‘Ivan, when we talk I ask the questions, not you. Trust me, the less you know about me, the better,’ he said.
‘When I said monkey, I was asking about him,’ Ivan explained, scratching the little animal on the back.
The German apparently found this hilarious. He couldn’t stop laughing. And laughter is therapeutic. When it subsided he was much more relaxed than before.
‘Since you’ve been so amusing, I’ll tell you, but if you tell anybody, I’ll have you liquidated,’ said his handler with a smile. ‘His name is Benito.’
Now both of them laughed, even though the threat of being liquidated did not sound like a joke. The strange accent, which Ivan immediately recognized as some kind of Austrian dialect, along with the monkey’s name and how Ludovico pronounced it, told him that his handler might be an Italian-Austrian.
‘Do you speak Italian? My German is a bit rusty,’ Ivan said.
‘Drop the false modesty, Ivan, your German is excellent. It’s all the same to me. We can speak in Italian if you prefer.’
The first few sentences in Italian confirmed his suspicions. The man was from Trieste. Ivan was pleased with his detective skills, but was not sure who might be interested in such information. He was even more pleased to see that the initial tension was fading. With the change of language came a change in von Karstoff’s tone. He even started using the familiar form of speech with Ivan.
‘I have very specific orders concerning you. They told me to take care of you and to help you as best I can. Now that I’ve met you, I think it will be a pleasure. I have to tell you that they have very ambitious plans and high hopes for you.’
The two young men, alike in age, manners, style and taste, liked each other instinctively. However, this did not stop them from getting down to serious work as soon as they sat down in von Karstoff’s office. Going through every detail, topic by topic, Ludwig prepared his new colleague for his mission. He had to be taught certain skills and tricks essential to the operation, especially regarding communication.
‘Toter Briefkasten, or dead drops, are secret, pre-arranged places where it is safe to leave and retrieve messages without the individuals involved ever meeting,’ explained his handler. ‘The location and alert signals are arranged in advance. For the time being, the water tank in your bathroom will serve for the dead drops, and a raised toilet seat will be the signal. It’s all very simple: when you come into the room and notice the toilet seat raised, it means you’ve got mail in the toilet tank. So, take care not to leave the seat raised.’
He then gave Ivan a glass ampoule containing crystals.
‘This is invisible ink, you dissolve a piece the size of a match-head in half a glass of water. If you need to report something to us before or from London, use the invisible ink to write the message on the back of a private letter that you will send to one of two safe addresses in Lisbon.’ He gave Ivan a piece of paper with two addresses written on it. ‘Learn them by heart.’
That afternoon Ivan also learned how to shake off a tail, how to decode written messages, how to pick a lock without leaving a trace, how to check if his room had been searched or luggage opened.
When Elizabeth came by she found them smoking some foul-smelling cigarettes and laughing like boys as they thought up numbers for their phone conversations. But she kept her distance. She would come to bring them coffee, to relay a message to her boss, to bring wine glasses for them to dissolve the crystals because they had agreed that it was silly to do it with water, and to pass an iron over the paper to bring out the invisible text. Since she knew about the nature of their meeting and the secrets of their trade, she and Ludovico could be said to be close colleagues, but judging by their body language and exchange of small intimate gestures, Ivan realized that she was more than just his secretary.
Elizabeth was much more reserved with Ivan than her boyfriend was. They spoke, but formally, and not a word more than absolutely necessary; basically they talked only while she was training him on how to use a soundless camera to copy documents.
Ivan was equally formal with her: polite but reserved. He knew that if by any chance he got too close to her, it would make his handler jealous, and these days less than that was enough to land a person in a concentration camp or be simply swallowed up by the dark.
Before leaving, Ivan was given a silent Leica camera to take with him, the last word in technology, along with four hundred pounds sterling in cash and a questionnaire that was supposed to provide the framework for his mission to Britain. As he read the mostly general questions – How are the British coping with the bombing? What is daily life like? What is the morale of the people on the island? Are there any shortages? What are prices like? – Ivan thought something wasn’t right. Either the Germans were putting him to the test or they really had no idea of what was going on in Britain.
