Tapestry of Spies (29 page)

“In considerably better shape now than when last seen,” said Florry. “I had thought the Church had a monopoly on resurrection.”

“Nothing so miraculous,” said Steinbach. “It was simple theater, the little charade with the pistol. We had to shoot him, in case there were spies about. No one
could know he was my agent, just returned from a long, dangerous passage behind the lines.”

“Welcome back to the living, Comrade Portela,” said Florry.

The dapper young Spaniard clicked his heels together with the precision of a comic general in an operetta, and bowed stiffly at the waist.

“Buenas noches
, Comrade Florry,” he said. “It is a pleasure to accept your compliments.” For a brave spy, he was a bit on the pudgy side.

“Why don’t you sit down, Comrade Florry? I believe it will be an interesting evening,” said Steinbach.

Florry sat.

“We’ve figured out how to win the war in Aragon with a bloody big bang,” said Julian. Florry had seen Julian like this before: weirdly animated, beside himself with giddy joy. Julian could hardly control himself. He was still in his dinner jacket, but he paced the room like a panther, clasping and reclasping his arms about himself. Somehow he disgusted Florry.

“As you know from most intimate experience,” said Steinbach, “our militia has taken the leading role in the siege of Huesca, supported most enthusiastically by those organizations such as the Anarchists, who share our political philosophies and our passion for the revolution and our belief in freedom. But because we cannot crack Huesca, we are called traitors, secret Fascists, counterrevolutionaries. The lies are repeated often and loudly; people are beginning to believe them. I need not specify who is telling these lies, but they are the same people who arrest or assassinate our leaders. There was fighting in Barcelona early last month. The pressures against us are mounting terribly. A saboteur destroyed our magazine. My ears are still ringing from the blast!
And so we must crack Huesca. Not merely for our honor but for our survival.”

“Huesca,” said Portela, “is the key.”

“We must break the city before the Fascists can lift the siege. To do so would be to considerably lessen the pressures upon ourselves. To do so would be to save the revolution from the men in the Kremlin. And to keep it for the people. Perhaps worth dying for, eh?”

Florry nodded lamely. It seemed all gibberish to him.

Where do I stand on this?
he wondered.
Whose side am I
on? What do I care about? What matters to me?

“Do you know why we attacked Huesca the night you were wounded, comrade?”

“No, comrade.”

“Because Portela reached me with information that a German engineering brigade had almost completed reinforcing a bridge in the mountains on the only direct road between Pamplona and Huesca. When they are done, the bridge will be able to support the weight of the PzKpfw II German tank. We attacked because we had to get into the city before the bridge was finished. We failed. It’s clear now why: the attack was betrayed.”

“And there are tanks?”

“Thick as flies, old man,” Julian said. “Jerry has a bunch of the filthy beasts in the mountains, and he wants to spring them on us. And now he’s fixing the rickety old bridge with a nice bundle of fine Krupp steel. Old Jerry’s using Spain as a bloody lab and he wants to see how his gadgets work.”

“When will this bridge be finished?” he asked because he knew he was supposed to.

“It will be finished three days from today. Today is the thirteenth. And on the sixteenth of June, those tanks will come out of the mountains and they will deploy into an
assault formation on the flat plains around Huesca and they will be supported by mechanized eighty-eight-millimeter high-velocity guns and they will chew our militia to pieces. Then they’ll crash through the gates of the city and free it. It will be a great victory for the Fascists. And it will be great victory for the Communists. And we shall pass into history, Comrade Florry.”

“Unless somebody unfinishes that bloody bridge,” said Julian. “Sounds like fun, eh, Stink?”

“Surely this bridge is guarded,” said Florry warily.

“My goodness, yes,” said Steinbach, his good eye wide with astonishment. “The Germans are very thorough, as many of us learned in 1914. They’ve got a special unit of crack troops at the bridge itself as well as a reinforced battalion of very tough Moorish legionnaires bivouacked nearby. But most importantly, they’ve built a concrete bunker at the bridge and fitted it out with a brace of Maxim guns. Any guerrilla attack would fail. And we could never get the Russian bombers to help us by bombing the target.”

“I have a very good idea you’re about to ask me a great favor.”

“Oh, it’s lovely,” said Julian. “Oh, Stinky, you’ll just
love
it.”

