Eldorado Network

by Derek Robinson

  “Perhaps.”

  “It doesn’t worry you.”

  “There’s lots of room in Britain for two dozen spies without treading on each other’s toes. Besides … the others are making mistakes, too. Spies always get things wrong. The Abwehr expects it. I myself stumble from time to time, just to be more convincing. C.L.B., for instance.”

  “C.L.B.” She drank some tea. “Wasn’t there something about C.L.B. in a report you made last week? Canadian something. Canadian Lowflying Bombardiers. Isn’t that right?”

  Luis finished his tea and examined the pattern of leaves in the bottom. “Looks like a dead camel,” he said. “That’s very significant.”

  “Come on, tell me. What does it really mean?”

  Luis went back to his desk. “Don’t miss next week’s gripping installment,” he said; and began writing.

  Chapter 46

  Julie practiced on Luis’s typewriter until she had a degree of two-fingered competence. Luis then agreed to pay her the equivalent in escudos of twenty-five dollars a week. After pounding the machine for two days she struck for fifty dollars a week. He refused, and threatened to finish the job himself. She pointed out that, if he did, the difference in typing styles would be obvious to the Madrid Abwehr. A moody silence fell.

  It was the end of a particularly sultry afternoon. He had worked until two in the morning for three days in a row, he wanted the report to be mailed as soon as possible, and he was obsessively worried about Seagull’s traveling expenses. To provide an extra touch of authenticity, he itemized these in pounds, shillings and pence; but every time he totaled them he got a different result. It was infuriating. Already he had given it far more time than it justified. Bloody British currency!

  “Anyway, I reckon I’m worth more than fifty bucks,” Julie said, picking at a hangnail.

  “It’s out of the question.”

  “I mean, look at the hours.”

  Luis flung down his pencil. “Have you any idea how much it costs me to run this business? Look at this. Just bringing Seagull down from Liverpool to London for a lousy meeting at the Strand Palace Hotel comes to …” He glanced at his crossed-out sums. “Comes to a hell of a lot,” he mumbled.

  “Why put him up at the Strand Palace, for God’s sake?” she asked.

  “I like the name,” Luis said curtly.

  “Well, it won’t impress the Germans. Go somewhere that has a bit of style. Go to the Connaught.”

  “How much is that for a single room?”

  “With bath? Call it five pounds.”

  “Five pounds? What are you trying to do, bankrupt me?”

  “Luis,” Julie said. “For Christ’s sake. It’s not your money. You don’t pay these expenses; the Germans do. Who cares what it costs? Give the guy the Ritz bridal suite for a week and send the bill to Hitler.”

  Luis stood in the middle of the room, shoulders slumped, toes turned in, face as tired as a wrung-out rag. “What’s wrong with me?” he muttered. He heaved a great, shuddering sigh. “I keep getting a strange feeling inside my head. It’s as if a glass shutter comes down. I can see the next thought, but I can’t reach it.”

  “You’ve been working too hard,” she said. “You’ve got to learn to take it easy, Luis.”

  “Yes. Yes.” He nodded, frowning. His eyes kept drifting sideways, seeking something which was always escaping.

  “You’re right. I’ve got to stop worrying.”

  “Now.”

  “I’ll tell you what.” He braced his shoulders and rotated his head, loosening the weary neck muscles. “Seagull can stay at the Connaught. Yes.”

  “Good decision,” Julie said. “If you ask me, the fellow deserves it, the way he’s been working his ass off.”

  Luis smiled, and the smile triggered off a chuckle. “He has, hasn’t he? I’m very proud of Seagull. D’you know, I think I’ll get him a raise.”

  “Okay.” Julie came over and took his hands. “Now let’s get something else straight. Seagull doesn’t exist. He doesn’t get his pay and he doesn’t run up his expenses. All the money comes to you and stays with you.”

  Luis nodded.

  “And if you want to know what makes me worth fifty bucks a week,” she said, “it’s not just my brilliant typing, it’s also the way I keep you out of the funny-farm.”

  Luis nodded again.

  “Fine.” She kissed him and slapped him on the backside. “Now let’s go and get thoroughly smashed.”

