Tapestry of Spies Part 38

"They're really giving it to them," Florry said.

He turned back to the firing squad. The sergeant was clearly bewildered, not sure where his duty lay. But the boys of the little unit weren't: they were at the point of panic with the gunfire so close.

Florry watched as the sergeant struggled with his indecision. And then he said, as if having at last conquered himself, "No! La hora de su muerte esta aqui!" "No! La hora de su muerte esta aqui!" He pointed at Florry melodramatically. He pointed at Florry melodramatically.

"Muerte!" he said, raising the pistol. Then he slumped forward with a spastic's drool coming from his inert face and thudded heavily to the earth. Behind him, the boy who'd crushed his skull stood in shocked horror for just a second before pitching the rifle into the brush and heading out at a dead run. His compatriots studied the situation for perhaps half a second, then abandoned their weapons just as resolutely and fled just as swiftly. he said, raising the pistol. Then he slumped forward with a spastic's drool coming from his inert face and thudded heavily to the earth. Behind him, the boy who'd crushed his skull stood in shocked horror for just a second before pitching the rifle into the brush and heading out at a dead run. His compatriots studied the situation for perhaps half a second, then abandoned their weapons just as resolutely and fled just as swiftly.

Florry rushed to the rifle with the bayonet, bent to it, and in a few seconds of steady sawing had himself free. He slipped the bayonet from the gun muzzle and ran to Sylvia to cut her free.

"Come on," he said, picking up the sergeant's automatic, "we've got to get out of here."

Up top, the shooting had at last died down. Florry and Sylvia pushed their way deeper into the forest, away from the trucks, and found the going nearly impossible for the bracken and the undergrowth. In time, they were swallowed up by the trees and seemed far away from everything. And soon after, they came to the rusty tracks of the disused funicular, by which in calmer days Barceloneans had traveled to the amus.e.m.e.nt park and the church up there. Descending its gravel bed was easier than trying to fight their way down through the undergrowth, and by noon, they had reached the base of the mountain. The houses were spa.r.s.e at first, but within a bit they found themselves in what must have at one time been a fas.h.i.+onable district, on a serpentine street flanked by great houses that now seemed deserted.

They forced the gate on one of these and went out back. The house was secure against the return of the owners in some distant, better future, but in the servant's quarters, a door gave way to Florry's shoulder and they were in and safe.

36.

TIBIDABO.

BY THE TIME COMRADE COMMISSAR BOLODIN AND HIS men arrived at the top of Tibidabo Mountain, the fighting was over. As Ugarte pulled the big Ford to a halt by the a.s.sault guard trucks a few hundred feet below the gate of the amus.e.m.e.nt park, Lenny could feel his rage beginning to peak; it seemed to be replacing itself with some other feeling, odd and sickening. Lenny felt as though he might vomit. Suppose, he wondered, the ache in his stomach watery and loose, suppose they were dead? Suppose his deal was all f.u.c.ked, shot dead by gun-happy a.s.sault guards from Valencia "protecting" the revolution from traitors. men arrived at the top of Tibidabo Mountain, the fighting was over. As Ugarte pulled the big Ford to a halt by the a.s.sault guard trucks a few hundred feet below the gate of the amus.e.m.e.nt park, Lenny could feel his rage beginning to peak; it seemed to be replacing itself with some other feeling, odd and sickening. Lenny felt as though he might vomit. Suppose, he wondered, the ache in his stomach watery and loose, suppose they were dead? Suppose his deal was all f.u.c.ked, shot dead by gun-happy a.s.sault guards from Valencia "protecting" the revolution from traitors.

"Ah! Comrade Bolodin," someone said with great smug cheer. Lenny turned to discover a gallant young Asalto officer, his arm in a sling, a cigarette in his mouth, cap pushed back c.o.c.kily on his head. The youngster looked sunny as a valentine: he couldn't wait for the compliments to come raining down on his handsome head.

"Captain Degas, of the Eleventh Valencia Guardia de Asalto," the young officer introduced himself, snapping his heels together with a flourish and coming to a kind of mocking attention. "You'll see, comrade commissar, that the problem of the Fascist traitors, chief among them the notorious Steinbach, has been solved."

"Any prisoners?" Lenny demanded in his rude Spanish.

