Eldorado Network

by Derek Robinson

  “What is it?”

  She swung her head up and looked him full in the eyes. “Sex,” she said.

  “Oh. Yes, I see.” He nodded thoughtfully. For the last two years he had got along without a sexual companion. This announcement was something of a shock. Like discovering a forgotten bank account with a healthy balance. “I suppose we ought perhaps to do something about that, some day.”

  “That’s the point. If we’re in love, then we can’t avoid making decisions. I mean, if we don’t ever go to bed, that’s a decision too.”

  “Of course.” The more Luis thought about that sort of decision, the less he liked it. His interest swung strongly in the opposite direction; then, with instinctive caution, it swung back again. “Naturally, one does not wish to rush into a hasty commitment, either,” he said.

  “Damn right,” she agreed. “I make it a strict rule never to jump into the sack without thinking first.”

  “After all, we have our whole lives ahead of us.”

  “Exactly.” She gave him a swift kiss. “So what I suggest is we wait five minutes and then, provided we both still feel the same … Okay?”

  “Excellent solution,” Luis said. “It combines moderation with initiative. Excellent.”

  So it turned out. They shared the hotel’s enormous bed for some considerable time, and later they shared its vast bath. Now, as the day died splendidly in the west, they drank palo cortado sherry, dark yet dry, in the courtyard of a restaurant which was so hard to find that Luis was confident no Germans would arrive.

  “I know very little about you, Mrs. Conroy,” he said. “Tell me something. How about Mr. Conroy, for instance?”

  “Yes, how about old Harry?” She made a face. “What a pain he turned out to be. Harry Conroy sold more aspirin than the Great War and the common cold put together … You want to know about my family? I’ll tell you the story of great-uncle Eli, the famous American guide and explorer. He got snowed-up leading three men through the Alleghany mountains during the winter of 1874, ran out of food, had to eat the customers. Celebrated case. Old Eli nearly got himself hanged over that.”

  “Indeed? For murder or for cannibalism?”

  “Neither. Election-tampering, that was the charge. All three men were Ohio Democrats, and the Democrats were pretty thin in Ohio that year.”

  “Your great-uncle was a Republican?”

  “Hell, no. My people always voted Democrat. Old Eli said himself, when he gave evidence, he said he could never have eaten a Republican, not even to save his life. Said he simply couldn’t stomach the taste, it made him sick just to think about it. Powerful speech. Won him a lot of support from the jury. Not enough, but a lot.”

  “They found him guilty, then.”

  “Sure. Convicted, sentenced, reprieved by the Governor.”

  “Who was also a Democrat.”

  “No, he was a Republican. Said he couldn’t find it in his conscience to hang a man who had set such a fine example to his fellow-Americans.”

  “I don’t believe a word of all that.”

  “Well, that’s where you make a big mistake, Luis, because some of it’s true. The bit about old Eli never eating Republicans, that’s true. Anyway … what do I know about you? Come on, tell me something about the Cabrillos.”

  Luis stretched his legs and rested his neck against the cool wicker chair. The effect of the sherry was mingling with the pleasant fatigue left by love-making, and gently dissolving it. “I shall tell you how the Cabrillo family came to be elevated to a position of power and influence by the Spanish monarchy,” he decided.

  “Bullshit. I looked you up in Who’s Who in Spain, Luis, and you’re not there.”

  He turned his head slightly and glanced at her through confident, half-lidded eyes. “Nobody who is anybody in Spain is listed in Who’s Who, Julie. One does not seek to …” He frowned slightly as he found the word and expelled it. “… advertise.”

  “Hey, that’s good. That’s terrific,” she said.

  “It was in the year … Well, never mind the year, it was long ago and the armies of the Moors were attacking Madrid. In fact they were drawn up behind the Palacio Real. The park is still known as the Campo del Moro.”

  “I’ve seen it. Very pretty fountains.”

  “A recent addition. The Moors were led by a brilliant general, the Emir Ali ben Yusuf ben Texfin.”

  “Flare your nostrils again.”

