Winter in Madrid

by C. J. Sansom

  ‘I am sorry, señorita.’ Luis looked at Harry. ‘Why are you in Spain, señor? Are you a businessman like Señora Forsyth’s husband?’

  ‘Yes, yes I am.’ Harry lied with a straight face. You do it easily, Barbara thought.

  ‘Your husband still knows nothing?’ Luis asked her.

  ‘Nothing.’

  He looked between them, then shrugged. ‘Well, it is on your heads, as I say. And I will meet you the day after, señora?’

  ‘Yes. As arranged.’

  ‘And your brother?’ Harry asked. ‘He will let himself be hit on the head, stick to his story after?’

  ‘Of course he will! I told you, he could be shot for aiding an escape!’

  ‘All right.’ Harry nodded. ‘That’s it, then. It’s settled. I don’t see any problems.’

  ‘And then you and your brother will go back to Sevilla,’ Sofia said.

  Luis blew out a cloud of smoke. ‘Yes. Forget the army and the war and danger.’

  ‘You were conscripted when the Fascists took Sevilla at the beginning of the war?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes.’ He stared at her. ‘We had no choice. If you refused you were shot.’

  ‘Then you were on Franco’s march to Madrid in 1936. With the Moors.’

  Luis’s voice hardened. ‘I told you, señorita, we had no choice. I was at the Siege that winter, on the other side of the lines to you no doubt. But there is hardly a street in Spain that did not have people on opposite sides.’

  ‘That’s true, Sofia,’ Harry said. ‘Look at you and your uncle.’

  There was a disappointed shout from the crowd. The football match was over; Real Madrid had lost. The men round the bar started drifting over to the tables.

  ‘If you have no more questions I should go,’ Luis said.

  ‘I think we’ve covered everything.’ Harry looked enquiringly at the women, who nodded.

  Luis got up. ‘Then I wish you good luck.’

  ‘I do not like that man,’ Sofia said after he had gone.

  Harry took her hand. ‘What he said about the war was true. People often had no choice about which side they fought on.’

  ‘He never pretended to be doing this for any other reason than money,’ Barbara said. ‘If he was tricking me he could have taken the money I’ve given him already – quite a lot – and disappeared.’

  ‘All right.’

  Two men at the next table started talking loudly. ‘That’s Real down again.’

  ‘Ay, it is bad luck,’ his friend replied. ‘And have you heard, there’s another freeze on the way. It is going to get colder again. Perhaps more snow.’

  Barbara bit her lip. She thought, Friday the thirteenth. Even the best plans needed luck in the end.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  THE NEXT MORNING Harry and Sofia walked down the Castellana, towards the embassy. Harry would have liked to put his arm in hers but there was a pair of civiles nearby.

  Overnight the weather had turned colder again; there were patches of black ice on the pavements, frozen slush in the gutters. People going to work were huddled into their coats. But there had been no snow and the morning sky was a clear electric blue.

  ‘You’ll be all right?’ Harry asked.

  ‘Yes.’ Sofia smiled at him. ‘It is just a matter of filling in forms and Spaniards are used to that. I got through the political questions yesterday.’ There were some documents to prepare for the marriage ceremony; this morning she had an interview with the embassy lawyer. The man wanted to see her on her own but she would come to Harry’s office afterwards.

  ‘This time tomorrow we’ll be on our way to Cuenca,’ he said.

  ‘Are you quite sure the ambassador will send Bernie back to England?’

  ‘He has to. He can’t act illegally.’

  ‘They would here. They do it all the time.’

  ‘England’s different,’ Harry said. ‘It’s not perfect but it is different that way.’

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘Get reception to call me when they’ve finished with you. I’ll show you my office. The hours are going to go pretty slowly today. When are you due at the dairy?’

  ‘Twelve. I’m on the afternoon shift.’

  ‘I’ve had a letter from Will. He’s rented a house for us. It’s on the outskirts of Cambridge, it’s got four bedrooms.’

  Sofia laughed, shaking her head at the idea of such luxury.

  ‘We can move in when we like. Then I’ll see about a teaching job and getting a doctor for Paco.’

  ‘And I will take English lessons.’

  He smiled at her. ‘And see you behave yourself. Don’t cheek the teacher.’

