The Germans lost the third game. As they changed ends, Julie called out to Christian in a clear, cold voice: “Please ask your players to make some effort to get out of the way of the ball.”
Christian leaned forward, and forced his shaggy eyebrows into an angry overhang. “I beg your pardon,” he growled.
“God damn it, they’re deliberately running into the ball,” she complained. “It’s obviously an attempt to put me off my game.”
Christian said nothing. His body remained hunched in the umpire’s chair, his fingers squeezing the woodwork.
There were no injuries in the next game. Christian awarded every point to Krafft and Fischer long before they could be lured to the net. None of the points was good; Christian simply called all of Freddy’s or Julie’s shots out, the instant they touched the ground, wherever they landed. It was a very quick game.
Fischer got ready to serve the fifth. He was not in the best shape to play tennis but he knew now that all he had to do was get the ball over the net and the colonel would take care of the rest. He took a deep breath and served. The ball wandered over the net and bounced generously. Julie took a pace back and walloped her return wide down the sidelines: too wide. It biffed Christian just behind the ear and sent the umpire’s chair rocking madly. The non-playing embassy staff rushed forward to steady it. All the players stood motionless. Luis felt Angela’s fingers squeezing his arm. He suddenly felt very sleepy. It was a sensation he remembered from the Civil War, from occasions when he had watched the smoke drift away after a bombing raid or an artillery attack, and he had registered the dead flat silence and had not wanted to find out any more about it. He yawned enormously, uncontrollably.
“Did I hurt you?” Julie asked.
Christian climbed down. His head was still twitching from the blow. “That was an insult,” he said thickly.
“So was the bombing of Warsaw and Rotterdam and London.”
“You stupid American bitch,” he snapped.
“Arrogant Nazi bastard,” she snapped back.
Luis heard voices behind him, and turned to see a passing group of tennis-players, all Spaniards, who had paused to watch. “Quß pasa” someone called. One of the Germans went over, smiling excessively. “Es ist alles in Ordnung,” he assured, but they kept coming forward. “Es ist alles in Ordnung!” he said again.
“Colonel, you owe Mrs. Conroy an apology,” Freddy Ryan said.
“I shall report you both to the club committee.” Rage or shock, or both, made Christian’s voice tremble.
“Will you? Why?” Freddy walked toward him, whanging his racket against his leg. “You huns have never given a twopenny damn for other people’s laws, so why start now? You didn’t report Warsaw to the club committee, did you? Or Rotterdam.”
The Spanish spectators repeated the cities to each other, seeking a hint about the nature of the argument.
“You will regret your insolence, Ryan,” Christian barked. Luis could see the beginning of a circular red weal on his neck.
Freddy hooted with laughter. “What are you going to do? Seize my bank account in London? You’ll have to conquer England first, you beastly boche.”
“England? That irrelevance? England is no longer an obstacle to the Third Reich.”
“And the Third Reich is the biggest joke in Europe. Call yourself the master race?” Freddy scoffed. “You’d lose a talent contest with the hole in the elephant’s bottom.”
“And you have a mouth like a toilet seat, Ryan, with a brain to match.” Christian was making a huge effort to get his anger under control. He held himself very stiff and upright, and his mouth was set in scorn, but a yearning for revenge narrowed and sickened his eyes. “You need to be taught manners, Ryan.” He began to walk away. His men followed.
“Listen, you squalid hun!” Freddy called. “I’m British, you hear? British! That makes me worth fifty of your square-headed Teutonic robots!”
Christian paused. “I promise you an early opportunity to put that to the test,” he said, and went on. More onlookers had been attracted by the noise. They stood aside to let the Germans through.
“We smashed you in 1918,” Freddy shouted, “and we’ll bloody well pulverize you again!”
The embassy party trailed away, across the lawns. The spectators stood staring for a while and then drifted off, discussing the melodrama. Luis and Angela went over to Freddy and Julie. She was sitting on the grass, watching a small, hairy caterpillar crawl up her finger.
