Winter in Madrid

by C. J. Sansom

  She knew she was often close to hysteria these days; it was getting harder to keep everything inside. But it might only be a short time now before she could leave. Ever since the night two weeks ago when she overheard the telephone conversation she had been trying to analyse his words. ‘Those old Moroccan sweats are tough? He still says his name is Gomez?’ She had tried a dozen different interpretations but always came back to the same thing: someone was being tortured. And she had begun to think: if he found out what I’m doing I could be in danger too.

  When he had come down from the study after that call she had given him the bag the old Jew had left, but he hadn’t seemed much interested. He put it on the floor by his chair and sat staring into the fire, ignoring Barbara. He looked more worried than she had ever seen him: sweat was glistening on his black moustache. Since that night he had been increasingly withdrawn. He hardly seemed to notice her now; not that she minded. If only she could get through till they had got Bernie out, then escape to England. Perhaps Sandy would never find out what she had done.

  Two nights ago he had come home late. Though he drank a lot, Sandy hardly ever got drunk. He had remarkable control. That night, though, he was staggering a little as he entered the salón, looking round blearily as though seeing it for the first time.

  ‘What you starin’ at?’ he asked Barbara in a thick voice.

  Her heart began to pound. ‘Nothing, darling. Are you all right?’ Still the peacemaker, her instinctive gambit. She put down her knitting. She spent most evenings knitting now, the regular movements soothed her.

  ‘You’re like an old woman, always bloody knitting,’ he said. ‘Where’s Pilar?’

  ‘It’s her evening off, remember?’ He probably wanted to go to her; that’d be nice for Pilar, having him paw her in this state.

  ‘Oh, yes, so it is.’ He smiled lubriciously then went to the drinks cabinet and poured himself a whisky. He sat opposite her and took a long swig of his drink. ‘Bloody cold again tonight.’

  ‘The frost’s killed off a lot of plants in the garden.’

  ‘Plants,’ he repeated in a mocking tone. ‘Plants. I’ve had a bloody awful day. Something big I had on, it’s up the spout, finished.’ He turned to her and gave his old, wide grin. ‘Fancy being poor, Barbara?’

  ‘Things aren’t that bad, are they?’

  ‘Not that bad? Poor Barbara.’ He laughed to himself. ‘Poor Barbara, that’s how I used to think of you when we first met.’

  Her smile trembled. If only he would fall asleep. If only he would fall into the fire. He looked at her again, his face serious now. ‘We won’t be poor,’ he said. ‘I won’t allow that to happen. Understand?’

  ‘All right, Sandy.’

  ‘I’ll bounce back. I always do. We’ll stay in this house. You and me and Pilar.’ A glint came into his eyes. ‘Come to bed. Come on, I’ll show you what I’m still made of.’

  She took a deep breath. She remembered her plan to confront him with the relationship with Pilar to keep him off but she was too frightened.

  ‘Sandy, you’ve had a lot to drink.’

  ‘That doesn’t stop me. C’mon.’ He got up, lurched over to her and planted a wet beery kiss on her mouth. She suppressed her instinct to shrink away and allowed him to lift her up, put his arm round her, lead her up the stairs. When they got to the bedroom she hoped he would collapse on the bed but he seemed more in control of himself now. He began undressing, and she took off her dress feeling sick inside. His shirt came off, exposing the heavy muscular body that had excited her once but now made her think of some strong vicious animal. Somehow she managed to control her shrinking as he took her, making strange little grunts of what sounded like desperation. Afterwards he rolled off her and a minute later began to snore. Barbara wondered how she had managed it, managed not to cry out and beat him off. Fear, she supposed. Fear can crush you but it can give you strength and control as well. She padded quietly to the bathroom, closed the door and was violently, heavingly sick.

  THE LITTLE CAFE was full of people who had come in to escape the snow; every seat was taken and people stood two deep at the bar. There was a wet musty smell. The old woman ran between the counter and the coffee urn with cups of coffee. The windows were steamed up; even Franco’s portrait had a wet film on it. Barbara’s glasses steamed over at once. She rubbed them on her coat sleeve and looked around for Luis. Their usual table was taken but she could make him out in the far corner where he had squeezed behind a table for two, his coat draped over the other chair. He was sitting staring into his coffee cup, a weary, tired look on his face. He looked up and changed his expression to a smile as Barbara made her way through the crowd to join him. She sat and took off her sopping headscarf, running a hand over her wet hair.