‘Read and memorize the questions.’
The reason he planned to give the British border authorities for his visit to their island sounded credible. Both von Karstoff and Elizabeth thought there was no reason why the English would not believe him. He really did have talks scheduled, and he was carrying the papers to prove it. He would introduce himself as the official representative of an industrial cartel from a neutral country, interested in buying off a German merchant ship which was unable to sail out of the port of Trieste, due to the British naval blocade of the Adriatic. As for the viability of his alibi and finding travel tickets, there he could only count on his own resourcefulness and contacts, which should not be a problem, at least so Ivan claimed. The only issue was the relatively modest amount of money he was being given for almost two weeks in a country where he might have to bribe the authorities and grease the palms of collaborators. Ludwig thought about it for a moment and then handed him another four hundred pounds.
‘For two weeks, this is a king’s ransom,’ Ludwig said, more in jest than in anger. ‘For our part, that’s all you’ll get. Take nothing with you that could compromise you. If you get caught, don’t count on us. Not even if there is an attempted exchange. Keep your head and may God be with you. If you are on the island when the invasion takes place, stay where you are and report as soon as you can to our nearest troop command; mention my name and you will be given instructions that you must follow.’
As they said their goodbyes in the garage, the slightly tipsy Ludovico again spoke to him like a friend, in Italian, which made him sound more amicable.
‘Ivan, according to my information the Gestapo shows no mercy towards defectors and sooner or later all traitors get found out... Don’t think this is a threat... It’s just a word of warning.’
‘There is something cold, something cruel about his eyes,’ Elizabeth said to Ludovico, after Ivan lay down on the back seat of the black Opel.
* * *
After he had turned off the bed lamp on his second night at the Palácio, Ivan was suddenly seized with a feeling he had forgotten he could still experience. Sinking into the darkness as if it were liquid tar, a shudder ran through his body. It was not until he started shivering that he thought he might have been too sure of himself and for the first time he felt that he had accepted this adventure without giving it enough thought; that this could be a deadly game for him. For the first time, he wondered why he needed any of this. And these thoughts only increased the fear until it started to consume him. He turned onto his other side and adjusted his pillow.
‘Oh, who gives a shit, anyway...’ he said loud enough to hear himself, and went straight to sleep.
MOVIE ACTOR
The elegantly dressed man in polished shoes stepped out of the even more elegant, even shinier Bavarian-made white sports car. The gravel crunched under his feet as he walked across the park. He was heading for the hotel when he noticed a little dog frolicking in the grass. He bent down, whistled, tapped his hand on his knee a few times and called out in some strange language:
‘Here, doggy, doggy, come here...!’
Fennec, known to be an
undiscriminating puppy who liked everybody, came running, lay down at his feet, turned on its back and, wagging its tail, waited to have its tummy scratched. Stroking its ears as if they were the finest of gloves, the man, minding his manners, turned to the boy to whom the puppy obviously belonged.
‘Hello!’ he said to the boy.
‘Hello!’ the boy replied politely.
‘What’s her name?’
‘Fennec,’ said the boy.
‘Like the desert fox!’ the man said, pleased. ‘It looks like one, too!’
The boy observed the man and after a moment said:
‘You’ve got a nice car. Except it doesn’t have a roof.’
‘It is not a nice car, young man, it’s a BMW. And it does have a roof, only I took it off because it’s sunny today. I put it on when it rains,’ the man explained.
‘Your suit is nice too... Are you a movie actor?’ the boy asked.
‘An actor?! Really!’ the man laughed, but he was clearly pleased.
‘What are you then?’
‘It doesn’t matter what or who I am. I’m Duško. And who are you?’
‘I’m Gaby.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Gaby,’ said Duško, wanting to return the compliment. But he couldn’t say anything nice about the boy’s suit because he didn’t really like it, so instead he said:
‘You have nice hair. Like wheat... Anyway, how are you?’
