A Dangerous Place (17 page)

Maisie looked at her watch. “I have much to do this evening, Mr. Salazar, so I had better get on. How much do I owe you?”

He shook his head. “On the house, Miss Dobbs.”

“Oh, but Mr. Salazar—”

“Today you are my guest. I may not see you for a few days, eh, señora?”

Their eyes met.

“Perhaps not for a few days. But soon.”

He sighed, nodding again. “Be careful, Miss Dobbs.”

“I will. I am in safe hands,” said Maisie as she moved along the banquette and stepped out from behind the table.

“There are places where not even God has safe hands, Miss Dobbs.”
Salazar's ready smile seemed forced as he stepped back for Maisie to leave. “Take care, won't you, señora?”

She began walking along Main Street in the direction of Mrs. Bishop's guest house, but stopped and retraced her steps. The inside of St. Andrew's Church was cool as she entered. Though there was no one else there, she felt as if she could touch the prayers that had gone before, as if they were written on small squares of gossamer-thin tissue paper that lingered in the air above her, floating up into the rafters to be seen more clearly in heaven. She sat down and closed her eyes. She had rarely come to prayer in a house of worship, though she was no stranger to matters of the spirit. But in that moment she brought her hands together and whispered, “Be with me. Please. Be with me.”

A
fter packing a change of clothing into her carpet bag, along with a notebook and toiletries, Maisie went to bed. Anticipating her departure, she slept for only three or four hours before waking. Instead of tossing and turning, waiting for the hour when she would rise, she slipped from the bed, pulled a pillow onto the floorboards, and sat down with her legs crossed, her eyes almost closed, and her hands resting on her knees, thumb and forefinger just the width of one grain of rice apart.

In the hours of wakefulness, Maisie did not go back and question her motives. She accepted her decision: this journey was one she felt compelled to make. Then the hour came. She rose, and washed at the sink in the corner, then dressed in khaki linen trousers, a dark cotton blouse, and a linen jacket. She picked up her walking shoes, carpetbag, and satchel, and crept downstairs in her bare feet. Tiptoeing across the courtyard, she reached the door, which she unlatched with barely a
sound. After stepping out onto the street, she closed it behind her and took a few paces before slipping on her socks and shoes and walking to the prearranged meeting place. A black motor car was idling in the gray light of early morning. Vallejo stepped out as she approached and held the door open for her. She slipped into the back seat, and Vallejo climbed in beside her.

“This is Raoul, the best driver on both sides of the border—eh, Raoul?” Vallejo tapped the driver on the shoulder.

Raoul turned to Maisie and smiled. His smile was broad but swift, as he turned and gave one nod of the head in greeting, then looked back at the road before him. He turned up the headlamps, and the motor car moved off. It was only a matter of yards to the border.

Maisie held her breath as the guard checked her passport and papers, shining a light on her face and then back onto the documents. A stamp came down with a thud. He seemed to know Vallejo, giving him back his papers and waving the car through. The sun was a mere red pinprick of light on the horizon as Raoul drove on.

At first Maisie was awake, taking account of the land around her. Sometimes it was arid, with low trees, and at other times it seemed as if they were driving through a primeval forest. Then the motor car slowed, moving at a crawl through a small village of rough stone houses, where a lone dog barked as they passed, and chickens crossed in front of the vehicle, hindering their progress. Then she slept, waking only when she heard Vallejo and Raoul in low conversation, discussing the route. Maisie was surprised—they must have stopped at some point, as Vallejo was now sitting alongside the driver. She had slept through the break in the journey. Having turned and noticed she was now awake, Vallejo gave her a brief smile.

“You slept for some time—it's good, for the route is longer than
it might normally take. Raoul said he has made it from Gibraltar to Madrid in six and a half hours before, but for us, well, there are places we have to avoid. The Nationalists are concentrating their attention on the Madrid–Valencia road, but still, we had to weave well away from Malaga early on, and we must be careful to avoid pockets of fighting. Are you hungry? Do you need to stop?”

Maisie nodded. “I'm thirsty more than anything. And I'd certainly like to stretch my legs.”