  *

  They got moderately smashed in a succession of bars, and eventually found themselves in a stately establishment with much engraved glass and dark wood. They were about to leave when the head waiter appeared, benign as a bishop. Julie explained that they were looking for the Connaught Hotel. He smiled at her, delightedly, and said he had a brother in Phoenix, Arizona. Luis told him that Julie herself came from Indiana which was in California and therefore virtually indistinguishable from Phoenix. They shook hands and stayed for dinner: partridge soaked in port, extremely rich. As soon as the plates had been cleared away, Luis fell asleep. A waiter fetched a taxi. Luis fell asleep again in the taxi, and again as soon as they got home. She took off most of his clothes and steered him into bed. He looked as if he had been sandbagged.

  But next morning he was as good as new again: fresh, full of energy, his face clear and his eyes alert Julie, who was feeling slightly rusty, marveled, and asked him how the hell he did it. “Simple,” he said. “It’s my royal blood. You see, at birth I was exchanged by gypsies. By rights, I should now be king of Albania.”

  “Oh yeah? I’ve seen the king of Albania. He wasn’t so fast on his feet.”

  “Exactly. The wrong man grew up to get the job.” Luis stepped into his shoes and picked up his jacket. “If you’re coming with me—”

  “Sit down a minute and listen. I’ve been thinking some more about your crazy Eldorado operation.”

  “It’s not crazy as long as it works.”

  “Well, that’s what bothers me. Have you ever stopped to think that you might some day give the krauts a piece of secret information which is not only valuable but true? I mean, really true?”

  Luis sat down. “By mistake,” he said.

  “Sure, accidentally. A coincidence.”

  “I invent something which actually happens.” He shrugged. “Does it matter if there really is a Commando school in north Wales? The Luftwaffe can’t bomb north Wales, it’s too big. In fact the British would sooner they bombed north Wales than—”

  “How about convoys?” Julie asked.

  Luis got up and poured himself more coffee. “Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear,” he muttered.

  “You invent a convoy. Size, route, sailing-date, the lot. When the U-boats turn up, there is a convoy, smack in their sights.”

  “It couldn’t happen.”

  “Maybe it’s happened already. You don’t know.”

  “All right, it’s not impossible. But on balance—”

  “Luis, stop kidding yourself. On balance you’re likely to get steadily better at guessing what the British are doing, so on balance you’re going to become more and more—”

  “All right! Yes, fine, I understand, you make it very clear.” He scowled into his cup. “So now you want me to stop. You want me to abandon the business.”

  “Not necessarily. But I certainly think you should go to the British and tell them what you’re doing.”

  “I went to the British once, in Madrid.”

  “And?”

  Luis brooded over the memory. “They kept giving me tea. I had to pee in the bath.” He wandered out to the balcony and emptied his coffee into a pot of geraniums. “I’ll tell you the truth,” he said, “but I don’t care if you don’t believe it. Sometimes when I was with Freddy Ryan I wasn’t sure if I believed it myself. After a while Freddy could make you believe that down was up, and sometimes now I think maybe he was right, that down is up, and the law of gravity is just a regulation invented by all those dull, heavy peop
le who can’t fly and want to make it illegal for everyone else to get up off the ground, the way Freddy Ryan could.”

  “What really happened to him, anyway?”

  “He got shot down,” Luis said. “They invoked the law of gravity. No appeal against that, is there?”

  She joined him on the balcony. “Hey, let’s keep it simple,” she said. “Tell me what it is you don’t care if I don’t believe.”

  Far below them, a chunky woman dressed in black wool from her shawl to her ankle-length skirt was tramping up the steep and narrow street. She carried a basket of fish on her head. “That’s what they call a varina,” he said. “She sells fish.”

  “You don’t say. Looks more like the king of Albania in drag.” She nudged him in the ribs. “Come on.”

  “Okay, I’ll tell you. When the British embassy kicked me out I decided there was only one way to make them change their minds, and that was to get myself recruited by the Germans. You understand? Once I was working for the Abwehr I’d be much more useful to the British. That was the whole damn idea.”

