Franco's Map

by Walter Ellis

  “What made her come to you?”

  “I’d met her at a reception at her parents’ house a few days previously.”

  “Must have made quite an impression.”

  “I didn’t think she liked me, actually. You could have knocked me down with Chamberlain’s piece of paper when I opened the door and there she was.”

  “I see.”

  “The thing is, she hears things. She knows Serrano. Her father is his chief of staff. Just as important, she’s horrified by the possibility that Franco might ally Spain to the Nazis.”

  The Yorkshireman sniffed. “Just be careful you’re not being set up.”

  “I really don’t think … “

  “And don’t go falling for her. Good looking, is she? What’s her name?”

  “Isabella Ortega. And she’s not bad looking, I suppose – not that I’ve really noticed.”

  Braithwaite’s expression on hearing this was that of a man who had listened to generations of young men protesting their immunity to female charms. “Well,” he said wearily, “I’ve warned you. Be on your guard. When women come into the bedroom, good sense usually goes out the window.”

  “I’ll try to remember that.”

  In the silence that followed, a welcome Highland lilt could be heard wafting across the breakfast room. It was MacLeish. “Good morning, gentlemen,” he said, “I trust you’ve enjoyed your breakfast. But now, if you don’t mind, there’s work to be done.”

  For the next half hour, as the sunlight intensified and the overhead fans came on in the dining room, the three intelligence operatives compared notes and stratagems. Bramall was left in no doubt as to the vulnerability of Gibraltar and the urgency of his mission. He was told to build on his relationship with Serrano but, at the same time, to infiltrate the German Legation in search of the information they were sure was there that would reveal Berlin’s intentions and provide London with vital leverage in its war of nerves with Franco.

  “There has to be something,” said Braithwaite. There always is. If Berlin puts its forces into Spain and mounts an attack on Gib, with all that that entails, there has to be a price to pay and someone that loses out in the process. Find out what the price is and who would be the losers. Give us something we can use.”

  Bramall nodded, wondering how on Earth he was supposed to come up with the keys to the Legation’s files. “And in the meantime?”

  “In the meantime,” said MacLeish, “the armed forces will continue to build up their strength here on the Rock. We won’t be caught napping again like last night.”

  Braithwaite butted in. “And we’ll look to Hoare in Madrid to soft-soap the Caudillo – a task for which he is peculiarly well adapted. You probably feel you’re alone in this business. It’s in the nature of espionage. But there’s a team behind you. Never forget that. Feed us a decent ball and we’ll go for the line.”

  “I’ll do my best,” said Bramall.

  “Course you will,” said MacLeish. “We never doubted you.”

  Braithwaite began to fidget. His mind always seemed to be racing off in new directions. “There is one other thing. Hasselfeldt probably knows you’re here. There are at least 50 Nazi agents in the area: Abwehr, SD, Gestapo – the lot. They’ll have taken photographs. The pictures will go back to Madrid for analysis – probably on the same train you’re taking. Hasselfeldt will have been wondering where you’ve got to. He’ll be asking around. Chances are he’ll want to talk to you when you get back.”

  This didn’t sound good. “So what do I do?”

  It was MacLeish who cut in this time. “If I were you, I’d get in first.”

  “You mean pay him a visit?”

  “Exactly. Show willing. Make it look like your trip here was the most natural thing in the world.”

  Braithwaite polished his glasses with his breakfast napkin as he took up the theme. “Pre-empt the bugger. Tell him you’ve got some useful bits and pieces about Gib… nothing special, mind, don’t get him all excited. Tell him we’re flying in a fighter squadron next month – which is likely to be true – with others to follow, most probably Hurricanes … no, make it Spitfires. Tell him the Black Watch are on their way, and that we’re training some of our bigger guns on Algeciras, just in case. Say we’re bringing in heavy AA platforms and a dozen searchlight batteries to help with night firing. He’ll check it out and more than likely find you’ve stayed on the level with him. As for morale, no harm letting him know not everyone here favours continuing the war. Let him think you’ve got allies – people it might pay to keep in touch with. Then, if we ever need to get you down here, we can always arrange for someone to come up with a suitable invitation. Do you see where I’m going with this?”

