by C. J. Sansom
At last the door opened again. Harry and Sofia tensed. The old man stared too, fearfully, as Bernie and Barbara came slowly in, Barbara supporting Bernie who was limping with exhaustion. At first Harry didn’t recognize the gaunt, bearded figure, then he ran over to them, Sofia following behind.
‘Bernie,’ he said quietly. ‘Christ, you look as if you’ve been through it.’
Bernie laughed incredulously. ‘Harry. It is you.’ He kept blinking rapidly, as though this new world where he found himself was too much to take in. ‘Jesus, I couldn’t bloody believe it.’
Harry felt his face working with emotion at the sight of the scarecrow face. ‘What the hell have you been up to? Look at the state of you. Rookwood would have something to say.’
Bernie bit his lip. Harry could see he was close to tears. ‘Been fighting a war, Harry.’ He leaned forward and hugged him in the Spanish way. Harry allowed himself to relax into the embrace and they held each other tightly for a moment before Harry pulled apart, embarrassed. Bernie swayed a little.
‘Are you all right?’ Sofia asked anxiously.
‘I’d better sit down.’ Bernie smiled at her. ‘You must be Sofia.’
‘Yes.’
‘Viva la República,’ he said softly.
‘Viva la República.’
‘Are you a Communist?’ he asked her.
‘No.’ She looked at him seriously. ‘I did not like the things the Communists did.’
‘We thought they were necessary.’ He sighed.
Barbara took his arm. ‘Come on, you have to shave. Go to the font. Go on.’ She handed Bernie a shaving bag and he limped down to the font. Harry went over to the old man. Francisco glared up at him, his face smeared from his tears. Harry handed him the roll of notes. ‘Your money, señor.’
Francisco crushed them in his fist in an angry gesture. Harry thought he was going to throw them to the floor but he slipped them in his pocket and slumped against the wall. Bernie reappeared, his face still a little stubbly, older and much thinner and marked with deep lines but now recognizably Bernie.
‘I must sit down,’ he said. ‘I’m bloody shattered.’
‘Yes, of course.’ Barbara turned to the others. ‘He’s very tired, but we have to get away as soon as possible.’
‘Did something happen?’ Sofia asked, the sharpness in her voice making Harry look up. Barbara told them about Sandy.
‘Jesus Christ,’ Harry said. ‘He’s gone over the edge. Mad.’
‘Half mad anyway, with anger.’
‘We should go as soon as we can,’ Sofia said. ‘I am worried about the priest telling them at the convent that the cathedral is closed, them sending someone to the old man’s house.’
‘Yes.’ Harry glanced over to where Francisco sat looking at them stonily, then put his hand on Bernie’s shoulder. ‘The car’s a few miles away. Outside the town. D’you think you can make it? It’s all downhill.’
He nodded. ‘I’ll try. Yes. If we go slowly.’
‘You look human again.’
‘Thanks.’ He looked up. ‘Is it true England’s still holding out?’
‘Yes. The bombing’s bad but we’re holding on. Bernie, we ought to go,’ Barbara said.
‘All right.’ Bernie stood, wincing as he rose. He’s completely exhausted, Harry thought, burnt out.
‘What were you saying about a priest?’ Bernie asked.
‘Sofia and Barbara met him on their way to the bridge. Then he came into the church to pray, but I managed to get the watchman to get rid of him. It was a nasty moment; I’ll see him kneeling there praying for the rest of my life I think, his black sotana and red hair.’
‘Red hair?’ Bernie thought a moment. ‘What was he like?’
‘Young, tall. Fattish.’
He took a deep breath. ‘God, that sounds like Father Eduardo. He’s one of the priests at the camp.’
‘Yes, that was his name,’ Barbara said. ‘Good lord. He didn’t seem the type.’
‘He isn’t, he’s a sort of holy innocent or something.’ Bernie set his lips. ‘But if he finds us here we’re done for. He’d still report us.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Come on. Let’s go.’
Harry took the empty rucksack and they headed for the door. He felt an overwhelming relief at leaving the building. He looked back at the old man; he still sat on his bench, his head in his hands, a tiny figure among all the gigantic monuments to faith.
Chapter Forty-Eight
THEIR PROGRESS back down the steep, badly lit streets was slow. Bernie felt exhausted. The few people they passed turned to look at them; Bernie wondered whether with his unsteady gait they thought he was drunk. He felt drunk, intoxicated with amazement and happiness.