Julian, you idiot, Florry thought. You’ve bought it all, haven’t you? Their propaganda, their insane conviction, their love of themselves and their cause.

“There happen to be in Pamplona two Englishmen in possession of an extraordinary credential. They are representatives of Sir Oswald Mosley’s British Fascist Union, on a fact-finding tour in Nationalist territory, and Generalissimo Franco has issued them a carte blanche right-of-travel pass. These two gentlemen may travel
unimpeded anywhere they wish in the White zone. Franco himself says it.”

“Imagine,” said Julian, suddenly producing his small .25 automatic, “imagine, Stink, if a sad accident occurred to those two lads and those documents fell into
our
hands, and we used them to examine this miracle of modern German engineering at the bridge and we just happened to be there when a band of guerrillas led by Lieutenant Portela attacked. And suppose, Stinky, we were able to knock out that gun bunker, so that the guerrillas could come down and plant their lovely little dynamite charges. Poof! As if in a dream, the bridge has vanished and Jerry’s toys are stuck up in the mountains and cannot come to the rescue of Huesca. And the bloody Russian secret policemen in Barcelona have got to explain to their bosses what went wrong.”

“In three bloody days? How? Do we fly?”

“You could make it, Comrade Florry. Just. You leave for the front tomorrow morning. You’ll be there by late afternoon. You cross tomorrow night at nightfall, near Zaragossa. Portela has arranged for a truck to get you into Pamplona by the morning. Sometime that afternoon or in the evening you’ll intercept the two British Fascists. Early the next morning, the morning of the sixteenth, you set out for the bridge by an auto we’ve secured for you. You should make it in three hours. It’s tight, I grant you. But it’s always tight. It was tight in July, when we started this thing. It will be tight till the end.”

“Who are these Englishmen?” asked Florry.

“Chap calling himself Harry Uckley. Ex-British army officer. Actually an Eton man, a few years before us. A footballer, they tell me.”

“From the old school,” said Florry.

“He and a chap called Dyles, sitting pretty as you
please in Pamplona with their fine uniforms, hobnobbing with Jerry, guzzling
tinto
, and chasing the señoritas. Stinky, it’ll be
such
fun. Do join me. You see, the two who replace the unfortunate Harry and his chum have just
got
to be old Eton boys. The other Brits in the militia haven’t got the polish. Can you imagine poor Billy Mowry trying to pass at Eton? Good heavens, out of the question.”

“It’s much to ask,” said Steinbach, “but these are hard times. The hardest times, perhaps.”

“It
is
the right thing, Stink. It really is.”

“A bridge,” said Florry, in private bitterness.

“What say, Stink? What heroes we’ll be. How Sylvia will be impressed with her two brave boyos, and all the rest of the señoritas!” He smiled loonily.

Florry looked at them. Julian, whom he did not know, not really, Portela whom he did not care to know, and finally Steinbach whom he did not like. Fools, all. But he could not face saying no to something Julian had already said yes to. He could not face Sylvia having said no.

Oh, blast, he thought. In for a penny, in for a pound.

“Let’s drop the bastard into the river like a smashed birdcage,” he said.

Later, near eleven, Florry went to her room and knocked.

There was no answer. He knocked again, louder.

After a while, he felt quit idiotic. He went back to his room. But he could not settle down. Where in God’s name was she? He was going off in the morning to risk everything. Where was she?

He went to Julian’s room and knocked. There was no answer. He knew he ought to settle down, what with
tomorrow coming. But this business with the girl was going too far. He went down into the lobby.

“Have you seen Miss Lilliford,” he asked the porter, who spoke no English. “Pret-ty la-dy,” he said slowly, as if in adding space between the syllables the man would be able to comprehend him.
“Señorita. Mucho bonita señorita.”

“Robert. There you are!”

He turned. The two of them were just coming in.

“We went for a walk. We came looking for you but you’d disappeared.”

“I was in my room.”

“Oh, we thought you’d be in the bar. Time for a last drink, eh?”

“I think not, Julian.”

“Listen, old man, you’ll want to get a good night’s sleep tonight. Busy times ahead.”

“Of course.”

“Well, I must leave you two lovebirds. Goodnight, darling,” he said, and gave Sylvia a kiss.

