Tapestry of Spies (17 page)

He caught him in a lonely pool of red light.

“Ivanch …?” The fat man turned, his face warm with expectation. But when he saw Lenny, his expression fell apart into something ugly with terror.

“Swine,” Lenny said, hitting him in the fat mouth with the pistol. Igenko fell into a mewling heap.

“Hey. Hey, what are you doing, comrade?”

Lenny looked up; three Anarchist patrolmen were unslinging their rifles and heading over.

“SIM,” barked Lenny.

“Fuck the SIM, comrade,” yelled the first. “Russian swine had better stay out of—”

Lenny threw the slide on his Tokarev, jacking the hammer back, and said in English, “Another step, motherfucker, and you’re dead meat.”

Igenko was crying.

Ugarte was next to him, pistol out, and then another man arrived and another and another, and then Glasanov himself. The Anarchists began to back off.

“These are simply records,” said Levitsky. “A list of names. This means nothing.”

The woman’s eyes fell.

“I assure you, Comrade Maximov,” she began, “each name on that list is an enemy of the state and each has been dealt with by Comrade Glasanov. We are moving even closer to—”

“You show me a list of names on a paper and you say, here, here is your revolution, this paper. Meanwhile, opposition newspapers are published condemning the general secretary, slandering him, and armed dissenters swagger in the streets and drink wine in the cafés, laughing at him.”

“Look,” she said, opening a drawer. “Look! Do you see! This is not a list! These are our enemies’ lives!”

She pulled the pouch out.

“All these passports. They each represent an arrest. And they will be sent back to Moscow Center by diplomatic pouches. Our agents will be able to use them to penetrate the Western democracies in the years to come. Look, see for yourself.”

She handed the pouch over to Levitsky; he rifled it quickly. Passports and plenty more: official papers, work records, confiscated identification cards, the remains of the Tomas W.’s and the Carlos M.’s, and the Vladimir N.’s of Glasanov’s assiduous underground campaign against oppositionism.

“Yes,” he said. “Yes, it appears to be impressive. One must not judge too hastily, however.”

“Examine them, comrade. They are our evidence. We are tireless in our efforts. We broach no treason. Comrade Glasanov is a gifted, inspirational leader. He is a Party worker who doesn’t know the meaning of fatigue.”

Levitsky studied the matter gravely.

At that moment a flare popped outside filling, the office with pink light. Another detonated, then another. They looked to the window and could see the spangled patterns of the starbursts glossy and spectacular against the night sky, dwarfing even the moon.

“A parade,” she said. “Men are going off to fight at the front. But we fight here, too, comrade. We have no interest in parades.”

Levitsky realized that the stupid girl was in love with Glasanov. He was probably fucking her every night.

“Perhaps the matter deserves more study,” he said. “I shall return to my quarters at the Colon. Tell Glasanov to expect me tomorrow at nine
A.M
. Sharp. He had better have the criminal Levitsky by then. In the meantime, I’ll review these documents tonight so as to better understand the situation here and the difficulties Comrade Commissar Glasanov faces.”

“Yes. Yes, I’ll tell him. Oh, listen. Listen.”

Music. It was the Internationale.

“It’s quite beautiful,” he said. “Truly inspirational sentiments. Good day, comrade. You serve your superior well. I shall keep my eye on you. Perhaps the right word in the right ear.”

“Thank you, Comrade Maximov, but my work is pleasure enough. I have no desires except to serve my nation and my party.”

He left quickly.

In the street, he melted into the crowd and departed the area, heading into an Anarchist neighborhood, his cache
of identities under his arm in the stocky leather pouch. The extent of the triumph was stunning, far greater than he had hoped for: he had wanted out of his sortie some sort of identity card, and he had come away with an encyclopedia of personalities. He could easily sell half of them on the black market, where genuine papers were a prized item, and the others would give him extraordinary operating latitude, made more deliciously useful by Glasanov’s inability to acknowledge the loss of the documents.

In the revolutionary mob he hurried along, the sound of music ringing in his ears, the sky behind him still pink and hot with light. He tried not to think of Igenko.

When Igenko died at 4:05
A.M
. that morning in the prison at the Convent of St. Ursula, after sustaining the inevitable massive internal injuries, it was greeted by his captors as something less than a tragedy. He died badly, screaming. He had told them, as much as he could, everything. But he didn’t make a lot of sense.

“He knew nothing,” said Glasanov. “That raving, that terror. He was worthless.”

But Lenny was thinking that Igenko was a clerk in the Maritime Commission, which handled shipping. And he was thinking of Igenko’s dying words, the ones that had confused poor Glasanov.

“The gold,” he had screamed. “Emmanuel came for the gold and he betrayed me for the gold.”

B
Y GOD, THOUGHT FLORRY, IF I LIVE ANOTHER FIFTY
years, I’ll never forget this night. He shifted the lumpy hulk of the Moisin-Nagent rifle from one shoulder to another—in a POUM formation, it made no difference which shoulder one braced one’s rifle against, just as it made no difference whether one marched in step or in uniform; all that mattered was mass and direction. Around him, men churned ahead. In the sky above, flares burst and hung, hissing. Each was a small sun, burning its image into the retina, bleeding its color into the sky behind it. It was the red night,
el noche rojo
, and he was part of it.