Vallejo smiled. He understood. “Raoul can pull over here if you need to go into the woods. There is nothing to fear in there—and it's private.”

Maisie thanked Vallejo, who instructed Raoul to stop the car when it was convenient. The driver nodded, and a minute later maneuvered onto a dirt shoulder next to an area of dense woodland opposite a row of simple dwellings. There was no sign of human activity.

“No one can see you once you step in among the trees, and we have to study the map in any case.”

Maisie stepped into the silent woodland, moving in for some yards to assure her privacy. It was as she was on her way out that she gasped and came to a sudden halt. She stepped behind a tree. The motor car was surrounded by three men in uniform, their rifles trained on Raoul in the driver's seat; another directed his weapon toward Vallejo, who was in conversation with a fifth soldier as he looked over their papers. She watched and waited, feeling her stomach muscles clench. Vallejo seemed calm, one hand in his pocket, one hand gesticulating, as if to underscore a point. He turned back to the motor car, leaned in through the window, and came out with the map in his hand. The soldier nodded. Maisie continued to watch, hardly allowing herself to breathe. Vallejo was talking them out of danger—she could see that in the way he had drawn the men into conversation. But who were
the soldiers? Republican, or Franco's Nationalists? Were they Italians, brought in to support Franco's forces? Or German? Or perhaps members of the International Brigades?

The soldier speaking to Vallejo signaled his men to lower their rifles, and as Maisie watched, they gathered to one side. Raoul leaned from his window to offer cigarettes, which they took with gratitude, sharing a joke with the driver. Vallejo and the soldier had laid the map across the motor car bonnet, and she could see them marking out a route. Then it seemed as if everyone was more at ease. Vallejo rolled up the map and shook hands with the soldier, who touched his peaked cap and waved to his men to join him. They moved off, back along an alleyway between two rough sandstone buildings.

Vallejo watched them until they were out of sight, then turned and looked back into the woodland. He signaled. She stepped from her hiding place and ran to the motor car, where Vallejo was holding open the door ready for her. He closed the door, then moved to the front passenger seat.

“Get down, Maisie, just for a while. I'll tell you when you can sit up again.”

From her cramped position, she saw both Raoul and Vallejo raise their hands, smile and wave at the soldiers, who had turned back to watch them depart. The motor car sped up.

“You can sit up now,” said Vallejo, when some moments had passed.

“Who were they?”

“Russians—on our side, or at least, we think they are.”

“What did they want with us?” asked Maisie.

“Just to find out who we were, and where we were going. The fact that I speak Russian helped,” said Vallejo.

“Am I a liability on this journey?” She leaned forward to better be heard over the roar of the engine.

Vallejo shook his head. “When you get to Madrid, you will be surprised how many women have come into the city—women journalists, a photographer or two, a couple of your British politicians. There's that woman—Red Ellen. Red for Communist?”

“Ellen Wilkinson, in Madrid? She's called Red Ellen for the color of her hair, and she's a much-loved fighter for workers' rights in Britain.”

“You approve of her?”

“I admire her—so yes, I approve, for what it's worth.”

Vallejo nodded. “Anyway, no, you're not a liability—but you never know with Russians, which way they are going to go. They might not have been in proximity to a woman in a while, so it was best to be safe.”

“Thank you.” Maisie sat back, and then leaned forward again. “What is it like, in Madrid?”

“You'll see soon enough. Surprisingly normal, for a city being bombed almost every day. The Nationalists are trying very hard to take Madrid. Their plan is to encircle the city, so they have fought us in Jarama, where the International Brigades suffered terrible losses, and also in University City, where I was employed. It is now—more or less—the front, and they have been fighting within the buildings, with Italians taking one floor and the Republic another. We are holding the line, though, much to Franco's shock. He thought he could just walk in with his Nationalist soldiers, with his Moors from Africa and with the fascist Germans and Italians, but we are holding the line.” He turned back to face the road again. “There are anti-Fascist Germans fighting for us, and the Garibaldi Battalion of sympathizing Italians. God bless them all. It is crazy.”

