The Eldorado Network

by Derek Robinson

  'It didn't have to involve me,' Christian complained.

  Luis let his arms collapse. 'But then you would never have known that I'd done it,' he said.

  Christian stared at him for a long time, so long that Luis had to breathe deeply to keep his shoulders from slumping. When at last the German spoke, Luis scarcely heard him. 'Go away,' Christian whispered. 'Go away.'

  Luis went away. He shut the door carefully and silently. The long corridor was empty. He tiptoed down it, lengthened his stride, began bounding, running and then let everything go and sprinted flat out. He burst through the revolving doors at the end of the corridor like a boy out of school and fetched up against a wall, sobbing with laughter and gasping for breath.

  An office door opened, and a man with a mouth like a geological fault stared his disapproval. Luis slid down the wall, sat on a bucket of sand and stared back, panting. 'No good waiting there,' he said. 'Last bus went by ten minutes ago.' The man sniffed and went inside.

  Luis stood up and dusted the seat of his trousers. 'All just sand,' he murmured dreamily. 'Even when you capture it, what have you got? More sand. Bloody silly.'

  Chapter 22

  The sunset was flame-pink, lightly brushed with streaks of white which bore softly feathered edges, as if fanned by the dying heat of the sun. The white streaks became tinged with blue as they spread up into the arc of the sky, and the blue darkened to an indigo hugeness above the opposite horizon. It was a moment when you could turn your head from the assembling of night to the disintegration of day and back again, and find a new star pin-pricking the darkness. Julie Conroy turned her head once again and watched the flickering of swallows under and around the wide eaves of the courtyard where she and Luis were sitting. The birds were nesting up there, and their sharp wings and pointed tails came and went like sudden scratches on cine-film, along with a constant conversation of squeaks and squeals.

  'You know, this sherry isn't bad,'she said. 'It's not as good as booze but it isn't as bad as for instance kerosene.'

  'I hope you're not becoming kind-hearted,' Luis warned. He took her hand, and they linked fingers. 'I don't think I could stand that. If you start being kind-hearted, I shall start being gentlemanly.'

  'You already did. Back in the hotel bedroom, you were a perfectly gentle man. Surely you haven't forgotten?'

  Luis adjusted his tie and cleared his throat. 'Was I?' he asked. 'How humiliating. That was supposed to be a flood of ungovernable desire, savage and insatiable.'

  'What?' She squeezed his fingers until he looked at her. 'Did you just make that up?'

  'No. I saw it outside a cinema.'

  'Ah . . . Well, you were all that, too, of course.'

  'Good.'

  'Yes, I thought so.'

  She smiled at him with such open pleasure that he smiled back. 'Well, that's all right then,' he said.

  'Yes indeed.' She squeezed his fingers. 'I told you it was worth waiting for.'

  Luis had gone to her hotel straight from the embassy. On the way there he bought a very large bunch of flowers, tulips, and the hotel receptionist, flustered by a sudden flurry of business, had mistaken him for a florist's delivery-man and sent him up to Mrs Conroy's room. 'Hullo,'she said when he arrived. 'Are those for me?' She kissed him. 'I've been thinking about you . . .' She kept her arms around his neck and looked at his mouth. 'I couldn't remember what your teeth look like, it's been driving me mad, show me. 'He showed her his teeth. 'Yes, of course,' she murmured. 'Absolutely perfect. Have you been swimming? I smell chlorine.'

  'You haven't changed a bit since yesterday,' Luis said. 'Not a bit.'

  'There's something we ought to decide,' she told him. 'It's been worrying me all day.' She chewed her lip.

  'What is it?'

  She swung her head up and looked him full in the eyes. 'Sex,' she said.

  'Oh. Yes, I see.' He nodded thoughtfully. For the last two years he had got along without a sexual companion. This announcement was something of a shock. Like discovering a forgotten bank account with a healthy balance. 'I suppose we ought perhaps to do something about that, some day.'

  'That's the point. If we're in love, then we can't avoid making decisions. I mean, if we don't ever go to bed, that's a decision too.'

  'Of course.' The more Luis thought about that sort of decision, the less he liked it. His interest swung strongly in the opposite direction; then, with instinctive caution, it swung back again. 'Naturally, one does not wish to rush into a hasty commitment, either,' he said.