“What on earth was all that for?” Luis asked.
“Well, he started it,” Freddy said. “Foulmouthed sod.”
“No, you start it,” Angela said. “Remember?”
They looked down at Julie. She raised her finger. The caterpillar had reached the tip and was standing, waving, looking. “Imagine what a hell of a view that must be,” she said. She swung her hand around so that the caterpillar could see the others. “Get a load of them hideous monsters. Did you ever see three such hulking fiends?”
“Come on, Julie,” Luis said. “Be serious.”
“And they’re on our side,” Julie told the caterpillar. “Imagine what the baddies must look like!”
Freddy turned away and performed a graceful handstand.
“Anyway, who cares?” he said, upside-down. “It’s all over now.” He toppled gently and cartwheeled onto his feet.
“Are you sure?” Luis asked, but Freddy looked the other way.
The caterpillar turned and crawled down the finger. “Okay,” Julie said, “time to hit the hay, friend.” She placed it gently on a daisy, and stood up. “What now? A little alligator-wrestling before dinner?”
“I thought you were going to kill those two men,” Luis said.
“What nonsense,” Freddy remarked. “They were never in danger of anything worse than severe maiming.”
“Where ’ave you learn to ’it so ’ard?” Angela asked.
“I was California ladies singles champion,” Julie said. “In fact I went to the University of California on a tennis scholarship.”
Luis was amazed. “American universities give scholarships for playing tennis?”
“Sure. Damn tough to get, too. First you have to hit a tennis ball clean through a sheet of corrugated iron, and then you have to spell ‘corrugated iron.’”
“Which you accomplished?” Freddy asked.
“Well,” Julie said, picking up her racket, “I got fifty percent, which was considered good enough. I’m hungry. Let’s go eat.”
They went eat. Luis tried to relax, but he found it hard to enjoy his food with tomorrow morning getting closer every minute. As it turned out, he was even wrong about that.
Chapter 26
The fish were ugly, angry and dangerous. Luis kept catching them and he kept nearly getting bitten when he took them off the hook. The river was big and dirty and cold, but he had to keep fishing until he caught the one he was looking for. He caught another, still not the one he wanted. It was thrashing about with anger. It bit him on the hand. Enraged, he bit the fish back, and was astonished to see it smiling up at him. They were biting each other yet the fish was his friend. You’re dreaming again, he told himself, and a bloody silly dream it is too. He made himself wake up, and while his consciousness was dragging itself through the murky surf between sleep and waking he held onto the important details in case they tried to slip away from him. Fishing in dirty waters … Jesus Christ, he complained to his subconscious, is that the best you can do? Where’s your imagination?
All the lights were on.
Luis struggled up, feeling afraid because he had escaped from a dream to an unreality. The all-white dazzle gradually faded. He was looking at the old man, the caretaker from downstairs. Nightshirt, nightcap, eyes like inkstains.
“Man downstairs wants you,” the caretaker said, and worked his jaws to persuade his dentures to fit.
“Man? What man? What’s the time?” Luis found a clock. It was five minutes past two. He wasn’t fully awake
; the murky river was still running. “Who is it?”
The old man had a card, already bent and dog-eared by his heavy fingers. He held it close to his eyes and pulled his head back to focus. “Otto something,” he said.
There had been a shower of rain, which made Madrid seem even darker and emptier. Otto drove fast and said nothing. They reached the embassy in a matter of minutes. Otto put the car in the underground car park and they went up in the lift. Freddy Ryan was waiting in Colonel Christian’s anteroom. He was dressed in blue duck trousers and a white polo-neck sweater, and he was beginning to need a shave. “Get us some coffee, Otto, there’s a good chap,” he said. Otto went out without looking at him. Freddy sighed. “They’re such damn bad losers. Not like the Italians. If this had been the Italian embassy we’d be surrounded by coffee and three different flavors of ice cream and a bucket of Chianti per person, but your typical Jerry can’t see the funny side of getting pounded with tennis-balls. He goes all bitter and sulky. It’s true: they really have no sense of humor. I remember—”
“What’s up?” Luis asked. “What’s going on?”
