“What do you recommend?” Thoroton studied the menu from his relaxed pose in his chair. He wore the pale linen suit of a Spaniard, but there was no disguising his British features. Even so, he got on well in the country. And should, as hard as he had worked to ingratiate himself.
Drake skimmed the menu, though he ate at this bistro at least once a week. His director had spoken in Spanish, so he followed suit. “I’m partial to the chorizo and rice.”
“That sounds good.”
They put in their order, both looking out at the pretty street of the Old Quarter while the waiter busied himself at a table nearby. In England right now, autumn had no doubt fully dislodged summer, and rain would be usurping the fair days. But here the sun beat down hot and golden, painting the cobblestones with heat that radiated back up to them at their outdoor table. Around them, chatter buzzed from the other tables, all filled.
It wouldn’t look odd for Drake to be entertaining an Englishman—he frequently did, whenever an acquaintance came into town. But more often than not, those acquaintances were other agents, serving with him under this one.
Thoroton reached into the satchel he’d brought with him and drew out a stack of envelopes with familiar script on the outside. His words switched to English. “Here’s your post, while I’m thinking of it.” As he slid the stack onto the table between them, Charles the Bold offered a lopsided grin. “I suppose it’ll be easier once Hall grants you permission to tell your sister where you really are. Then she can just write to you at your grandfather’s.”
Drake breathed a laugh and tucked the four envelopes into his jacket pocket. “I honestly can’t imagine letting Dot in on it. Unless you mind playing courier?”
Thoroton waved that off, his mustache twitching in amusement. “I’ve been meaning to ask you—more as a curiosity, not because I doubt you’ve seen to it. How do you keep your grandfather from writing to her of your presence here?”
Drake hid a snort behind his glass. “Oh, that hardly requires any planning. Abuelo’s letters are solely responses to our letters to him, which he expects every fortnight. They offer advice and reply to whatever we share, but he never volunteers anything at all from what is going on in his life.”
Lazily trailing a finger through the condensation on his glass, Thoroton lifted a brow. “And if he slips?”
“Then Dot would think I’d merely popped in for a visit on a leave.” Coming here was the only way he’d ever see Abuelo. There was never any question of where Dot came by her homebody tendencies—their grandfather never left the house but to go to Mass once a week. Dot had only once met the man she was so like. “Speaking of peculiar people . . . any luck on my opposite number?”
He kept his voice even and light as he asked. Speaking English as they were, it was unlikely that any of the other patrons at the nearby tables would pay any attention, especially if there were no changes in their tones. A trick Thoroton had first taught him.
Obviously he followed suit. “Mm-hmm. I’ve a few photographs for you to look over. My best guesses.” He drew a book out of his satchel next. Poems by Robert Browning. “Here you are.”
“Many thanks.” As if just so eager to read it, he flipped the cover and a few of the pages until he found the snapshots nestled within. The first bloke he’d never seen before, so he turned another page to where another photo was lodged, and then another before he lifted his brows. “There we are. ‘The Pied Piper of Hamelin.’”
Thoroton grunted. “Not my favorite option. Mind yourself.”
Drake flipped the photo over and found a name inked onto the back. Maxim Jaeger. He committed it to memory and closed the book, handing it back to Thoroton. “I do. Haven’t had any exchanges lately.” Not since the warehouse, and he was grateful for it.
Well, there’d been an incident on a Sunday when he’d spotted the bloke, but he’d done the spotting first and managed to hide himself before the agent—Jaeger, apparently—could spot him.
“Any new poetry you’d recommend, old chap?” Thoroton asked casually.
“As a matter of fact, I’ve made you a list.” After an unhurried swig of lemonade, Drake reached into the pocket opposite the one he’d put Dot’s letters in and pulled out a little slip of paper with what he’d discovered in the weeks since he’d found the warehouse with the wolfram. Though not encoded per se, it was written in a shorthand that no one else would likely understand. Thoroton tucked it into the Browning and slid it back into his satchel. No doubt he’d read it as soon as he had some privacy, then burn it.