  'Damn right,' she agreed. 'I make it a strict rule never to jump into the sack without thinking first.'

  'After all, we have our whole lives ahead of us.'

  'Exactly,' She gave him a swift kiss. 'So what I suggest is we wait five minutes and then, provided we both still feel the same . . . Okay?'

  'Excellent solution,' Luis said. 'It combines moderation with initiative. Excellent.'

  So it turned out. They shared the hotel's enormous bed for some considerable time, and later they shared its vast bath. Now, as the day died splendidly in the west, they drank palo cortado sherry, dark yet dry, in the courtyard of a restaurant which was so hard to find that Luis was confident no Germans would arrive.

  'I know very little about you, Mrs Conroy,' he said. 'Tell me something. How about Mr Conroy, for instance?'

  'Yes, how about old Harry?' She made a face. 'What a pain he turned out to be, Harry Conroy sold more aspirin than the Great War and the common cold put together . . . You want to know about my family? I'll tell you the story of great-uncle Eli, the famous American guide and explorer. He got snowed-up leading three men through the Alleghany mountains during the winter of 1874, ran out of food, had to eat the customers. Celebrated case. Old Eli nearly got himself hanged over that.'

  'Indeed? For murder or for cannibalism?'

  'Neither. Election-tampering, that was the charge. All three men were Ohio Democrats, and the Democrats were pretty thin in Ohio that year.'

  'Your great-uncle was a Republican?'

  'Hell, no. My people always voted Democrat. Old Eli said himself, when he gave evidence, he said he could never have eaten a Republican, not even to save his life. Said he simply couldn't stomach the taste, it made him sick just to think about it. Powerful speech. Won him a lot of support from the jury. Not enough, but a lot.'

  'They found him guilty, then.'

  'Sure. Convicted, sentenced, reprieved by the Governor.'

  'Who was also a Democrat.'

  'No, he was a Republican. Said he couldn't find it in his conscience to hang a man who had set such a fine example to his fellow-Americans.'

  'I don't believe a word of all that.'

  'Well, that's where you make a big mistake, Luis, because some of it's true. The bit about old Eli never eating Republicans, that's true. Anyway . . . what do I know about you? Come on, tell me something about the Cabrillos.'

  Luis stretched his legs and rested his neck against the cool wicker chair. The effect of the sherry was mingling with the pleasant fatigue left by love-making, and gently dissolving it. 'I shall tell you how the Cabrillo family came to be elevated to a position of power and influence by the Spanish monarchy,' he decided.

  'Bullshit. I looked you up in Who's Who in Spain, Luis, and you're not there.'

  He turned his head slightly and glanced at her through confident, half-lidded eyes. 'Nobody who is anybody in Spain is listed in Who's Who, Julie. One does not seek to . . .' He frowned slightly as he found the word and expelled it '. . . advertise.'

  'Hey, that's good. That's terrific,' she said.

  'It was in the year . . . Well, never mind the year, it was long ago and the armies of the Moors were attacking Madrid. In fact they were drawn up behind the Palacio Real. The park is still known as the Campo del Moro.'

  'I've seen it. Very pretty fountains.'

  'A recent addition. The Moors were led by a brilliant general, the Emir Ali ben Yusuf ben Texfin.'

  'Flare your nostrils agai
n.'

  'Pay attention. And the king of Spain placed the command of his crack troops, the Guardia Civil, in the hands of an unknown lieutenant, Juan Eduardo Joaquin Cabrillo.'

  'Lovely flaring. Real arrogance.'

  'So young Cabrillo assembled the Guardia Civil. "Forty thousand fanatical Moors threaten Madrid," he said to them, "and only you can save it." '

  'MGM could use that line.'

  'Then he told them to take off their hats and turn up the brims at the back. "Now that we have our backs to the wall," he said, "our hats must not get in the way." And that is why, to this very day, the Guardia Civil wear those peculiar, varnished hats which they call "dust-shovels", turned up at the back.'

  'Who won?' she asked.

  Luis sighed. 'You Americans . . . Obsessed with results. Never thinking of style, of manners ...'

