by Bonnie Toews
“We can see that,” Quinn assured him.
He sympathized with the Basques. They wanted what his Irish brethren wanted: the right to self-govern.
In Ireland, as a teenager, he had joined the Irish Republican Army for the same reason. Even here, the fight between the Irish continued. Nearly 250 Protestant volunteers from Northern Ireland fought side by side with the Republicans, while 700 of Eoin O’Duffy’s followers joined pro-Franco Nationalists to defend the interests of the Catholic Church in Spain.
“I must tell you about our Gernikako Arbola.” Pride swelled in the old man’s voice.
“I remember the oak tree in Guernica,” said Lee, standing by
Quinn’s left side, “in the garden by the Archives. It’s centuries old.”
“Your oak tree…” she hesitated and then stumbled forward in her clumsy Spanish, “it is your… symbol… of… independence.
Has it fallen too?”
It amused Quinn to hear Lee try to speak Spanish. Most words she couldn’t pronounce, and she made it worse by thinking in English and then translating what she wanted to say.
“No,” Ortuz said, “it is spared. But our oak tree sends you a message.” A deep sadness clouded his eyes.
“If the oak tree blooms late, it is a bad omen. This year, the oak tree bloom late. The omen is true. Do you see? It not just an omen for us. It an omen for the whole world.”
Quinn gently released his hands from the old Basque’s grip.
“We will go on British radio and broadcast what happened here today. I promise you. This is why we must leave soon.”
He glanced around. Voices babbled. Someone hollered. A group of freedom fighters mounted trucks on their way to outposts guarding the mountain passes.
“Senor Ortuz, is there some place outside the camp where Lee and I can be alone?”
The old Basque chuckled. “Ah, love … stronger in war.”
And then, when he noticed Lee glaring at Quinn, he frowned. “Go to top of first hill. The poplar trees will hide you.”
“Wait.” Lee reached out as if to hold back Ortuz.
Quinn glanced at her in surprise.
“Senor,” she withdrew her hand and began again in a more respectful tone. “I have another question.”
The old man inclined his head.
A slight smile softened her intensity. “I can speak some Spanish, but I don’t recognize any words I hear you Basques speak. Is my ear that bad?”
His eyes twinkled like a pleased teacher. “Your ear is good. We do not speak Spanish to each other.”
“You don’t?”
He shook his head emphatically. “No, no.”
“What do you speak?”
“Our own tongue. Eskuara. We are not Basques. This is what the Spanish and French call us.”
“What do you call yourselves?”
“Eskualdunak—those who speak the Eskuara. Eskuak-Herria is the land of those who speak the Eskuara.”
“Eskuara … Eskualdunak,” Lee repeated slowly.
Quinn gripped Lee’s shoulders and pointed her toward a path leading up the hill ahead. He couldn’t let her distract him from getting those photos back. He waved farewell to Senor Ortuz. The old Basque grinned and waved back.
When they reached the poplar trees beyond the hearing of the freedom fighters’ camp, Quinn rested his tall frame against one of the trunks. The light of the full moon glazed the grassy belt and shivering leafage near them with a copper glow.
“Look,” he began, “I’m sorry I upset… and worried you. I had my orders.”
“Orders?” she scoffed. “Are you a Nazi spy?”
“A what?? NO, of course I’m not a … well… yes, I am a spy … for Winston Churchill.”
Lee’s eyes narrowed. “Careful, Luv. I can detect your Dublin accent, and doncha know the Irish love to kiss the blarney stone.”
Her Irish imitation dripped with sarcasm.
He sighed. She was right. He was still working to get rid of the lilting brogue that gave away his Dublin upbringing. Sir Fletcher had warned him the British would never trust an Irishman trained to be an IRA terrorist in their Secret Service, but since Churchill’s operation was working outside government jurisdiction, the old codger needed his skills to fight their common enemy, Hitler.
“Look, what would you have me do?” he asked.