"I regret to inform the commissar of the Servicio de Investigacion Militar that resistance by the traitors and spies was formidable, and that the taking of prisoners proved imposs-"

Lenny smashed his stupid, smart young face with the back of his hand, watching the man spin backward and drop, a look of stunned surprise and sudden shame running quickly across his brilliant features.

"Stupido," Lenny barked. "Idiot. I ought to have shot." Lenny barked. "Idiot. I ought to have shot."

He was aware of the Asaltos going silent all around him. He felt their curious and shocked eyes.

"Explanations," Lenny barked.

"We're stationed down the mountain in Sarria. An informant told us a band of POUM traitors was hiding up here and agreed to lead us to them. We were acting under the strictest revolutionary orders issued by the government and signed by the commander of the Servicio de Investigacion Militar, that is, Comrade Commissar Bolodin himself."

"Bring this informer."

"Ramirez," the captain shouted.

A second or so later, a seedy-looking Spaniard in a black jacket was brought over. He held his cap nervously in his hands. Lenny listened as he explained: he was the caretaker of a nearby estate. With the people gone, he got by as best he could and was out late the night before when a truck pulled into the park and he realized that it was being used by traitors. He'd seen a tall man in a suit and a girl get out of the truck.

"Ingles?"

"Yes, perhaps ingles." ingles."

"With a mustache?"

He was not sure. But the man had a dark suit and blondish hair.

"Pay the man," Lenny said. "He did his his duty. You should have contacted us. It's you who didn't duty. You should have contacted us. It's you who didn't do yours." do yours."

"My apol-"

"f.u.c.k your apologies. Now get rid of this man, and take us to the bodies."

"This way, please, comrade. We brought them out for burial."

Degas led him across the yard to the shed. Lenny saw that it was splintered and ruptured by gunfire, one window blackened with flames where a bomb had gone off. The smell of smoke still hung in the air.

The dead, about fifteen, lay in a row in the sun outside the garage. Most were chewed up rather badly by the machine gun and the bomb and they had the scruffy, ragged indolence of corpses. Flies buzzed about. There were puddles of blood, thick and black, all over the ground.

"That one was the leader," said Degas. "The old man in the turtleneck. He yelled that we were Stalin's killers. He's the one with this."

The boy held up a gla.s.s eye.

The little marble sparkled in his gloved fingers, the pupil open wide and black and blue.

"Throw the f.u.c.king thing away, sonny," Lenny said.

He went to look at Steinbach. The old man had been shot in the throat and the chest and the hand. His gray sweater was the color of raspberry ice.

"We found this, too, comrade," said Degas. "It is in English. No one here can read it."

He handed Lenny a sheet of paper covered with a blue scrawl: I, the undersigned, take full responsibility for that which I am about to receive and wish to establish that I was acting under orders from the highest authority. I acknowledge that I have taken from the revolution its most precious treasure and that I, and I alone, am responsible.

It was signed, Robert Florry (British citizen) Robert Florry (British citizen).

Lenny looked at it for a long moment, breathing heavily.

"Is it important, comrade?" asked Degas.

"It's nothing," said Lenny, putting it in his pocket. "And this was all?"

"Yes, comrade commissar."

"And n.o.body escaped?"

"No, comrade."

"And so what has happened to the tall man and the girl that that fellow told you about?"

"I-I couldn't say, comrade commissar."

"Did you investigate?"

"I didn't see the point."

"Could they have escaped?"

"Not unless it was before my men got here."

"Have you searched the park?"

"Yes, comrade."

"Everywhere? The woods down the mountain?"

"I sent a patrol about to check. Perhaps in the melee some POUMistas scampered away. But I do not think so. We caught them entirely by surprise. They were eating. Chicken with rice. They were in the middle of-"

He halted.

"Look, comrade commissar," he said, his face suddenly brightening. He pointed.

Three Asaltos were entering the gates. They prodded before them with their bayonet points a sargento sargento in the black mono of the POUM. Blood ran down his face from a wound in his scalp, but it had dried. He had a vacant, stupid look in his eyes. in the black mono of the POUM. Blood ran down his face from a wound in his scalp, but it had dried. He had a vacant, stupid look in his eyes.

"Comrade captain," yelled one of the soldiers, "come see what we found snoozing in the woods!"