  'I guess your guys must've won. Otherwise nowadays Madrid would look like an audition for The Desert Song.' She ran her finger along Luis's jawline and tipped his head back so that he looked hawk like and haughty. 'Maybe not, though. Maybe it was a stand-off. You have a touch of the Arab in you, Luis.'

  'Well, there is a family tradition that the beautiful daughter of Ali ben Yusuf one day saw Juan Eduardo Joaquin through a telescope and fell in love and got into his tent that night, and they lived happily ever after until shortly before dawn, when she had to go home for breakfast.'

  Julie moistened her lips. 'All this talk of food . . . Do they sell any grub here?'

  'They serve an excellent gazpacho.'

  'That doesn't scare me. I'll take it on my forehand, and you can cut off the volleys at the net.'

  They went inside and ate a long, leisurely dinner of gazpacho, herb omelettes and green salad, fruit, and a keen, firm cheese from Navarre. They drank Chacoli, a brisk and bubbly wine from the Basque country, and topped it all with Benedictine and black coffee. As he paid the bill, Luis knew that he could afford to do this sort of thing every night and still save half his income from the embassy. He felt enormously accomplished: he was regularly employed, the work was challenging, the rewards could only get better, and here beside him, touching his hand, was the most exciting woman in Madrid. The future looked golden. He drained his Benedictine, and as the last drops trickled down his throat he realised, with a slight jolt, that he was a little drunk: the glass in his fingers was blurred, the colours of the room were too soft. He blinked hard, and the golden future came into sharp focus. In a week and a bit, his training would be over. Soon the Germans would send him out to spy for them. Then he would be alone, hunted, always in danger. This, now, was just a holiday.

  They took a taxi back to the hotel.

  On the way, she said: 'Thank you for dinner. It wasn't like genuine American food, but it tasted good.'

  'I'm glad.'

  The taxi slowed for a corner, and Luis leaned in front of her to look out of the window. He grunted with surprise.

  'What is it?' she asked.

  'Nothing, just an office block. It used to be a warehouse until a shell hit it. I was inside that shop when it happened. Nearly got killed. If those gunners had fired their shell ten seconds later I would have been crossing the street when it exploded. Makes you think.'

  'I had a narrow escape at breakfast,' she said. 'I poured a whole cup of milky coffee straight down my throat. Just three inches to the left and I would have drowned an ear.'

  'You wouldn't be making fun of it if you had been back there in 1937. What high explosive does to people is not funny.'

  'My dear Luis, I have seen what high explosive does to people.' She put her head close to his and gently nipped him on the ear. 'It re-arranges their bodies in a violent and painful way. I was in London during the blitz last October and I saw it happen night after night.'

  'Well, then.'

  'Well phooey. More Londoners got run over by cars in the blackout than were blown up by German bombs. I mean, life is dangerous.'

  Luis thought about that. 'What were you doing in London?' he asked.

  She swished her hair from side to side. 'Enjoying the bombing,' she said. 'This is about the time of night that it gets really serious, usually about midnight. I bet they're flying over London right now, blowing up an orphanage here, a hospital there, an old-folks'-home somewhere else.'

  'I don't believe you really enjoyed it.'

  'Oh, I enjoyed the excitement. A lot of Londoners did, too. But not the mines. They drop huge mines by parachute, you know, big black bastards, if you're unlucky you can actually watch them floating down. Then there's a blinding flash and a deafening crump and suddenly everything for half a mile around is a heap of ruins. I could have done without the mines.' She twisted her head to look out of the rear window. 'Big fat moon up there tonight. They like that. Yes, I bet the krauts are bombing the bejesus out of London right this very minute.'

  By now they were in central Madrid, cruising along an avenue. The traffic thickened, and the taxi gradually lost speed until it eased to a crawl and stopped. The line of vehicles on their left gained a few yards, and another taxi slid beside them. Clearly visible in the back was a quartet of German officers. They looked as if they had spent an enjoyable evening.

  When Luis noticed them he was too late to distract her attention; already she was winding down the window. 'Fascist faggots!' she cried, and her twang cut sharply through the mumble of idling engines. The officers looked at her, attracted, interested, smiling. One of them opened a window. 'You fornicating fascist finks,' she told them. Luis watched their faces change, saw them look from her to him, studying, remembering. Then the traffic moved, and she sat back.

