The Eldorado Network

by Derek Robinson

  Luis turned his head away. He did not want even to see Otto talking.

  'When the British arrested you,' Otto went on, 'they would not have been as humane as we were, today. They would have locked you in their Tower of London for a week and then hung you by the neck.' He went on over to the door and opened it. 'I'll leave you to rest,' he said, 'and also, perhaps, to think how lucky you are.'

  Luis rested and thought for about five minutes. He did not think how lucky he was. He thought how unhappy he was, and how the person he wanted more than anybody in the world was Julie Conroy. So he got up and went out. Nobody stopped him. It was a half-past three when he stepped into the street.

  Chapter 29

  The cafe baked in a midafternoon fug of sunlight and stale food. Sawdust coated the floor like sediment on a seabed. Behind the bar, a radio with tired valves talked to itself through a continuous crackle and buzz. The only other people in the place were the proprietor, squat and gloomy, and a scrawny youth. They sat on either side of the counter and watched Luis use the telephone.

  He got halfway through dialling the number of the Hotel Bristol and stopped. It was midafternoon. She wouldn't be at the hotel, she would be at work. He hung up. The proprietor found him a copy of the Madrid phone book.

  They watched him search for Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer. It wasn't listed. He looked for MGM. Nothing there either. He the book and tried to think of any other possible way the studio might have chosen to be listed. He gave the book

  There were two possibilities. Either Julie Conroy's office had no telephone, or Julie Conroy had no office. Both seemed highly improbable.

  Luis asked for the book again. They watched him thumb through it, looking for an entry for Warner Brothers, or Columbia, or Twentieth Century-Fox, or RKO, or Universal. Nothing. No American film studio had an office in Madrid. He gave the book back.

  Something else was missing, something besides the MGM office number. Luis leaned on the counter and hid his face in his hands while he thought. He stomach rumbled restlessly it was empty but he was not hungry. The scrawny youth tittered. Luis had an idea and asked for the book. The squat proprietor looked at him for several seconds before he handed it across.

  Somebody in Madrid had to be in the business of distributing films, Luis told himself, and the chances were that business was called Film Distribution, or something that. He failed to find anything under F for Film, under C for Cinema, under K for Kine, under M for Motion Pictures, but he scored with I for International. There was a company called Inter-Cine Distribution S.A., at 65 Avenida de Jose Antonio.

  Luis carried the book over to the phone and began dialling the number. Halfway through he had a better idea. He hung up, and returned the book. 'Thanks,' he said.

  The squat proprietor looked from the book to the telephone to Luis. 'Next time, bring your friends and have a real party,' he said. 'If you have any friends,' he added.

  'You are very kind,' Luis said, and walked to the door. 'Your establishment deserves its enormous popularity. Forty thousand flies cannot be wrong.' He stepped into the street.

  Inter-Cine Distribution was five minutes' walk away. Luis found the manager in his office. He was holding a length of film up to the light and studying it through a magnifying glass. 'I can't release that, for God's sake,' he muttered. This girl commits all the deadly sins at once, except sloth ... I don't know what the hell they think they're up to in Hollywood. They don't seem to give a damn what the Generalisimo thinks.'

  'What does he think?' Luis asked.

  'He's against sex, for a start.'

  'What other start is there?'

  '1 don't know.' The manager rewound the film. 'What can I do for you?'

  'I'm trying to trace an American woman called Conroy. She represents MGM in Madrid.'

  'I remember the lady. Only you have the wrong name. Hoffman, Mrs Betty Hoffman. She went back to America about a year ago.'

  Luis smiled his thanks, turned to go, then paused. 'Did anyone replace her? I mean, who takes care of MGM's business in Europe now?'

  'That's easy. We do.'

  Back on the street, Luis took refuge in irrelevance: he bought a newspaper and had a shoe-shine. It was a waste of time. There was no escape in the paper, which was concerned with desert battles in North Africa and road accidents in Barcelona. The only fact that mattered was that Julie Conroy was a fake, a liar, a cheat. And he knew also that he had suspected this for a long time. What a filthy, evil day: Freddy killed, put down like a diseased animal, and now Julie soiled with the same stain that touched everyone else he knew. What a bloody, lousy day . . . He thrust money at the shoe-shine boy and swung down from the chair, one shoe still dull with polish.

