‘You mean she let the Communists in the front door while pushing the anarchists out the back?’ August joked.
‘There was even a rumour she was a favourite with José Millán Astray when the Nationalists were in town,’ Karl elaborated. ‘She had this saying, “Red, blue, black, in the end the politics mean nothing – all men have one thing that they wave harder than a flag!”’ The two men broke into raucous laughter. ‘I gave you the gun because I couldn’t bear to see you with that piece of First World War Russian rubbish.’
‘Then that little Mexican bastard stole it while I was with Rosa!’
‘Now I remember! You ran out naked, screaming, “Where is my gun, where is my gun!” The girls were most impressed. While you were inconsolable.’
‘The gun’s been good to me all these years, Karl.’
‘Of course, it’s German. We make great fascists and great guns, even better than the Americans. Was Rosa that redhead from Carmona?’
‘That’s the one. Jesus, the number of nights I crept out of base to see her.’
‘Fantastic breasts, if I remember correctly. But the best one at El Toro Bravo was Cochinta. What she could do with her mouth could make a corpse stiff.’
At this the two men doubled up with laughter again.
Disgusted, Izarra hauled her bag and placed it beside Karl on the bed.
‘When you two boys have stopped reminiscing, we should make some plans, then rest,’ she said, soberly. August pulled himself together.
‘Izarra’s right. We have some travelling to do tomorrow. Karl, I need the use of a darkroom. Would that be possible?’
‘Sure, the party’s HQ has a darkroom out the back. Anything else?’
‘A good map of Hamburg, and you mentioned earlier that you might be able to get some information on whether Interpol or any of my other friends have followed me here?’
Karl checked his watch. ‘If I leave now, I can still catch my friend at work. In the meantime I suggest Izarra goes to the local store – there’s a small illegal market in the ground floor of one of the temporary housing blocks about three streets from here – coffee, milk, bread, cigarettes, all you need. Do you have American dollars?’
August nodded.
‘Excellent.’
‘But is it safe?’ August asked.
‘For her, yes.’ Karl glanced at Izarra. ‘If anyone asks, you just tell them in English you’re a refugee with the English. That will frighten them off. I’ll only be a couple of hours.’
‘I can take care of myself,’ she told him, patting the gun concealed in her trouser pocket. Karl frowned, then held out his hand. ‘No weapons.’ Reluctantly, Izarra took out the gun and handed it to him. He placed it on the table. ‘If Tommy catches you with that, he’ll arrest you and question you. Try and stay as inconspicuous as possible. Naturally, this is difficult for a beautiful woman,’ he concluded, a little patronisingly.
‘You insult me.’ Izarra stepped forward and August, anxious to stave off another argument, came between them.
‘Izarra is a seasoned fighter.’
There was a beat of tension then Karl turned back to August. ‘Maybe, but here being invisible is more important. Remember this is an occupied city, under constant surveillance with a curfew.’
Karl led them out of the cabin back to the scullery. He showed them a large water bottle under the sink and pulled open the icebox.
‘There’s cups in the cupboard and the camping stove has gas if you want to cook. Feel free to make as much noise as you like, no one can hear you. I’ll leave the map for you then I’ll be gone till early tomorrow morning.’ He swung his jacket over his shoulders. ‘I’m going to leave you the BMW in case you need it. It’s less noticeable than the car and it has German plates. Just don’t crash it. She is my first love and maybe my only true one. I’ll take your car. That way if anyone is following you, I will create a false lead. Be good, you two.’
Back in the captain’s cabin August ran his hands along the edge of the work surface that folded out from the wall. Then he rapped his knuckles against the top to check. Sure enough, it sounded hollow. He took out his Swiss Army knife and prised open the edge. There was enough room to slide the wrapped chronicle into the space, which was the perfect hiding place. He pushed the wooden end of the desk back into position. No one would even notice. He switched on the small lamp that stretched out from the wall like an aberrant branch and slipped on the white gloves he always wore to examine his rare books. Then he began to unwrap the chronicle. Now that Izarra had gone for supplies, the submarine felt eerily empty – strange distant clanking noises seemed to come from inside the pipes and the occasional electronic blip sounded out randomly in the thick silence that filled the confined space. It was hard to dismiss the sensation that the absent crew, who seemed to have left invisible trails of past activity like comet tails, were not about to step around the corner of some steel portal or cabinet.