  'Sorry,' she said. 'I was thinking about what they did to London. And other places. Luis shrugged. 'Why not?' he said. But he noticed that the other taxi followed them all the way to her hotel and waited while they got out, before it drove away.

  Chapter 23

  Next morning at ten o'clock Luis was again summoned to see Colonel Christian. He trudged upstairs, glumly convinced that he was in for another squabble and not feeling up to it. But Christian was calm and considerate: he offered Luis coffee and he did not kick, hit or throw any piece of furniture.

  'I have" had a signal from Berlin,' he said. 'They would like to know if you would be willing to change your area of operations and go to Russia instead.'

  Luis sat back and stared. His first reaction was a rush of pleasure: he'd guessed right, Germany was getting ready to attack Russia. Marvellous! Now Berlin would respect Christian and Christian would respect Luis Cabrillo . . . Then the greater implications struck him: Hitler had given up the idea of invading Britain. Hitler was going to fight this war on two fronts at once. Hitler was following Napoleon eastwards. The whole world was about to change . . . 'No,' he said, 'I'm not going to go to Russia.'

  'Why ever not? The work is the same, and Berlin says that you would be paid many times more than you can expect to earn in Britain.'

  'In that case it can't be the same work.'

  'Same sort of work.'

  'What? I don't speak Russian. How many Russians speak Spanish? The idea's insane. There's no Spanish Embassy in Moscow, and Stalin hates Franco. I'd never get in. If I did get in I'd never get out.'

  'Berlin can arrange to have you infiltrated through Scandinavia as a Spanish Communist refugee. There are plenty of those in Russia.'

  'And none of them has ever heard of me, so they'll ask a lot of questions which I can't answer, and inside ten minutes I'll be looking down the barrel of a gun.'

  'No fear of that,' Christian said reassuringly. 'The Russians shoot people in the back of the head.'

  'Not me.'

  'No, of course not. As you say, the idea's insane, but Berlin instructed me to put it to you. Evidently your discovery impressed them.'

  'I see.' Luis put his hands in his pockets and waited calmly for Christian to say something more. He sensed that their relationship had shifted slightly, away from master-and-servant and towards tutor-and-student. Maybe even tutor-and-gi
fted-student.

  'Anyway . . .' Christian buffed up his moustache. 'Next time you get hold of something like that, come and see me straight away.' He set off on a little walk, carefully following a seam in the carpet, each foot sliding along the line. 'You know, Cabrillo . . . the Abwehr can be a curious organisation at times. Berlin doesn't really understand how we work in Madrid. They can be remarkably crass, as you've just seen. We have to spell things out for them. Never give them a choice, they'll choose the wrong thing every time. Understand?'

  'Yes, of course,' Luis noted a new tone in the colonel's voice, a suggestion of wariness, perhaps even of defensive-ness.

  'We're not in competition, you and I, Cabrillo.'

  'I certainly hope not.'

  'We need each other, to succeed.'

  'Indeed we do.'

  'And after what you've told them concerning the Russian situation, Berlin will be expecting great things from you in England.' Christian's seam had led him to the baby grand. He raised the top and raked his fingers across the strings, making a dry, anxious noise. 'We mustn't disappoint them, must we?'

  'I certainly intend to earn as much money as I possibly can.'

  'Good. Good.. A great deal depends on it. Now there is someone I want you to meet.'

  Christian thumbed his desktop buzzer, and Otto came in with a man who brought a fresh charge of life to the room.

  He was introduced as Frederick Ryan. As soon as Luis shook hands he felt encouraged and stimulated, like an actor meeting a star who is going to revitalise a play. Ryan was middleaged, medium height, and looked very fit. He was dressed in a dark suit which, for discretion, taste and cost, was better than a letter of introduction from a banker. He was cleanshaven and his face had a keen, alert expression. Soft brown hair was brushed back from a wide and tranquil forehead, and he knew how to stand without fidgeting his fingers or twitching his feet. His voice was interesting and sounded genuinely English. Luis looked at Frederick Ryan and was more than impressed: he was utterly charmed. By a man who had done nothing but walk ten paces and shake hands! Watch out, dummy, he warned himself.