But the necessary information would make its way to Hall. He’d know about the money that had changed hands between the Germans and a few Spaniards who were more interested in silver than in politics. He’d know about the creaky old ship, the Erri Barro, that was due into the harbor soon and had been commissioned to carry the wolfram back out of port with it.
Of course, that meant he’d also know how long it was likely to be before anything came of it. Before they could use the decrepit ship, they first had to repair it.
Thoroton leaned out of the way with a smile when the waiter reappeared with two plates heaping with spiced sausage and rice. “I’ve been on the hunt for a collection of Victor Hugo’s poetry in the original French. Do you think that little shop you frequent may have one?”
Which was to say, there was new information waiting for Drake in one of their usual drop locations—a used and foreign bookshop whose proprietor was sympathetic to the Allies. They never liked to risk handing over too much information at one time. If anyone were to waylay one or the other of them, that would mean too much could be compromised.
Drake thanked the waiter and picked up his fork, nodding as if in thought. “It’s quite possible. I’ll run in and check for you before they close this evening, shall I? Are you staying in Bilbao tonight?”
“I’m afraid not. I’ll be catching the evening train to San Sebastián.” Thoroton scooped up a bite of his food and tasted it, grinning in appreciation. “Ah, perfect. An excellent recommendation.”
While they ate, they talked in a mixture of Spanish and English about the war and mutual acquaintances, like every other patron here. Nothing that wasn’t already in the newspapers, nothing Drake had to take particular note of.
There was no lingering after they’d finished their meal. In different circumstances, Drake would have considered Charles the Bold a friend—but when they met, it was for a specific purpose. Now that said purpose had been fulfilled, Thoroton dashed off to catch his train, and Drake ambled along to the bookshop.
The bell jangled over the door when he entered, and the smell of paper and ink and must greeted him, along with a grunt of acknowledgment from the proprietor, who didn’t even look up from the copy of La Chartreuse de Parme in his hands. He just held up a finger that said, Let me finish my paragraph, without any need for words.
“No hurry, Mateo.” Drake smiled and turned into an aisle of bookcases. He would leave with more than just the Hugo that would be hidden behind a dusty tome written in Icelandic—not exactly a book in high demand, which made it a perfect cover. First he’d find a few books in similar taste.
He turned first to the English section, as he always did. An eclectic selection filled one bookcase, never failing to make him smile. Old Mateo shelved a battered copy of The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn next to Wealth of Nations, with Middlemarch flanking the economic treatise on the other side. Rhyme or reason there was not, not in the foreign sections of the shop. But that was half the fun of browsing these shelves.
After a few minutes, he pulled out a dog-eared copy of Conrad’s Heart of Darkness. One of these days, he fancied a trip to Africa, and he’d heard quite a bit about Conrad’s literary journey up the Congo, inspired by his own travels. Might as well see what portrait he painted of the continent.
He moved next to the French section, which was twice the size of the English. Best to find some poetry, so that the volume of Hugo would have a friend. He looked through s
helf after shelf, dismissing the few anthologies he found at first because he already had them. After ten minutes, he spotted Les Heures Claires by Émile Verhaeren. He didn’t much care for the man’s work during his dark period, but this one, he believed, had been written directly after his marriage and reflected his newfound joy. Drake slid it out and added it to his growing stack.
Next stop, that one little corner of Icelandic. He didn’t look over his shoulder, didn’t do anything other than what he’d been doing all along—sliding out books, looking into them, sliding them back in. Except this time, he slid out one, and then the other, hidden behind it, and replaced only the first.
Hugo he put between Verhaeren and Conrad.