  ‘I will try.’ She looked around her, at the tall buildings of the Castellana, the high blue Madrid sky. ‘It seems so strange, in a couple of weeks we shall be so far away.’

  ‘You’ll find England odd at first. You’ll have to get used to how formal we are, how we don’t speak our minds.’

  ‘You do.’

  ‘I do to you. Well, there’s the embassy. See the flag?’

  He signed her in and waited with her till the lawyer appeared. A bluff friendly man, he introduced himself and shook their hands before leading Sofia away. As Harry watched them go another door opened and Weaver appeared.

  ‘Hello, Brett, not coming to the Spanish Academy do? Better buck up or we’ll be late.’

  ‘I’m on standby.’

  ‘Oh yes, I forgot. So many parties this time of year. You’ve got tomorrow off, haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve booked a car, going for a spin in the country.’

  ‘Bit cold for that, isn’t it? Oh well, have a good time. See you next week.’

  TOLHURST WAS at his desk, a pile of files beside him. Sheets of paper were covered in calculations in his neat round hand.

  ‘Agents’ expenses?’

  ‘Yes, have to get these all done before Christmas. Are you coming to the American embassy reception tomorrow? Should be a good do.’

  ‘No, I’ve got the day off. Taking Sofia out for a ride in the country.’ Harry felt a spark of the old affection for him. ‘Listen, Tolly, about the wedding. I’m grateful for your help.’

  ‘Oh, that’s all right.’

  ‘I’m sorry things didn’t work out with Forsyth.’

  Tolhurst folded his hands over his plump stomach. He was getting fatter.

  ‘Oh well, at least we know they’ve no gold.’

  ‘Any more news on that?’ Harry asked diffidently.

  ‘According to the captain, Sam was thinking of telling Maestre the mine was a fake. He’ll know how far we’ve been involved, but at least he’ll have been given some information he could use. Let the Falangists make fools of themselves.’

  ‘I see.’ Harry didn’t care any more.

  He smiled at Harry. ‘You’re off soon, I hear.’

  ‘Yes, after the wedding.’

  Tolhurst looked at him for a moment. ‘Got a best man?’ he asked.

  ‘We’re asking Sofia’s brother.’ Harry realized Tolhurst had been hoping to be asked. Tolhurst, his watcher. Harry was grateful for what he had done over the wedding but he hadn’t even considered that.

  ‘Are you going back to England for Christmas?’ he asked to change the subject.

  ‘No,’ Tolhurst replied huffily. ‘Staying on duty. Sitting around in case any problems come up with our agents.’ The telephone rang. Tolhurst picked it up and nodded. ‘That’s reception. They’ve finished with your girly. She says everything’s OK and she’s waiting for you downstairs.’

  ‘I’ll get off then.’

  He looked at Harry. ‘By the way, have you seen anything of Miss Clare? Forsyth’s girl?’

  ‘I met her for coffee yesterday,’ Harry said carefully.

  ‘Forsyth seems to have cleared out properly. I suppose the woman will go back to England now.’

  There was a knock at the door and an elderly, frockcoated secretary came in. He looked anxious. He peered at Harr
y though gold pince-nez. ‘Are you Brett?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The ambassador would like to see you in his office.’

  ‘What? What about?’

  ‘If you could just come with me, sir. It is urgent.’

  Harry glanced at Tolhurst but he only shrugged, looking puzzled.

  Harry turned and followed the secretary down the corridor. He was on the verge of panic. Had they somehow found out about Cuenca?

  The secretary ushered Harry into Hoare’s office. He had not been inside the luxurious room since the day he arrived. The ambassador was standing behind his desk, dressed in a morning suit, his thin face pink with anger. He frowned at Harry.

  ‘Is he the only one here?’ he snapped at the secretary.

  ‘Yes, ambassador.’

  ‘I cannot believe all the translators were allowed to go to that reception.’

  ‘Mr Weaver’s just left, sir, he was the last. I’ve tried phoning the Spanish Academy but their phones are down.’

  Hoare gave Harry an icy look. ‘Well, you’ll have to do, Brett. Why aren’t you at the reception?’

  ‘My fiancée’s here, getting the documentation for our wedding.’

