by C. J. Sansom
‘There’s Jerry,’ Tolhurst said quietly. ‘Military advisers. The Gestapo people wear civvies.’
One of the Germans caught Harry’s stare, raised an eyebrow and turned away.
‘The Ritz is such a German and Italian haunt now,’ Tolhurst continued. ‘That’s why Sir Sam likes to fly the flag now and then.’
‘Ready for tomorrow?’ Tolhurst asked quietly. ‘The dinner with our friend?’
‘Yes.’
‘Wonder if that girly knows anything?’ Tolhurst’s eyes were alight with curiosity.
‘I don’t know, Tolly.’ Harry looked down the table. Tonight’s dinner, too, had its hidden agenda: they were all under instructions to be cheerful, relaxed, show they weren’t worried by the cabinet changes. Everyone was drinking hard, joking and guffawing. It was like a rugby club dinner. The embassy secretaries, brought along to make up the numbers, looked ill at ease.
Waiters in starched white coats brought food and wine. The food was superb, the best Harry had eaten since his arrival. ‘The old standards are coming back,’ said Goach at his elbow. Harry wondered how old he was; they said he had been at the embassy since the Spanish-American War forty years ago. No one, apparently, knew more about Spanish protocol.
‘They are at the Ritz, at least, judging by the food,’ said Harry.
‘Oh, in other places too. They’re reopening the theatres, the Opera House. I remember the old King spoke to me there once. He was very charming. Put one at ease.’ He sighed. ‘I think the Generalísimo would like to invite him back, but the Falange won’t have it. Wretched shower. They threw flour at you on Thursday, I heard?’
‘Yes, they did.’
‘Filthy rabble. He had the Hapsburg jaw, you know. Protruding.’
‘What?’
‘King Alfonso. Only slightly. The burdens of royalty. The Duke of Windsor passed through Madrid, you know, back in June. When he escaped from France.’ Goach shook his head. ‘They just rushed him through the embassy and out to Lisbon. No formal reception or anything. I mean, he was the King once.’ He shook his head again, sadly.
Harry looked round the table again. He wondered what Bernie would have made of this.
‘Penny for ’em,’ Tolhurst said. Harry turned to him.
‘Sometimes I feel like I’m in Wonderland,’ he said quietly. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised to see a white rabbit in a suit pop up.’
Tolhurst looked puzzled. ‘What d’you mean?’
Harry laughed. ‘They haven’t a clue what life’s like out there.’ He nodded towards the window. ‘Doesn’t it ever get to you, Simon, all the sheer bloody misery you see in this city?’
Tolhurst frowned thoughtfully. Through the chatter Harry caught the ambassador’s sharp tones. ‘This Special Operations nonsense is mad. I hear they’re using Spanish Republican exiles to train British soldiers in political warfare. Bloody Communists.’
‘Set Europe ablaze,’ Hillgarth replied.
‘Oh yes, that’s a typical Winston phrase. Purple prose.’ Hoare’s sharp voice was raised. ‘I know what the Reds are like, I was in Russia when the Tsar fell.’
Hillgarth lowered his voice but Harry heard him. ‘All right, Sam. I agree with you. It’s not the time for that.’
Tolhurst came out of his brown study. ‘I suppose I’m used to it. The poverty. Cuba’s just the same.’
‘I can’t get used to it,’ Harry said.
Tolhurst thought a moment. ‘Ever been to a bullfight?’
‘I went once, in ’31. Didn’t like it. Why?’
‘The first time I went it made me feel sick, all the blood when they spear the bull, the terrified expression still on the bloody thing’s face when they brought its head to the restaurant afterwards. But I had to go; it was part of the diplomatic life. The second time it wasn’t so bad. I thought, dammit, it’s only an animal, then the third time I started appreciating the skill, the matadors’ bravery. You have to shut your eyes to the bad side of a country if you’re a diplomat, d’you see?’
Or a spy, Harry thought. He traced a line in the white tablecloth with his fork. ‘Isn’t that how it always starts, though? We deaden ourselves for protection, stop seeing the cruelty and suffering.’
