by Walter Ellis
“That in Fascist Spain, as it is now constituted, woman have little control over their lives and can only make the best of what comes their way.”
“Is that why you have taken off your engagement ring?”
The ring lay on the armrest of her chair.
“I am not used to wearing it, that’s all.”
Doña Vitoria raised her head and stared up into the star-filled night. It was as if some memory, long neglected, had reasserted itself and she was far away in a place where everything was possible. The moment passed. Abruptly, she lurched forward, tipping her wine glass onto the ground, where it broke into several jagged shards. She looked dazed and made no move to pick up the pieces. Instead, she sighed. “There is so much you have to learn about society and our place in it. We do not make the rules, my darling. If we did, the world would be a very different place. What we do, if we have any sense, is to follow the rules in public and bend them in private.” She paused and looked her daughter straight in the eyes. “Do you suppose that your father and I live in a master and servant relationship?”
“Of course not.”
“I obey him when the occasion demands. I offer him the respect required of his position. But here, in our household, it is I who make the decisions that matter. You and Felipe …”
“ – are two very different people to you and papa.”
“Yes. But the relationship is the same, is it not?”
“Oh, Mama. You don’t know the half of it.” Isabella reached out and squeezed her mother’s hand, aware, amid her own pain and anxiety, that they might never again have such a conversation. “Would you like me to fetch you a coffee or another glass of wine?”
Doña Vitoria shook her head. She looked suddenly tired, as if she too had an intimation of something ending. “No, my dear, I think not. I think I should like to be alone, and I think you would also. Please say goodnight to Felipe for me. He and your father will probably carry on talking for hours yet.” She laughed quietly to herself, as if at some private joke, before turning serious once more. “I know that what lies ahead for you is not the life you would have chosen, and I feel for you in this. But remember, things are rarely as bad as they seem.”
Isabella snorted. “In this case they couldn’t be, could they?”
“I shall take that as agreement.”
As her mother rose, somewhat unsteadily, from her chair, Isabella stood, too, and kissed her. “I’m sorry for the trouble I’ve caused you,” she said. “It hasn’t been easy growing up like this.”
“I’m sure it hasn’t. But when was it easy? It wasn’t easy for your grandmother and it certainly wasn’t easy for me. You are about to join a great tradition, Isabella – the tradition of the virtuous wife – and you must learn to accept it. It’s the fate you were born to. It is the fate of all women.”
It will not be my fate, Isabella thought. Not so long as there is breath left in my body. The only thing that is fixed in my future is the strength of my resolve.
Alone in the courtyard, she pulled her legs up beneath her on her chair and looked up at the night sky, wondering what it was her mother had seen there. There was peace in the heavens, but none below. Spain was a disaster: so many people with so much to offer, and most of them hungry, looking for work and a reason to live.
Through the open windows of the dining room, she could hear her father and Luder still discussing the war and the inevitability of German victory. It was the same rubbish she had heard many times before, and it disgusted her. But then her father said: “The fact of the matter is, so long as Berlin continues to ignore our economic needs, we are bound to maintain trade links with Britain. After all, not only do the British see to it that we receive supplies of grain and gasoline, but they pay more than Germany for the wolfram they buy. What would you have us do? We have already bankrupted ourselves once. Must we do it a second time?”
The Argentinean knocked the ash from his cigar onto the dining room floor. “I appreciate what you are saying, Don Raoul. Sometimes, it seems to me, Berlin cuts off its nose to spite its face. The German war machine cannot function without wolfram. Tungsten is vital to modern weaponry. England can easily get what it needs from the USA, Canada, Australia. But so long as the British navy maintains its continental blockade, Germany has no other source but Spain and Portugal. London knows this. It knows that every tonne it exports from Iberia is a tonne denied to Germany. That is the basis for the trade – and for their inflated price. But think of it this way. What if I were to help bring about a change of mind in Berlin? I know that Heydrich would welcome a better economic balance between Spain and Germany. It makes sense to him. Why beggar your clients? I can also tell you that there are those in the inner circles of the Party who would not object to making a little personal gain from any deal we might construct.”
Colonel Ortega looked around, as if someone might be listening. “No more than we do here.”
A chilling laugh rose from the Argentinean’s throat. “Ah, Colonel – you are a man after my own heart. So let me spell it out. If you can arrange for Don Ramón to apply something of a brake on sales of Wolfram to England – nothing dramatic to begin with, simply a scaling back – I at the same time will attempt to persuade Heydrich that he should increase the scale of payments on the German side. He has funds, and access to more. He can make it happen. And in the give and take between the two sides, there is no reason why men of goodwill, such as ourselves, should not see an improvement in our personal situations. Who ever said that patriotism and profit could not co-exist?”
“Indeed,” said Ortega. “And your bank in Switzerland, it could facilitate such arrangements?”
“It will stand ready. Listen to me. You and I have already benefited from our trade in platinum and industrial diamonds. Berlin knows of your role and appreciates it. Why should the same not be true of wolfram?”
Ortega puffed at his cigar. “But what if the British and Americans were to retaliate by cutting back on exports of oil and cereals?”
