Artillery of Lies

by Derek Robinson

  They sat in the radiance of the fire for the best part of an hour, talking easily, and sometimes not talking, just as easily. In the end, odd spots of rain fizzed into the embers. “We ought to go,” Julie said.

  “I’m not going back there.” He picked up an old branch and whacked it on the ground. It snapped. “Rotten,” he said. The tension and gloom were seeping back again.

  “What’s wrong, Luis?” she asked.

  “I’m bored,” he said.

  She had heard this before, more than once, but still she was not sure how to handle it. “I can see how you would be,” she said. “What with a world war raging all around you, a fight to the death between freedom and Fascism, I mean it gets sort of tedious and—”

  “Yes, yes, yes, I know,” he said. “I know I know I know I know. Don’t tell me I should be grateful I’m alive and not hungry and in England, I know all that. Makes no difference.” Luis hid his face in his hands. “I can’t write if I’m bored. I hate it. There’s no point.”

  “But you are writing,” Julie pointed out, “and Freddy likes it. Freddy reckons it’s hot stuff.”

  “That’s not writing.” The word came out like a kick on the shins. “That’s hack-work. Somebody in London picks out the music. I’m just the monkey that dances for them.”

  Julie said nothing. Against such self-contempt there was nothing to be said.

  “We should have stayed in Lisbon.” He removed his hands and looked into the gold of the fire. “I was happy in Lisbon. It was bloody hard work but it was a marvelous game. Just me and them. Every day I got out of bed and I thought: What can I sell them today? And I invented something, I made up Eldorado, nobody else did that, just me, I created Eldorado, I recruited all his pals and I christened them, Seagull and Pinetree and Knickers and Garlic and Nutmeg, they all came from me. Just me.”

  “That reminds me,” Julie said. “About Nutmeg …”

  “And it was fun,” Luis said with a kind of savage desperation. “It was exciting.”

  “It was damn dangerous. You nearly got killed.”

  “Now …” Luis sucked his teeth and spat into the fire. “Now I have to get permission before I can turn around and fart.”

  “Come on.” She got up, and pulled him to his feet. They set off into the dusk. “So you’re not a one-man-band anymore. So what? You’re properly organized now, Luis. Eldorado really makes a difference to the war. You’re bigger than ever, kid.”

  “You don’t understand.” Luis stumbled along behind her, his bare feet sliding and slipping in his gumboots. “Eldorado was my secret. Just me, and later you but you didn’t count because we were in love and so we were like one person.”

  “Gee, thanks,” she said.

  “Now they’ve taken my secret away. Eldorado’s just another department of the British War Office, for the love of Sam.”

  “Mike,” she said. “Love of Mike.”

  “Why not Sam?”

  Julie could think of no reason. “You win,” she said.

  They said little more until they came in sight of the house, when she remembered Nutmeg. “Luis … Why is Nutmeg getting twenty-five percent of his last six months’ earnings?”

  “Income tax demand,” Luis said.

  “Tax? That’s crazy. How did the Revenue get into the act?”

  “He told them about his extra earnings. He said he got the money by selling paintings. Nutmeg is a gifted artist.”

  “The Abwehr isn’t going to buy that, Luis. The Abwehr’s going to want to know why Nutmeg couldn’t keep his fool mouth shut and save them twenty-five percent.”

  “Nutmeg is a retired officer of the British Indian army,” Luis declared, with a tinge of reproach in his voice. “He is an honorable man. He wouldn’t cheat on his taxes and I for one would never dream of suggesting that he should.”

  “Pardon me all to hell and back,” Julie said.

  They went inside.

  Dr. Hartmann surprised everyone, including himself, by being the first to recruit a new spy.

  Hartmann wasn’t much interested in people. He wasn’t even excited by war. What gripped him was science, especially the science of radio, and barometric fuses, and what blast-waves did to concrete buildings, that sort of thing. He approved of the war because it gave him so much opportunity to develop his interests, and he enjoyed analyzing Eldorado’s contributions, especially as the fellow wasn’t there to argue. But apart from that, Hartmann preferred chess to people. It was at a chess club in the old part of Madrid that he met Laszlo Martini.