‘I suppose if we let ourselves think about all the gruesome things we start imagining them happening to us. I know I do sometimes.’ Tolhurst laughed uneasily. Harry looked up and down the table, saw the forced quality of the smiles, the harsh undertone to the laughter.
‘I don’t think you’re alone,’ he said.
Someone on Tolhurst’s other side grabbed his arm and began whispering to him about two clerks who had been caught together in a stationery cupboard. Tolhurst turned away with relief to the gossip.
‘Julian, a pansy? I don’t believe it.’
Harry turned back to Goach. ‘Nice salmon.’
‘Very good.’
‘What?’ Harry hadn’t caught the old man’s reply. Among a crowd, his deafness could still be a problem. For a moment he felt disorientated.
‘I said it’s very good,’ Goach said. ‘Very good.’
Harry leaned forward. ‘You’ve been in the diplomatic service a long time, sir. I heard a phrase the other day, the Knights of St George. Any idea what it might mean? I wondered if it might be embassy slang of some sort.’
Goach adjusted his monocle, frowned. ‘Don’t think so, Brett, never heard that one before. Where d’you hear it?’
‘Oh, round the embassy somewhere. It just struck me as odd.’
Goach shook his head again. ‘Sorry, no idea.’ He glanced at Hoare for a moment, then said, ‘He’s a good man, the ambassador. For all the faults he may have, he’ll keep Spain out of the war.’
‘I hope so,’ Harry said, then added, ‘If Spain does stay out, and we win, what happens to the country afterwards?’
Goach gave a little laugh. ‘Let’s win the war first.’ He thought a moment. ‘Though if Franco stays out, keeps the Fascist element in the government under control, well, we’d have reason to be grateful to him, wouldn’t we?’
‘You think he’s a Monarchist at heart?’
‘Oh, I’m sure of it. If you analyse his speeches carefully, you can see he cares everything about Spain’s traditions, its old values.’
‘What about its people?’
Goach shrugged. ‘They’ve always needed a firm hand.’
‘They’ve got that all right.’
Goach inclined his head, then lowered it to his plate. There was a shout of laughter from the other end of the table, matched by a guffaw from the Germans, as they tried to be louder.
Chapter Thirteen
ON TUESDAY, Barbara went to meet Luis again. It was a fine day, still and quiet, leaves fluttering down from the trees. Barbara walked because the Castellana was closed to traffic; Reichsführer Himmler would be driven down it later on his way to meet the Generalísimo at the Royal Palace.
She had to cross the Castellana. Swastika flags hung from every building and were strung across the road, the scarlet banners with the hooked cross gaudy against the grey buildings. Civiles stood at intervals along the road, some cradling sub-machine guns. Nearby a parade of Falange Youth was lined up on the kerb, holding little swastika flags. Barbara hurried across and disappeared into the maze of streets leading to the Centro.
As she neared the cafe her heart was beating fast. Luis was already there, she saw him through the window. He was at the same table, nursing a coffee. His expression was gloomy. Barbara noticed again how down at heel he looked; he wore the same threadbare jacket, cheap rope-soled alpargatas on his feet. She took a deep breath and went in. The landlady nodded to her from beneath Franco’s portrait. She wished she could get away from the Generalísimo’s cold stare; it was everywhere, even on the stamps now.
Luis stood up with a relieved smile. ‘Señora. Buenos días. I thought you might not come!’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said without an answering smile. ‘I had to walk and it took longer than I thoug
ht. Himmler’s visit.’
‘It does not matter. A coffee?’
She let him fetch her a cup of the filthy coffee. She lit a cigarette but this time did not offer him one. She took a deep breath and looked him in the eye. ‘Señor Luis, before we discuss this further there is something I must ask.’
‘Of course.’
‘Last time you told me you left the army in the spring.’
‘That is correct, yes.’ He looked puzzled.
‘But you also told me you spent two winters out there. How could that be? Cuenca was in Red hands until the surrender last year.’
Luis swallowed hard. Then a sad smile settled over his face. ‘Señora, I said I had spent two winters up on the meseta, not at Cuenca. The previous winter I was in another part of it. A posting at Teruel. You remember that name?’
‘Yes, of course.’ It had been one of the war’s most savage battles. Barbara tried to remember exactly what words he had used.