One more. Or maybe two. He moved into the largest partition of the shop, where used books in Spanish took up most of the space. A beautifully bound edition of Don Quixote found a place in his stack, even though he knew his grandfather would roll his eyes at him for it—he already had four different editions of what had been his favorite book as a lad, and a duplicate of his favorite. After another twenty minutes of browsing and debate, he selected a slightly worn copy of Las ilusiones del doctor Faustino as well. It wasn’t his usual fare, but it was considered a monumental work in Spanish literature, so he really ought to read it at some point.
Mateo hadn’t stirred from his stool behind his ancient cash register, but when Drake set his stack of books down with a louder-than-necessary thunk, the old man looked up and grinned. “Ah, Dragón. Find everything?”
“Sí, gracias.” He fished out his wallet while Mateo rung up the sale.
The old man chuckled when he came to Don Quixote. “How did I know you would be the one to purchase this?”
“I’m predictable.” Smiling, he handed over bills and coin enough when the proprietor told him the total, exchanged a few more pleasantries, and then slid out the door.
Spices and greetings tinged the air as he strolled the ten minutes to Abuelo’s proud house. Drake called out “Buenas tardes” to all his neighbors, juggling his books time and again to wave or shake a hand.
He knew well that most of these neighbors thought he’d moved in with Abuelo solely to avoid serving in the war. No doubt a few of them looked down on him for it. That had taken a bit of teeth-clenching and spine-straightening to get over when first Hall and Thoroton positioned him here, but at this point he generally believed himself when he recited the refrain that no one else’s opinion mattered.
They didn’t, not ultimately. He knew he was serving his country. It didn’t require the daily wearing of a uniform or a medal or being praised as a hero to know he was doing what he ought.
Still. To be thought a coward . . . that had required a bit of thickening of his skin, to be sure.
He let himself in through the centuries-old wooden door, three inches thick, and closed it behind him with nary a creak. When one spent as many hours at home as did his abuelo, one had ample time to ensure that every hinge, latch, and seal was in perfect order.
“Dragón.”
Drake’s feet had been aimed toward the central marble staircase, but he redirected them toward Abuelo’s study, to the right of the entryway, and stepped through the open door with a smile. “Buenas tardes, Abuelo.”
His grandfather motioned him in with a wave of his hand, his attention still latched upon the papers currently on his massive desk. “You had a pleasant meal with your English friend?”
“Sí. Charles is always pleasant company. Poetry, the news, mutual acquaintances—always plenty to talk about.” And even more not to talk about. Drake shifted his stack of books to his other arm.
Abuelo penned something onto the paper in his impeccably elegant script and finally looked up. He was the very figure of style—dark jacket cut to fit him perfectly, snow-white shirt beneath, perfectly matching his hair, a tie in a shade of deep red that set off his brows, still shockingly dark. Drake couldn’t recall ever seeing him out of his bedroom in anything less than formal dress. Some might find it odd, given that he never went out to show it off. But plenty of people paraded into this room throughout the day: business associates, servants, priests, neighbors. The world of Francisco Mendoza de Haro was full and colorful, and larger than one might think, given the walls he chose to keep around himself.
He didn’t smile. He rarely did, though his eyes seldom lacked for a twinkle of good humor. “I had a letter from your sister today. Did you?”
“A few of them caught up to me at once. I haven’t yet had a chance to read them.”
“Mm.” Abuelo reached for a glass, probably full of Madeira. “Then we will discuss her news after you have learned it.”
News? It was possible that Abuelo was only just learning of her employment, he supposed. Regardless, he was anxious to get up to his room where he could find Thoroton’s assignment for him in the Hugo. He smiled at his grandfather. “Very good. I’ll join you again shortly.”
Once upstairs, he let himself into the chamber that had been his since the day he was born, though it was another eight years before he ever stepped foot in it. Dot had the next one down—assigned upon her own birth, and only visited once. Still, it was cleaned every week, the linens changed, the styles updated occasionally, so that if ever she came again, it would be ready for her.
That was Abuelo. Perhaps because this house was his world, he made sure there was a place inside always prepared for those he loved.