‘So-so...’ Gaby didn’t seem to be a particularly cheerful boy.
‘Trouble?’
‘Not really... I’m just not in an especially good mood. Nothing terrible. I’ll get over it.’
‘Shall I take you for an ice cream? That may improve your mood,’ the man said.
‘No, thank you. I have no appetite,’ Gaby said very politely but quietly, because he wasn’t sure if he was using the word appetite correctly.
‘A big boy like you and you have no appetite?! How old are you?’
‘I’m ten years and four months old. In two weeks, I will be ten years and five months old.’
‘You’re growing. You have to eat. When I was your age I ate everything in sight. My old man used to say about me and my brothers: “They eat anything, like little goats.”’
The boy found that funny and he seemed to cheer up a little.
‘And how old are you?’
‘Me? I’m twenty-eight. And a half... Approximately. I turn twenty-nine next July...’
‘And how many brothers have you got?’
‘Two. How about you?’
‘None yet.’
‘Who are you with here?’ Duško asked.
‘Fennec,’ replied the boy, pointing to the puppy.
The man thought the boy hadn’t understood him.
‘I don’t mean here in the park, I mean in Portugal.’
‘I just told you. Fennec.’
‘No adults? You know, mum, dad, somebody like that?’ Now it was the man asking the questions.
‘No. Not counting Fennec, I’m here on my own.’
‘There’s nobody to take care of you?’
‘Everybody takes care of me. I can’t complain. The only time I’m alone is when I go to my room to sleep. Otherwise I’ve got all the company I want.
‘I see... And where are your parents?’
‘In France... They’ll be coming very soon. I expect them any day...’
‘And who exactly are all these people taking care of you until your parents come?’
‘Mr Black, he comes when I’m having dinner and asks me how I’m doing. And Papagaio, he’s my best friend. And Lourdes, his mother, she does the cooking. And Bruno, he drives me to school.’ The boy was tired of all these questions. ‘And who are you with here?’
‘Me? Nobody.’
‘So why does it surprise you that I’m on my own?’
‘I’m not surprised anymore.’ Duško wanted to change the subject. ‘So, where are you from?’
‘From Antwerp,’ the boy replied. ‘And you?’
‘From Belgrade. And you go to school?’
‘I’ve started at the French lycée.’ The boy was proud of his school. ‘Sixth grade.’
‘Do you have any friends?’
‘A few, but they live far away...’
‘Hmmm... And you’re not in a very good mood today, you say... Let’s see what we can do about that... You don’t drink beer yet, do you?’
‘No.’
‘Of course not. That’s what I thought... You’re still too young. And you’re not into chicks?’ Duško had his own style of communication.
‘Excuse me?’ The boy hadn’t understood him.
‘Nothing, nothing... Hmmm... Well then, I really don’t know. Maybe you know how I can help you not be sad?’ Duško said, trying to raise the boy’s spirits.
‘Why? Sometimes a person needs to be sad. Sadness, like happiness, is a part of life. Aren’t you ever sad?’ the boy wanted to know.
‘Never. They say I’m too shallow to be sad,’ the elegant man confessed.
They both laughed.
‘Do you want to play with me?’ Gaby asked.
‘Me play?’ Duško was surprised. ‘I’m too old for that.’
‘True,’ the boy admitted. ‘Grown-ups don’t play.’
‘They do play, but in a different way... You know what the problem is with us spending time together? We can’t really spend time together unless we’ve become friends. And we haven’t really.’
‘Ah. Sorry,’ Gaby said more or less automatically, but after giving it some thought, he added: ‘When you say “become friends”, that’s like when you “connect”, right?’ The boy was looking for confirmation.
‘Something like that.’
‘You know, I don’t exactly know what it means to become friends, to connect and all that...’
‘Look, a person has a family. That’s the luck of the draw, it is what it is. But when you find somebody you like and get along with, somebody you have fun with, well, then you “become friends”. Later, when you say goodbye, you miss one another. Friends are like a family you’ve chosen yourself. It’s especially nice to have friends if your family is far away, like yours and mine now. You understand?’ That was the best explanation the elegant man could manage.