When Julian had gone, Florry said, “I thought you were coming to my room.”

“I’m sorry. I was on my way when I ran into Julian. Robert, please calm down. You look terribly agitated.”

“Well, where were you? Where did you walk to? What did you—”

“Robert, it was just a stroll. He told me he was leaving tomorrow. And that you were, too. He was very charming but very vague. What on earth is going on?”

“It’s nothing. Yes, we’ve got to go back to the war tomorrow.”

“God, it was over so soon. I’ll miss you both so much. You know, I’ve really had a wonderful time here and—”

“Sylvia, I want to marry you.”

“What?”

“I want to marry you.”

“Robert, don’t be ridiculous. Here? Now? In the middle of this?”

“No, I want you to be my bride.”

“Why, absolutely not. Not until I think about it.”

“We’re going off on a job tomorrow. It’ll be quite dangerous, or so they say. It’s a special thing.”

“For whom?”

“Our old outfit. The POUM people. I can’t tell you more. But I want you to be my wife. I want to marry you when I get back. So that you’ll be mine forever, all right?”

She shook her head in wonder.

“I love you, Sylvia. Do you understand that? Let me tell you, I’m not as charming as he is, but I love you in a way he never will. What he’s good at is getting people to care for him. That’s his special talent. I don’t have it. But in the long run, I’m better for you, Sylvia, don’t you see? Really, I’m—”

“Robert. Please.”

“Do you love him?”

“Yes. But in a different way than I love you. I
respect
him. It all means so much to him, the revolution, the war. He’s so passionate. That’s a part of his charm.”

“You don’t know him, Sylvia. When he gets bored with you, he’ll cut you loose. He doesn’t really
care
about other people.”

“Robert, I—”

“Please. I must know. Tell me now. If you want, I’ll go away forever. Just tell me. I can’t stand this business in the middle.”

She looked at him.

“I won’t marry you, Robert, because of Julian. But I
shall make love to you. Julian thinks he’s going to die. That is what he told me. I think I’m in love with him, not that it matters to him. But I will make love to you if you promise me you will watch him and protect him on this job coming up tomorrow. I know you want more, but that is the only thing I can give you.”

Their sex had an intensity that was almost brutal. It felt to Florry, after his long hunger and his despair and in his pain, like a battle. It was all muscles and sweat; it was work. He wanted to taste her and he did and it drove her wild, like an animal. He wanted her to taste him and she fought him and he forced her down and made her do it.

When they were done they lay there, smoking cigarettes in the dark. They did not quite touch.

Finally he said, “I love you,” and waited for her to respond and she didn’t.

“I’ve lost you, haven’t I?”

“I’m not sure. I don’t know. I’m going to do a lot of thinking. I’ll wait in Barcelona. I have to sort this out.”

“Maybe I’ll get killed and you won’t have to be confused.”

“Don’t talk like such an ass.”

“I think I’m going to my room. I’ve got some plans to make.”

“All right.”

“I’m going to tell Julian about this. I think he should know.”

“All right. Do you want me to come?”

“No. Good-bye, Sylvia. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Florry paused at the door to Julian’s room. Odd, he thought he heard talking.

He waited. No, it was quiet.

He knocked.

“Good God, what fool can be pounding on my door at midnight? Go away, Wee Willie Winkle, the children are fast asleep.”

“Julian, it’s Robert.”

“Stink, there’s plenty of time to talk later.”

“Julian, it’s important.”

“Christ.” There was some stirring inside.

Finally the door opened a bit and Julian, looking frazzled, leaned out. A puff of the warm Mediterranean sea breeze inflated the curtain behind him and mussed his hair.

“Love to have you in, old man, but people would talk. Now what on earth
is
this?”

“Julian, look, I wanted to tell you. Before tomorrow, before we leave.”

“God, Stink, from the look on your bloody face I believe you
have
finally succeeded in getting yourself listed ahead of me in Mother’s will.”

“No, Julian, it’s serious.”

“You’ve sprained your thumb and thought better of tomorrow. Odd, I’ve just stubbed a toe and come to the same conclusion. Quite natural, old man, and—”

“Julian, I’ve just come from Sylvia. We’ve been together. Do you see what I’m saying? But I think she would really rather be with you. We’ve actually had a row. I just want you to know.”