Winter in Madrid (58 page)

‘All right.’ She felt elated. It was happening, it was going to happen.

Luis stuffed the envelope into his pocket, his eyes flickering round the customers to check he was unobserved. Barbara suddenly felt crowded, pressed in. She wanted to get away. She stood up. ‘Shall we go?’

‘I will stay a while, till the snow stops. Until next week,
señora
.’ He looked up at her, then added unexpectedly, ‘You are a good woman.’

Barbara laughed. ‘Me? I don’t think so. I just bring trouble.’

Luis shook his head. ‘No. That is not true.
Adiós, señora
.’

‘Hasta luego.’

She fought her way to the door. It was a relief to stand out in the cold air again. The snow was lessening. She lit a cigarette and headed back to the Centro. There were few people around now; everyone who could, had gone indoors. People wouldn’t want to risk their shoes; even if they could find replacements, prices were astronomical.

She passed through the Plaza Mayor. Its palm trees looked strange covered with snow. Beside one of the fountains a newspaper seller stood by his kiosk. A headline scrawled on a billboard caught her eye. ‘Veteran Tortured and Murdered in Alcalá: Red Terror Gang Suspected.’

She bought a copy of
Ya
, the Catholic newspaper. She went into the doorway of a closed shop and looked at the front page. Below a picture of a thin man in army uniform, standing stiffly to attention, she read:

Barbara’s knees felt weak and she thought she would faint. She crumpled the newspaper in her hand. A priest passing the doorway gave her a curious look. So now she knew. Sandy had mentioned the name Gomez on the telephone, and she had heard Maestre’s name
mentioned as an opponent by Sandy’s Falange friends. He had been involved in torturing and killing this old man. Sandy had said they would have to deal with it and he had meant murder. And this was the man she was deceiving to rescue his boyhood enemy. She gripped the handle of the closed door, taking deep breaths to prevent herself from fainting.

A
FTER SEEING
B
ARBARA
and Sofia, Harry returned to the embassy. He telephoned Sandy’s office from the little room where there was a private phone for the spies. The secretary put him through. ‘Sandy? Harry here. Look, I wonder if we could meet. There’s something I’d like to discuss.’

He caught an undertone of impatience in Sandy’s voice. ‘I’m really busy, Harry. What about after the weekend?’

‘It’s rather urgent.’

‘All right. It’s Saturday tomorrow, but I’m coming into the office. I’ll meet you in the cafe.’ Harry caught a quickly suppressed sigh. ‘Three o’clock?’

‘Thanks.’

Next Harry went to the registry, to make enquiries about entry visas for Britain. When he returned to his office Tolhurst was waiting for him, leaning against his desk reading a copy of
Ya
. He nodded.

‘Hello there, Harry.’ His voice was flat, preoccupied.

‘I’ve phoned Forsyth,’ Harry told him. ‘We’re meeting at the cafe tomorrow.’

‘Good.’ He passed over the paper. ‘You should see this.’

Harry read the article about Gomez. He laid the paper on the desk. ‘So they killed him,’ he said bleakly.

Tolhurst nodded. ‘Seems so. It’s what we suspected. It doesn’t make any difference to recruiting Forsyth.’ His voice was cool and even. Harry remembered their first meeting, Tolhurst as the friendly fat boy. He was seeing another side now.

‘Even after you know he’s involved in this?’ he asked.

‘Suspected of involvement, Harry, suspected. And we’re not the police.’

‘No.’ Harry put the paper on the desk. ‘It’s all right, Tolly, I’ll still try to get him for you.’

Tolhurst smiled. ‘Good man,’ he said, with a touch of the old friendliness. ‘How’s the ear, by the way?’

‘Fine. I think part of it was psychological, like the panics.’ He hadn’t had another since that night outside the theatre. Being with Sofia seemed to have cured him.

‘Jolly good,’ Tolhurst said. ‘Well, must fly. Good luck.’

After he left Harry sat looking at the article, read the things they had done to Gomez. The poor bastard. Had Sandy been there? No, Harry thought bitterly. He’d leave that to others.

S
OFIA LOOKED
tired when she arrived at his flat that evening: there were black shadows under her eyes.

‘Are you all right?’ Harry asked as he took her coat.