‘Teruel is over a hundred kilometres from Cuenca, but it is still the meseta. High and cold. During the battle there men with frostbite had to be taken out of the trenches to have their feet amputated.’ He sounded almost angry now.
She took a deep breath. ‘I see.’
‘You were afraid I was not telling you the truth,’ he said bluntly.
‘I have to be sure, Señor Luis. I’m risking a lot. I have to be sure of everything.’
He nodded slowly. ‘All right. I understand. Yes. It is good you are careful.’ He spread his arms. ‘You must ask me anything at any time.’
‘Thank you.’ She lit another cigarette.
‘I went to Cuenca last weekend,’ he said. ‘As I promised.’
Barbara nodded. She looked into his eyes again. They were unreadable.
‘I stayed in the town and Agustín came to see me. He confirmed there is a prisoner in the camp called Bernard Piper. He has been there since it opened.’
Barbara lowered her head so Luis would not see how affected she was by the mention of Bernie’s name. She must keep calm, in control. She knew from her refugee work how desperate people would seize on any hope.
She looked up, gave him a firm stare. ‘You understand, señor, I will need proof. I need you to get your brother to tell you more about him. Things I haven’t told you or Markby, things you couldn’t know. Not that he’s fair-haired, for example, you could see that from the photograph.’
Luis sat back. He pursed his lips.
‘It’s not unreasonable,’ Barbara said. ‘Thousands of International Brigaders died in the war, you know how slim the chances are of his having survived. I need proof before anything else happens.’
‘And I am poor and could be making up a story.’ He nodded again. ‘No, señora, it is not unreasonable. What a world we live in.’ He thought a moment. ‘If I were to ask Agustín to tell me everything about this man, then, and give the details to you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Have you spoken with Señor Markby again?’
‘No.’ She had tried, but he was still away.
Luis leaned forward. ‘I will go to Cuenca again, though I cannot go too often to visit my brother or people may get suspicious.’ He looked strained now. He rubbed his brow with his hand. ‘I suppose I could say our mother has got worse. She is not well.’ He looked up. ‘But time may be important, Señora Clare. If you wish us to do something. You know the rumours. If Spain were to come into the war, you would have to leave. And your Brigader, if he was a Communist he could find himself handed over to the Germans. That is what has happened in France.’
It was true, but she wondered if he was trying to frighten her, hurry her.
‘If you were to do something,’ she repeated. ‘You mean – ’ she lowered her voice – ‘escape?’ Her heart began thudding, hard.
Luis nodded. ‘Agustín thinks it can be done. But it will be dangerous.’
‘How?’ she asked. ‘How could it be done?’
He leaned forward and lowered his voice. ‘Let me explain how the camp works. It is surrounded by barbed wire. There are watchtowers with machine guns.’ She shuddered involuntarily. ‘I am sorry, señora, but I must explain how it is.’
‘I know. Go on.’
‘It is impossible for someone inside the camp to get out. But labour details go out every day – to repair roads, lay pipes, and to work in a quarry up in the hills. Piper has been on the quarry detail for some time. If Agustín can get himself a place as a guard on that work detail, perhaps he could help your friend to escape. Perhaps he could make some excuse to escort Piper away somewhere; then Piper could pretend to assault Agustín and get away.’ He frowned. ‘That is as far as we have been able to plan as yet.’
Barbara nodded. It sounded possible, at least.
‘That is the only way we can think of. But when the escape is discovered, Agustín will be questioned. If the truth is found out, he will be shot. He will do it only for money.’ Luis looked at her seriously. ‘Let us be frank now.’
She nodded, trying to take deep breaths to still her heart without letting Luis see.
‘Agustín’s term of service ends in the spring and he does not want to have to renew it. There are some there who like that work but Agustín does not. He does it only to support our mother in Sevilla.’
‘How much, then?’
‘Two thousand pesetas.’
‘That’s a lot,’ she said, though it was less than she had feared.
‘Agustín has to risk his life.’
‘If I were to agree, I’d have to get the money from England. It wouldn’t be easy, with the exchange restrictions.’ She took a deep breath. ‘But if you can convince me Bernie is at that camp, then we’ll see.’
‘The money should be agreed, señora.’