It seemed that all Barcelona had either wedged itself onto the Ramblas to cheer the soldiers or had found space on the balconies above, and half the musicians of Spain had been conscripted to provide music by which to send the soldiers off to war. Flowers and confetti fell upon them; petals drifted pinkly in the illuminated air. It was a theater of light. Shafts rose and flashed against the sky like saber blades; fireworks burst and crackled as the parade swept down the Ramblas.

“To Huesca! To Huesca!” came the cry from the crowds.

“Long live the World Revolution!” somebody up ahead yelled in exuberant English.

A wineskin, circulating among the militiamen, finally arrived at Florry.

“Here,
inglés,”
said a boy, handing it over.

Florry took the warm thing and held it close to his mouth and squirted in a brief, pulsing jet of wine.
Blanco
. A little bitter, yet vivid all the same. Yes. He swallowed and passed it on. He noticed that the rifles had spouted roses and that women had come among them.

“Hey,
inglés
, not so bad, eh?” someone yelled to him.

“Yes, bravo,” shouted Florry back, feeling excited and cynical at once. He’d spent two crude weeks tramping about in the mud with broomsticks with these boys—the rifles were only issued recently—and yet he felt a part of it. What a jolly show! What a spiffy send-up! It was like ’14, wasn’t it, everybody off on a bloody crusade. Pip, pip, do one’s best, and all that.

At the bottom of the Ramblas, the parade wheeled to the left in an unending torrent under the watchful, cool eye of Christopher Columbus at the top of his pedestal, and headed along the broad boulevard at the lip of the port until it arrived at the station, a grand Spanish building, all monument and stern purpose and majestic self-importance.

Within its sooty portals, however, the Spanish talent for disorganization reasserted itself aggressively after the relative precision of the parade. Florry found himself stalled under a vast double-vaulted ceiling filled up with steam and noise. Half the lights in the big cavern were off and searchlights prowled about, illuminating rising
columns of steam theatrically. It was a near riot. Suddenly, the queue began to move. Florry advanced to the train and then the movement broke down again, abandoning him in the throng right at the portal of the car. He stood, one boot up on the step, his heavy rifle over his shoulder, his kit on his back and a water bottle at his belt, like a 1914 victory poster. He felt absurd. Could not the Spaniards do one thing efficiently?

It seemed to take forever. Good Christ, how can they hope to win a war and finish a revolution if they cannot even fill up a train in an orderly fashion?

“Robert! Oh, Robert. Thank God!”

Her hair was pulled back severely under a black beret and she still wore the sexless mono and plimsoles, but her eyes had that special, sleepy grace, and when she smiled as she fought her way through the soldiers to him, he felt a burst of pleasure scalding as steam and thought he’d faint. Yet he also felt himself pulled up short and breathless with anger. Sylvia, off to watch her little hero do his bit.

“Hello, Sylvia,” he said, unsure what else to say, possessing no opinion as to what would happen next.

“I had to see you. I hated the way you just went off.”

He was surprised at the anger he felt.

“God, Sylvia, is this scene really necessary?”

“¡Vámanos, inglés!”
a sergeant yelled from the car. He was holding up the line. He stepped out to let the others file by.

“I have to go,” he said gruffly. “They’re getting ready to go out.”

“Robert, I had to see you one last time.”

“What nonsense! You were the one who pushed
me
away. You were the one who wanted some room. You were the one who had to have experiences. You paid
your debt, Sylvia. Florry had his fun, bloody good fun it was, too. You owe me nothing.”

“I owe you everything,” she said. “I want you to know how much I respect you for this. Like Julian, you’ll write history rather than
about
it.”

“What rubbish! You’ve been reading too many posters. Nothing’s happened up there in months. The only attacks are launched by the lice. It’ll simply be a time without bathing, that’s all. Just like Eton, actually.”

“Robert—”

“¡Vámanos, inglés, amigo!”
the sergeant called again.
“Es la hora. El tren sale. ¿No quieres ser ejecutado?”
The train whistle rang through the air, echoing against the stones of the station.

“Stop that damned crying and let me shake your hand,” Florry said. “You shall have your adventures and I shall have mine.”

She tried to smile but it was wrecked by the intensity of her emotion. Florry took her hand and meant to shake it primly and ironically and angrily after their sweet night together. But he surprised himself by pulling her to him. Everybody on the train was cheering and making suggestions of what to do with a lovely young girl and he didn’t give a damn. He could see her eyes widen in surprise as he brought her close and he brought her closer, feeling all the war gear on his back encumbering him, but he didn’t care about that, either. He crushed her body in his arms, taking pleasure in it, feeling the give and yield of her slight bones, smelling the soft sweetness of her, and he kissed her, hard, on the mouth.

“There,” he said, speaking quite brutally. “Now that’s a proper send-off for a soldier boy, eh? Now smile. Show Florry some teeth, darling.”

She looked at him, shocked.

The train whistled and began to move.

“Good-bye, Sylvia. I’ll put in a good word for you to Julian. Perhaps you and he can have tea when this is finished.” He jumped up on the doorstep of the train as it pulled out of the station. He hung there until he could see her no longer, and then they pulled him aboard, cheering and happy for the romantic Englishman.

He hated her. He loved her.

Damn the woman!

I
N LONDON, IT WAS WELL AFTER MIDNIGHT. HOLLY-BROWNING
had become almost a vampire: he lived by night, as if the sun’s touch were lethal. He sat, isolated, chalky complected, his eyes black-ringed, working with furious concentration on the message Vane had so recently brought up from Signals.