  Bramall nodded. “What if he asks for names?”

  MacLeish produced a sheet of paper, with photographs attached. “I took the liberty of getting three ‘candidates’ lined up, just in case. They’re all serving officers, but leaving with Force H in the next couple of days – and they won’t be coming back. Study their names. Remember their faces. Chances re they’ll have photographs to match the names. You don’t have to make a song and dance about them. Just say that they’re what our American cousins like to call ‘flaky’ on the war.”

  “Got it.”

  “The simpler the plan, the better it works.,” Braithwaite said, fiddling in his jacket pocket for his pipe. “If we’d more time, and you had more experience, we might have come up with a little of what we like to call ‘disinformation’ – maybe suggest a weak spot in our defences; somewhere they might like to concentrate their attack. But if you don’t mind my saying so, you’re not quite ready for that. Nor is Gib, come to that. Top priority right now is to preserve your cover.”

  Braithwaite’s eyebrow arched. “And don’t go soft over that bloody girl! She’s trouble.”

  “All right, all right. You’ve made your point.”

  “Good. Anything you want to add, MacLeish?”

  “No,” the MI5 man said. “Just to wish him luck. He’ll need it.”

  Madrid: Villa Ortega, July 6

  Isabella dreaded the weekend. Luder was due to leave for Germany on Monday, but until then, for the next two days, she would be in his hands, almost literally, and she had no idea how she would deal with the situation. Her discovery that Bramall was out of town and not due back before Sunday had been a blow. He would not have allowed her to be assaulted by the Argentinean, or anyone else. She would feel safe with him around. Now she would have to survive on her wits. There was no point in talking to her mother, who believed Fate and submission to be virtually identical. She would put her daughter’s dilemma down to “men” and advise her to lie back and think of the household budget she would one day control. Her father, preoccupied with advancing the family’s wealth and standing, would consider any intervention from him to be both inappropriate and embarrassing and suggest she discuss outstanding issues with Luder or her mother.

  More important even than her personal concerns was the “intelligence” she now carried around with her tucked into her bra – the revelation that Hitler and Franco were negotiating Spanish membership of the Axis and the dismemberment of France’s empire in North Africa. She was ready, she decided, to sacrifice anything, even herself, to ensure that this vital information reached London. It would be an action she could be proud of – or at any rate something to set against the self-obsession and evasions of recent years. Only when she had completed the task that lay ahead, would she feel free to indulge in the luxury of revenge. It wasn’t easy. As she contemplated, for the fourth or fifth time that morning, the hateful, shameful nature of the Argentinean – a man, she was sure, so ignoble as not to comprehend the very meaning of honour – the thought of the violence and humiliation he could unleash on her was almost more than she could bear. If it happened, it happened,
and she would deal with it. But she prayed fervently that she would be spared. The politics of war was something else. As a Spaniard, she looked forward to the day when the British hauled down their flag in Gibraltar and the flag of Spain was raised in its place. Yet with Franco’s regime busy plotting imperial aggression on its own account at the expense of the native peoples of North Africa, to say nothing of the French, what right did Madrid have to point a finger at anyone? She had asked her father about the situation over breakfast. He had been surprised at first, then gratified by her interest. With France out of the war, he told her, and the Italian fleet, backed by Hitler, manoeuvring between Taranto and Libya, the only thing standing in the way of a Fascist takeover of North Africa and the Balkans was the Royal Navy.

  “The British think they can intimidate us with their fleet, as if no time at all has passed since Trafalgar. Gibraltar is the key to everything, they say. But what will they do when they wake up one morning to find the key in the Caudillo’s pocket.”