  He walked to the hotel on legs that were stiff with sternness, and sucking in a belly that was beginning to ache with emptiness. He felt helplessly angry, like an agnostic who has been robbed by God. He reached the hotel full of hate which was simply rancid love.

  The clerk at reception scrapped his smile in the face of such grimness and merely said that Senora Conroy was usually at the hotel swimming pool at that hour of the afternoon.

  She was sitting on the springboard, curled up with her head resting between her knees, so that her face was hidden. There was nobody else around except some children splashing in the shallow end.

  Luis stood and stared. She seemed to be drying off in the sun. Her legs and arms had a gauzy, golden haziness which showed off their slim and supple strength. The white bathing suit was stretched and creased like skin.

  'Hullo, you,' she said. Her face was still hidden; he realised that she could see his reflection in the water. 'Why aren't you at work?'

  'Same to you.' He was talking to her reflection.

  'I asked first.'

  He waited for a moment, and then said: 'Maybe I am at work.'

  There was another pause while she flexed her toes. 'Well, dial's good,' she said. She stood up, leaned forward and gripped the end of the springboard. In one easy, liquid motion she raised herself into a handstand.- 'You look as if you're wearing three suits and four ties,' she said, and dived in.

  She swam the length of the pool underwater, turning around one of the children (which made them shriek with delight), and headed back, still skimming the bottom, Luis walked to the diving platform and watched her slide towards him, as flat as cardboard. When she touched the end she looked up at him, and her face was made elastic by the wandering surface. Then she popped up and sucked in a great gasp of breath.

  'You lied to me,' Luis said.

  'Well, you lied to me too.' She began a leisurely backstroke down the pool.

  'Why did you say you were working for MGM?' he demanded.

  'Same reason you said you worked for International Red Cross,' she called.

  'And so I do.'

  'Balls!' She rolled over, surface-dived with a neat flurry of shining buttock, and emerged on her back, going in the opposite direction. 'I phoned,' she shouted. 'They never heard of you.'

  She swam two more lengths of the pool and climbed out. 'So who cares?' she said.

  'I care. Since you are not working for MGM, what are you doing in Madrid?'

  'I sometimes wonder.' She towelled her face. 'Swimming, a little tennis, the odd picnic in the woods.'

  'And who pays for these pleasures?'

  She dried her hands and threw the towel around her shoulders. 'Well, you sure as hell don't,' she said evenly. 'So what goddam business is it of yours?'

  Luis rubbed his knuckles across his forehead, scrubbing at the worry-lines as if he could erase the problem. 'All right,' he said. 'My International Red Cross work is camouflage.'

  'What for?'

  'I can't tell you.'

  'That's what I thought.'

  He glared at the glittering water. 'Listen, there's a war on, Mrs Conroy. You Americans don't understand war. You think it's simple, like fighting your Indians--'

  'Oh, shut up,' she said.

  'Certainly. It's a waste of time tryi
ng to explain.'

  Then why do it?'

  There was an answer, but Luis couldn't find the words. He walked away.

  It was still too early for dinner but Luis was so hungry that he found it difficult to think straight. He walked to the railway station and had a big bowl of soup in the buffet. Then he walked home. He felt very sleepy as he trudged up

  the stairs to his apartment. The bed looked enormously

  inviting. He had just enough self-discipline left to take off

  his clothes. Something fell out his sleeve: an envelope, folded in half and bent. Freddy Ryan's letter. Luis straightened it out. The envelope was addressed to Angela. Luis ripped it open. Inside was another envelope, addressed to

  P.D.Q. at the British Embassy, Madrid. It contained a sheet of paper covered with writing in a language he did not

  recognise. It looked Oriental or Indian. Christian was right.

  Freddy Ryan had been spying for the British all along. 'What's more, he had known that Christian suspected him.

  Luis burnt the lot and went to bed.