‘Hello, old friend,’ August told the chronicle. The remark hung in the air before being swallowed again by the oppressive atmosphere. It was cold comfort. August smiled to himself; it was absurd that someone like him, who’d happily gone into battle, fought close combat against ridiculous odds, should be scared of ghosts. And yet even his very seat, on which the Soviet captain must have sat and wondered during dangerous expeditions and dives if he had made the right decision or if he had unnecessarily endangered his own men, even this seat seemed imbued with the presence of the executed sailor. The whole ambience of the sub reminded him of a time during the Civil War when he was commanding a unit of the Lincolns. There was an outpost – a deserted nunnery with a tower that looked out over a small town – that had changed sides several times before August’s men finally retook it from Franco’s troops. The tower itself had been witness to a number of killings as each wave of riflemen were slaughtered by the incoming army. It offered the ideal outlook but a rumour had started among both the Republican and Nationalist troops that the tower was haunted by one particular ghost, a young fascist who had sustained a wound that left him disembowelled but alive, barely alive, when his battalion had to evacuate the tower, leaving him to die a particularly nasty and lingering death. The story was that you knew the ghost was there when you felt the slithering cord of an intestine slip around your neck. August was always careful to post two men up there, but one night he was forced, due to a lack of troops, to post only one rifleman. The young sharpshooter from Wyoming was found the next morning at the foot of the tower, having thrown himself off the top in the middle of the night. After that August always took ghosts seriously.
He was just about to open the chronicle when the sound of footsteps resounded over the hull. He froze, listening. The sound came again, of clanking and the definite creak of footfall. After slipping the chronicle into his jacket pocket, August reached for the Mauser and got out of the chair as silently as he could, gun held ready. He stepped into the passageway, dimly lit by pools of dirty yellow light shining down from a string of naked bulbs. Looking up, he tracked the footsteps above as they walked the length of the craft, picking his way carefully over the metal ribbing so he didn’t trip and betray himself. A sudden gust of air ruffled his hair and shirt collar, a draught running down the centre passage of the U-boat. The tower entrance must have been left open. August tensed. There was no way Izarra would have been so careless and if it hadn’t been her – who had? August felt thankful that, after Karl had left, she’d insisted she take her gun with her. At least she was armed. Every shadow seemed to harbour an intruder and several times he swung around expecting to see an assassin at the ready.
He reached the command bridge and as quietly as he could, stepped onto the first rung of the steel ladder leading to the surface. Now he could feel the wind whistling in from the open hatch of the U-boat, prickling against his skin. Knowing he was utterly vulnerable to attack, he continued up. If someone was waiting, he would be an easy target once he reached those top rungs. Cautiously, he climbed up until h
is head and shoulders were just through the open hatch. He looked out over the hull. It was hard to see, there was a heavy fog beyond the entrance of the bunker and it was dark in the recesses of the building. He quickly crept out onto the hull, grateful for the rubber soles of his boots. Suddenly, there came a bloodcurdling howl from the shadows. Startled, August stumbled back, skidding on the slippery metal. He fell, catching at a handrail with his left hand, and hung for a moment from the side of the submarine, holding the Mauser in his right, ready to shoot. Just then a rat bolted from the far corner of the bunker and scurried along the wooden plank to the jetty. It was followed by another unearthly yowl and a cat leaped out of the dark after it. The cornered rat jumped into the filthy strip of brownish water glinting between the hull of the U-boat and the canalside. The cat, spitting furiously, glared down at it, then looked up at August and bolted into the fog. By the time he peered back down at the dirty brown water the rat had disappeared. Cursing his own stupidity, he hauled himself up and clambered back onto the hull. Still with his gun at the ready, he walked over the plankway and switched on the light in the bunker. Apart from the rusting machine parts and boat engines littering the sides, the place was empty and yet it felt as if someone had just been there. August stared out into the fog. He could just see as far as the edges of a yard opposite. Everything appeared shut down, devoid of people. There was no sign of Izarra. Where was she? he wondered. He checked his watch; she’d been gone for less than an hour.