  “Gee whiz.” She was genuinely impressed. “I would never have thought of that. I’d never have dared think of that.”

  “It seemed like a good idea at the time. I mean, I didn’t know I was going to meet you and Freddy.”

  “But why didn’t you go to England?”

  “Because to make it work, I must send information to the Abwehr. I must be able to prove to the British that the Abwehr really trusts me.”

  “Well, you could do that from England. You’d be far less likely to get found out by the Abwehr. I mean, what you’re doing here is pretty dangerous, Luis.”

  He gave her a sharp, sideways glance. “And if the British caught me in England, transmitting secret information,” he said, “would they believe it was all for their good in the long run?”

  “Um. Well,” she said. “Yes. I see what you mean.”

  “They hang people by the neck for doing that sort of thing.”

  A tiny money-spider sailed across the balcony on its shining thread and crash-landed on her arm. She let it scramble over the downy slopes to her hand, and gently blew it away. “What a brutal bloody business,” she said.

  “Of course it is,” Luis told her. “That’s why it pays so well.”

  They went inside. “I still think you should go to the British,” she said.

  “Yes.” He made a face. “It’s a great pity to interfere with an enterprise which is working so smoothly and earning so much money, but … If it has to be done …”

  “Would you like me to arrange it?”

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  *

  Colonel Christian didn’t boot Wolfgang Adler off the Eldorado team; he let him drop, slowly, day by day and bit by bit. He gave him all the routine paperwork to do: filing, cross-referencing, summarizing. Meanwhile the other Abwehr personnel got the exciting jobs as controllers of Eldorado and his sub-agents, and by the time their information reached Wolfgang it was stale. He was being sidetracked, and he knew it, and the knowledge fed his sense of grievance, of being cheated. What made this worse was Otto’s sudden perkiness. Eagle had filed his first report. Compared with Eldorado’s material it was no better than worthy: Eagle analyzed the isolationist mood of American big business and did a short round-up of British rearmament in the year since Dunkirk. But Otto was delighted. “He’s making an effort, that’s the main thing,” Otto told Wolfgang over breakfast. “It’s a start. You wait till he earns his first bonus. Then you’ll see Eagle lay some golden eggs.” Wolfgang chewed his toast and looked away.

  As it happened, the next delivery came from Eldorado; and as usual Wolfgang was not invited to share its contents.

  It was a lengthy report, and it arrived only twenty minutes before Christian had to leave for Madrid’s Barajas Airport. He rounded up Fischer, Werth, Krafft and Hartmann, packed them into the biggest Mercedes the embassy could provide, and farmed out pages for them to read on the way.

  By the time they tramped onto the bright and breezy runway, every word had been read by at least two men. Otto Krafft had his notebook open for their comments. “Richard?” Christian said.

  “Well, sir, Knickers has been hanging around the pubs near the R.A.F. bases again,” Fischer reported. “I suggest you draw especial attention to his information about a new four-engined bomber; about an improved Spitfire with extra fuel-tanks; and about some special kind of radar codenamed ‘Jam Tart.’ That’s all he knows about it but he’s digging. Also he says there’s a serious shortage of aluminum because of the U-boat sinkings, and use of alternative materials in aircraft has led to several crashes. Nothing absolutely startling, sir, but I’d rate it all valuable and reliable stuff.”

  Christian nodded. “Franz?”

  “Seagull also provides evidence that the U-boat war is really hurting the enemy, sir,” Werth announced. “When the last convoy reached Liverpool, the port was sealed off in order to keep all news about the losses from the civilian population; crews were not allowed ashore; and when the authorities ordered them to sail again, many mutinies broke out. That seems to me of major importance, sir. The only other item worth studying is a remarkable plan which Seagull has heard about. It involves towing a huge iceberg to mid-Atlantic and keeping it there as an R.A.F. airstrip, so that convoys can be given air cover throughout their voyage.”

  “Good heavens,” Christian said. “Can that be done?”

  “It’s technically possible, yes.”

  “You amaze me. Dr. Hartmann? What do you make of Eldorado’s own discoveries?”