“Good question,” Freddy said. “My guess is that the colonel is having trouble with The Times crossword, but I could be wrong.”
Ten minutes later Christian strode in, trailed by Otto Krafft and Richard Fischer. His face was brick-hard and his eyes were not looking at anyone. The three men went straight into his room. There was a dark rumble of talk, then silence. Luis looked anxiously at Freddy, but Freddy was occupied with balancing a pencil on his fingertip.
The inner door opened. Otto nodded to them. Luis wiped his palms on his thighs. Freddy flicked the pencil high in the air and caught it behind his back. “Good Lord!” he said, genuinely surprised. “I’ve never been able to do that before.” They went in.
Christian was sitting behind his desk. He glanced sideways at them, groaned his disgust, got up and took off his blue seersucker jacket. He threw it in the corner, the gesture of a man forced to soil his hands on someone else’s mess. Luis got a whiff of dried sweat. Christian’s shirt was ringed at the armpits. “You maniacs,” Christian said.
Ryan aimed his thumb at Krafft and Fischer, who were standing by the door. “Them or us?” he asked.
“You maniacs have endangered the existence of my entire section of the Abwehr,” Christian said. “Can you begin to realize the significance of that? Do you know what happens to your future when my future is in doubt?”
Freddy found himself a chair and pulled forward another for Luis. “This may take a little time,” he said.
“Stand up!” Christian ordered. “You have not been given permission to—”
“For heaven’s sake, colonel, just get on with it,” Freddy said.
“Whether we sit or stand is irrelevant. If we’re in the soup, standing won’t save us; and if we’re not in the soup why should you give a damn whether we sit, stand or blow bubbles in the bath?”
Christian glared. “Has it ever occurred to you that your behavior might offend someone in this organization other than myself?”
“The ambassador,” Luis said.
“No, no,” Freddy said, “not that kindly old gentleman, in theory he doesn’t even know the Abwehr is under his roof. No, I think the colonel’s talking about his boss.”
“His boss?” It had never occurred to Luis that Christian might not be in complete command of the Abwehr in Madrid. “The colonel’s boss?”
“Shut up!” Christian barked.
“Captain Mullen,” Freddy said. “A sailor.”
For a moment Luis thought that Colonel Christian was going to attack someone. Then all the rage seemed to drain out of him. He took off his tie, picking clumsily at the knot. He walked over to his jacket, let the tie run through his fingers, and watched it coil on the floor. “You know so bloody much, Ryan,” he said. “You tell us why you’re here now.”
“Easy,” Freddy said. “Mullen heard about the argy-bargy out at the Country Club, he didn’t like it, sent for you and sank his dentures into your bottom, and you didn’t like that, so you decided to unload the pain and you sent for us.”
There was a silence, while Krafft and Fischer breathed quietly, Luis tried to think of something helpful to say, and Christian scratched his armpits.
“Well, if that’s all that’s troubling you,” Freddy said, getting up, “just keep taking the tablets and—”
Christian waved him to sit, without looking at him. “You two can go,” he said.
“Go out or go to bed?” Fischer asked.
“Go to bed.” He waited until the door had closed and then waited as long again. “Let me tell you about Captain Mullen,” he said. He sat on the floor, going down slowly and straightening his legs as if they had rheumatism. “Captain Mullen is not like me,” he said. “I believe in taking risks. For me, espionage cannot be safe. It is essentially a business in which one gambles in search of big winnings. If one is in no danger of great loss then one is not likely to be rewarded with great success either.”
“But Captain Mullen is not-like you,” Luis said.
Christian leaned against his desk. “Unlike the British, our sailors have never been adventurers. For Captain Mullen the secret of success is to eliminate all mistakes.”
