Tapestry of Spies Part 34

"If anybody so much as breathes heavily," said Julian, "my nervous companion will shoot you all down. You stay absolutely still, do you hear? Absolutely still."

They waited, almost frozen in the dicey intensity of the moment. Outside the firing seemed to rise, and then there was a banging at the iron door to the blockhouse.

"What's going on, d.a.m.n you? Fire, you b.a.s.t.a.r.ds, get those machine guns spitting."

"Easy lads," said Julian. "Just hold it still as little mice and maybe you'll see tomorrow."

"English f.u.c.ker," said one of the Germans.

Julian shot him.

"Who's next?" he said. "I'll shoot each and every man here if I must."

The firing outside had ceased. The pause seemed to last forever, and then there was a hoot or yelp of sheer giddy joy, and Florry heard the thunder of hooves as the air seemed to fill with dust. A few more shots sounded, until at last someone else pounded at the door.

"Ingles! Dios te ame, ven aca!"

Julian went swiftly to the iron door and unlocked it. Portela, looking like some kind of buccaneer in a cape with crossed bandoliers on his chest and a long-barreled Mauser automatic, ducked in.

"Get these b.a.s.t.a.r.d out," yelled Julian.

Florry backed off and let the Germans file past him. When the last man had vanished, he himself climbed out.

"Go on, run, you b.a.s.t.a.r.ds," yelled Julian in English, firing a shot in the air. The Germans began to flee across the bridge.

"G.o.d, Stink, look at them run!" yelled Julian joyfully. "Christ, old sport, we b.l.o.o.d.y pulled it off."

"They'll be back," said Florry darkly, for he knew the Germans would recognize in minutes and take the offensive. Yet even as he spoke he was astounded by the strangeness of what was happening. The bridge seemed to swarm with an astounding crew of gypsy brigands, all in leather and dappled with an a.s.sortment of bullets, bombs, daggers, strange obsolete weapons, incredibly colorful costumes, all of them stinking evilly of sweat and garlic and horses. Their leader, a hideously ugly old man swaddled in the most absurd of all the outfits, a voluminous dress under his leather coat, immediately threw his arms about Florry and hugged him violently, and only when Florry felt b.r.e.a.s.t.s big as any wet nurse's under the leather did he realize she was a woman. Her face seemed carved from ancient walnut, though her eyes were bright and cunning; she had nearly half her teeth.

"Ingleses, me permiter a verles. Que bravos. Que cahones estos hombres tienen. Mira los heroes, cobardes," she crooned into his ears, her breath flatulent with garlic. she crooned into his ears, her breath flatulent with garlic.

Florry had no idea what she was saying.

"Pleased indeed," he said.

"Gad, what a spectacle," said Julian. "What an extraordinary woman. Is she not a woman, Stink? She reminds me rather too much of Mother."

"Let's not chat," said Florry. "Let's blow this b.l.o.o.d.y thing and get quit of this place."

"Yes, let's go," called Portela, already shed of jacket and preparing to monkey climb down the bridge's new scaffolding to plant his charges.

"Where's the b.l.o.o.d.y dynamite?" said Florry.

"La dinamita esta aqui!" screamed the old lady, and one of her men came ambling over with a scabby horse laden with crates. screamed the old lady, and one of her men came ambling over with a scabby horse laden with crates.

"It's very old," said Portela, "from the mines. But when she goes, she'll go with a bang that'll be heard in Madrid!"

"Yes," said Florry, unnerved by the old stuff, when he'd been expecting gear somehow more professional and more military, "well, let's get b.l.o.o.d.y cracking."

"Stink, old man, I've found a wonderful toy," said Julian. Florry looked to him to see that he'd just climbed from the blockhouse with one of the German light machine guns. He'd chucked his Condor Legion tunic and wrapped himself with belts. "Light as a feather. b.l.o.o.d.y German genius for engineering. I'd say the perforations along the barrel housing keep it cool from the air."

"Perhaps you'd best take some chaps down the bridge and watch for Jerry," said Florry. "I think I'll help with the poppers."

"Good show, old man," said Julian, who dashed down the bridge, the oily belts clinking and jingling as he ran.

"La dinamita!" yelled the old lady. yelled the old lady.

"Yes, splendid," said Florry, and he grabbed the reins of the horse and tugged him to the bridge. "Here, Portela?"

