mike planted somewhere,” he said softly. “Yes, I’m Pongo. Or I was until last night. God knows where they find these idiotic codenames. I suppose it’s someone’s idea of a joke. Their whole bloody operation is a joke.”

  “You mentioned Liverpool,” Luis said. They were leaning out, their heads close together, looking down into the basement area. “Were you in Liverpool?”

  “Liverpool, Southampton, Sheffield, Bristol, Glasgow, you name it they sent me there, dozens of times. Always a mad rush, of course. Extreme urgency. Top priority. Take the first train but don’t travel first class, we can’t afford it, go second class. Christ, the number of hours I’ve spent flattening my ass in grubby British second-class compartments, you wouldn’t believe.”

  “But I thought money was no problem,” Luis said. Pongo laughed. “Well, that was the impression I got, anyway,” Luis added.

  “You must be easily impressed. They’re tight and they’re cheap but you don’t discover that until you’re over there. I was starving at one point. Can you believe that? Starving. They left me flat broke for weeks on end.”

  Luis thought, while Pongo spat his disgust at the battered dustbins below, and missed. “But … how did you survive?”

  “Took a job. Had to! Drove a taxi around London and nearly caught my death of cold … Every night I signaled Christian: send money. Fat lot he cared. Bastard.”

  “I used to drive a taxi, once,” Luis said. “Here.”

  “Take my tip, friend. Go back to it. You’ll live longer and die richer.”

  “Didn’t you get sent any money at all?” Luis asked.

  Pongo looked up at the sky. Its pure oceanic blue was beginning to fade with the passing of day. Fifty yards to their right, the traffic on Fortuny flicked past this empty backstreet. “They sent me money,” Pongo said. “They sent me a hundred guineas, in a leather bag. Great fat clinking golden guineas …” He covered his face and rubbed his eyes, and came up blinking at the awful memory.

  “Not sovereigns?” Luis said.

  “Guineas. As inconspicuous as a three-dollar bill. A bag full of death warrants.”

  “It does sound rather … ill-advised,” Luis agreed.

  Pongo gave him a sharp glance, incredulity touched with anger; hunched his shoulders; looked away. There was a pause.

  “You don’t mean …” Luis failed to find a suitable formula of words.

  “What do you think? I wasn’t giving them what they asked—hell’s teeth, you can’t come up with top-grade information every day—so they wrote me off. A bag of bloody guineas … They should have sent me a dozen cyanide phials. Jesus Christ …” Pongo bunched his fists and gradually relaxed them. “There were times when I’d have eaten the bloody things, with pleasure.”

  “Surely it couldn’t have been as bad as all that.”

  “I was on the run, chum. Everyone was after me: police, army, Special Branch, Boy Scouts, Home Guard … I never slept for ten days. You can’t run and sleep. It was bad, believe me.”

  “But what about the emergency procedures?” Luis asked. “Couldn’t you find a safe house and lie low?”

  “None of that exists,” Pongo said. “It’s all in Christian’s head.”

  “My God.” Luis stared down at the wet stain left by Pongo’s spittle. “I can’t believe it. I mean he’s so …”

  “Friendly? Fatherly? Oh yes, he’s a convincing bastard.” Pongo brooded. “Did he tell you the joke about the German spy and the aircraft factory?”

  “‘How many people work in there?’ That one?”

  Pongo nodded. “And I expect he told you where to buy contraceptives? And that all Englishwomen are nymphos? Christ! When I think that I actually laughed at his jokes! But I’ll bet he didn’t give you any money. No fear. Lots of talk, and the money tomorrow. That’s Christian.”

  “Actually, he gave me fifteen hundred pesetas,” Luis said.

  Pongo stared. The freckles on his white skin were as delicate as speckles on an egg. “You’ve actually got it?” he breathed. “Cash? Not a check?” Luis nodded modestly.

  Pongo looked down into the basement area. It was a drop of about ten feet. If you hung from the windowsill it would mean a fall of only about three feet. He glanced up the empty street to the bustle of Fortuny, and then back at Luis. “Then what the hell are you waiting for?” he breathed.