  “Pay attention. And the king of Spain placed the command of his crack troops, the Guardia Civil, in the hands of an unknown lieutenant, Juan Eduardo Joaquin Cabrillo.”

  “Lovely flaring. Real arrogance.”

  “So young Cabrillo assembled the Guardia Civil. ‘Forty thousand fanatical Moors threaten Madrid,’ he said to them, ‘and only you can save it.’”

  “MGM could use that line.”

  “Then he told them to take off their hats and turn up the brims at the back. ‘Now that we have our backs to the wall,’ he said, ‘our hats must not get in the way.’ And that is why, to this very day, the Guardia Civil wear those peculiar, varnished hats which they call ‘dust-shovels,’ turned up at the back.”

  “Who won?” she asked.

  Luis sighed. “You Americans … Obsessed with results. Never thinking of style, of manners …”

  “I guess your guys must’ve won. Otherwise nowadays Madrid would look like an audition for The Desert Song.” She ran her finger along Luis’s jawline and tipped his head back so that he looked hawklike and haughty. “Maybe not, though. Maybe it was a stand-off. You have a touch of the Arab in you, Luis.”

  “Well, there is a family tradition that the beautiful daughter of Ali ben Yusuf one day saw Juan Eduardo Joaquin through a telescope and fell in love and got into his tent that night, and they lived happily ever after until shortly before dawn, when she had to go home for breakfast.”

  Julie moistened her lips. “All this talk of food … Do they sell any grub here?”

  “They serve an excellent gazpacho.”

  “That doesn’t scare me. I’ll take it on my forehand, and you can cut off the volleys at the net.”

  They went inside and ate a long, leisurely dinner of gazpacho, herb omelets and green salad, fruit, and a keen, firm cheese from Navarre. They drank Chacoli, a brisk and bubbly wine from the Basque country, and topped it all with Benedictine and black coffee. As he paid the bill, Luis knew that he could afford to do this sort of thing every night and still save half his income from the embassy. He felt enormously accomplished: he was regularly employed, the work was challenging, the rewards could only get better, and here beside him, touching his hand, was the most exciting woman in Madrid. The future looked golden. He drained his Benedictine, and as the last drops trickled down his throat he realized, with a slight jolt, that he was a little drunk: the glass in his fingers was blurred, the colors of the room were too soft. He blinked hard, and the golden future came into sharp focus. In a week and a bit, his training would be over. Soon the Germans would send him out to spy for them. Then he would be alone, hunted, always in danger. This, now, was just a holiday.

  They took a taxi back to the hotel.

  On the way, she said: “Thank you for dinner. It wasn’t like genuine American food, but it tasted good.”

  “I’m glad.”

  The taxi slowed for a corner, and Luis leaned in front of her to look out of the window. He grunted with surprise.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Nothing, just an office block. It used to be a warehouse until a shell hit it. I was inside that shop when it happened. Nearly got killed. If those gunners had fired their shell ten seconds later I would have been crossing the street when it exploded. Makes you think.”

  “I had a narrow escape at breakfast,” she said. “I poured a whole cup of milky coffee straight down my throat. Just three inches to the left and I would have drowned an ear.”

  “You wouldn’t be making fun of it if you had been back there in 1937. What high explo
sive does to people is not funny.”

  “My dear Luis, I have seen what high explosive does to people.” She put her head close to his and gently nipped him on the ear. “It re-arranges their bodies in a violent and painful way. I was in London during the blitz last October and I saw it happen night after night.”

  “Well, then.”

  “Well phooey. More Londoners got run over by cars in the blackout than were blown up by German bombs. I mean, life is dangerous.”

  Luis thought about that. “What were you doing in London?” he asked.

  She swished her hair from side to side. “Enjoying the bombing,” she said. “This is about the time of night that it gets really serious, usually about midnight. I bet they’re flying over London right now, blowing up an orphanage here, a hospital there, an old-folks’-home somewhere else.”

  “I don’t believe you really enjoyed it.”