"Lucky man, Degas," said Bolodin. "If that guy tells me what I want to know, you'll get your medal. And you were about to be shot."

37.

PAPERS.

DO YOU KNOW?" SHE SAID, AWAKENING, "I HAD A MARVELOUS dream. I was back in London, in a nice flat. I had a dog. I was listening to the BBC. I was reading dream. I was back in London, in a nice flat. I had a dog. I was listening to the BBC. I was reading Mayfair Mayfair. It was very, very boring. I hated to leave it."

"Who could blame you?" he said, aware as he took a quick glance about that he had not been included in the dream. What he saw was what he'd been looking at for hours now: the dust was thick as a carpet, the furniture ruined, the walls bare and peeling. An odor of neglect clung to the room. Outside, or rather of what he could see outside in the dark, there was no movement whatsoever, though occasionally a truckload of Asaltos would heave by. He had been at the window for hours, while she slept. He had the automatic in his hand.

"Do you see anything?"

"No. But we can't stay here much longer."

"What time is it?" she asked. "I feel like I've slept for several days."

"It's nearly nine. The sun has been down about an hour."

"G.o.d, I could use a bath."

"I admire your sense of self, though I must say it's a queer time to think of bathing."

"I hate to feel dirty," she said. "I absolutely loathe it."

Florry continued to look out the dark window. His eyes burned and the fatigue threatened to overtake him. He was gripping the pistol far too tightly. A few minutes back something had snapped in the house and he'd almost fired crazily. He knew he was getting close to his edge.

"It's the papers," he said, "that will kill us. Or rather, our lack of them. We can get spiffy, I suppose, or at least spiffy by Spanish standards. We can clean up and look the right proper travelers. But if we get to the station and the Asaltos stop us or some NKVD chaps, then we've bought it."

He could feel his teeth grinding in the bitterness of it all.

Papers. Authentication. Perhaps the consulate ... no, of course not, the NKVD would be watching the consulate. Perhaps they could buy the b.l.o.o.d.y things somewhere in the quarter. But how to make contact? How to raise the money? How to make sure one wasn't being observed or that one wouldn't be betrayed? Florry had always run with the hunters when he was a copper. Now he was running with the hunted. He shook his head. There were no rules, as there were in the daylight world: you simply did what you had to, that was the only rule.

"I suppose we could try to walk to the frontier, traveling by night. It's only about a hundred miles north. We might make it undetected. Then we could make it across the Pyrenees-Good G.o.d, half the International Brigades marched over the Pyrenees, there's no reason we shouldn't be able to make it. Or we-" But he stopped.

It was absurd. One hundred miles without papers, neither of them speaking the language with any authority, the NKVD in full command of the police and hungry for foreign spies to put against the wall.

"Robert-"

"The port, Sylvia. I think that would be our best bet. I've been thinking about it. If we can get down to Barrio Chino, perhaps I can make some sort of contact with a foreign seaman and arrange a pa.s.sage ..."

"Robert, please listen to me."

"Eh?"

"I can get us out of here."

"What are you talking about?"

"Do you remember that chap of yours you borrowed the book from. The newspaper fellow. Sampson?"

"Yes." Sampson! b.l.o.o.d.y Sampson, of course!

"Yes, well he's gone."

"Gone?"

"Yes. Yes, briefly to Madrid, then back to England. His a.s.signment was over, he said."

Florry said nothing. Yes, it would be over, would it not? Sampson, back safe and sound, leaving them in the lurch.

"But when I gave him the book, he said something quite peculiar. It was the address. He kept repeating it over and over again, in such a way that I'd be certain to remember it. He kept saying, 'You know you're always welcome at my place, 126 Calle de Oriente.' He said it over and over again. Remember, he said, you're always welcome. Any of your chums, too, always welcome. Robert especially. Bring Robert by any time. Then he told me he was leaving for England, but the invitation was still open. Drop in with Robert, if you've a mind, he kept saying, 126 Calle de Oriente."

Florry thought about it. He thought he remembered something about a pro forma invitation dinner at Sampson's, but wasn't that at a villa of some sort? Perhaps he'd moved. But it was queer, was it not? That the priggish, awful Sampson should suddenly come on like an old school chum, so completely out of character. What on earth-?

"Robert, what sort of man was he? It was almost as if he were giving me a message for you. A message that I would-"