"It will do," said the officer.

Florry shot the horse in the head; it bucked once, then sank on its knees, its great skull forward. Florry pried a case from its harness with some difficulty, then beat it open with the b.u.t.t of his Webley grip. The dynamite lay nestled inside, waxen and pale pink, looking like a batch of fat, oily candles. It smelled peculiar.

"G.o.d, it looks ancient," ancient," he said to no one in particular. he said to no one in particular.

"This is a detonator," said Portela, producing something similar to a cartridge from the pouch at his belt. "You press it into the end of one of those sticks. Then you wire up the leads and run it back to the box. Then you prime the box and push the lever and send the spark over the wire. Then you get your big bang."

"And who's to lash the stuff to the bridge? This fat old lady?"

"I'll rig the one side," said Portela. "Perhaps Comrade Florry could help on the other. We must have two two charges for the great destruction." charges for the great destruction."

Somehow this was a detail that Steinbach had neglected to mention. "And I suppose those guerilla boys wouldn't be able to wire it up?"

"Alas, no."

"b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l. Well, then, let's get going, eh?"

At that moment, the first sniper's bullet struck near the bridge, followed by two more.

"Christ," said Florry, as the old lady rose, selected a weapon from her bewildering a.s.sortment-a broom-handle Mauser-and fired off across the bridge into rocks near the treeline. Shots opened up from all around. Florry heard Julian's machine gun begin with that absurd, fast, ripping yelp.

He lugged the box to the railing and slung himself over it. For just a second, he thought he'd gone too far; he almost lost his grip and could see himself hurtling down, screaming for Sylvia as he fell, until he was smashed to pulp on the stones below. But then he had himself and hung for just a minute, gathering his breath. The old lady, her eyes dark with love, touched him on the hand.

"Bien hecho, ingles," she said, and laughed, showing her black stumps.

Christ, you beauty, was all Florry could think, would you be my last vision? But he lowered himself onto the ab.u.t.ting structure of steel, reaching foot by foot, finding a grip and then lowering himself again and again by the same laborious, experimental process, trying all the while not to look down or believe those actually were were bullets whanging against the metal or kicking into the old stone of the bridge with a bang and a puff of dust, until at last he found himself perched like some grubby ape in a monkey house on a gym apparatus, surrounded only by bars and s.p.a.ce. He clung tightly to the girders with his legs, hoping the sweat-he had begun to perspire wretchedly-would not run into his eyes. He was now in a forest of German iron and the word bullets whanging against the metal or kicking into the old stone of the bridge with a bang and a puff of dust, until at last he found himself perched like some grubby ape in a monkey house on a gym apparatus, surrounded only by bars and s.p.a.ce. He clung tightly to the girders with his legs, hoping the sweat-he had begun to perspire wretchedly-would not run into his eyes. He was now in a forest of German iron and the word KRUPP KRUPP darted before his eyes. A shot banged off the metal. Up top he could hear heavy firing. He tried not to look down. darted before his eyes. A shot banged off the metal. Up top he could hear heavy firing. He tried not to look down.

"Dynamite!" he screamed.

"Eh, ingles?"

"Dynamite, d.a.m.n you!" he screamed, and in his urgency forgot his vow not to look down. Far below the stream seemed like a green, sc.u.mmy ribbon of tin foil breaking over pebbles strewn by a child. He felt the vertigo buzz through him. He clung more tightly than ever. A bullet ricocheted nearby with a metallic clang.

"Aqui estan los cachivaches."

Something swung blurrily before his eyes: it was a peasant's basket on a cord. Weakly, with one hand, he plucked at it, pulled it close, and pinned it to his body with an awkward elbow. He reached in to find two bundles of six waxy sticks of the explosive. He pulled one out and wedged it into the nearest joint in the girders he could find. He jammed the other bunch in atop it and wrapped it tight into a ligature with some long strands of electrician's tape somebody had thoughtfully included in the basket. It looked dreadfully sloppy, the tape wrapped in a messy sprawl about the uneven nest of sticks.

"Hurry!" someone else under the bridge called. He looked over to see the fat Portela similarly astride a girder on the other side, working just as desperately as he was.

What the devil does he think I'm doing? he wondered, bewildered and flooded with bitterness.