  “Oh, I enjoyed the excitement. A lot of Londoners did, too. But not the mines. They drop huge mines by parachute, you know, big black bastards, if you’re unlucky you can actually watch them floating down. Then there’s a blinding flash and a deafening crump and suddenly everything for half a mile around is a heap of ruins. I could have done without the mines.” She twisted her head to look out of the rear window. “Big fat moon up there tonight. They like that. Yes, I bet the krauts are bombing the bejesus out of London right this very minute.”

  By now they were in central Madrid, cruising along an avenue. The traffic thickened, and the taxi gradually lost speed until it eased to a crawl and stopped. The line of vehicles on their left gained a few yards, and another taxi slid beside them. Clearly visible in the back was a quartet of German officers. They looked as if they had spent an enjoyable evening.

  When Luis noticed them he was too late to distract her attention; already she was winding down the window. “Fascist faggots!” she cried, and her twang cut sharply through the mumble of idling engines. The officers looked at her, attracted, interested, smiling. One of them opened a window. “You fornicating fascist finks,” she told them. Luis watched their faces change, saw them look from her to him, studying, remembering. Then the traffic moved, and she sat back.

  “Sorry,” she said. “I was thinking about what they did to London. And other places.” Luis shrugged. “Why not?” he said. But he noticed that the other taxi followed them all the way to her hotel and waited while they got out, before it drove away.

  Chapter 23

  Next morning at ten o’clock Luis was again summoned to see Colonel Christian. He trudged upstairs, glumly convinced that he was in for another squabble and not feeling up to it. But Christian was calm and considerate: he offered Luis coffee and he did not kick, hit or throw any piece of furniture.

  “I have had a signal from Berlin,” he said. “They would like to know if you would be willing to change your area of operations and go to Russia instead.”

  Luis sat back and stared. His first reaction was a rush of pleasure: he’d guessed right, Germany was getting ready to attack Russia. Marvelous! Now Berlin would respect Christian and Christian would respect Luis Cabrillo … Then the greater implications struck him: Hitler had given up the idea of invading Britain. Hitler was going to fight this war on two fronts at once. Hitler was following Napoleon eastward. The whole world was about to change … “No,” he said, “I’m not going to go to Russia.”

  “Why ever not? The work is the same, and Berlin says that you would be paid many times more than you can expect to earn in Britain.”

  “In that case it can’t be the same work.”

  “Same sort of work.”

  “What? I don’t speak Russian. How many Russians speak Spanish? The idea’s insane. There’s no Spanish embassy in Moscow, and Stalin hates Franco. I’d never get in. If I did get in I’d never get out.”

  “Berlin can arrange to have you infiltrated through Scandinavia as a Spanish Communist refugee. There are plenty of those in Russia.”

  “And none of them has ever heard of me, so they’ll ask a lot of questions which I can’t answer, and inside ten minutes I’ll be looking down the barrel of a gun.”

  “No fear of that,” Christian said reassuringly. “The Russians shoot people in the back of the head.”

  “Not me.”

  “No, of course not. As you say, the idea’s insane, but Berlin instructed me to put it to you. Evidently your discovery impressed them.”

  “I see.” Luis put his hands in his pockets and waited calmly for Christian to say something more. He sensed that their relationship had shifted slightly, away from master-and-servant and toward tutor-and-student. Maybe even tutor-and-gifted-student.

  “Anyway …” Christian buffed up his mustache. “Next time you get hold of something like that, come and see me straight away.” He set off on a little walk, carefully following a seam in the carpet, each foot sliding along the line. “You know, Cabrillo … the Abwehr can be a curious organization at times. Berlin doesn’t really understand how we work in Madrid. They can be remarkably crass, as you’ve just seen. We have to spell things out for them. Never give them a choice, they’ll choose the wrong thing every time. Understand?”

  “Yes, of course.” Luis noted a new tone in the colonel’s voice, a suggestion of wariness, perhaps even of defensiveness.

  “We’re not in competition, you and I, Cabrillo.”

  “I certainly hope not.”

  “We need each other, to succeed.”

  “Indeed we do.”