  Lisbon: Praça das Cebolas district, July 7

  Braithwaite’s flight to Lisbon had been delayed due to fears of enemy action, and after an hour spent with the Ambassador, Sir Walford Selby, he took a taxi straight to the restaurant where he was due to meet Croft for lunch. It was just off the Praçadas Cebolas, next to the Santa Apolónia railway station, and was apparently celebrated for its native cuisine. Croft was there already, dressed as always in his crumpled linen suit. The two men greeted each other.

  “Douglas,” good to see you.

  “And you, Tom. Sit down. Take the weight off your feet.”

  “I take it we’re not alone.”

  “Christ, no. Chap over there, with the newspaper, he works for the Legation. A Sudeten German, doesn’t speak much English. I doubt he’s even heard of you.”

  Braithwaite tried not to turn around, feeling ever so slightly miffed. “Anyone else?”

  “The Gestapo head of station often entertains here. He’ll probably be along in a minute. I’ll let you know.”

  “If you would.”

  “Nice day.”

  “Well, the real heat’s still to come. But how were things in Gib?”

  “Not too rosy, if you must know. Governor’s doing a hell of a job, but it’ll be another three months before they’re fully ready to withstand an assault.”

  Croft grimaced. “So we’d better hope Jerry’s timetable spins out even longer than ours.”

  The Yorkshireman smiled. “That’s about the size of it. But look, I haven’t got much time. The Sunderland takes off at six. How are things? How’s the Duke?”

  “Oh, still settling in. There’ve been a couple of dinner parties – and the Holy Ghost is, as you know, omnipresent.”

  This reference to the Portuguese banker, Ricardo Espírito Santo Silva, the Duke’s host at his palatial residence, the Boca do Inferno, the Mouth of Hell, was not lost on Braithwaite. “Is he a threat?” he asked.

  “Depends what you mean by threat. I’d say he’s half in love with the sheer prestige of having the Duke to stay, half looking to the main chance, which could mean working with Jerry or could mean an accommodation with us.”

  “Slippery as ever, then?”

  “Yeah – a complete tosser. But I’ve got my eye on him. Speaking of which, any chance I can have that backup I talked about? We’re outnumbered ten to one. It’s not a fair fight.”

  Braithwaite sighed. Budgets for MI6, which still had to prove its usefulness in wartime, were depressingly small. Most cash was going on the new Special Operations Executive, with its concentration on France and other parts of occupied Europe. “There’s a lad coming out from London in the next week or so. Name of Crowther. Speaks the lingo, studied here and he’s a crack marksman. He’ll be accompanied by a couple of Special Branch chaps who’ll stay with you so long as the Duke’s here. They’ll be under your orders, so don’t worry. Oh, and I’ve brought you a few extra escudos. I’ll not hand them over to you here, if you don’t mind, but they should enable you to add a couple at least to your Portuguese support crew.”

  “And that’s it?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Well, it’s something. Thanks, Tom.”

  “I only wish it could have been more.”

  The waiter stood poised. Croft ordered a bottle of red from the Dão region to go with the clams in olive oil, garlic and fresh coriander that turned out to be the speciality of the house. Braithwaite lobbied briefly for a white, but Croft said it wasn’t worth it.

  Once they were alone again, Croft asked how Bramall was doing.

  Braithwaite pursed his lips. “Not too bad,” he said. “A pity he didn’t have more time to settle in. He’s having to make it up as he goes along. He won’t have the luxury of learning from his mistakes.“

  “But he’s not screwing up?”

  “Not so far at any rate.

  “That’s something, I suppose. But we shouldn’t expect too much of him. If Franco decides to go to war next month, I don’t reckon Bramall will be the one to tell us. But if it’s next year, who knows? He’s an investment. We’ll only know down the road how he performs.” The Londoner reached for the salt. “Of course,” he said, “he could always surprise us.”