He had wondered how he would feel seeing Barbara after so long. It was a tougher, more sophisticated woman who had appeared on the cold hillside but it was still Barbara, he could see that all the things he had loved were still there. It felt as though it was only yesterday he had last seen her, that the Jarama and the last three years were all a dream. But the pain in his shoulder was all too real, while his feet, which had swollen into every crevice of his cracked broken boots, were an agony.
Halfway down the long hill they came to a little square with a stone bench under a statue of a general. ‘Can I sit down?’ Bernie whispered to Barbara. ‘Just for a minute?’
Sofia turned and looked at them seriously. ‘Can you not go on?’ She glanced nervously at a bar on one side of the square. The windows were lit and voices came from within.
‘Just five minutes?’ Barbara pleaded.
Bernie slumped on to the bench. Barbara sat beside him and the other two stood a few paces off. Like guardian angels, Bernie thought. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said quietly. ‘I just feel a bit dizzy. I’ll be all right in a minute.’
Barbara put her hand on his forehead. ‘You’re a bit feverish,’ she said. She took out her cigarettes and offered him one.
He laughed. ‘A proper cigarette. Gold Flake.’
‘Sandy used to get them.’
He held her hand, looked into her face. ‘I tried to forget you,’ he said. ‘In the camp.’
‘Did you manage it?’ she asked with forced lightness.
‘No. You have to try and forget the good things or they just torment you. But they keep coming back. Like the glimpses of the hanging houses. We used to see them sometimes on the way to the quarry. Hanging above the mist. It was a sort of mirage. They looked so small when we passed them earlier.’
‘I’m sorry about Sandy,’ she said. ‘Only – when I thought you were dead I was so broken up. And he was kind at first, he seemed kind.’
‘I should never have left you.’ He gripped her hand tight. ‘When Agustín told me it was you arranging the escape, when he said your name, that was the best moment, the best.’ He felt a rush of emotion. ‘I’ll never leave you again.’
The bar door opened, letting out a smell of stale wine and cigarette smoke. Two labourers came out and walked up the hill, glancing in surprise at the quartet by the fountain. Harry and Sofia came over.
‘We mustn’t stay here,’ Harry said. ‘Can you go on?’
Bernie nodded. When he stood up it was as though he put his feet in fire; but he made himself ignore it, they were nearly there.
THEY WALKED slowly on, saying little. Bernie found that despite the pain from his feet he seemed to notice everything with newly heightened senses: the sound of a dog barking, the sight of a tall tree looming up in the darkness, the smell of Barbara’s perfume; all the thousand and one things that had been kept from him since 1937.
They cleared the town, crossed the river, then walked down the long empty road to the field where the car was. It began to snow again, not heavily, little flakes that made a tiny pit-pit noise in the silence as they landed on the grass. His new clothes kept Bernie warm, their unfamiliar softness another new sensation.
‘We’re nearly there,’ Barbara whispered at length. ‘The car’s behind those tree
s.’
They turned through the gateway and on to the rutted track, Bernie gritting his teeth as his boots slipped on the uneven surface. Harry and Sofia walked a little ahead, Barbara was still at Bernie’s side. He saw the dim shape of a car ahead.
‘I’ll drive,’ Barbara told Harry.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes. You drove us out. Bernie, if you go in the back you can stretch your legs out.’
‘All right.’ He leaned against the cold metal of the Ford as Barbara opened the driver’s door. She threw in the rucksack and slid into the passenger seat, pulling the catches that unlocked the other doors. Harry opened a rear door, smiling the old solid reassuring smile. ‘Your car, sir,’ he said. Bernie squeezed his arm.
Then Sofia raised a hand. ‘I heard something,’ she whispered. ‘In the trees.’
‘It’ll be a deer,’ Bernie said, remembering the one that had disturbed him in his hiding place.
‘Wait.’ Sofia stepped away from the car and walked slowly over to the stand of holm oaks. They sent long black shadows over the grass. The others watched her. She stopped and squinted into the branches.
‘I can’t hear anything,’ Bernie whispered. He glanced into the car. Barbara was looking over her shoulder at them questioningly.
‘Come on,’ Harry called out.