  “And after what you’ve told them concerning the Russian situation, Berlin will be expecting great things from you in England.” Christian’s seam had led him to the baby grand. He raised the top and raked his fingers across the strings, making a dry, anxious noise. “We mustn’t disappoint them, must we?”

  “I certainly intend to earn as much money as I possibly can.”

  “Good. Good. A great deal depends on it. Now there is someone I want you to meet.”

  Christian thumbed his desktop buzzer, and Otto came in with a man who brought a fresh charge of life to the room.

  He was introduced as Frederick Ryan. As soon as Luis shook hands he felt encouraged and stimulated, like an actor meeting a star who is going to revitalize a play. Ryan was middleaged, medium height, and looked very fit. He was dressed in a dark suit which, for discretion, taste and cost, was better than a letter of introduction from a banker. He was cleanshaven and his face had a keen, alert expression. Soft brown hair was brushed back from a wide and tranquil forehead, and he knew how to stand without fidgeting his fingers or twitching his feet. His voice was interesting and sounded genuinely English. Luis looked at Frederick Ryan and was more than impressed: he was utterly charmed. By a man who had done nothing but walk ten paces and shake hands! Watch out, dummy, he warned himself.

  “I have decided that it is time for you two to get to know each other,” Christian said. Otto smiled and rubbed his hands.

  “You seem very happy,” Luis remarked.

  “I believe this could be a great combination,” Otto said. “The Rolls-Royce of German espionage.”

  “That makes me Henry Royce,” Ryan said, “because you, Luis, must obviously be the young Lord Rolls, who died at the sadly early age of thirty-three.”

  Everybody laughed. Ryan spoke so easily and unaffectedly that he was irresistible.

  “Let’s make it Mercedes and Benz,” Luis said.

  “Make it Donner and Blitzen, Castor and Pollux, or cheese and pickles,” said Christian, “but just make it work. You’ll both be going to England at the same time. I want you to cooperate and help each other. From now on you’ll train together.”

  “Splendid,” Ryan said. “At last I have someone to talk cricket with.”

  “I said training,” Christian told him sharply, “not gossip.”

  “My poor fish, understanding the gossip is part of the training,” Ryan replied, and Luis saw how confidently the Englishman countered. “It’s no good tapping a British general’s
line if you don’t know what he means when you hear him say he’s going to open his shoulders.” Ryan blinked three times. “For instance.”

  Christian looked at the dots of dust eternally wandering through the bars of sunlight. Otto breathed deeply and held his breath as if waiting for orders. “What does it mean?” Christian grunted.

  “Oh, it means he’s going to try to collar the bowling and biff it for six,” Ryan said, smiling gently. Otto exhaled. Christian frowned at him. “You might say it means he’s thinking of stepping down the wicket and using the long handle,” Ryan added. “Wouldn’t you say?” he asked Luis.

  “Possibly,” Luis said. “An awful lot depends on what school the chap went to.”

  “That’s enough of that,” Christian said. “Now go and work.” He looked stiff and uncomfortable.

  “Damned huns have absolutely no sense of humor,” Ryan remarked as they walked down the corridor. “Isn’t that right. Otto?”

  “I expect so.” Krafft was checking through some typewritten papers. “If all goes well, you will finish your training at the end of next week and leave for England as soon as possible.” He folded the papers and put them away. “Until then, you are not to meet outside the embassy.”

  “What rubbish,” Ryan said.

  “Colonel Christian’s orders.”

  “Christian’s an ass. Of course we shall meet outside. Come and have a game of tennis at my club, Luis.”

  “A pleasure, Frederick.”

  They looked at Otto. “I shall have to report this to Colonel Christian,” he muttered.

  “Well, tell him he can come too: well need a ball-boy. This place is quite extraordinary,” Ryan said to Luis, “I haven’t met so many buffoons under one roof since I was cashiered from the Royal Horse Artillery.”

  *

  Luis enjoyed the next few days enormously. They were busy, funny, well paid, and laced with sex. He had never slept so soundly nor woken with such an appetite. Everything gave him pleasure, because it involved being with either Freddy Ryan or Julie Conroy, and they were delightful companions. Different, but delightful.