  ‘This snow is terrible,’ she said.

  Luis leaned across the table. ‘Do you mind not having a coffee? There is such a crush at the bar.’

  ‘Could we go somewhere else? Somewhere quieter?’

  ‘Everywhere will be the same today.’ There was an unaccustomed sharpness in his manner.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ she whispered anxiously.

  ‘Nothing is wrong. All these people make me nervous.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Everything is ready. Have you brought the money?’

  ‘Yes. Seven hundred pesetas when you tell me when and where. The rest after he’s out.’

  He nodded, looking relieved. She took out her cigarettes and offered him a Gold Flake.

  ‘Thank you. Now, please listen carefully.’ He leaned close to her, his voice a hoarse whisper. ‘I have just come back from Cuenca. I saw Agustín yesterday. He has told your friend about the escape. He has told him it is you that is arranging it.’

  ‘How did he react?’ Barbara asked eagerly. ‘What did he say?’

  Luis nodded seriously. ‘He was very pleased, senõra. Very glad.’

  Barbara hesitated. ‘Does he know I’m – I’m with someone else?’

  ‘Agustín did not say.’

  She bit her lip. ‘So what’s the plan?’

  ‘The escape will take place on December the fourteenth. A Saturday.’

  Eight days, Barbara thought, another eight days. ‘Can’t we do it sooner?’

  ‘That will be a good day. Christmas celebrations will be beginning; things will be getting lax at the camp and in the town. Agustín does not want it to happen too soon after his return, and I agree that might look suspicious. And with luck the snow will be gone by then. A man running would stand out against the snow.’

  ‘Surely it will be gone by then. Heavy snow’s not usual this early.’

  ‘We must hope so.’

  ‘Is it going to be how you said? An escape from a working party?’

  ‘Yes. Señor Piper will pretend to have diarrhoea, Agustín will go into the bushes with him, he will hit him on the head, hard enough to cause a bruise, and Señor Piper will take Agustín’s keys and free himself. Then he will run downhill towards Cuenca. Your friend will get some distance away, hide in the bushes and trees among the hills until it is quite dark, then make his way to the town.’

  ‘Won’t they look for him in Cuenca? Won’t they know that’s where he’ll go?’

  ‘Yes. In fact, it is the only place he can go; in the other direction it is all wilderness and mountains. So yes, they will be looking for him in the town.’ Luis smiled. ‘But we have a place there for him to hide.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘There are some bushes and trees on the road by the gorge, near the bridge, on the other side from the town. He will hide there until you arrive with some clothes for him to change into.

  Barbara took a deep breath. ‘All right.’

  ‘You must drive to Cuenca on the fourteenth, be there by three in the afternoon. It is important you arrive there before it is dark – a woman walking alone in the town might be questioned. There is a place outside the town, a secluded place, where you can leave your car.’ He looked at her seriously. ‘Agustín has spent a
ll his days off tramping the streets in and around Cuenca, to make sure everything is right.’

  ‘So I wait in the town until it is dark?’

  Luis shook his head. ‘No. We have a place where you can wait, a place you can say you have come to visit if anyone asks questions. The cathedral. It is there you should take your friend afterwards. Once he has changed in the bushes, you walk across the bridge, a pair of English tourists who have come to see the cathedral. In there he can shave – he has a beard – and clean himself up.’

  ‘What if someone is there?’

  Luis shook his head. ‘There will be no visitors to the cathedral on a Saturday in winter. And there will be someone there to help you.’

  ‘Agustín? Will he be there?’

  ‘No.’ Luis smiled wryly. ‘But he sometimes goes to the services in Cuenca Cathedral on Sundays. It is his excuse for going into town – they think he has become religious. There is a watchman there, employed by the church to keep an eye on things. He has offered to help us.’

  ‘A church employee?’ Barbara asked sharply. ‘Why would he help?’