Maisie nodded her understanding and looked out of the window. When she turned back, Vallejo's eyes were closed and his chin had slumped onto his chest; he was fast asleep. They drove through more
villages, many with Republican slogans, where women pushed children into the shadows as the motor car went past. Maisie watched and wondered at the changing landscape as they neared the city, once again looping round to avoid the border between Nationalist and Republican armies. Still Vallejo slept, and for some moments Maisie looked at the man, at his olive skin and dark hair, gray at the temples. She suspected he was not as old as she had at first assumed. It was hard to say, given the lines across his forehead and at the corners of his eyes. And not for the first time, she wondered about the relationship between him, Babayoff, and Rosanna Grillo. In any time of war, she thought, there are alliances between those whose paths might never have crossed if the world were at peace.

S
andbags, broken buildings like jagged teeth in the mouth of a mad dog, and smoke rising up to block their way forward came together to form Maisie's first impression of Madrid. She felt hot, sticky, the leather seat adhering to her back, and when she leaned forward, she felt a rivulet of sweat run down the length of her spine. Her palm was clammy when she brushed her hair from her forehead, and she ran her parched tongue across her lips.

“I have made arrangements for you to stay at an hotel, Maisie. I have lodgings nearby with a relative, but it is very small and not comfortable. Here is the address, should you need to be in touch in an emergency. I will ensure your room is ready; then you'll be able to rest for a few hours until suppertime. We can talk then about what, precisely, you want to achieve while we're here. Raoul will be driving back to Gibraltar in a few days—I'll let you know the arrangements for your departure.”

Maisie opened her mouth to counter his instruction—what if
she didn't want to leave when the time came? She decided it was not worth the discussion. Not yet, anyway. She wanted only to get to her room now, and then decide what exactly she wanted to do and see—to “achieve,” as Vallejo put it.

The hotel on the Plaza de Callao was a bold square building, reminiscent of a large London hotel built during Queen Victoria's reign. There was a shabby grandeur about it; windows had been blown out and the marble facade exuded the air of an old lady under siege from a dark modernity never imagined when the hotel's first guests arrived in 1924. By the time Maisie was shown to her room, she could think of nothing she wanted more than to sink into a bathtub filled with cool water, and felt all the more selfish for her wanting.

Having bathed and washed her hair, she felt refreshed but still weary as she studied her face in the mirror. She secured her bathrobe tighter around her body—she would not chance it falling open, for fear of seeing her scar. Since losing the baby, she had avoided catching sight of her own body at any cost—she always undressed quickly, and looked away as she toweled her skin. And though the discomfort had lessened over recent days, she wondered how much she had held on to as a reminder, as if it was tantamount to abandonment to cast aside the pain, a betrayal of James and their child as she lived on without them.

She ran her fingers through her hair, and then, though she could not have explained at that moment why she did such a thing, she walked out of the bathroom and into the bedroom, took a small pair of scissors from her bag, and returned to stand before the mirror above the sink. Lifting up one clump of hair after another, she cut and cut and cut, not stopping until her hair lay like an elfin cap upon her head. And then she smiled, her cheekbones more pronounced and her eyes wide, as if encountering someone new in the reflection. A few strands
of gray only pleased her the more, the visible signs of what had come to pass in her life. She looked at the scissors and ran a free hand through her boyish hair, beginning to laugh at her own audacity. She'd forgotten that there was another scar, from a shrapnel wound sustained in France some twenty years before. Though faint, it was still there, a line underneath her occipital bone for the sharp observer to see.

When she had washed her blouse and underclothes and hung them in the bathroom to dry, Maisie shook out her trousers and placed them on a hanger alongside the open window to air. She dressed in her linen skirt and a fresh white blouse and sandals and walked down to the bar, where she was supposed to meet Vallejo.

The bar was buzzing with people, many from overseas—British, American, a Russian, along with local men and women. She recognized a politician from London, though could not recall his name, and overheard two British nurses—volunteers—discussing their work at a hospital. She lingered for a while, eavesdropping, and learned that they were new in the country, and had been assigned—she was not sure by whom—to assist an American medical unit. They were working with a doctor they admired for his speed, operating on one man with devastating wounds after another. She was about to approach them—she had always felt a camaraderie among nurses, and though she'd last walked a ward some eighteen years before, she knew she only had to identify herself to be welcome among their number—when an American woman brandishing a camera broke into their conversation, introducing herself as an international correspondent for
Life
magazine and asking if she could interview them. Maisie turned away as one of the women exclaimed, “Well, we could always use more help—there's so much to do. And we're here in the city, where there's better organization—can you imagine what it's like outside, at some of the aid stations they've set up?”