Florry was halfway through the next load when the bullets sent his way seemed to increase dramatically. One pinged off the girder inches from his face and he felt the sharp spray of fragments, winced, and almost fell. Evidently a Moorish party had worked its way down the gorge, descended it, and had begun to move along the creek bed toward him. Another bullet exploded dangerously close to his head.

He twisted to see them two hundred meters away, shooting quite calmly, three gray-uniformed, lanky figures who seemed to be potting pigeons.

"THE LEFT!" he shouted. "THEY'RE ON THE b.l.o.o.d.y LEFT!" Another bullet whizzed by. "d.a.m.n you, there there, there on the left!" he screamed again, feeling the panic squeak through his limbs. Oh Christ, Christ, Christchristchristchrist!

Above him the machine gun spoke rapidly, raining spent sh.e.l.ls over the railing, and the three Moors collapsed in a lazy string of bullet spurts that kicked up clouds of dust and slate at their feet.

"Do hurry, old man," yelled Julian. "Jerry's getting ready for a push."

Florry now had only the detonator to insert. He plucked it from his pockets and awkwardly plunged it into the exposed end of one of the sticks, felt it crumble into the chalky stuff.

There! Ah! Now for the b.l.o.o.d.y wire. If only ... ah! He unspooled the blasting wire and with his fingers tried to locate the posts on the detonator. It was tricky business. Florry kept thinking there should be an easier way. Twice he ... almost had it ... blast, the loop coiled off. The d.a.m.ned raincoat felt heavy and constricting; he wished he'd chucked the b.l.o.o.d.y thing. He could hear the chatter of Julian's weapon and some others and suddenly an awesome WHOMP as an artillery sh.e.l.l detonated hard by. Florry s.h.i.+vered, shrank, and almost lost his grip on the metal. Shrapnel sang in the air and the odor of smoke hung heavily. He had trouble breathing.

"Stink, d.a.m.n it, hurry," Julian called. Florry looked and saw that Portela had vanished, either killed or done. d.a.m.n him. He didn't think he could find the strength. Finally, with a great lurch, he managed to get the wire twisted about one of the posts and proceeded to desperately knead it tight. He found the other one and duplicated the process, all the while experiencing the terrible sensation of doing sloppy work, but at that second the whole river gorge seemed to break out afresh with fire, as new troops apparently reached it. He hoped he'd done it right, but there simply was no time to check.

He scrambled up the framework, the bullets popping nearby, and he knew that at any moment he'd catch one in the spine or skull, but the Moors shot no better than the Spaniards and he managed his destination and with a last push swung himself over.

"Thank G.o.d," said Julian, crouched near him, the hot gun in his grip.

"Your hand, Christ," said Florry. Julian's hand was pink and scalded where he'd been holding the barrel.

"Nothing, old man," said Julian, and Florry looked down the bridge to see at least fifty Moorish bodies on the road.

"Get going, sport," said Julian. He pushed at Florry and Florry was off, sprawling toward a ditch beyond the bridge. As he ran, he payed out the wire from the spool. He reached the ditch and skidded into it, the coat flapping around him as he went. He looked back.

Julian was alone now, the fool, the machine gun tucked against his hip. He fired a long burst at the hidden troops across the way and they returned his fire, their bullets cracking at the dry soil and the gravel around him. His hair blew free and his face and s.h.i.+rt were smeared with grime.

"Venga, ingles, corra como el diablo!" someone yelled. A man took the spool of wire from Florry and was twisting it to the contacts on the exploder box, an ominously crude-appearing wooden machine with a plunger thrusting out of it. someone yelled. A man took the spool of wire from Florry and was twisting it to the contacts on the exploder box, an ominously crude-appearing wooden machine with a plunger thrusting out of it.

"Come on, Julian!" Florry screamed over the edge of the gully.

Julian at last seemed to hear him, and turned and ran, just as the first Panzer swung into view atop the far crest.

The bullets struck around him and for whatever reason his luck held yet again, and except for a bit of a sc.r.a.pe above his eye, he arrived with a mighty vault and leaped into the gully just as the first PzKpfw II began to advance.

"Blow the b.l.o.o.d.y thing," Julian shouted merrily. His hand looked like some hideous lobster paw, puffy red and p.u.s.s.y and twisted, still melted to the ventilated barrel of the weapon. He winked at Florry, as if it were some monstrous joke.