  Braithwaite’s eyes brightened so that Croft thought he could detect an almost paternal glint. “In that event,” he said, “I shall say he was always our best hope. And call me a sentimental old fool if you like, but I don’t completely rule it out.” He paused, glancing across the square towards the blue of the ocean. “Seriously, though, as far as Gibraltar is concerned, Hoare and Eccles are our best hope. With luck, they’ll have half of Franco’s generals on the payroll by end of the year.”

  At this point, the wine arrived. Once the waiter had gone, Braithwaite broached the subject of Portugal and its relations with Germany. What Croft had to say on this point was alarming. The Spanish, it seemed, had launched a new diplomatic initiative, spearheaded by Serrano. “What he wants is for Portugal to renounce its treaty of friendship with the British. But if you ask me, it’s the incorporation of Portugal into a greater Spain that’s his long-term goal. That and a whole lot more. We need to watch that. The Reconquista isn’t finished yet. It’s noticeable that the Germans have gone deathly quiet. I reckon they’re hoping Serrano can do the business for them and bring Salazar into the war alongside Spain. Either that or they’re planning some kind of stunt. Which brings us back to HR Bloody H.”

  Braithwaite savoured his wine – a rare treat. “In which case, the sooner we get him to the Bahamas the better. That was Bramall’s idea, by the way, not Hoare’s. He merely passed it on. But you’re not seriously suggesting they’d kidnap him and fly him to Berlin? What as? A trophy?”

  “More of an inducement, I’d say. A way of giving London an alternative strategy.”

  Braithwaite made a face. “Bit of a long shot, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Depends who’s doing the calculations. Ribbentrop spent quite a while in London as Ambassador. He knows the Duchess and he knows the power the Royal Family exerts on the popular imagination.”

  “Yes, but does he appreciate the sea-change that occurred after the Abdication?”

  “Almost certainly not,” said Croft. “He’ll be relying for his information and judgement on views that were out of date even before the attack on Poland.”

  Braithwaite wasn’t sure where this conversation was going, but it didn’t sound good. “So what you’re telling me, if I understand you aright, is that Ribbentrop might be mad enough to seize the Duke and Duchess, with or without their approval, then use them as a rallying point for pro-German sympathies. Is that it?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying.” Croft looked up. Their starters had arrived. He was about to resume his speculation when a flurry of activity at a nearby table caused him to pu
t up a warning hand. “Don’t look now,” he said, “but the Gestapo gentleman I was telling you about has just sat down over in the far corner.”

  “Oh yes?” said Braithwaite, intrigued. “Who’s with him? Anyone we know?”

  The intelligence man adjusted his glasses. “Bloody hell,” he said. “It’s Lourenço.”

  “Who?”

  “Head of the PVDE – the security police.”

  “Oh, him! I thought he was on our side.”

  “He is. At least I think he is – if he’s on anyone’s side, that is. But that’s him, large as life – or, in his case, as small.”

  “Don’t suppose you can hear what they’re saying?”

  “No. And there’s a couple of goons standing right behind. If I keep on staring, they’re going to be over here in a minute.”

  “And we don’t want that.”

  “No, we most certainly don’t.”

  Braithwaite tried his sardines. Excellent. Quite meaty, with a hint of spice. He wasn’t looking forward to his return to wartime Britain, with its rationing. “I suppose you’re about to tell me this adds weight to your theory.”

  Croft moved his spoon around in his bowl of fish soup. “Well it doesn’t exactly subtract from it, does it?’

  “No. What it does, in fact, is leave it exactly where it was. So pray continue.”

  “Okay. Let’s just say Ribbentrop wants the Duke. Two possibilities then exist. One, that the Duke is agreeable and goes quietly, in which case we have to act fast. Two, the Duke doesn’t go along, in which case the Germans have to act, and we have to move in even faster. It doesn’t matter how absurd the whole notion is of the British people rallying to their former King – a man whose wife, I’m informed, may have exchanged a lot more than more than pleasantries with Ribbentrop. What matters is that the sight of the Duke of Windsor in Berlin is not one we would wish to parade before the world in present circumstances. Am I right?”