  “Nothing,” Luis said. He turned quickly, grabbed Pongo by the bare ankles, and heaved him out of the window. Luis glimpsed a flicker of outspread toes. Then there was a shout, a great crash of dustbins, a metallic clatter as a lid rolled away and fell over, and a certain amount of piteous groaning. But by that time Luis was casually pounding on the door with the chair. Soon someone came and let him out.

  *

  “You didn’t have to do that,” Otto Krafft said. This time he was genuinely angry.

  “You didn’t have to do it either,” Luis said. They were back in Colonel Christian’s exquisite office, where now the atmosphere was much more businesslike. “Besides, I was right. Wasn’t I?”

  “A bit less Spanish arrogance, my friend,” Christian growled. “You could have been wrong.”

  “All right.” Luis got up and wandered over to the creamy baby grand. “Suppose I had been wrong. He was going to kill you, so he said. Isn’t that a good enough reason to defenestrate him?” He sat on the piano stool and squinted at the music. “Jesus: four flats,” he muttered.

  “De-what?” Christian said irritably.

  “Defenestrate. From the Latin, fenestra, window, de, chuck out of, ate, after lunch.” Luis began picking out the Funeral March with one finger.

  “That’s awful. That’s bloody dreadful,” Christian complained. “Shut it up, for God’s sake. I can see why there aren’t any good Spanish composers.” Luis stopped.

  The telephone made a single, cautious buzz. Otto answered it, listened, grimaced, muttered his thanks and hung up. “Broken wrist and ankle, and cracked collarbone,” he said. “Plus a few lumps on the head.”

  “You might have killed him,” Christian told Luis.

  “Well, so might you have killed me downstairs with your dummy bullet. Suppose I had a weak heart?” He was feeling lightheaded and a little reckless; this whole day had become so bizarre that there seemed no more point in behaving thoughtfully; instinct ruled. “Actually I have got a weak heart,” he said. “Look.” His outstretched fingers trembled hideously.

  “You’ve got a weak head,” Christian said. “He didn’t mean what he said. It was a figure of speech: ‘I’ll kill that fellow one day …’ If you can’t tell the difference between barking and biting, you’re no damn use to me.”

  “Oh, I know he didn’t mean it,” Luis replied. “He didn’t mean any of it. He made it all up. The whole stunt was an act, a fairy tale. Pongo’s never been to England in his life.”

  Otto sniffed. “What you don’t know is he’s one of the few decent bridge-players in the embassy and you’ve gone and bust his arm.”

  “I know about bridge,” Luis said. “Five hearts, two no spades, doubled in diamonds.”

  “You don’t need me any more, do you?” Otto asked. Christian raised a hand without looking at him. Otto went out. “Astonish me,” Christian told Luis. He began prowling around the room.

  Luis watched him prowl. Oh Christ, he thought, I can’t stand that again. He set off around the room in the other direction, keeping in step with Christian.

  “In no particular order,” he said. “Pongo couldn’t have got a job driving a taxi in London, It takes too long to pass the test. Months, years. I read a book about it once.”

  “He was a hired-car chauffeur,” Christian announced.

  “He said taxi-driver.”

  “He meant—”

  “Listen, colonel,” Luis said forcefully. “D’you want a debate, or d’you want to be astonished?”

  They stopped at opposite sides of the room. Christian jutted his jaw and chewed on one side of his mustache. �
��Look here, you arrogant young Spanish buck,” he said. “D’you really want to work for me, or d’you just want to indulge yourself?”

  “I didn’t get into your office by saying yes-sir-no-sir, did I?” Luis demanded. “If all you need is someone to agree with you, then talk to yourself.”

  Luis stared and Christian glared. Luis put his hands behind his back to hide the trembling. Christian moodily kicked the furniture. “Get on with it,” he grunted. They resumed their walks.

  “Pongo was never a taxi-driver, and he didn’t travel second-class on a British train, because British trains have only first-class and third-class. You didn’t pay him in guineas, because there is no such thing as a guinea.”

  Christian stopped again. This time they were only a few feet apart. He raised his arm and displayed his wristwatch. “Fifty guineas in Piccadilly,” he stated. “And worth every guinea.”