“As part of a more ‘flexible’ arrangement with Germany, I do not see that being a problem. When Hitler invades Russia, as he is bound to do, the wheat fields of Ukraine will be open to us. Spain will have all the flour it needs. Central Asia’s oil will at the same time become Axis oil. In the interim, so that the British do not cut off supplies too early, you must practice deception. You should tell Churchill that Spanish neutrality is assured. Hint at the pain this brings you – that way they will be more inclined to believe you. Meanwhile, continue to supply them with wolfram, only gradually cutting back on the amounts. There will be complaints. Angry words, I should imagine. But that is what diplomats are for. What you have to bear in mind is that once the Caudillo commits Spain to the war, all past agreements are void. Gibraltar will be seized, North Africa will become the new battleground. For Spain, as for Italy, it will be the dawn of a new golden age.”
As Isabella listened, horrified by the sheer audacity of the scheme of which her father was a part, Colonel Ortega grunted and said nothing. Isabella knew that silence. It meant he was arriving at a difficult decision. “You are right,” he said at last. “I was with the Minister today. He briefed me on plans that are even now being drawn up between our own general staff and the German High Command for the capture of Gibraltar. ‘Operation Felix,’ they call it.”
Luder slapped his right fist hard into the palm of his left hand, so that Isabella in the courtyard beyond heard the impact. “Well, there you are, do you see? History is unfolding in front of our eyes and there is no time to lose. When will this happen?”
“We don’t know. Not yet. The plans are still being developed. It depends on the Caudillo, who has said he will only grant permission for the insertion of German forces into Spain on condition that we are granted expansion of our empire in North Africa.”
“At the expense of the French, I
suppose.”
“Who else? He was quite explicit on this point. The Minister is to go to Berlin for talks. Later, the Generalísimo will meet Hitler on the border with France. We need to move fast. What is important now is that I should talk to Don Ramón. It is likely that he will call on you in the next few days. You must appear ignorant. Make no mention of what I have told you.”
“Have no fear on that front. And don’t worry about the Germans either. They will listen to me. I know them well and they know me. I am someone they do business with every week of the year. Heydrich will expect a consideration, naturally …”
“Naturally,” said Ortega.
“ – But if he says he will do it, then you can depend on it. He is one of the Führer’s most valued lieutenants, and, as it happens, in 10 days’ time he and I meet for lunch in Berlin.”
“Excellent,” said Ortega. Another pause followed, less prolonged, as the Colonel wrestled with a separate issue he felt honour-bound to raise. “And on the matter of my daughter?” he began.
Luder’s voice dropped. “She will be the seal to our bargain.”
“But you will be good to her? I would not wish her to be unhappy.”
“You worry too much, my friend. Isabella is a wilful creature, who needs to be tamed. But she will be the wife of one of the richest and best connected businessmen in Argentina, with a husband and a father who are pillars of the New World Order. She should be grateful.”
“True. And she will also provide me with grandchildren.”
Luder laughed again. “Of that, my dear Colonel, you can be assured.”
These last words were like a dagger plunged into Isabella’s heart. The very idea that she would have children by such a man! But her personal fears were not, she realised, what was truly important about the conversation she had just overheard. What mattered was this “Operation Felix” Luder and her father were discussing. If it went ahead, it could cripple England in the Mediterranean and shift the balance of the war even further in Germany’s favour.
She had to speak to Bramall. It was urgent. But it was also late. The risks at this hour were too great and she would leave it until first thing in the morning. In the meantime, she would go to her room and write down what she could remember of the conversation in the dining room. Slowly and silently, so as not to betray her presence, she walked back into the house and stole upstairs to her bedroom.
Half an hour later, after finishing what she hoped was a reasonably accurate transcription of what she had overheard, she began to undress. It was as she finished unbuttoning her dress that she heard footsteps on the landing and realised with a start that her bedroom door was unlocked. It didn’t occur to her that Luder would simply burst in on her, and when he did she almost screamed.
“What’s the matter?” he asked, leering at her, slightly drunk. “Aren’t you pleased to see me?”
Quickly, before he could notice, she pushed the note beneath the bolster of her turned-down bed and began to pull her dress back up over her body. “What are you talking about?” she said. “I hardly know you. It’s been three years.”
“True,” Luder said, eying the exposed swell of her breasts. “Three years, surely, of passionate anticipation.” He slumped down beside her on the bed. It was then that he noticed her hand. “But wait a moment. Your engagement ring – where is it?”
“I …I was showing it to mother. I must have left it downstairs.”
“That was careless of you.”
She stood up. “You are right. I will go and fetch it.”
“First, let me hold you.”
“No,” she said.
“Why not?”
“It isn’t right. You can’t. You mustn’t.”