Drake’s room had, over the years, taken on a bit of the character of a library. In addition to the desk, shelves lined an entire wall. To these he went now, filing most of the books he’d just purchased into their proper places. But he kept the Hugo in his hands and made himself comfortable at his desk. From a drawer he pulled out the dictionary that Thoroton would have used as a key, a fresh sheet of paper, and a pencil.
It took him half an hour to note each line of poetry that was underlined and use the page and line number to find the corresponding entry in the dictionary, but when at last he had the message worked out, he could only stare for a long moment.
Suspect Germans will be trying to use diseases to infect cereal intended for livestock—donkeys and horses. Discover where anthrax and glanders bacilli may be located. Watch for agents.
Drake expelled a long breath and rubbed a hand over his face. How could they justify this? How could a civilized nation really decide it was acceptable to deliberately spread deadly bacteria?
It had been done before, he supposed, recalling the story of blankets of smallpox victims being given to the natives in the colonies. But that hadn’t been on the command of the government; it had been the action of a few men with shadows upon their souls. This, though, would have come from the German High Command.
Only animals, it seemed. A fact they would surely emphasize if ever called to task for it. But how could they guarantee, with the current grain shortages, that cereal currently earmarked for animals wouldn’t get appropriated for human consumption? How could they know?
Or did they not care?
Drake’s eyes slid shut. He wasn’t entirely certain how he would go about finding these bacteria cultures—those answers would require some questions he didn’t yet know to ask. But he would do some research, put out some feelers, inquire discreetly of some friends.
The clock in the hall chimed the hour, pulling him from those thoughts. Abuelo would be expecting him downstairs again soon—he’d better actually read Dot’s letters beforehand.
He pulled the packet of them from his pocket and unbound them, sorting them by date. The first detailed her initial days working in Room 40, how she was being trained to type, a bit about Lady Hambro. Chatty but also decidedly dishonest, as it said nothing about how difficult it had been to force herself from the flat, and Drake knew very well it was a fight she would have had with herself.
The second letter made mention of a new friend she’d made—Margot. This, perhaps, was the news Abuelo was mentioning. New friends were hard enough for Dot to come by that it qual
ified as noteworthy. Thank you, Father. He’d been mentioning his sister’s need for companionship in his prayers every night.
When he opened the third, a snapshot slid out as he unfolded the letter. He picked it up and sucked in a breath.
He didn’t even glance at his sister’s image, smiling from the right side of the photo. He was too busy looking at the figure on the left.
The dark-eyed nameless girl.
She stared up at him with an intensity that a camera should not have been able to capture so well. Her lips didn’t smile, exactly, but they didn’t not either. The corners were turned up just the slightest bit, in a way that put Mona Lisa to shame.
The black-and-white image couldn’t reveal details like eye color or the shade of suit she wore, but his memory supplied the image’s lack. Deepest brown eyes, so dark they were nearly black. The day he’d seen her, she’d been in dark blue—he couldn’t have said whether this skirt and jacket were exactly the same or not, but he imagined them as such.
Just as he imagined the snap of her wit ready to trip off her tongue.
With a corner of his own mouth tugging up in a smile, he turned to the letter, propping the photo up on his desk.
I know I’ve been chattering nonstop about Margot, so I thought I’d include a snapshot her mother took of us last week at her brother’s house. Her brother is Lukas De Wilde, the violinist—had I mentioned that? I think you’d like her, Drake. It isn’t just that she has learned to tolerate my quirks, as Ada has. It’s that she understands them and knows when to push and when to let me rest. And heavens, but I think she must be the most intelligent person I’ve ever met!
He leaned back against the well-worn wood of his chair, eyes shifting again to the photograph. Margot De Wilde, was it? It felt a bit unsporting to learn her name through no cleverness of his own, but he wasn’t exactly sorry to have a name to go with the memory. A friend for his sister, not like Ada. Pretty, intelligent, and with those dark eyes that cut him to the quick.
The Number of Love Page 7