  Hoare grunted. He waved the secretary irritably away. ‘Where’s your morning suit?’ he snapped at Harry.

  ‘At home.’

  ‘Then you’ll have to borrow one from here. Now listen. I’ve been trying to get an interview with the Generalísimo for weeks. He keeps me waiting, refuses to see me, while von Stohrer and the Italians are in and out of there every five minutes.’ Hoare’s voice was full of petulant anger. ‘Then out of the blue I get a message he’ll see me this morning. I must go, there are important matters to raise and I need to make my presence felt.’ He paused. ‘I read Spanish of course, but I’m not quite fluent.’

  Harry wanted to laugh, with relief that it wasn’t trouble and at Hoare’s posturing; everyone knew he spoke barely a word of the language.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘So I’ll need a translator. I’d like you ready in half an hour, please. We’re driving out to El Pardo. You’ve translated for junior ministers, haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes, sir. And some of Franco’s speeches.’

  Hoare shook his head irritably. ‘Don’t refer to him like that. You mean Generalísimo Franco. He’s the head of state.’ He shook his head.

  ‘This is why I needed an experienced man. Go and get ready.’ He shooed Harry away, like a troublesome insect.

  IT WAS A LONG drive out to the palace in the north of the city that Franco had appropriated as his residence. The car drove out into the countryside, the road following the Manzanares river as it flowed cold and grey between high wooded banks of skeletal trees. Sitting in the back with Hoare, Harry glanced up at the sky; it was still cloudless, icy blue. He hoped desperately there would be no more snow before tomorrow.

  Harry had borrowed one of the spare morning suits they kept at the embassy and returned to Hoare’s office, then walked with the ambassador to reception. Sofia, sitting waiting, looked at them with astonishment. He went over and explained quickly where he was going while Hoare glared at him impatiently. When he mentioned Franco’s name, Sofia’s mouth tightened. As they left the embassy he felt her eyes on them.

  The ambassador sat riffling through a file, making notes with a black fountain pen. At length he turned to Harry.

  ‘When you’re translating make sure you convey the exact sense of my words. And don’t look the Generalísimo in the eye, it’s considered impertinent.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Hoare grunted. ‘There are photographs of Hitler and Mussolini on his desk. Don’t stare, just ignore them.’ Hoare ran a hand through his thin hair. ‘I’m going to have to sound quite harsh about all the pro-Axis propaganda in the press. But you keep your voice formal, unemotional, like a butler. Understand?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘If the Generaísimo was a reasonable man he’d be thanking me for the extra wheat I’ve persuaded Winston to let them have. But reasonable’s the last thing he is. All this is sudden, very sudden.’ Hoare produced a comb and smoothed down his hair.

  Pictures passed through Harry’s head: the woman foraging through dustbins, arrested when her dress blew over her head, the wild dogs attacking Enrique, Paco clinging to the old woman’s corpse. Now he was actually going to meet the man who had created this new Spain.

  The car came to a little village. It had been turned into a barracks, there were troops everywhere; the soldiers peered into the car as it ran alongside a high wall. The driver pulled up at a pair of tall iron gates guarded by soldiers with machine guns. He handed over their papers to be checked, then the gates were opened and they drove slowly through. The guards gave the car the Fascist salute.

  El Pardo was a three-storey building of yellow stone surrounded by wide lawns, white with frost. Moroccan guards with lances stood by the flight of steps leading up to the entrance; one came down and opened the car door for them. From somewhere Harry heard the sad howling cry of a peacock. He shivered; it seemed even colder out here.

  An aide in civilian clothes met them on the steps and led them through a series of rooms full of eighteenth-century furniture, opulent but dusty. Harry’s heart began to beat faster. They came to a large door flanked by more Moorish guards, their brown faces impassive. One knocked on the door and the aide ushered them in.