“‘Can’t?’ ‘Mustn’t?’ These are not words I am familiar with, my dear Isabella. In the New Order they have been replaced by the triumph of the will – or haven’t you heard?. Now give me your mouth. I need to taste you again after so long apart.” He stretched out one of his muscled arms and drew her towards him. She felt his hot breath enveloping her as his free hand found its way to the hem of her dress and began to push up her thigh towards the tops of her stockings. My God! It was her nightmare come true. If it was only her honour that was at stake, she might have succumbed to his advances, loathsome thought they were. At least it would have got rid of him. But the note detailing the Germans’ war plan was only inches from where he was sitting. Even if he were preoccupied now with making love to her, he could easily find the note afterwards. There was nothing else for it. She was still wearing her lace-up boots and, with a supreme effort, she kicked out, hard, at his shin. He howled, letting go of her and reaching down to rub the bruise that was already forming on his leg. Then his brow furrowed into a scowl. “Perra! You bitch!” he rasped. “If you should ever do that when we are married, I will have you flogged and thrown into a sty with the other sows.”
She jumped up and threw open the door to the landing. “Not if I kill you first. Do not presume to touch me in my father’s house. If you have no respect for me, at least show some for him.”
Luder bared the points of his teeth. “You are a spitfire now,” he said. “In years to come, you will be spitting blood. That I promise you.”
“Shut the door on the way out,” she said. “And next time, knock before you dare approach me.”
Madrid/Gibraltar: July 5
Bramall was travelling south to Gibraltar. Orders from Croft had arrived first thing by the usual method, an envelope stuffed under his door. Perhaps, he mused, there was an espionage postal department that distributed information and instructions to spies of all nations on a disinterested, professional basis. The contents of the note were not altogether unexpected. He was to meet with Braithwaite and others to discuss the nature and precise purpose of his mission. Serrano’s office had come up with the necessary paperwork. His reason for going, he told a stone-faced official, was to liaise with officers and officials in the Navy and the colonial service – men who spoke up for the Generalísimo during the Civil War and were steadfast in their loathing of bolshevism.
Serrano, to whom Bramall’s request was automatically referred, at first considered it suspicious. But then, he reflected, what harm could it do? Indeed, if Bramall were subsequently to provide him with information on the colony’s state of readiness and the morale of its garrison, Stohrer might even be grateful.
Before leaving his hotel, Bramall spoke briefly to Buchanan-Smith, who didn’t seem in the least put out that he would be left in charge of the Duke for the next few days , He also left a message at reception for Isabella asking her to meeting him in the Café Gijón on Monday morning at nine. He still wasn’t sure what to make of her, but he was concerned that she should not feel abandoned. As for his personal feelings, these, he decided, must be put to one side until his return from Gibraltar.
Atocha station on the Friday morning was swarming with travellers and rank with sweat. Only a minority of Spaniards – and hardly any of the hundreds of thousands of former peasants who had flocked into the capital since 1939 – had access to soap. Most were dressed in clothes they must first have worn before the war. One baby, which stared at Bramall with unabashed curiosity, was trussed in a former flour sack, tied at the shoulders, with holes cut for her legs. The train to Algeciras, via Seville and Bobadilla, was packed and tempers were short. Bramall pushed his way to his seat, mumbling a series of perdóneme por favor’s. The middle-aged woman sat next to him was practically steaming and holding onto her handbag as if her life depended on it. When he bade her good day, she did not reply, for which, he realised, he was grateful.
He looked around. There was an argument going on involving a number of passengers. So far as he could tell, those who had brought nothing on board to eat were jealous of those with as much as a hunk of stale bread. One stocky-looking man in his 40s, swigging f
rom a bottle of beer and slicing pieces of salty manchego cheese with a clasp knife, appeared to be the principal focus of resentment.
“Why don’t you offer the rest of us some of your cheese?” a young man asked. He was thin and asthmatic – with a boil burning a hole in his cheek.
“There’s only enough for one,” the man replied. “It’s a long journey. You should have brought your own.”
“Where would I get money for cheese? Where did you get it, come to that? And enough for beer as well.”
“Mind your own business.”
“Cabrón!”
“Bastard yourself,” the main with the cheese said, jerking the point of his knife at his tormentor. “Vete al infierno!”
The younger man turned away, muttering.
Smoke, laden with soot, flew in through the carriage’s open windows, getting in everyone’s eyes and clothes, causing the children to cough. The slatted wooden seats grew increasingly hard and unyielding. Outside, the barren flatness of La Mancha, shimmering in the heat, flew by like the surface of the moon.
Two hours after leaving Madrid, the train stopped at the provincial capital, Ciudad Real, belching smoke and smelling of burned lubrication. While a maintenance crew worked on the engine and several sets of wheels, the train was boarded by a contingent of secret police and Guardia Civil keen to add to the general misery of the passengers. A middle-aged man carrying a briefcase was arrested and taken off, followed by the cheese-eater, whose indignant departure was greeted with delight by the youth with the blemished cheek, who had coughed incessantly for the previous 20 minutes. The train started up again after half an hour before continuing fitfully as far as Córdoba, where a young married couple who had just joined were asked for their papers and travel permit. There must have been something wrong, for the documents were passed down the carriage to the officer in charge, an overweight sergeant with an improbable Hitler moustache, who indicated with a twist of his head towards the door that the pair should be held for questioning. The husband’s plea that he and his wife had done nothing and were only trying to make their way home to their family provoked the arresting officer to drive the end of his baton hard into the man’s kidneys, making him squeal in pain.