‘Yes, all right.’ Then Sofia turned away.
A SEARCHLIGHT BEAM lanced from the trees. The crashing rattle of a machine gun spat from the copse and Bernie saw little branches flying into the air as Sofia, caught in the searchlight, jumped and jerked as bullets tore into her. Gouts of blood flew from her small form as it crashed over and hit the ground.
Harry began running to her but Bernie grabbed his arm and with a strength he didn’t know he had left threw him against the side of the car. Harry struggled for a second, then froze as two civiles stepped from the trees, their black bicorn hats glinting in the searchlight. One, an older man with a hard-bitten face, pointed a heavy submachine gun at them with a cold, unemotional expression. The other, who was young and scared-looking, held a revolver.
Bernie found himself unable to breathe. He gasped as he tried to suck in air, still holding Harry by the shoulders. The older civil went and prodded Sofia’s head with his foot, grunting with satisfaction as it lolled back lifeless. Harry tried to move again but still Bernie held him, though it hurt his shoulder.
‘It’s too late,’ he said.
He turned to look into the car. Barbara was still leaning over the seat watching, her expression terrified. The civiles stood at a little distance, covering them, as two men in army uniform stepped into the open. One was Aranda, a smile on his handsome face. The other was thinner, older, thin strands of black hair combed across his bald head, grim satisfaction on his craggy face.
‘Maestre,’ Harry said. ‘Dear God, it’s General Maestre. Oh God, Sofia.’ His voice lurched and he began to sob helplessly.
The officers marched purposefully to them. Maestre flicked a look of contempt at Harry.
‘All of you stay where you are.’ He raised his voice. ‘Señorita Clare, get out of the car.’
Barbara stepped out. She seemed on the point of collapse; she leaned against the open door, her face stricken as she looked at Sofia’s body. Aranda smiled happily at Bernie.
‘Well, we have caught our little bird again.’
Harry stared at Maestre. ‘How did you know about this? Was it Forsyth?’
‘No.’ The minister stared at him coldly. ‘This rescue was set up by us, Señor Brett. Colonel Aranda and I are old friends, we served in Morocco together. One night at a reunion he told me of an Englishman being held at the Tierra Muerta camp, with an English girlfriend who was now in Madrid. The name rang a bell.’ He put his hands in his pockets. ‘We have files on anyone who was involved with the Republic and when I saw Miss Clare was passing herself off as Forsyth’s wife, my friend and I decided we could embarrass him. Today would have been a good day to bring it all to a head – there is an important meeting to do with the gold mine tomorrow.’
‘Oh, no,’ Barbara groaned.
Maestre took out a cigarette and lit it. He blew a cloud of smoke at the sky then looked at Harry again with hard concentration, as though he hated him, Bernie thought. But his voice was still quiet, urbane.
‘Although there was no gold mine in the end, was there? We know that now.’
Harry made no reply. He hardly seemed to be listening any more.
He tried again to jerk away from Bernie’s grip but Bernie held him fast, though he winced with the effort. If he tried to run they might shoot him. Maestre went on.
‘We bribed the English journalist Markby to start things off – oh, do not look so surprised, Señorita Clare, the English can be bribed too – and then Colonel Aranda arranged for one of our former guards who was unemployed in Madrid to develop things. He knew that he and his brother needed money for their mother.’
‘Luis?’ Barbara asked. ‘Luis was working for you? Oh, Christ.’
‘He and Agustín will be getting money to help their mother, but from us. Though we are also letting them keep the money you gave them.’ He shook his head. ‘Luis tried to get out of it a couple of times. I think deceiving you troubled both him and his brother. But we have to be hard if we are to rebuild Spain.’
Maestre began walking to and fro, his tall slim form moving in and out of the searchlight beam where more and more snowflakes whirled, a soldier reflecting on a successful campaign. The light twinkled on his polished buttons. Aranda watched him with a smile. A little way off the snow was settling on Sofia’s black coat and in her hair. Harry had stopped sobbing, he stood slumped in Bernie’s arms now.
‘We always planned to arrest you here. Forsyth doesn’t matter now and we thought of preventing the escape. But we knew you would make trouble at the embassy about the camp, Miss Clare, perhaps involve your Red Cross friends. And Señor Brett is involved too. That would embarrass Ambassador Hoare, who has already annoyed the Generalísimo because of his spying, and because the Englishman Forsyth tried to deceive him over the gold. We will catch Forsyth by the way, all the ports and borders are being watched. And we need Hoare, we need his help to keep Spain out of the war, so that the people who have always ruled Spain can take control from that Falange rabble.’