  Chapter 30

  He awoke at six. The first thing he remembered was the shooting. That entire sequence was as clear in his mind as a strip of film. He sat on the side of his bed and played it back several times, killing Freddy Ryan over and over again in his head until he was so dead that he could be killed no more. It was like holding a wake, he thought. There was some brandy in the bathroom. He drank a mouthful in Freddy's memory and whacked the cork into the bottle with treat decisiveness. He was ready for the day.

  There was mist everywhere, a smoky whiteness which clung to the streets and made the city unusually quiet. Luis walked to the vegetable market and ate a big breakfast in one of the cafes that opened early for the porters: eggs, ham, black sausage, fried potatoes, strong coffee. He read a newspaper and strolled to the rendezvous point for that morning: the eastern corner of the Plaza Espana, near the Cervantes monument. Otto arrived on time, and leaned across to open the passenger door. 'What happened to you yesterday?' he asked. 'We were worried.'

  'I needed some fresh air,' Luis said. 'I'm not coming to the embassy today, either.'

  'Why not?' Otto squirmed across the front seats to get a better look at Luis. 'Aren't you feeling well?'

  'I don't like the embassy, that's all. It's a dump.'

  'I see.' Otto laughed in a bewildered sort of way. 'A dump . . . Well, I must say I've worked in worse dumps.'

  Luis straightened up and looked around. The mist had cleared; there were soft white ribs of cloud, very high in the sky; it was going to be another crisp, bright day.

  Otto said: 'The thing is, Colonel Christian wants very much to speak to you. He's waiting now, in fact.'

  'Tell him to meet me . . .' Luis squeezed his eyes shut, and thought hard. 'Yes. Place called Purgatorio. It's just a village, about fifteen kilometres outside Madrid, off the road to Corunna.'

  'Purgatorio?' Otto looked at Luis as if he were joking.

  'That's right.' The name had stuck in his mind from one evening when he and Julie had driven into the countryside. 'One hour from now.' Luis walked away.

  He took a taxi to Purgatorio. It turned out to be an appropriately depressing place. A dozen houses, all lopsided and flaking, struggled to make up a single street. The church had collapsed, and from somewhere nearby came the acrid tang of pig manure in large quantities. There was a one-room shop which doubled as a bar, run by a shuffling widow who was heavily moustached; her fingernails were long and yellow and she scratched herself a good deal. Luis found a bench and settled down to wait.

  Colonel Christian was ten minutes late. He stood in the doorway and stared at Luis. 'What the hell's all this about?' he asked. He sounded more puzzled than angry.

  'Mother wants to meet you.' Luis nodded at the shuffling window. 'She's heard so much about you, and she's such a keen tennis-player.'

  'I have a meeting with the ambassador at noon,' Christian said. He came in. Otto followed him. They sat on the bench, one on either side of Luis.

  'She's terribly independent,' Luis said. 'You know what old people are like. I think we'd better order something, don't you?'

  Christian sighed, and nodded. Luis asked the old woman to make them three cups of hot chocolate. She grunted and went away, scratching.

  'Now,' Luis said. 'I'm ready to go to England.'

  Christian leaned back and looked at him. 'What's your hurry?'

  'No hurry. It's simply that I have nothing to keep me here so I want to go there.'

  An extremely muddy dog trotted in, pissed briefly on a pack of potatoes, looked at the three men, and trotted out again.

  'You can't go to England yet,' Christian said. 'I don't see why not.'

  'Originally we were going to parachute you in with Ryan. Now we have to find somebody else to go with you. Experiance shows that two men have more than double the chance of success.'

  'I can go on my own,' Luis said. 'I can go by passenger boat. I told you before: I'm a Spanish neutral, travelling on business. It's the obvious way to get there.' 'Obvious to the British too,' Otto said. That's my problem. I've done enough training. I want to get to work.'

  'No you don't,' Christian said. 'You want to run away from Freddy Ryan and Mrs Julie Conroy.'

  The old woman shuffled in with their cups of hot chocolate, and went away, leaving a faint smell of mildew. 'I'm not drinking that,' Christian said.

  'Look: two weeks ago I'd never met either of them,' Luis said, 'and two weeks from now I'll have forgotten them both. Provided I'm in England and working, that is.'