After telling himself not to worry, he switched off the light in the bunker and returned to the submarine.
The lamp was still on in the captain’s quarters, now shining down on the tiny, empty wooden table. Only now, where the chronicle had been only minutes before was a single magnolia, droplets of water still shimmering on its petals – completely incongruous in the compact and utterly industrial surrounds. Its thick scent filled the little cabin like a dream. August gaped at it in shock. So someone had been there, but what was this? A symbol? A warning? He turned, almost expecting the intruder to be standing right behind him, but there was nothing except the arched metal entrance he’d just stepped through, framed by bolts, with the array of wiring and pipes running along the corridor behind it like the spinal cord of some robotic centipede. How was it possible for someone to enter so silently and swiftly without him seeing them? It could only have happened while he was out by the mooring. Even they must have exited from the other side of the U-boat. How could anyone move that fast that quietly? Nothing human, that’s for sure. Determined to stick to a rational train of thought, August pulled out the chronicle and opened it at the next chapter – the one marked ‘Germania’. Just as he thought it would be, the flower that headed this section was a magnolia – identical to the one he held in his left hand.
‘I bought some pumpernickel, cheese, some sausage, a couple of apples and some beer. It’s freezing out there.’ Izarra unloaded the bag onto the scullery bench. August was sitting at the kitchen bench, nursing a vodka having found a hidden bottle, trying to regain a sense of control, his brittle sense of security utterly violated. Surprised by his silence, Izarra glanced over at August.
‘What’s wrong? You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.’
‘We had an intruder.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘They left a signature – a magnolia. It’s identical to another one in the chronicle. August held out the journal, the magnolia lying along the spine, its large flat petals mirroring the illustration on the page opposite the ‘ancient and beautiful abode of the Hanseatic burghers of Hamburg’.
Shocked, Izarra sat down, her eyes wide with disbelief. ‘It’s him.’
‘If it were him, he would have killed me and taken the chronicle.’
‘So who is it?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘And why haven’t we heard from Jacob by now. He was meant to contact us to let us know where Tyson is.’
‘It’s too early. Give him a day or so.’
Izarra pulled the lid off a beer bottle and drank from it. ‘August, you are making the mistake of assuming you are more intelligent than Tyson. I know this man, I saw how he was with my sister. Using the chronicle to trap him is not going to work. You are just being sidetracked. The real reason why we are here is to kill him.’
‘I told you before, he is going to stand trial as a war criminal. If we kill him, we become him.’
‘You are him!’ She slammed her fist onto the table. ‘You’re just as obsessed by the chronicle as he is! That’s the real game here —’
‘You’re being unfair!’
‘Then tell me why aren’t we going straight to Geneva to talk to your father? We know Tyson has to go there sooner or later.’
August was at a loss for words. Was she right? Had Shimon’s obsessive quest hijacked his perspective? And yet he felt compelled to find the next maze. He was too far in. He’d risked far too much to abandon the hunt now.
‘Izarra, you have to understand,’ he tried to sound as convincing as he could, ‘the chronicle holds the key. You want to know why your sister was murdered? Why Jimmy wanted me to have the book? Why your ancestor was executed? We will get Tyson, but right now the chronicle is more important.’
‘More important than the liberation of my people? More important than trying to stop a deal that will fund Franco for decades? There isn’t anything more important.’ Furious, she swung around to leave. August grabbed her by the arm and pulled her towards him.
‘Izarra, I’m sorry. I just can’t let go right now, but I promise —’ He stopped, their faces only inches apart, her mouth tantalisingly close to his, the beauty of her black eyes an utter distraction. She stared up at him, furious, but she didn’t pull away. Abruptly the anger turned and they were upon each other, pulling off each other’s clothes, lips clashing together hungrily, hands fumbling with buttons, zips, tearing at scarves, all rational thought having fled. August, his thighs trembling, could barely think. All he wanted was to be inside her, weeks of desire having risen and broken through any constraint. His hands reached into her jacket for her breasts, the soft full warmth of them, the large nipples hard against his palms, her sex, hot and wet against his fingers. They fell against the edge of the table and an apple broke from a bag and rolled down to the floor forgotten, like an escapee from a parable.