Professor Vallejo was behind her. She wondered how long he might have been there, watching her.

“I did not recognize you at first. Your hair—well, it's like a man's.” He paused, as if realizing his comment might have caused offense, and looked about him at the flurry of activity in the hotel. “Let's find somewhere quieter to talk. There's a small restaurant around the corner—I know the proprietor, and he remains open, come what may. I cannot bear this noise, or most of these people.”

They walked along the rubble-strewn street in silence, entering the half-full restaurant.

“It's early yet,” said Vallejo, pointing to a table in the corner.

The proprietor had raised his hand in a quick, economic wave as they entered—he had none of Mr. Salazar's ready ebullience—before pulling a bottle of red wine from the shelf and making his way between the tables toward them.

“Felipe,” said Vallejo, “this is my friend, Miss Dobbs.”

Felipe grunted his greeting as he poured wine into two glasses.

Maisie looked at Vallejo, unsure of how she should reply, then smiled and said, “How do you do,” at once sensing the formality in her tone.

Felipe shrugged his shoulders, rolled his eyes at Vallejo, and moved away, having deposited the bottle of wine on the table.

“Felipe is not as friendly as our Mr. Salazar,” said Vallejo. He drained his wine as if it were water, and began to speak as he lifted the bottle to refill his glass. “So you have two reasons for wanting to come to Madrid—perhaps three, though I think the third is the indulgence of a sudden desire to place yourself in an even more difficult situation than the one in which you found yourself in Gibraltar.”

He sipped again, setting his glass on the table and raising his hand as Maisie opened her mouth to speak.

“Most people, upon discovering the body of a murdered man, would make their next port of call the shipping office, where they would book passage home to wherever home might be, on the next possible sailing. But you are different, aren't you? A murder is a question to be answered, a problem to be solved, and perhaps a tangle of wires to be unraveled. You are here now because your nose has followed a scent, but of course we know it might not be the right scent, and in your line of work there are as many fragrances as there are threads to be followed, and you are used to having a certain dogged endurance.”

Maisie said nothing, but reached for her glass of wine.

“The second reason is allied to the first, in that this is one of your threads. You suspect—
something
is going on, so your nose is down and sniffing. You might be right, you might be wrong, but at least the stone has been turned. Still, perhaps you do not realize how broad is the stone, and how many pebbles lie underneath. In short, to be blunt, you stand little chance of finding what you are looking for.”

“And what am I looking for?”

“Sebastian Babayoff.”

“But Sebastian Babayoff is dead,” she said, watching Vallejo's face.

“Oh, yes, he is indeed—we know that.”

“Do we?”

“You discovered his body.”

Maisie turned her wineglass by the stem, while Vallejo drained his glass again and poured more.

“And what's my third reason for being here?” she asked.

“War, Miss Dobbs. War is the antivenin for you, isn't it? Your losses can be attributed to war and the preparation for war, and you think you can rid yourself of whatever ails you—finally—by facing war again.”

She brought her hand to her neck.

“And why did you cut your hair?” asked Vallejo.

“I was hot, the journey was dusty and long. I wanted to be free of the bother of it.”

“You didn't cut it to punish yourself for the very act of living?”

Maisie smiled and shook her head, looking away as she did so. “How impertinent you are, Professor Vallejo. In some ways you remind me of someone I knew very well, though his honest appraisals were never so blunt.”

“Ah, yes, Dr. Maurice Blanche.”

Maisie reacted before she could disguise her shock. “You knew him?”

“I did indeed, Miss Dobbs. You were not the first of his students or those he took under his wing, though it is clear you were the most beloved. Put two and two together, Miss Dobbs; use that famous endurance. I am a professor of politics and philosophy, and I studied the latter under Maurice in France. Not for a long time, I'll admit, but enough to learn from his approach.”