  Laszlo was about thirty, thin and bearded, and he dressed like a crook who had bought the local police chief and doesn’t care who knows it: snakeskin shoes, midnight-blue suit with cuffs on the sleeves and a little too much flare in the lapels, hand-painted silk tie that looked like an explosion in a Chinese paint factory. Dr. Hartmann disliked him on sight and when he saw the fingernails—too long and not clean enough—he despised him. But then he overheard Laszlo speak a few words of English to the barman: “That’s OK. And keep the change.” Later Hartmann introduced himself and invited Laszlo to play. They tied after five games: two wins each, one stalemate. So the fellow was not stupid. Whether or not he was foolish was something else. His use of English suggested he might be vain. And perhaps lonely, if he had to go around impressing barmen with his superiority.

  “Please forgive me if I intrude,” Hartmann said (they were speaking Spanish), “but yours is a name I have not often encountered in Spain before.”

  “My family is not originally Spanish,” Martini said. “The full name is Martini-Hoffman-de-Seversky-Danacek.”

  “With your permission I shall confine myself to Martini.” Hartmann cranked up a small, respectful smile. “Does it relate perhaps to the great Italian house of Vermouth?”

  “On my mother’s side, alas. I shall never inherit.” He shrugged one shoulder: what was a lost fortune to a man like Martini? “And you, señor, unless I mistake myself, you are not a native of this country?”

  Hartmann explained that he was a commercial attaché at the German embassy.

  Martini leaned back and looked at him with sudden interest. “Deutschland,” he said. It came out like an incantation.

  “That’s the place,” Hartmann agreed. “Uber alles, as the saying goes.”

  “You know, Herr Doktor, we have more in common than chess,” Martini said, and took in a deep breath as if to brace himself for a major statement. “I volunteered for the Blue Division,” he said. “I wanted to march against the Comintern, to fight with the last drop of my blood to stop the Red menace crushing western Christian civilization.” Hartmann stared: either the words or the clothes were wrong; they did not fit each other. “One of the greatest tragedies of my life,” Martini went on. “At the medical examination they discovered that I am color-blind. Their standards are high. I was rejected.” He made a small gesture of helplessness and looked away: for him, the war was over.

  Hartmann said carefully, “No doubt you would still like to stand alongside the German soldier and help him to victory?” Martini nodded. “Perhaps I can arrange something,” Hartmann said. “Not the Blues versus the Reds, what with your eyesight, but maybe something in the gray area.” He gave Martini his card. “Come and see me in the morning. Shall we say ten o’clock?”

  Laszlo Martini arrived at ten to ten, dressed as soberly as a banker. By eleven his English had been tested (and found to be American) and he had agreed to become an interpreter and translator; by twelve they were talking about his willingness to travel and work alone; before lunch he was a full-time trainee intelligence agent, keen to be parachuted into England. Dr. Hartmann was slightly alarmed by the speed of his recruitment. “You do realize, don’t you, that this work is really quite dangerous?” he asked.

  Martini almost smiled. “I am ready to live and die for the cause,” he said.

  “Oh, you mustn’t die,” Hartmann said. “That would be no good to anybody.”

  The other contro
llers were impressed by his find. “How did you do it?” Richard Fischer wanted to know. Otto Krafft and Franz Werth stopped what they were doing and waited for the answer.

  “It’s not easy to explain,” Hartmann said. “All I can tell you is new agents don’t walk in off the street. You’ve got to go out and search.”

  “But where?” Krafft asked.

  “Yes,” Hartmann said contentedly. “It’s difficult, isn’t it?”

  Fischer worried at it for the rest of the day and half the night. He went to sleep with the question Where do you get a good spy in Spain? chasing itself around his brain. His subconscious did its stuff and he awoke with the answer: ask Belasco.

  Mario Belasco was a major in the Spanish secret police. In the past, he and Fischer had done some favors for each other. During Luis Cabrillo’s training, a fellow-trainee, Freddy Ryan, had had to be killed; Fischer got the job of disposing of the body. He tried to get it cremated, didn’t have the right documents, and was glad when Belasco had them faked for him in a hurry—the corpse was beginning to get ripe. In return Fischer passed Belasco a list of anti-government agitators which the Abwehr had acquired while looking for something else; Belasco smoothly scooped them up, them and their dynamite too.