  “But you didn’t pay in guineas,” Luis insisted. “That coin has been obsolete for years.” They had another little duel of the eyeballs. Luis felt his vision losing its focus. “Also your watch is three minutes slow,” he lied.

  Christian dropped his arm, straightened the sleeve with an impatient shake, and prowled on. Luis watched him and picked up the step again.

  “What’s more, I don’t think microphones work very well in the middle of settees,” he said, “especially when they’re not connected to anything.”

  Christian changed step, with a stately little shuffle. “Anything else?” he asked.

  Luis thought back. “No, that’s all.”

  “Don’t you think he had a very white complexion for a man who’s been on the run for ten days?”

  “Yes, perhaps.”

  “And his feet are remarkably clean and unmarked?”

  “That is true.”

  “Of course it is. Why do you think we took his shoes and socks off?”

  “I assumed it was to make him seem more innocent. Barefoot people always look rather innocent, don’t they?”

  “You didn’t.” Christian dropped into an armchair and hooked a leg over the side.

  Luis was briefly baffled. “Oh,” he said. “Um … Didn’t I?”

  “We had you stretched out stark naked downstairs while we went through your clothes. When I say ‘we,’ I don’t mean ‘me.’” He looked at his hands as if he might have forgotten to wash them. “There was nothing to find, was there? No papers, no money, no wallet, no keys, no cards, no matches, no diary, no driver’s license, no ticket-stubs, no tattered receipts, not even an airmail envelope from Moscow with an incriminating telephone number scribbled on the back. What’s wrong with you, Mr. Cabrillo? Don’t you ever do anything?”

  “I blow my nose from time to time,” Luis said. He found an armchair facing the colonel and dropped into it, hooking his leg over the side.

  “You blow your nose.” Christian unhooked his leg. Luis unhooked his leg. “Tell me …” Christian cupped his hands behind his head and slumped deeper in the chair. Luis duplicated the action. They half-lay, their heads tugged upright, and examined each other. “What exactly have you been up to?”

  “I’ve been in prison,” Luis said.

  “Your hands are too smooth.”

  “They let me wear gloves.”

  “Why should they do that?”

  “So I could play the violin again.”

  Christian moved his hands to the top of his head. Luis did the same. Down on the street, some distant motorist played La Cucaracha on his horn, twice. “I can’t play that, though,” Luis said. “Too many flats.”

  Christian sat up and folded his arms; so did Luis. “This is all nonsense,” the German said. “I second that!” Luis cried.

  He saw the other man dip his head and tighten his lips, and before he could stop himself Luis had. mimicked the action. Sweet Jesus, he thought, now you’ve gone too far, he’s going to kick you out into the street … But Christian merely said, in a fed-up voice, “I don’t intend to waste any more time.”

  “Well, thank God for that!” Luis exclaimed. He heaved himself out of the chair. “Because as far as I can see, all you’ve done since I walked in here is … is … Do you know the verb ‘to bugger about’?”

  “I can guess what it means.”

  “Well, you people have buggered me about all afternoon. And for what? Fifteen hundred pesetas?” Luis astonished and slightly frightened himself by pulling out the banknotes and tossing them into the colonel’s lap. “Now please listen carefully, because I shall never say this again. I am serious when I tell you that I wish to spy for Germany in England. But if you think your grubby little retainer has bought you the right to treat me like an idiot child, then your aims and mine are poles apart.” Luis dusted his hands and headed for the door.

  “It’s locked,” Christian said.

  “Well, I expect the key’s hidden somewhere obvious,” Luis said evenly. “You look in the piano stool and I’ll go and throw Otto out of the window.”

  “Here, take it back.” Christian came over and stuffed the money into Luis’s pocket. “I’ve just made it up to two thousand. You’re worth it, d’you know that? And I’ll tell you why. You’re a games-player, Mr. Cabrillo. You take chances. The British are great games-players but we Germans are not. I think maybe you can beat the British at their own game.”

  “Which is what?” Luis asked.

  “Cheating.”

  Christian opened the door. It had not been locked. “That’s dishonest,” Luis pointed out.