Maisie nodded. “Then we are like family.”

“Yes. Family. And families have no secrets, do they?” There was a pause before Vallejo spoke again. “What do you want to know, Miss Dobbs? Now is the time to ask, though I cannot guarantee an answer. Then we will make our plans for the next two days—though all plans have to be malleable in Madrid.”

At that moment Felipe came to take their order for supper. Again he did not speak, but stood beside the table and flicked over a page in his small notebook, licking the tip of his short pencil. Having taken their order for lamb with fried potatoes—
patatas
—he left the table, picking up the empty bottle and returning with another before the conversation resumed. The silence between Maisie and Vallejo gave her time to think, and the professor an opportunity to light a cigarette. He held up the packet to her, but she shook her head.

“Here's what I want to know—whether you can answer or not,” said Maisie. “I want to know exactly what happened on the night I found the body of the man buried as Sebastian Babayoff on the path close to the Ridge Hotel. I'm not entirely sure it was the photographer, though I believe he had been foolish with his life for some time, taking actions well above his ability to deal with the outcome.” She paused to observe Vallejo's response, but he only looked at her, one eye closed against the smoke from the cigarette as he exhaled, so she continued. “I'm curious to know how Arturo Kenyon, Miriam Babayoff, and Jacob Solomon fit together in this little tale of intrigue—”

“Oh, sarcasm, Miss Dobbs,” Vallejo interrupted. “Do not give in to the whims of your wit.”

Maisie paused and took a sip of her wine—her glass was still more than half full. “In addition, I believe those three, plus Rosanna Grillo and as many helpers as they have under their collective wings, have been arranging for arms to be brought to Spain for the Republican Army, perhaps to arm the International Brigades. Heaven knows how they managed to weave their way through the patrol vessels in the Straits.”

“Where there's a will, there's a way.” Vallejo stubbed the remains of the cigarette into the ashtray. “Go on.”

“I want to know how you fit into all this—I know I have danced around the question before, but now I want to know the answer to all of these things.”

“Is that it?” asked Vallejo.

“No. Not quite,” answered Maisie. “I want to know what part I'm playing. I am a guest here, at your mercy. Frankly, I might have had my reasons for wanting to come, yet you must have had a reason for allowing me to accompany you. Perhaps you want truth to have a voice as much as I, and perhaps you're tired of the artifice.” She took a deep
breath and held it before exhaling slowly. She knew her frustration was visible in her heightened color; she could feel her cheeks redden. “And I want to know about that man with the fair hair who was at the party in the hotel—and in church on the day we found out about Guernica. Who is he, and what does he have to do with all this?”

Felipe returned bearing two plates, the aroma of roast lamb and
patatas
wafting across the table in a wave that rendered Maisie almost faint. Vallejo raised his hand just enough to signal his thanks.

“Gracias, señor,” said Maisie. Felipe left with barely a nod of the head.

Vallejo looked at Maisie. “Eat, and then we'll talk some more.”

When they had sated their immediate hunger, Vallejo leaned back in his chair.

“I feel more human already.” He sighed. “Now then, let me see. Here's what I can tell you.”

Maisie set down her knife and fork.

“After the Frenchman Léon Blum persuaded leaders of other countries to be part of the nonintervention pact in Spain's war, all arms shipments from those countries to the Republic—to the democratically elected leadership of this country—ceased. It ceased, though, with the exception of the Germans and Italians, who favor the Fascist Franco, and of course, as we have seen, they are not following any pacts with Britain, France, or the United States of America. So other ways of gathering necessary materiel had to be found, and as the British saying goes, ‘Every little bit helps.' Now the Russians are offering arms, so there is less of a panic about it all, though with Russia, in particular, beware the hand that gives, for it will rip something away in return.”

“And who supplied the arms kept in the cave in Gibraltar?”

Vallejo looked at her. “My, you have been stomping the path of
investigation, haven't you? Let us just say that it was another route by which arms might be brought into Spain.”

“And the people I've mentioned—Kenyon, the Babayoffs, Solomon, and Carlos Grillo and his niece—they were all part of this? Are they all Communists?”