  Fischer found Belasco in his office, being shaved by a little old man who had a head like a dried walnut and spidery hands that never stopped shaking. “My dear friend!” Belasco said. His lips moved; his head did not. “Take a seat. Have a coffee. Have a shave.”

  Fischer had to look away from the trembling razor. “I’m not brave enough,” he said. “Aren’t you afraid of losing an ear?”

  “Terrified.” Belasco was still and silent while the quavering steel tackled his upper lip. “The consolation is that after this, nothing more frightening can happen to me for the rest of the day.” He held his breath as the razor harvested the last few patches of lather. The old man gave him a towel. “Thank you, God,” he said, looking at the ceiling. “I’ll do something for You one day. Now what can I do for you, Richard?”

  Fischer described his needs.

  “Easy,” Belasco said. He finished drying his ears and neck and tossed the towel to the old man. He unlocked a desk drawer and took out a folder. “How about a couple of Egyptians? They’re freelancing around the city and I know their rates are very reasonable.”

  “No.”

  “Fluent English.”

  “I can’t send Egyptians to England, Mario.”

  “No, I suppose not. What about a Czech?”

  “If you mean the fat drunk with the glass eye, we sacked him last year. Dreadful man. Never washes.”

  “True,” Belasco said. “Let’s see …” He worked down his list. “He’s dead … He’s working for the Americans … They’re in prison … She’s got no English … He’s got no brains … He’s in prison … He’s got the pox … Ah, here’s someone: a Dutchman. Fair English, lots of brains, no pox and quite handsome.” He held up a photograph.

  Fischer looked at it. “Don’t I know that face?” he said.

  “He had a career in films until the war came along.”

  “If I recognized him, so will half of England.”

  “Could be useful. Nobody suspects someone famous. And he could grow a mustache.”

  “He can grow asparagus, I’m still not risking him.”

  “Mmm.” Belasco turned a page. “It’s not so easy, after all. Your best prospects are all in jail.”

  The little old man said, in a voice full of dry rot, “Then get one out.” He finished packing up his shaving gear and left.

  “I suppose we could always get one out,” Belasco said.

  “What are they in for?” Fischer asked.

  “Fraud. Nearly always fraud and deception.”

  “Yes. It would be, wouldn’t it?”

  They went through Belasco’s list and picked out a thirty-four-year-old Hungarian called Ferenc Tekeli. He had sold military secrets to Russia, France and Spain. Now he was serving five years for fraud and ten years for impersonating a policeman. Fischer visited him in a Madrid prison that afternoon. It took less than five minutes to do a deal. Fischer thought he had never seen such a surprised and happy man; but then equally he had never known such a foul and rancid stink-pit of a prison. He could still smell it on his clothes next day.

  That left Otto Krafft and Franz Werth still without any recruits.

  “Nobody said that everybody has to come up with a second Eldorado,” Franz said to Otto. “If that happened, Wagner would have five Eldorados. I mean to say, there isn’t that much military intelligence to be found in England, is there?”

  “I don’t advise you to take that line with the Brigadier,” Otto said. They were walking in the embassy gardens. The weather was bleak: the trees looked black as iron, the paths were treacherous with ice.

  “I keep looking in the personal advertisement columns of the Spanish papers,” Franz said. “What I want to see is: Young man, observant, intelligent, hardworking and brave, fluent English, seeks interesting employment, willing to travel, anything considered, danger no object. You used to see that sort of ad all the time before the war. Not now. What’s wrong with young men nowadays?”

  “I blame the cinema. People have forgotten how to entertain themselves.”

  Franz was not listening. “I suppose there’s nothing to stop me advertising,” he said broodingly. “You know: International firm seeks young man, observant, intelligent, et cetera. Might work, mightn’t it?”

  “I can guarantee you at least one reply.”

  Franz worked at it for five seconds and gave up. “Who?” he asked. “The British Secret Service.”

  “Oh. You think they’d recognize … Yes, I suppose they would. And then of course they’d try to infiltrate one of their men in the hope that we’d send him to England.”