“Some truth in that,” Freddy said.
“So Captain Mullen is a great believer in counter-intelligence. He thinks we should let the enemy make his mistakes, and then we should exploit them.”
“Are you trying to say,” Luis asked, “that Captain Mullen doesn’t approve of sending agents to England?” He experienced a twinge of anger.
“I am not trying to say anything, Cabrillo. I am telling you what happens to people in this department who make mistakes: Captain Mullen eliminates them.”
“Would he eliminate you, for instance?”
“If I am not successful I shall certainly be sacked.”
“Just sacked?” Freddy said. “I don’t mind being sacked. I’ve been sacked from all the best armies. And some of the worst.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Ryan.” Christian began taking off his shoes. “Put your cricket-bat away and listen to me. If Mullen thinks either you or Cabrillo have gone wrong he won’t just sack you and leave you lying around for the British to sweep up. He’ll have you killed, double-quick.”
“Oh Christ,” Luis said. He stared as Christian exercised his toes. They moved stiffly in his socks, as if they too had just been woken up. “You mean to say, even when we’re in England …”
“Especially when you’re in England.” Christian tossed his shoes over his desk and stretched out on his back.
Luis was holding his head in his hands. “Colonel, why are you telling us all this?” he asked. “It seems very strange.”
“Two reasons,” Christian said. “First, because I want you to succeed and that cannot happen if you blunder and end up getting strangled by your replacement in some filthy London back-alley. And second, because you have already blundered, especially tonight, and I have spent the past hour trying to persuade Captain Mullen that you should not be strangled immediately in some filthy Madrid back-alley.”
“Or, indeed, in some quite clean Madrid back-alley,” Freddy murmured.
“How did you get on?” Luis asked.
“Badly,” Christian began, when the doorhandle rattled. They all looked at it, and it rattled again. Luis stared. He was helpless with fright.
“Open it,” Christian said.
The door was not locked. Freddy opened it to reveal a black tomcat standing on its hind legs. The animal dropped through the gap and padded inside, its tail as erect as a saber. “What a cheap trick,” Freddy said.
“That unpleasant beast has very little brain,” Christian said. “It thinks that it is clever when in fact it is merely annoying.” The cat sniffed his toes and looked thoughtful. “Just like you two,” Christian said.
“Whose doorknobs have we been rattling?” Freddy asked.
“Your associat
ion with Mrs. Conroy,” Christian said wearily. “Stupid, ostentatious and damagingly offensive. She has insulted German officers all over Madrid, in your company. Tonight’s episode was only the worst. We don’t pay foreigners to piss on us.”
“You see what you’ve done?” Freddy said to the cat. “You’ve gone and upset Colonel Christian.”
“Mullen told me that any agent who behaves like you is by definition incompetent and unreliable. He wants you dead.”
“You said yourself that Mullen’s a dummy,” Freddy observed. “I think somebody must have screwed his head on the wrong way round. Does he want Luis and me to go around Madrid in lederhosen, singing the Horst Wessel song and giving flowers to German officers?” Christian sighed and closed his eyes. “Well, why not?” Freddy demanded. “That would show everyone whose side we were on, wouldn’t it?”
Christian heaved himself up. “This is a secret service,” he said. “Captain Mullen won’t stand for publicity of any kind.”
“I can’t stop her shouting at Germans,” Luis said.
“You should never have allowed the situation to arise in the first place,” Christian told him sharply. “How the devil can I run this department when you turn a simple tennis-match into a brawl?”
“We didn’t approach you tonight, colonel,” Freddy pointed out. “You made the first move.”
“You could have stopped her.”
“Bosh! Look: once you’d insulted her I had to defend her. Right? In any case, what’s the panic about? Personally, I think that little dust-up was the best thing that could have happened for everyone.”
“Fischer may have concussion.”
“Excellent,” Luis said. “The British will never suspect us now.”
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