“We needed a war correspondent to report this attack on Guernica to convince the British people Hitler is a monster. From our Intelligence, there was a strong possibility there would be no survivors to describe what happened here.”
Her mouth dropped, and her eyes rounded with indignation.
“I was looking for you at the hotel because I was afraid you were hit. I could have been killed. I didn’t know I was your pawn … OR your witness!”
“What did you do when you couldn’t find me, dead or alive?”
Her lips tightened in a grim line.
“I went to the Monastery of Augustine Fathers.”
“And why did you go there?”
“Because when you introduced me to Father Michel, you said if I ever felt scared or alone, I was to go to him. He would keep me safe.”
Quinn couldn’t resist smiling.
Her eyes widened. “You no good devil! You arranged my escape.”
He held up his hands in mock surrender. “Guilty.”
A kaleidoscope of emotions crossed her face. Eventually doubt won. “When you left the camp, where did you go?”
“To arrange a phone feed,” he answered, “to air my broadcast to London directly, but the phone lines were cut in another Fascist air raid on Bilbao. I’ve chartered a flight for us to London instead. We have to be at the Bilbao airport by midnight.”
“You should have trusted Basque ingenuity.”
She laughed outright. “Actually, it was rather funny when I think of it. Without you, I couldn’t make anyone understand until I mimed that I wanted to talk on a radio and then drew an outline of England in the dirt. The commander’s radio operator got it, hooked me up on a field phone and then relayed me through a series of military lines to a base in England. From there it was transmitted to the BBC. I’ve already made the broadcast for you.”
Inside, he preened. His plan had worked. Lee would get the recognition for breaking the news on the bombing of Guernica. “Mother of Murphy! Why didn’t I think of that?”
Lee’s posture remained rigid, and her eyes hardened.
“Why, indeed. After all, you were with the commander all afternoon.”
“We had other things to discuss.”
He knew this sounded weak to her, and it was, except it was true. But, when he saw her icy stare, he realized he had to convince her or he would lose her trust. “If you must know, we were talking about setting up Fifth Columnists to spy on the Fascists in Madrid.”
Lee blinked, folded her arms across her chest, tilted her head sideways with her eyes still on him, but said nothing.
He watched her struggle between her doubts and her desire to believe him. “Look,” he told her, “I trusted your instincts. I knew you would come through for us today. And you’ve been far more resourceful than I imagined. Meeting you hasn’t been all cold cunning, you know. Your friendship is absolutely essential to me.”
She remained silent, resisting his plea for her understanding.
He sucked in a breath, seeking patience. She was so unlike her mother. Margot Miranov flaunted exotic fashions with the carelessness of an arrogant peacock, as if she wanted to reject the common person’s touch. But she loved attention, and she enjoyed pleasing men she considered her intellectual equal. Not her daughter! Lee Talbot dressed with complete disregard for her alluring beauty. She loathed anything pretentious except for, Quinn noted, the name she chose for herself. It denied her Russian roots.
He grabbed Lee’s shoulders in frustration, almost shaking her. “For Pete’s sake, Lee! Don’t make it harder than it is.”
Loose locks of thick matted hair
tumbled down her shoulders, adding to her vulnerability. She looked so defenseless. On impulse, he folded her into his arms and held her—grateful she survived the bombing. There was always the risk she wouldn’t.
“Oh, Quinn,” she whispered against his shoulder. He felt her relax and welcomed the warmth of her body against his. She snuggled closer. “I need you so much.”
The word ‘need’ hit him with a swift sense of guilt. He stepped back, away from their closeness, but still held her elbows, hoping he would not offend her. He needed her as well, but not in the way he thought she was suggesting. “You have to listen to me, Lee.”
She looked up at him, and with relief, he saw trust in her magnificent eyes. They glowed like lingering embers.
“Guernica changes everything… for us, for everybody.”
“How?”