She smiled, a brave child’s smile. Sometimes she looked so young. ‘I do not want to go back to work tomorrow. I am fed up with cows,’ she said. ‘It is so boring. How I hate the smell of milk.’

‘Sit down, I’ll bring the dinner in. I’ve done a
cocido
.’

He had the record player on, Vera Lynn singing ‘When the lights go on again all over the world’ in longing tones, but Sofia followed him into the kitchen and leaned against the wall, watching as he mixed the contents of the pans he had been boiling on the stove.

‘You are the first man I have met who can cook.’

‘You learn when you’re on your own. You have to.’

She inclined her head. ‘You look worried. Is there trouble at work?’

He took a deep breath. ‘No. Listen, I’ve something to tell you.’

‘What is it?’ She sounded apprehensive at once. He realized that for a long time, news for her had meant bad news.

‘Wait till we’re sitting down.’

He had bought a good red wine and when they were seated he poured her a glass. The dim electric light cast a glow of light over the table, leaving the rest of the room in shadow.

‘Sofia,’ he said. ‘The embassy want to send me back home.’

She seemed to shrink into herself, her face paled a little. ‘But why? Surely they need you here, nothing has changed, unless—’ She
drew in her breath sharply. ‘Unless Franco is about to declare war. Oh God, they are evacuating you all—’

He raised a hand. ‘No, no, it’s not that. It’s me, they – they think I’d be better deployed at home.’

‘Harry,’ she asked softly. ‘Are you in trouble?’

‘No, honestly. It’s just – I’ve been doing other work, not just translating, and it’s nearly finished.’

She frowned. ‘What sort of work?’

He hesitated, then said, ‘Intelligence.’ He bit his lip. ‘Please, I can’t tell you any more. I shouldn’t tell you at all. But it’s nearly finished. I’m pleased, I hate it.’

‘Intelligence against this regime?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good. I am glad.’ She took a deep breath. ‘When will you go?’

‘I’m not sure. Perhaps before the end of the year.’ He looked into her eyes. ‘Sofia, will you come with me? You don’t have to answer now, but listen, I’ve been thinking all afternoon. You remember what Barbara said, about foreigners being allowed into England if they’re married to an Englishman?’

She stared at him with a set face. Her voice trembled. ‘Harry, do not ask. I couldn’t leave Paco. Enrique can look after himself but not Paco too. The
beata
would get him.’ She reached out and took Harry’s hand. ‘Don’t ask me to make such a choice—’

‘I’ve been thinking about that too. If somehow you could adopt Paco—’

She shook her head wearily. ‘I can’t. The Church is in charge of those things now and they would never allow it.’

‘No, not in Spain, in England. If we say you’ve been looking after him since his parents died and we could get him to England, then
we
could adopt him. I think there are ways. This job, you see, there’s this last little thing I need to do and if I succeed I’ll be in their good graces, the people at the embassy. They might help us.’

She looked at him steadily. ‘Is what you are doing dangerous?’

‘No, no.’ He laughed. ‘Honestly it isn’t, I swear. It’s just trying to get information out of businessmen. There’s no danger. Forget about that. Sofia, what do you say?’

‘How would Paco find England? A strange language, the bombs. I have to think of Paco.’

He couldn’t help feeling hurt that the boy seemed to be more important than him. ‘We could go to Cambridge,’ he said. ‘There aren’t any bombs there. We could have a good life; you can still get most things in England if you have money. I’ve enough. And Paco would be safe, no more knocks at the door. I’d try and get Enrique out too later but that might be more difficult.’

‘Yes, Paco would have a better chance in England. Unless the Germans come, but they may come here too. They say this is the worst time but Spain will take years, decades, to recover from what Franco has done to it. If it ever can.’ She looked at him with wonder. ‘You would take on Paco, take that responsibility?’

‘Yes. I don’t want to leave him either. I’m sure if he got some proper medical attention that could help him.’

She nodded. ‘There must be many doctors in Cambridge.’

‘Loads. Sofia, if we can bring Paco out, will you – will you marry me? You – you haven’t said what you feel about that. If – if you don’t want to …’

She studied him. ‘You would settle for a life with me and Paco? Knowing how Paco is?’

‘Yes, yes. It’s the only responsibility I want now. Sofia, will you marry me?’