The fellow wiring up the box at last seemed finished and gave way to the ma.s.sive old lady who, her black teeth gleaming, gave the plunger a shove, as they all melted into the earth for protection against the blast.

But there was no blast.

"d.a.m.n!" said Julian.

"Again," Florry shrieked. "AGAIN!"

Obligingly, the old woman lifted the plunger and again fell forward against it.

Florry could just see the connection he'd so desperately jerry-rigged together having come unwrapped or having been improperly done to begin with. A black, gloomy sense of shame came over him.

"I've got to fix the b.l.o.o.d.y thing," he yelled, and began to claw his way out of the gully.

Julian smashed him to the ground.

"Don't be a fool."

"Don't you see, I've botched it!"

"You'll botch it good if you go down there and get killed over nothing, chum."

"If only I'd-"

"Shut up, old man. It's time to get the b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l out of here, bridge or no bridge."

And indeed it was. Across the bridge, the tanks had arrived. They scuttled down the road with their odd, insectlike approach, somehow tentative. Their machine guns began to rake the guerrillas' side of the gorge. Bullets peppered the earth about the trench. The guerrillas began to edge back until the ditch petered out against the slope; it was almost one hundred meters up the bare ground to the crest behind which, presumably, there were horses.

A sh.e.l.l-one of the terrifying 88s-whistled in and exploded against the ridge. The air was filled with noise and dust and whining metal and heat. Another went off farther down.

A Moorish suicide squad had reached the far end of the bridge. An officer urged them across, and they began to move forward. The old lady pulled one of the rifles to her shoulder, fired, and one of the men slid to the earth. The others crouched behind the railing, though one hearty fellow made a mad dash to the cover of the far side of the blockhouse. Farther down the gorge's edge, figures appeared and broke for the cover of the rocks on the hillside a few hundred meters away. The guerrillas opened fire, dropping a few, but the majority found safety and began to fire on the trench.

"Vayanse, hombres," the old lady screamed. "Corran! Hace demasiado calor aqui!" "Corran! Hace demasiado calor aqui!"

"Go on, Stinky," said Julian, fiddling awkwardly to get his last belt into the open latch of his gun.

"Hurry," said Florry, scrambling out of the trench, beginning to backpedal with the others up the slope.

It was a feeling of extraordinary vulnerability. His shoes kept sliding in the dust and the bullets whipped and popped all around. Only the terrible Moorish marksmans.h.i.+p and Julian's counterfire from beneath kept any of them alive that mad, backward scramble up. Insanely, Florry fired the six charges in his Webley at the chaos of running Moors, screaming Germans, and backed-up vehicles on the other side of the gorge, to absolutely no discernible effect.

He finally reached the top, one of the last. With a sigh of relief and disbelief, he sank to the earth, found a rifle, and began to pot away. He could hear the snorts and shuffles of the horses below him in a little draw, anxious to be gone from the commotion, but it didn't matter; what mattered now was Julian coming up the slope, raking the opposite side of the gorge with a long burst of fire. He didn't seem to be enjoying it much though; he looked chalky white with terror as the bullets struck around him, but Brilliant Julian continued to climb through the lazy puffs of sprayed dirt. He had almost made it when the bullet took him down.

"G.o.d, Julian, JULIAN!" Florry screamed. Florry rose to run, and hands grabbed to hold him back, but he lashed out with his Webley and felt it strike bone and broke free. He raced down the slope.

"Go on, you fool," Julian said. He was coughing blood. The machine gun had fallen away uselessly.

"No," Florry said. He tried to pull him up. The old lady was suddenly at his side.

"Ingles, su amigo esta terminado. Muerto. Nadie puede ayudarle ahora."

"NO! NO!" Florry screamed.

He had Julian's limp body under his arms and tugged it upward. The old woman helped and in seconds other men were helping, too, and they had Julian beyond the crest and out of the line of fire.

"You'll be fine, I swear it," Florry was saying, but his hands were wet with blood. The blood seemed everywhere on Julian. He could not yet believe it.

"Well, Stink," said Julian, "Brilliant Julian's brilliant luck finally went belly up."

"No. NO. You'll be fine, you've only just been nicked."