“Guernica is a preview of Hitler’s vision of war. The barbaric Huns in all their terror have risen again. It will take extraordinary imagination and relentless commitment to combat Hitler’s intention to unite Europe under the Nazi Swastika. His ‘total war’ scheme depends on coordinating radio communications effectively from air to ground and sea and between assault forces. Such a massive system is susceptible to mistakes and mechanical failures. This means Hitler is vulnerable. Intelligence—astute, finely tuned, analytical, resourceful, aggressive intelligence—could confuse and defeat him in the war games to come. That’s what matters to me. Our victory.”
He could feel what he said stirred her.
She squared her shoulders. “How can I help?”
“Let’s sit down, shall we?”
She nodded and pulled her skirt under her to sit on the grassy rise beside the poplar tree.
He folded his legs under him and sat down facing her.
“Churchill wants to buy your column.”
“You mean buy my column from Collier’s Weekly. It’s an American magazine. Can he do that?”
Quinn nodded. “Using an independent news agency, he can acquire world rights for your column and syndicate On the Spot with Lee Talbot worldwide. We want to do this for two reasons: first, and foremost, you have broken into the brotherhood of war correspondents, as you put it. You can laugh, but everyone reads what you have to say even if they don’t want to admit it. They read you because they believe you.”
“If you say so. And the second reason,” she prompted.
“We need to make the public aware of Hitler’s real threat to the free world. I don’t mean just to Britain. I mean in the colonies.”
Lee’s eyes bulged in disbelief. “You still call the U.S. the colonies?”
He ignored her. “Newspapers like the Chicago Tribune preach isolationism to its readers. But the world is getting smaller. If Britain loses and all Europe falls under the Nazi Swastika, life won’t go on in North America as if nothing has happened. Hitler will be banging down your doors next. We need to join forces now, not when it’s too late. Your column can deliver this message at the same time as it provides me with cover for a secret mission into Europe.”
“How does my reporting give you cover?”
“Acting as your bureau chief, I can be seen talking to all kinds of people in all sorts of places, all in the name of research for your stories.”
“Okay, but what’s my part?”
“Just what you’ve been doing.”
“And…?”
Pain jabbed Quinn. “You don’t want to get more involved.”
“Don’t be a horse’s ass! I’m already involved. I can’t walk away from what I’ve seen here, and in Madrid. Do you want me to pretend it didn’t happen? Well, I can’t. Hitler must be stopped. I agree. If not here, then somewhere else. I’ve already experienced what mad men can do to a country. My father got my mother and me out just before the Bolsheviks vanquished Russia.”
She stopped herself. “Now I sound like you.”
“You do, at that.”
Her eyes searched his face. “You didn’t have to set me up, you know.”
“That’s what the spy game is, Lee. One set up after another. We agents are pawns. We never see the whole board. We simply do the job we’re assigned and hope it makes a difference.”
“But you could have told me everything from the beginning. I would have welcomed the chance to help.”
“I had to be sure you had the courage, the tenacity … and the commitment… and I had to earn your trust as well as see if I could trust you. We’re going to be working together, and we’ll have only each other to rely on.”
“That is tough.”
He could tell from her twinkling eyes she was teasing him. But, it wasn’t everything. His spymaster, Sir Fletcher, had pointed out another way she could help him infiltrate the Nazi inner circle closest to Hitler. His jaw tightened. He looked down at his feet, bent from the waist and plucked a blade of grass. He twisted it between his fingers as he pulled himself upright before he dared look into her eyes again.
“What?” she asked. “More?”
“According to your dossier…”
“My dossier! You have a dossier on me?”
“We do.”
“What does it say?”
“You are a Russian-born immigrant to the United States. You applied for your American citizenship at the same time as you legally changed your name from Helena Miranov to Lee Talbot.”
“Yeah, I almost called myself Lena, that’s short for Helena, because I liked my name, but then I wanted to disassociate myself from everything Russian, so I dropped the ‘na’ for the more American Lee, and the name felt right. I’ve never answered to ‘Lena’ since.”