  ‘For money, señora.’ Impatient anger flashed in Luis’s face for a moment. ‘He has a sick old wife and no money to pay for a doctor. So he will help you for the same reason that we are helping. He wants three hundred pesetas.’

  She took a deep breath. ‘All right.’

  ‘So, you drive to Cuenca on the fourteenth, get there by three. Leave the car where I will tell you and go to the cathedral. The old man, Francisco, will be expecting you. Wait there until dark and then go to the hanging houses. You know where they are?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve been studying a map and guidebook. I could probably find my way around blindfold.’

  ‘Good. Bring some clothes for your friend, a suit if you can get one.’

  ‘All right. I’ll get a large size. Bernie’s tall, quite a strong build too.’

  Luis shook his head. ‘Not after three years in the camp. A suit for a thin man will do. And shaving materials.’

  ‘What about a hat? With a wide brim to hide his face and his fair hair?’

  ‘Yes. That would be good.’

  ‘I can get the clothes,’ Barbara said. ‘I can pretend I’m doing Christmas shopping. The car might be difficult, my – my husband might be using it.’

  Luis frowned tensely. ‘You must deal with that, señora.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I will. Somehow. What do I do when I get to the hanging houses?’

  ‘At the foot of the Tierra Muerta is a river gorge. It is very deep, you cannot scale it. On the other side of the gorge is the old town, which leads to the road to Madrid. There is a big iron bridge across the gorge, for pedestrians. On the town side are the hanging houses, and on the opposite side a road. A little way along the road is the clump of trees where your friend will be waiting.’

  ‘What if they’ve put guards on the bridge? If they know a prisoner’s escaped?’

  ‘That is possible. The camp will have rung the town. If that happens, wait in the cathedral. Señor Piper will cross the gorge further down and make his way there. Then go back to your car, pretend to be an English couple who have driven out to Cuenca for the day. And remember they will be looking for a prisoner, not a clean-shaven man in a suit. With luck there won’t be roadblocks, they won’t be expecting him to leave in a car.’ Luis looked at Barbara with his deep, hard olive eyes. ‘Your wealth will be your best disguise, señora.’

  ‘How far is Cuenca from the camp again? Eight kilometres?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Will he be fit to walk that far?’ Barbara asked, a tremor in her voice.

  ‘He should be. With the cold a lot of people are ill in the camp but so far your friend is well. And it is all downhill.’

  ‘What if they find him on the way down?’

  ‘Let us just hope they don’t,’ Luis said flatly. He took another cigarette from the packet on the table. ‘We must hope for no snow and no moon.’ He lit up and took a deep drag. ‘He will know to move carefully, keep to the shadows.’

  Barbara was suddenly overcome with doubt. ‘If he’s caught—’

  Luis looked into her eyes. ‘This is what he wants, señora.’

  ‘Yes.’ She bit her lip. ‘Yes, he’d take the chance, I know. I have to do this for him.’

  Luis looked at her curiously. ‘When you have him, what will you do?’

  Her face set. ‘I’ll take him to the British Embassy. He’s a British citizen; they’ll have to take him in. They sent all the other International Brigaders home.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘We’ll see.’ She wasn’t going to tell him her plans.

  ‘I trust you to pay me the rest of the money when you return.’

  ‘I’ll meet you on the sixteenth,’ Barbara said. ‘Here, at noon.

  What if there has to be a change of plan, if Agustín’s rota is changed or Bernie’s ill or something?’

  ‘Agustín will get a message to me and I will telephone you at home. I will need your number.’

  ‘That’s risky.’ She thought a moment. ‘If I’m out, say you’re the baker phoning about my cake for Christmas and will ring again. Then I’ll come straight here. All right?’ She wrote the number on the packet of cigarettes and passed it to him. He smiled, always delighted to have the cigarettes, then looked suddenly weary.

  ‘You have planned this well,’ she said. ‘You and your brother.’

  He avoided her eyes. ‘Do not thank us,’ he said. ‘Please do not thank us.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘We have done this for money. We must have money for Mama.’ That look of weariness again in his face. They were silent a moment.

  ‘Tell me,’ she asked, ‘do you ever hear from that journalist? Markby?’