  “Yes, I try to stay in practice,” Christian said modestly. “Come back and see me tomorrow morning at nine.”

  They actually shook hands, and Colonel Christian actually looked happy.

  Chapter 16

  Otto escorted Luis down to the lobby. He was delighted to hear that Luis would be returning next morning, and invited him to come earlier and have breakfast. Luis thanked him but declined, saying that he always breakfasted on kippers, a habit he had picked up in England, and he did not wish to put the German embassy to any inconvenience. Otto laughed and promised him excellent kippers. Luis said he was sorry about Pongo, who after all had only been doing his best. His real name was Wolfgang Adler, Otto said, and he was accustomed to breaking his bones: he ski-ed. every weekend at the Navacerrada Pass …

  They were strolling past the official at the reception desk when Luis remembered the woman.

  He turned, and looked, and saw her almost at once: still in the same chair, in the same attitude, with the same expression. Still the leopard amongst the gazelle; still able to make his head tingle for no reason that he could have named.

  “You forgot something?” Otto inquired.

  “That woman over there. In the white sleeveless dress, no hat. Who is she?”

  Otto turned aside, murmured to the official, and brought back an embassy form. Luis read: CONROY, Julia, followed by something in German plus a date and a time. The date was yesterday’s, the time was 9 a.m. “The lady does not seem to be getting much attention,” Luis said.

  “Oh, some of these inquiries are unbelievably complicated,” Otto said. “When there is a war on—”

  “My case was not exactly straightforward, but you dealt with it speedily. Very speedily.”

  “Well … I’ll try and see that she’s attended to first thing in the morning, if you feel—”

  “Why not now?”

  “Now? It may be very complicated.”

  “Surely all the more reason to start as soon as possible.”

  Otto’s smile was growing tired and losing its grip. He took back the embassy form and walked over to the official, snapping his fingers as he went. They talked, and Otto glanced through another, bigger form. “Frau Conroy,” he called.

  She got up from her seat and crossed the room, moving easily, like a good tennis player after three hard sets and a hot shower. Luis ambled nearer. “Frau Conroy, I regret this delay,” Otto said, still speaking in English. “A telegram will be sent to Paris tonight. Perhaps if
you could return here tomorrow …?”

  “You’re very kind,” she said, but there was a slight twist to her smile which made Otto hunch his shoulders as if in self-defense. For a moment nobody spoke, all three of them caught up in the elegant dishonesty of the situation. Then Otto bowed, and nodded to Luis. “Until tomorrow,” he said.

  “Until kippers,” Luis agreed.

  As they came out of the embassy he began: “Permit me to introduce myself—”

  “I know who you are,” she said. “You’re the Count of Zamora and Eggs Benedict.”

  “I should explain—”

  “No, don’t bother.” She signaled a cab. “Because by a curious coincidence I’m not Eleanor Roosevelt, either. Can I drop you somewhere?”

  *

  Luis hadn’t been in a car since he crawled, head buzzing, out of that wreck in the middle of a forest of softly whispering midday trees five miles outside Guernica, years before. Now all the flashy excitement of motoring came rushing back to him as he smelled old leather upholstery, overworked engine oil and bitter-sweet exhaust fumes. The taxi took off with astonishing acceleration, or so it seemed to him, and maneuvered quite dashingly; but then so did all the other traffic: it zipped and whirled and stopped itself inches from disaster and leaped away again, brilliantly yet casually. Luis leaned back and admired their driver’s slickness, but he also wished that the man would drive a little more slowly. All these flashing streets, all these giddy turns, were making him feel drunk with speed.

  But not Frau Conroy. She, he noticed, was minding her own business, and a very tranquil job she made of it.

  They sat without speaking until Luis suddenly realized that they were getting near her hotel, and therefore near to parting; which would leave him alone in the middle of Madrid, and that prospect scared him. On impulse, he leaned forward and pressed the driver’s shoulder. “Cava Baja,” he said. They turned sharp left.

  “Why did you do that?” she asked.

  “We are being followed. I have to shake them off.”

  Her eyebrows rose and fell. “Who’s following us?”

  “German agents. In the third car behind.”