‘I think I understand,’ Gaby said. ‘Like Papagaio and me. I think he and I have become friends... And Tonio has become my friend. And Bruno. But I don’t know if that counts because they’re grown-ups, and I won’t be a grown-up until at least my bar mitzvah—’
‘That’s irrelevant,’ Duško broke in. ‘It doesn’t matter how old your friends are if you get along well.’
‘And is it hard to get along with people?’
‘If you don’t find fault with people and accept them as they are, it’s easy to find friends. And when you’ve got friends, life is more joyful. Less complicated.’
‘Is your life complicated?’ That was already a difficult question.
‘Yes and no. It depends.’
‘What do you do in life?’ The boy tried again to get an answer to his question.
‘What kind of question is that?’ Duško objected. ‘Imagine if I questioned you about what they were teaching you in history and Latin class in school. You think that would be okay?’
‘No. I don’t have Latin in school. I’ve got geography, history, arithmetic and grammar.’
‘That doesn’t matter. What matters is that you stop asking me such tiresome questions. What do you care what I do?’
The boy either did not know what to say or did not want to answer.
‘What do you say, let’s become friends. Why not?’ Duško finally suggested, and without waiting for a reply put his arm around the boy. ‘Let’s go down to the beach while the sun is still out. You can have an ice cream and I’ll grab a beer. You can bring along the puppy... Fennec... Or would you like to go in my car? It’s fucking good fun.’
‘You just said a bad word,’ the boy smiled.
‘You mean “fuck
ing”? Fucking isn’t a bad word. Quite the opposite. It’s a very good word, like life or fun. You’ll see one day. Other words are bad. Poverty, war, death, those are bad words.’
TRICYCLE
Until recently, the neglected four-storey house in Rua da Emenda no. 17, with its mildew and damp from the river, looked no different from the other buildings in the steep street. It was not until the passport section of the British embassy moved in that people started gathering in front of the door, the same way they did all over Lisbon, wherever there was the slightest chance of acquiring any sort of exit permit. A handful of British bureaucrats from the Foreign Ministry were there to handle the crowds of desperate people who gathered in front of the building every day. Judging by the number of travel documents they issued, their job was to approve and not reject applications for entry into Britain and its colonies. Lurking in the crowds of people were local and foreign opportunists. Some made money by tricking the refugees, others sold information to interested services, and others still did both, and who knew what else.
People thronged the building’s corridors, except on the top floor. Visitors to the consular section did not go up there; there was nobody waiting in its hallways, nobody tugging at the sleeves of clerks. This was not to say that the boys working on the fourth floor had nothing to do, it was just that their work was different, it did not entail dealing with the public. These people worked for the Ministry of War, they were responsible for protecting British national security, in short, they were secret intelligence agents. The fact that MI6’s Lisbon station was located on the fourth floor of no. 17 was known only to those whose work required them to know where the spies were. The Abwehr and PVDE, for instance.
The open file on the desk of Captain Jarvis of the intelligence service was waiting to be updated with notes for a meeting that was just about to take place. He did not personally know the prospective candidate. He would recognize him from the photograph and physical description in the file.
Hair combed back, parted on the right, receding hairline giving the face a heart-shaped look. Eyes green. Olive skin. Wide nostrils. Tip of nose bulbous. Ears small, well shaped. A mole on the left beneath his lips. Broad, open smile. White, straight teeth. Lips fleshy, sensual, somewhat flabby. Facial characteristics and high cheekbones, Slav-Mongolian. Shaven, scented, manicured hands. Athletic build, broad-shouldered. His walk can best be described as ‘the exact opposite of a soldier’s’. He dresses expensively but casually. His trouser legs always look slightly too long. Usually wears white, silk shirts and eye-catching ties. Speaks loudly. Gesticulates when he talks. His face is not unpleasant but cannot be considered handsome.
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