  “In which case the consequences would be dire.”

  “Appalling. Catastrophic. I don’t think I’ll advertise.”

  They paused at a frozen goldfish pond. “What baffles me,” Franz said, “is knowing where to start looking. I mean, what is a spy? A good spy.”

  “Someone who doesn’t look like a spy. Luis Cabrillo didn’t look like a spy, did he? He looked like the kind of young Spanish buck you wouldn’t leave in the same room with your wife, whatever the time of day. Come on, I’m freezing.”

  They turned back. “So why do they do it?” Franz wondered. “Perhaps, if we can work that out, it might give us a clue about where to look for one.”

  “The worst ones do it for vanity,” Otto said. “The best ones do it for love. And in between—”

  “Wait, wait! Love, you say. The best ones do it for love.” Franz beat his gloved hands together as if to prompt his brain. A pigeon took flight and clattered away. “I have had an absurd idea,” he said. “But then, war is an absurd idea, so why not? Especially if it gets us off the hook. There’s a young woman in the Press Office called Stephanie Schmidt. Shortish, rather podgy, thick horn-rim glasses, hair in a bun. Have you met her?”

  “No,” Otto said, “and I don’t think I want to.”

  “She’s madly in love with you.”

  Otto was silent. He was blond and blue-eyed, there was nothing wrong with his face and his body was slim and athletic: it would not be the first time a stranger had fallen in love with him. Good looks could be a curse. “How do you know?” he asked.

  “Oh, everyone knows. She’s even asked for a transfer to the Abwehr. I’m told her English is excellent. Why don’t you have a word with her?”

  Otto stamped his feet, hard, to vent some anger. “Why don’t you?” he said.

  “She’s not in love with me.”

  “And I’m not in love with her.” But that was no answer, and he knew it.

  “Listen: Eldorado Mark 2 doesn’t have to be a man,” Franz said. “In fact there’s a lot to be said for using an ugly little woman as an agent. Less conspicuous. Nobody notices her.”

  “Sure, sure. And when t
hey catch her and shoot her I expect she dies very quietly. No fuss, no embarrassment.”

  “I don’t know why you’re being so touchy. For all you know she may be itching to become an agent.”

  In fact the idea had not occurred to Stephanie Schmidt and when, a couple of hours later, Franz gently suggested it to her, she was astonished. They talked it over for quite a long time before he played his ace. “We attach great importance to the relationship between an agent and her controlling officer back here at Madrid Abwehr,” he said. “They must trust and understand each other, utterly and completely. Your controller would be …” he consulted a file, “… Otto Krafft. Would that suit you?” Fraulein Schmidt indicated that it would suit her. When Franz told him this, Otto muttered that it wouldn’t be any fun for her if she went to England. Franz said, “It’s not going to be any fun for her if she stays here, is it? And this way, her love isn’t completely wasted. What do you want, Otto? War served up with ice cream and chopped nuts on top? Spare yourself some grief. It’s never going to be like that.”

  “It stinks,” Otto said.

  “Of course it stinks. Whoever won a war with roses?”

  Next day an Irishman called Docherty proved Dr. Hartmann wrong by walking in off the street and volunteering to be a German agent. He had a little difficulty finding the Abwehr because Laszlo Martini (whom he had met in a bar) had simply told him to ask for the commercial attaché, and the embassy had a genuine commercial attaché as well as the cover position held by Hartmann. Docherty kept hinting at the great military secrets he could reveal only to the right man, and eventually he ended up in Richard Fischer’s office, Hartmann being unavailable. Docherty had no secrets to reveal but he told gory stories of his involvement in the Anglo-Irish Troubles of 1916-1922 and after, when he had killed Englishmen by the dozen, or even the score. Fischer found him hugely entertaining and sometimes even semi-convincing.

  “Why do you want to spy for Germany?” he asked.

  “It’s purely a matter of principle,” Docherty said. “You see, I need a thousand pounds by Tuesday.” Compared with the Stephanie Schmidt affair, this was irresistibly straightforward. Docherty’s name was added to the list. That made four, which should be enough.