Quinn absorbed her explanation. When she didn’t add more, he continued. “You graduated from Bryn Mawr College in Fine Arts. A private school just ten miles west of Philadelphia.”
“Verttatem Dilexi.”
“Pardon?”
“Our motto in Latin. It means, I delight in the truth.” “I see.” Quinn considered her with more interest. “Is that why you decided to become a journalist? To pursue truth?”
“Very good. You very bright man.”
He ignored her sarcasm. “And you left the Chicago Tribune to work for a weekly magazine because…”
“Collier’s Weekly specializes in investigative journalism. I was given my own column and a chance to become a war correspondent along with Hemingway and Gellhorn.”
“They’re seasoned writers.”
“I know. That’s the challenge. Isn’t it great? I get to work with the best.”
He paused and studied her again. Was she being cocky? Her eyes beamed. With genuine enthusiasm. She was still young enough to be idealistic. He relaxed. “So, you’re not poor. Your father, Yuri Miranov, left you with comfortable means after he died in New York five years ago.”
She nodded. “He made his fortune as an import broker.”
“I’ve met your mother, you know.”
She looked at him with surprise. “You have?”
“Oh yes. Your mother has become a famous American playwright. When her play was staged in London, she came with the troupe. Margot Miranov is a most elegant, stunning woman. I went out of my way to meet her at the reception after I saw her play. She mentioned how proud she was of you. ‘A chip off the old block,’I believe she said. Of course I subscribed to Collier’s but when I referred to your Russian name, they wrote back that the only one writing their On-the-Spot column in Spain was Lee Talbot. Did I still want to subscribe. I replied, yes.”
Lee’s animated face stilled. He felt her withdraw from him. Distrust guarded her eyes.
“Unfortunately, my Russian mother is also a Jew.”
When she emphasized Russian, he wondered what had happened. Why had she gone to such lengths to deny her Russian roots?
She carried on in the same cold voice.
“Even though my father was an agnostic Gentile, in the eyes of the Nazis, having one parent a Jew makes me a Jew. Doesn’t that add a risk to your operation if I am caught?”
“I know,” Lee said with stoic resignation.
“No, you don’t understand. Under torture, everyone talks. In case the Gestapo catch us, rather than reveal anything, we will be supplied with a cyanide tablet in one of our back molars. Under dire conditions, we will die rather than talk.”
She stared back at him and her face paled.
“Can you do it?”
She sat still. After a moment, her eyes cleared with renewed resolve. “I can do it.”
“Now, may I have my photos back?”
She smiled and relaxed. “Of course.”
She pulled the photo envelope out of her shoulder bag and handed it to him.
“Tell me, how did you get this?”
“You left the envelope on the radio operator’s desk.”
“I am a horse’s ass!” It was his turn to be stunned.
She laughed. “Careless, huh. Or clever. Maybe you wanted me to see them. Maybe it was all part of the game to hook me,” she teased in a mock conspiratorial tone.
He sighed from deep inside.
“The pictures were part of my discussion with the Basque commander. I used them to convince him the Republicans need Basque support to fight Franco. I can’t believe I forgot them.”
Lee’s eyes softened.
“You’re human after all. That’s rather nice to know.”
“A spy can’t afford to be human,” he admonished himself. “I won’t make that mistake again.”
Surprise flickered in Lee’s eyes. She searched his face, but whatever she saw there, she left unsaid.
Instead she asked him, “Is that everything I need to know?”
Quinn cleared his throat and looked down.
“Look! You…”
He stumbled and finished lamely, “… it may be necessary to use your beauty to attract the beasts.”
“Ah, patriotic prostitution, you mean,” she corrected him coldly.
“More like my patriotic hostess. I want you to lure them in so I can collect information, not sleep with them. Can you do it?” Quinn asked gruffly.