  Franco’s office was large, full of dark heavy furniture that made it gloomy despite the sunlight coming through the tall windows. The walls were lined with heavy ancient tapestries showing medieval battle scenes. The General for weeks. He keeps me waiting, refuses to Generalísimo stood in front of a large desk, the photographs of Hitler and Mussolini prominent alongside, to Harry’s surprise, one of the Pope. Franco wore a general’s uniform with a broad red sash round his plump middle. His sallow face had a haughty expression. Harry had been expecting presence but Franco had none; with his balding head, double chin and little greying moustache, he reminded Harry of what Sandy had said that first day in the Café Rocinante: he looked like a bank manager. And he was short, tiny. Lowering his eyes as instructed, Harry saw the Generalísimo wore built-up shoes.

  ‘Generalísimo, buenos dias.’ Hoare said. He knew that much Spanish at least.

  ‘Excelencia.’ Franco’s voice was high pitched and squeaky. He shook Hoare’s hand, ignoring Harry. The aide took up a position beside Franco.

  ‘You requested a meeting, excelencia,’ Franco said softly.

  ‘I am glad to be able to see you at last,’ Hoare said reprovingly. He wasn’t intimidated, you had to give him that. ‘His Majesty’s Government has been very concerned by the support for the Axis in the newspapers. They are virtually inciting the Spanish people to war.’

  Harry translated, concentrating on keeping his voice even and unemotional. Franco turned and stared at him then. His brown eyes were large and liquid but somehow blank. The Generalísimo turned back to Hoare with a shrug.

  ‘I am not responsible for the press, your excellency. Surely you would not wish me to interfere with it?’ He gave Hoare a wintry smile. ‘Is that not the sort of thing the liberal powers criticize us for?’

  ‘The press is controlled by state censorship, Generalísimo, as you well know. And a good deal of the copy comes from the German embassy.’

  ‘I do not concern myself with the press. You should speak to the interior minister.’

  ‘I certainly shall.’ Hoare’s sharp voice cut like a file. ‘It is a matter my government regards most seriously.’

  The Generalísimo shook his head, the wintry smile back again. ‘Ah, excellency, it saddens me, these impediments to the friendship of our countries. If only you would make peace with Germany. Chancellor Hitler does not wish to see the destruction of the British Empire.’

  ‘We shall never allow the Germans to dominate Europe,’ Hoare replied abruptly.

  ‘But they do, ambassador, they already do.’ A big antique world
globe stood nearby. Franco reached out a small, surprisingly delicate hand and turned it gently. ‘The English are a proud people, I know, like we Spaniards. But realities have to be faced.’ He shook his head again. ‘Only two years ago, when he signed the Munich agreement, I thought your old friend Mr Chamberlain would join the Germans and turn against the real enemy, the Bolsheviks.’ He sighed. ‘But now it is too late.’

  As Harry translated Hoare stiffened with anger. ‘There is no point in discussing this further,’ he snapped. ‘Britain will never surrender.’

  Franco drew himself up, his cold look reminding Harry of his expression on the coins. ‘Then I fear you will be defeated,’ he said.

  ‘I wished to discuss the wheat imports,’ Hoare said. ‘Your government will need to apply for certificates to bring them through the blockade. We still control the seas,’ he added waspishly. ‘We need assurances none of the wheat will be re-exported to Germany, and that it will be paid for entirely by the Spanish government.’

  Franco smiled again, a smile with genuine amusement. ‘It will be. The Argentines have agreed to accept credit terms. After all, we have no gold reserves, and we are not a gold-producing country.’ He turned slowly and looked at Harry, and though he smiled there was something in his eyes now that frightened Harry. ‘I was talking about that only yesterday, with General Maestre,’ the Generalísimo continued smoothly.

  Oh God, Harry thought, he knows. Hoare told Maestre and Maestre’s told him.

  Hoare gave the Generalísimo a startled look.

  ‘I do hope everything can proceed smoothly,’ Franco went on. ‘Otherwise – ’ he shrugged again – ‘we would not want to look on England as an enemy, but it is always a question of how a power acts in its relations with us. In its open dealings and its secret ones.’ He raised his eyebrows at Hoare. The ambassador reddened. Harry wondered what Franco would have said if he had known about the Knights of St George. He gripped a table behind him for support.

  IN THE CAR going back to Madrid, Hoare was furious. The meeting had gone on for another half hour. Hoare had discussed trade agreements and the rumours of lorry-loads of food being sent to France for the German army, but he had lost the initiative. Franco’s manner had been that of an injured party dealing with an importunate negotiator.