  Luis shook his head. ‘No. He contacted me through a friend, he was going to do an article on the camps but I heard no more. I think he has returned to England.’

  ‘I tried to ring him several times but he was always away somewhere.’

  ‘Journalists. They are rootless people.’ Luis looked round the cafe, then coughed. ‘Señora …’

  ‘Of course.’ Barbara opened her handbag and passed him a thick envelope under the table. He took it, sat very still for a moment, then nodded. Barbara noticed that the shoulders of his threadbare jacket were wet; she realized he had no coat.

  ‘Gracias,’ he said. ‘Now, I suggest we meet here next Wednesday, the eleventh, to discuss the final preparations. Just to make sure everything is going smoothly.’

  ‘All right.’ She felt elated. It was happening, it was going to happen.

  Luis stuffed the envelope into his pocket, his eyes flickering round the customers to check he was unobserved. Barbara suddenly felt crowded, pressed in. She wanted to get away. She stood up. ‘Shall we go?’

  ‘I will stay a while, till the snow stops. Until next week, señora.’ He looked up at her, then added unexpectedly, ‘You are a good woman.’

  Barbara laughed. ‘Me? I don’t think so. I just bring trouble.’

  Luis shook his head. ‘No. That is not true. Adios, señora.’

  ‘Hasta luego.’

  She fought her way to the door. It was a relief to stand out in the cold air again. The snow was lessening. She lit a cigarette and headed back to the Centro. There were few people around now; everyone who could, had gone indoors. People wouldn’t want to risk their shoes; even if they could find replacements, prices were astronomical.

  She passed through the Plaza Mayor. Its palm trees looked strange covered with snow. Beside one of the fountains a newspaper seller stood by his kiosk. A headline scrawled on a billboard caught her eye. ‘Veteran Tortured and Murdered in Alcalá: Red Terror Gang Suspected.’

  She bought a copy of Ya, the Catholic newspaper. She went into the doorway of a closed shop and looked at the front page. Below a picture of a thin man in army uniform, standing stiffly to attention, she read:

  The body of Lieutenant Alfredo Gome
z Romero, aged 59, was found yesterday in a drainage ditch near the village of Paloblanco, outside Santa Maria de Real. Major Gomez, a veteran of the Moroccan wars who took part in the relief of Toledo in 1936, had been horribly tortured, his hands and feet burned and his face disfigured. It is believed one of the gangs of Red bandits active in parts of the sierras was responsible. Major Gomez’s employer and former commanding officer, Junior Trade Minister Colonel Santiago Maestre Miranda, said that Major Gomez had been a friend and comrade for thirty years and he would personally ensure that his killers were hunted down. ‘There is no safety or refuge for the enemies of Spain,’ he said.

  Barbara’s knees felt weak and she thought she would faint. She crumpled the newspaper in her hand. A priest passing the doorway gave her a curious look. So now she knew. Sandy had mentioned the name Gomez on the telephone, and she had heard Maestre’s name mentioned as an opponent by Sandy’s Falange friends. He had been involved in torturing and killing this old man. Sandy had said they would have to deal with it and he had meant murder. And this was the man she was deceiving to rescue his boyhood enemy. She gripped the handle of the closed door, taking deep breaths to prevent herself from fainting.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  AFTER SEEING BARBARA and Sofia, Harry returned to the embassy. He telephoned Sandy’s office from the little room where there was a private phone for the spies. The secretary put him through. ‘Sandy? Harry here. Look, I wonder if we could meet. There’s something I’d like to discuss.’

  He caught an undertone of impatience in Sandy’s voice. ‘I’m really busy, Harry. What about after the weekend?’

  ‘It’s rather urgent.’

  ‘All right. It’s Saturday tomorrow, but I’m coming into the office. I’ll meet you in the cafe.’ Harry caught a quickly suppressed sigh. ‘Three o’clock?’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Next Harry went to the registry, to make enquiries about entry visas for Britain. When he returned to his office Tolhurst was waiting for him, leaning against his desk reading a copy of Ya. He nodded.

  ‘Hello there, Harry.’ His voice was flat, preoccupied.