She got up from her seat and came over to him. She knelt down and kissed him, then lifted her mouth from his and smiled.

‘Yes. Yes, I will. Though I wonder if you are mad.’

He laughed aloud with relief and joy.

‘Perhaps I am, a little, but I want to be. I’ve been thinking what to do all day, ever since they told me I’d be going back—’

She leaned over and put a finger to his lips. ‘You will sort something out. I know. Yes, Harry, I will marry you.’

‘I know we’ve only known each other a few weeks. But in these times you have to seize the good things while you can.’

‘The best few weeks of my life.’ She knelt beside him on the floor and he bent over and held her.

‘I had to think of Paco,’ she said. ‘I could not abandon him, you
see that.’ Her voice sunk to a whisper. ‘He has been the only thing I have been able to rescue, from all the hopes we once had.’

‘I understand. Sofia, perhaps in England you could study again, be a doctor.’

‘I must learn English first. That will be hard. But anything, if it is with you. And to think we wouldn’t have met but for Enrique.’ She shook her head. ‘Such a strange fragile chance.’

T
HE PROSTITUTE
Harry had once mistaken for a spy was in the Café Rocinante when he arrived next afternoon. Sandy wasn’t there yet. The woman sat at her table at the back of the room; a fat middle-aged businessman was with her, talking Spanish with a strong German accent. He was boasting about how much money he had made since he came to Spain, the deals he had done. The woman smiled and nodded but there was a distant look on her face. She sat at an angle to the table, displaying shapely legs for her age. She had a line painted down the back of them, Harry saw; she was pretending to be wearing the new nylon stockings but you could see from the way the light reflected from her legs that they were bare. She must be frozen, walking through the snow like that.

The German saw Harry staring and raised shaggy eyebrows. Harry took a seat as far away from them as possible. There was a breath of cold air as the door opened and Sandy came in. He wore a heavy black coat and Homburg hat, the hat and his shoulders covered with a dusting of snow for it had started up again. Waiting there, knowing what Sandy had done, Harry had wondered if he might feel fear when he saw him now, but there was only disgust and anger.

Sandy made his way to Harry’s table, pausing to exchange remarks about the weather with an acquaintance. Harry raised an arm to attract the elderly waiter who was standing in a corner, talking to the shoeshine boy. The boy was new; perhaps the last one had gone away or died of cold in a doorway somewhere.

‘Hello, Harry.’ Sandy extended a hand. His fingers were icy.

‘Hello. Coffee?’

‘Chocolate, I think, on a day like today.’ Sandy looked up at the waiter who had hurried over.
‘Un café con leche y un chocolate, Alfredo.’

Harry studied Sandy’s face. He was smiling his broad smile but he had a tired, strained look. He lit a cigarette.

‘How are things?’ Harry asked.

‘They’ve been better. What’s this urgent business? I’m intrigued.’

Harry took a deep breath. ‘Sandy, I mentioned at the embassy that I had an English friend who’s been having some business problems. There are a couple of people there who’d like to talk to you. You might be able to do some work with them.’

Sandy looked at him, a long hard look. You could almost hear the cogs turning. He took out his cigarette case and lit up. ‘That sounds like intelligence work,’ he said crisply.

God, he was quick. Harry didn’t reply. Sandy’s eyes narrowed.

‘Are they spies?’ He stopped and gave a little gasp of surprise. ‘Are you a spy, Harry?’ he asked softly. He hesitated a moment. ‘By God. You are, aren’t you? Translating’s a good cover, I suppose. Have you been rifling through Franco’s wastebaskets?’ He laughed incredulously, looked at Harry, then laughed again.

‘I can’t say any more now, Sandy, I’m sorry. It’s just – I’ve seen things haven’t been going well for you, I’d like to help.’ How easily the lies were coming. ‘Just an exploratory meeting with a couple of people at the embassy, no strings.’

‘I suppose they want to recruit me?’ Sandy went on in the same quiet tone. The waiter reappeared and Sandy took the tray from him. ‘Ah. Alfredo,
muy bien
. Sugar, Harry?’ He made a fuss of organizing the drinks; giving himself time to think. He leaned back and blew out a cloud of smoke, then kicked Harry’s shin playfully. ‘Sure you can’t tell me any more, old chap?’