  'Is he technically competent?' Christian asked Otto.

  'Yes. His Morse transmission is a little slow. '

  'I shan't be using Morse,' Luis declared. 'In fact I shan't be using radio.'

  'What then?' Christian was getting restless.

  'All my reports will come to you via the Spanish diplomatic bag. I have a friend in the London Embassy.'

  'What?' Christian was more than startled; he was disturbed. 'Who is he? Do we know him?'

  'I sincerely hope not. I'm certainly not going to tell you.'

  'How did you arrange this?' Otto asked.

  'That's my business.'

  'No,' Christian decided. 'No, no, no. Too many areas of risk. Your whole mission would be out of our control. Far too hazardous.'

  'You would prefer me to paddle ashore one dark night with a large suitcase full of temperamental radio gear and an invisible fountain-pen?''

  'That's what you've been trained for,' Otto said.

  'You are a fathead,' Luis told him.

  'I can't agree to it.' Christian got up and stamped about the shop, exercising the stiffness from his legs. 'You would be totally isolated. Damn it all, we must be able to get instructions to you.'

  'The diplomatic bag travels both ways.'

  'How do you know it isn't a trap?' Christian found a bunch of bananas on a hook from the ceiling, and snapped one off. 'How do you know British Intelligence haven't planted this obliging chap in the Spanish Embassy? Huh?' He stripped off the skin and took a challenging bite. The old woman came back in and looked at them. 'How do you know she isn't with British Intelligence?' Luis said.

  Christian munched the rest of his banana. 'Where is the lavatory?' he asked.

  'Outside.' Luis made a circular gesture. 'Anywhere. Everywhere.'

  As Christian moved to the door, the woman made a harsh cry. 'The banana,' Luis said. Christian gave her the skin and the first banknote he found in his pocket. She glared, flung the skin on the floor, spat on it, crumpled the money and shook her fist. 'You gave her far too much,' Luis said wearily. 'Now she's insulted.'

  Christian grunted. 'If you want me, I shall be in the shit,' he said. He went out.

  Luis leaned back and inhaled the simple, strong aromas of peasant food: beans, bread, goats milk cheese, spiced sausage. 'What is the matter with him?' he asked.

  Otto spooned up chocolate-grounds from the bottom of his c
up. 'It would be improper for me to comment,' he said.

  'All right, you can go to hell too.'

  Otto tugged at his ear and looked at the empty doorway.

  'If Colonel Christian doesn't get a big success soon, he will be removed. Colonel Christian was depending very heavily on Freddy Ryan. He desperately wants you to succeed, and quickly. But he doesn't want to let you go until he is sure that you are fully trained and able to survive.'

  'I don't care,' Luis said. 'I'm going to England, and I'm going my way, not his.'

  'I know that. So does he. Just give him a little time to accept it.'

  Christian came back, looking more relaxed. 'We'll talk about it in the car,' he said. Luis paid for the hot chocolates and received from the shuffling widow the sullen gift of half-a-dozen bananas, wrapped in newspaper. He thanked her, briefly but elegantly, and she stopped scratching to watch them go.

  'Why did she do that?' Christian asked.

  'It's a matter of style. Of breeding, perhaps. I can't explain. One is born to it.'

  Otto drove them back to Madrid. As they were entering the suburbs Christian said: 'All right: go to England on your own. But when you arrive I want you to link up with one of our agents in London, a man we call "Mercury".'

  'For God's sake ..." Luis looked thoroughly disgusted. 'What's the good of that? I don't like working with other people. I know what to do, And after that awful mess over Ryan, the less I see of your other agents, the happier I shall be.'

  'Ah, but Mercury can help you. There will be all sorts of problems: ration cards, travel restrictions, even finding somewhere to live can be difficult. Mercury knows his way around London.'

  'So you say.' Luis's fingers worried a seam in the car upholstery. 'I wonder how many people know their way around Mercury.'

  'Mercury is one of our most established agents,' Otto said. 'A translator in the British Ministry of Information. They trust him completely.'

  'Which just goes to show that nobody should trust anybody completely,' Luis said. 'All right, tell me where he is and if I need him, I'll find him. But--'