‘No. I need the proof first.’ She drew on her cigarette, staring at him through the cloud of smoke. ‘One more visit to Cuenca won’t be risky. I’ll give you the money for the fare.’ And then, she thought, will I see you again?
He hesitated a moment, then nodded. Barbara thanked God for her years of negotiating with corrupt officials. Luis leaned back, looking tired. Barbara thought, he’s less used to this sort of thing than I am.
‘Did Agustín say anything about him – about Bernie, how he is?’ Her voice stumbled over his name.
‘He is well. But the winters are hard for the prisoners.’ He looked at her seriously. ‘If we do this, I think you will have to come out to Cuenca, get him away to Madrid, to the British Embassy. You have a car?’
‘Yes. Yes, I can do that.’
He studied her speculatively. ‘Your husband, he knows nothing?’
‘No.’ She raised her head. ‘I just want to rescue Bernie, get him to the British Embassy so they can send him home.’
‘Very well.’ He sighed wearily. Barbara lit another cigarette and gave him one.
‘Shall we meet here again then?’ she asked. ‘Next week?’
‘The same time.’ He looked awkward. ‘I shall have to have the fare now.’
Again they went outside to pass over the money. When she handed the envelope to him he gave a bitter little laugh.
‘Spaniards were a proud people once. The things we do now.’ He turned and walked quickly away, his thin shabby form disappearing up the road.
There were more road closures on the way home and she had to walk down Calle Fernando el Santo, past the British Embassy. She glanced at the building. Harry Brett was probably in there; she would see him tonight. Harry, Bernie’s friend.
At the bottom of the street civiles were turning pedestrians back from the Castellana.
‘I am sorry, señora,’ one said. ‘No one may cross for the next hour. Security.’
She nodded and stepped back. A little crowd had gathered. Somewhere up the road youthful voices cheered and then a black Mercedes, flanked by soldiers on motorcycles, drove slowly past. There was a swastika pennant on the bonnet. In the back Barbara saw a pale, puffy face, its owner’s black uniform an
d cap making it appear disembodied. There was a quick glint of sunlight on spectacles, and it seemed to Barbara that Heinrich Himmler turned and looked at her for a second. Then the car was gone in a swirl of autumn leaves. More cheers sounded from the Falange Youth ahead. Barbara shivered and turned away.
Chapter Fourteen
HARRY WALKED ALONG the Castellana, the Nazi flags on the buildings looming up through the mist that had descended on the city. He wore his hat and coat; it was late October now and the evenings were getting chilly. He was on his way to take the tram out to Vigo district, for dinner with Sandy and Barbara.
He and Tolhurst had talked some more about Barbara that afternoon.
‘Bit of a turn-up, that,’ Tolhurst had said. ‘Never knew where he lived, you see. Our source said he was with a girly, but we thought it was some Spanish tart.’
‘I wish I understood how she ended up with Sandy.’ Harry shook his head. ‘Though she was in a bad way when I met her in ’37. I wrote afterwards but she never replied, or didn’t get the letters.’
‘She wasn’t political, was she? The Red boyfriend’s ideas didn’t rub off?’
‘No. She was Red Cross, a practical, commonsense type. I don’t know what she’ll make of the regime now.’
He would find out tonight. Walking along Harry felt a sudden weariness at the thought of the task before him. But he was committed, he had to go on.
He became conscious of footsteps behind him, a faint sound through the mist. Hell, his follower again. He hadn’t seen the man over the weekend but it sounded as though he was back. He quickly took a left turn, then a right. The doorway to a block of flats stood open, the concierge away somewhere. They were middle-class flats, well maintained, the air smelling of cleaning fluid. Harry stepped inside, stood behind the door, and peered out. He heard footsteps, a pit-pat and the crunching of dead leaves. A moment later the young man who had followed him before appeared. He stood in the centre of the empty road, looking up and down, a frown on his pale delicate features. Harry quickly withdrew his head. He heard the footsteps recede, back the way they had come. He waited a few minutes, then stepped outside. The street was clear, save for a woman in a fur coat walking a dog; she gave him a suspicious look. He went back the way he had come. He shook his head. The man really wasn’t much good.