Izarra, wrapping her legs around his hips, drew him down to her lips, her mouth. For a second August hesitated.
‘Izarra, maybe this isn’t a good idea.’ But, flushed with lust, her eyes blazing, she pulled him back towards her.
‘Sí, sí, it is good. I hate you,’ she whispered into his mouth, in Spanish, her hand reaching for him, the shocking touch of her on him, on his cock, the undeniable fact of his desire. He lifted her up and carried her out of the scullery down the narrow corridor and into the captain’s cabin. He lowered her onto the bed, then banged his head as he bent down to join her and the two of them burst into laughter.
She lay curled in his arms, her sleeping face pushed against his chest, her long hair scattered across his forearm, her aquiline profile and lips, the bottom fuller than the top, eloquent in repose, her curved eyelashes fluttering in dream. They had made love like animals, like saints, like thirsty people who hadn’t drunk for a month and the intensity of it had shocked him to the core. He couldn’t remember being so openly sensual with anyone, not even Cecily. But the feeling was as much emotional as sexual. He had been himself with Izarra. There had been no pressure to pretend to be someone a little gentler, a little more civilised, someone who had never lived nor tasted the edges of life, which was the man he’d always felt women expected him to be before now. Was that why he’d never told Cecily about Spain, about so many things about his past? He’d been so careful to present an acceptable construct, the urbane man who would never commit murder, legalised by war or anything else. The charming rogue, always ready with a joke, with ironic banter that deliberately skated across the surface of darker issues. T
his was the man he presented to the world. But Izarra? Izarra knew all, or nearly all of it. He wondered what her reaction would be if he told her about Charlie, or the massacre he himself had been forced to order at Belchite – would she condemn him? Or understand the terrible paradoxes war made an ordinary man face? He looked at the sweep of her back and hip, her broad shoulders defenceless in repose. And in that moment he thought that he would always want her, because she made him feel whole. The stunning simplicity of the revelation shocked him. He imagined she would accept the truth of him, say nothing in that profound way of hers and yet understand everything. After all she had fought in the same war, seen the same unmentionable things. Was it just this that made her different from the others? Or was it more – a shared instinct, a common sensibility?
He traced the curve of her breast with the tip of a finger, the warmth of her rising and falling with each breath. She wasn’t manicured or perfect; her body was a working body, the strong legs, almost as muscular as his own, the large breasts peppered with a shower of moles, the thick black pubic hair, fecund, lush. Her sexuality had an uninhibited primal drive and it had liberated his own. Swept away, he’d placed his own pleasure first and, to his profound delight, this had only excited her further. Their lovemaking had felt like an act of worship to a dancing God who had filled August’s head with some resonant song, or note, a melody that took him away from conscious thought, from the limitations of himself, of his past. For a moment it felt as if he had been offered a whole possible future, one he would never have conceived of a mere month before. It had felt like hope and, even more disturbingly, he found himself wanting to stay. To be with her. He rested his head against the bedhead, the warmth and scent of their two entwined bodies rising up, an oasis of intimacy in a sea of hard metal edges. He could not believe how intense his emotions were. Here was a man undone, he thought smiling, thankful she was asleep – the great icicle melted, and yet he was finding it hard to trust what his heart was telling him. Where was the usual sense of panic, of sudden suffocation he always felt after making love? The immediate desire to leave, to shed his post-coital body like a shell and flee the moment? He stared down at Izarra. If anything, he found himself more terrified that she would be the one to leave him. The strength of her resolve, the singularity of her existence, meant she had no need for him. She was not someone who needed protecting, or even supporting – she was as resilient as he was, her past as dense and complex as his. She might have wanted him but she certainly didn’t need him. It was a painful observation.
The Map Page 45