‘What are you going to do with us?’ Bernie heard a tremble in Barbara’s voice.
Maestre shrugged. ‘Keep you locked away for now. It might be most convenient for all if Piper was shot trying to escape, and you and Señor Brett were reported dead, in a car accident perhaps.’
Aranda stepped up to Maestre, his smile gone. ‘We should kill them all now,’ he said.
Maestre shook his head. ‘No. We’ll keep them locked away for now. I need to think. We have the big meeting tomorrow. But thank you, Manuel, for bringing the escape forward a day. I wanted to see them for myself.’ Maestre smiled again.
They all turned as Barbara gave a little moan and slumped to the ground. Aranda laughed. ‘The stupid whore has fainted.’ He nodded to the young civil. ‘Wake her up.’
The man knelt beside her. He shook her shoulder and she groaned. ‘What—’
‘You fainted, señorita,’ he said, surprisingly gently.
‘Oh. Oh God.’ Barbara sat up, put her hands between her knees. Bernie moved to go to her but the civil motioned him back with his pistol. Harry, freed from Bernie’s grasp, tottered away. He walked slowly over to Sofia’s body, bent like an old man, passing unheedingly through the searchlight beam. The civil with the machine gun swivelled towards him but Maestre raised a hand, watching as Harry knelt beside her. He stroked her snow-spotted hair, then looked at Maestre.
‘Why did you kill her? Why?’
‘She broke the law.’ Maestre waved a finger in a minatory way. ‘That will not be tolerated now. This disorderly people needs keeping in order and we know how to do it. Now get back to the car.’
‘Murderers,’ Harry said, stroking Sofi
a’s hair. ‘Murderers.’
‘And to think my daughter wanted to walk out with you,’ Maestre said. ‘You little prick. It was because of you Alfonso died.’
Barbara stood up. She leaned on the open car door, her face white. ‘Please,’ she said weakly. ‘May I sit in the car? I can’t stop shaking.’
‘She looks ill, mi general,’ the young civil said.
Maestre nodded, looking disdainfully at Barbara as she climbed inside. The young civil closed the door. Aranda smiled at Bernie. ‘Englishwomen, they have no guts, eh?’
Maestre grunted. ‘They are an effete, decayed people. If they could win the war we could get rid of the Falange but I wonder if they are capable of it.’
Bernie glanced round. He could see the back of Barbara’s head, trembling slightly. Harry was crouched over Sofia, sobbing, the snow settling on him too now.
‘It is time to leave,’ Maestre said. ‘You!’ he called to Harry. ‘Back to the car!’
Harry got up and walked slowly back to Bernie. Bernie took his arm and looked at him. He looked awful, his face sagging with shock.
Maestre waved to the civil with the pistol. ‘Go to our car. Radio your office we are coming in.’
The man saluted. ‘I will be back in a quarter of an hour, mi general.’ He ran off towards the road. His colleague stood motionless, the other civil still covering Harry and Bernie with the machine gun.
Aranda waved a finger at Bernie, his good humour restored. ‘General Maestre made a special trip from Madrid to join me here. We knew you were at the cathedral, of course; the watchman and the church authorities were in on this too. I have seen you these last weeks, Piper, waiting for your punishment for not informing for me. That was a game I played with you. Well, here is your punishment.’ He laughed. ‘Do you know, the civiles have had Father Eduardo pestering them, saying two women were missing, they had not arrived at the convent where they were staying. What a simpleton he is.’
BARBARA HADN’T really fainted, although when the general talked of them being killed she almost had. That was what had given her the idea to pretend to collapse in order to get back in the car. The two officers were standing directly behind it. She guessed they wouldn’t know she could drive, few Spanish women drove. She watched the scene behind her in the mirror, trying to keep her eyes from Sofia’s body, calculating. When she saw the young civil go back to the trees she thought, it’s now or never. It would be a risk but she had to try. They were probably all going to be killed anyway, and she hadn’t come this far not to be able to take Bernie back with her, to share her life with him. She wouldn’t leave him to them again.