  “As usual, sir, the sheer quantity is impressive.” Hartmann riffled the pages with his thumb. “I recommend three topics which should repay especial examination. The first is the marked increase in Commando training, with clear implications for coastal security throughout northern Europe. The second is the secret arrival in London of a purchasing commission from Soviet Russia; Eldorado has some interesting information on that. The third is an outbreak of sabotage in certain aircraft factories in Yorkshire; Eldorado links this with the employment of French refugees from a nearby camp. There is obvious propaganda potential there. Of course it goes without saying that Eldorado’s entire report is a pleasure to read, sir, but those are the three main points.”

  “Good.” Christian took the pages, and Otto’s notes, and stuffed them all into his briefcase. “Did they miss anything, Otto?” he asked.

  “Nothing important, sir. There’s just one small point worth noting.”

  “Cough it up, then.”

  “I don’t know whether you remember the Canadian Low-flying Bombardiers, sir?” The aircraft was ready for boarding; they strolled toward the steps. “Eldorado sent us a few lines on them, two weeks ago.”

  “Yes … Didn’t he meet an officer, in Oxford? In a bar, wasn’t it?”

  “The Randolph Hotel, yes. Eldorado got into conversation about his shoulder-badge, which bore the initials C.L.B. It seems that the man must have been joking. Eldorado has discovered that he is in fact a major in the Church Lads’ Brigade. That’s an organization rather like the Boy Scouts, only godlier.”

  Colonel Christian laughed so much that he stumbled on the aircraft steps and banged his shin. “That’s the cherry on the cake!” he called down, rubbing his leg vigorously. “Give that man a bonus!”

  He disappeared into the cabin. Ten minutes later he was in the sky, heading for Germany, a conference with the head of the Abwehr, Admiral Canaris, and a deserved promotion to brigadier.

  Chapter 47

  Walter Witteridge looked as if he should have been the headmaster of some minor cathedral school. His build was angular, his face suggested skin uncomfortably stretched over a thrusting skull, and his large teeth flashed frequently in an apprehensive smile. Even in the heat of a Lisbon summer, he wore a tweed suit. Luis Cabrillo had never been inside a school commonroom but he had read enough English novels to know how people were supposed to sound in them; and as soon as
he heard Walter Witteridge speak, he recognized those tortured vowels: sometimes stretched thin as if to see if the words would snap; sometimes overinflated, as if the statements were trial balloons, sent up only to be shot down. Luis found it difficult not to twitch and grimace in imitation of the man.

  “May I tell you what I find most frightfully intriguing?” Walter Witteridge said, hunching and twisting his body as if his underwear chafed. “It’s this. How, Mr. Cabrillo, did you come to ask for an appointment with me? That is to say, with me specifically?” He suddenly scratched the very top of his head, fluffing up the sandy hair. “How impertinent that sounds! You are fully entitled to ignore it. Let it be stricken from the records. Stricken? Struck?” He glanced longingly at his bookshelf. “I am an idle fellow, Mr. Cabrillo. Pray forgive me.”

  “My secretary did it,” Luis said.

  “Ah.” Witteridge widened his eyes. “But then how—”

  “She called a friend in the American embassy in Madrid. He called a colleague in Lisbon, who suggested we should approach you.”

  “Fascinating. When one is nominally a member of the Secret Service, you see, these little glimpses have a certain piquancy … It is as if one were a voyeur upon oneself.”

  “I think he met you at a cocktail party.”

  “I’m sure he’s absolutely correct. Americans are so blindingly efficient, aren’t they? One suspects that their efficiency is a byproduct of their constantly-repeated faith in a Divine Providence. D’you know, before all this unpleasantness broke out I was tempted to write a book called When God Dies, Will He Go To America?”

  “How interesting,” Luis said.

  Witteridge coiled his arms around his head and peered at Luis from behind his splayed fingers. “My dear fellow,” he said, “I have been boring you.”

  “Not at all.” Luis sat back. “You must be that Walter Witteridge, the journalist and writer and so on.”

  Witteridge nodded glumly. “Currently I seem to be in my so-on phase. Have you read my book, There’s No Future In Progress?”