Eldorado Network

by Derek Robinson

  A man walked past their table, stopped, half-turned his head, and then came back. “Hello,” he said. “This is a surprise.”

  He was in his mid-thirties, with a plump, friendly face and hair that was thick but surprisingly gray. His suit was a smart and comfortable lovat tweed, and his manner was easy and confident. Luis went on chewing his chicken and looked at him warily. “Is it?” he said.

  “You’re Luis Cabrillo. You don’t remember me, do you?”

  Luis’s mustache briefly straightened in a polite smile. “No, and I’m afraid you are mistaken.”

  “You’re not Luis Cabrillo?”

  Luis handed him a business card. “My name is Bradburn,” he said, “and this is my partner, Senhora Wedge.”

  “Jolly good.” He didn’t even glance at the card. “The last time we met, I was a very smelly deserter, you were driving a car, and Madrid was getting the daylights shelled out of it.” Luis leaned back and stared. “Charles Templeton,” the man said.

  “For heaven’s sake.” Luis recognized traces of the haggard and ragged figure that he had once watched swigging brandy and chatting over-brightly to the newspapermen. “Come and sit down. I thought you were dead. You look very well. How on earth did you get out of Spain?”

  “The old-boy system, old boy. Met a chap I knew at school.” Templeton sat. “I take it you’re still in the skullduggery business?”

  “What makes you think that?”

  Templeton held up the card. “Bogus name, old chap. I mean, it doesn’t matter, I’m not offended, or anything.” He stopped a waiter and ordered more beer. “It happens to be my line of work too, at the moment. If I may say so without offense, you don’t look like a Miss Wedge.”

  “I’m Julie Conroy,” she said. “Luis is too cheap to get me a decent alias.”

  “You look rather like Lauren Bacall.”

  “Don’t tell him that. The thought of the expense will give him palpitations.”

  “What are you doing in Lisbon?” Luis asked.

  “I’m with the British embassy. I got a job with the Secret Service, organizing skullduggery.”

  “But you were a Communist,” Luis said, “you fought with the International Brigade, you were on the run—”

  “Stand on your chair, Luis,” Julie said, “the people at the back can’t hear.”

  Templeton laughed. “That’s all right, I’ve got diplomatic immunity nowadays.” The beer came. “I suppose it must seem a bit odd to you,” he said. “It’s the old-boy system again. I met a chap I knew at school who was looking for chaps of the right sort, and here I am.”

  They reminisced about the civil war, until Julie interrupted and told Templeton that Luis had met a colleague of his at the embassy. “Yes?” Templeton said.

  “Walter Witteridge,” Luis said.

  “Oh, he’s quite useless. He used to write books, I believe. You can’t expect anything from a man who writes books for a living.”

  “You used to paint pictures,” Luis pointed out.

  “Ah, yes, but they didn’t sell. I mean, nobody, bought them. Whereas Witteridge’s stuff used to sell by the cartload. Feartully popular man, he was. Did you find him useless?”

  “Utterly.”

  “There you are, then.” Templeton drank his beer with an air of satisfaction.

  “Perhaps Luis should go and see someone else,” Julie said. “About what?”

  “Getting a job,” Luis said. “You know, working for your people. I have certain … qualifications. Special qualifications.”

  Templeton was shaking his head before Luis had finished. “I can’t honestly see it happening, old chap,” he said. “It’s not that you couldn’t do a splendid job, I’m sure you’d be absolutely first-rate; but they have rather funny ideas in my department. They rather like to have public-school chaps. I suppose it’s to make sure we all understand each other.”

  “It see.”

  “Bloody silly, I know, but there you are.”

  Templeton was returning to the embassy, and so he shared their taxi. “I tell you what might make a difference,” he said. “If you could find out something we wanted to know, that would be a sort of a foot in the door, at least.”

  “I could try.”

  Templeton looked at the driver and lowered his head. “Our chaps have caught wind of an enemy agent called Eagle,” he whispered. “He travels all over England but that’s as much as we know. That and his code-name. Eagle.”

  “All right,” Luis grunted. They straightened up. “Awfully nice place, Lisbon,” Templeton said.

  “Do you need any soap?” Julie asked.

  “Well, I could always do with the odd bar, I suppose.”

  “I’ve got half a ton.”

  “Goodness. If I were you, I’d try the inhabitants of Jarama, in central Spain. The ones I met were always in desperate need of a bath.”

  Julie wrinkled her nose. “Waste of time. Only clean people buy soap.”

  The remark saddened Templeton. He looked at the wet, black streets, and sighed. Soon they reached the embassy. He got out and waved goodbye.

  As they drove on, Julie said: “Now I know why Hitler decided not to invade England. He didn’t go to the right school.”

  Luis nodded, gloomily. “He wouldn’t have got along with the other chaps, poor devil.”

  “Not that he wouldn’t have done a splendid job.”

  “Oh, I’m sure he’d have been absolutely first-rate.”

  “Of course. It’s just that …”

  “Yes. I mean, how could one chap say to another chap, ‘Look here, old chap, I’d like you to meet a chap I knew at school, chap called Adolf Hitler’?”

  “I can’t honestly see it happening, old chap,” Julie said.

  “Shitheads,” Luis muttered. “They don’t deserve to win.”

  Chapter 53

  The Russian winter began unusually early in 1941: snow was falling near Leningrad in the first days of November. German commanders noticed its effects when their sentries, lacking winter clothing, froze to death at their posts. In Madrid, Brigadier Christian noticed that his office was surprisingly chilly in the mornings, and ordered a log fire.

  When Otto Krafft brought in Eagle’s report on the state of the British lightweight alloys industry, Christian read it while standing in front of the fire, one hand behind him to raise the flap of his hacking jacket.

  He finished the last page and gave a snort of satisfaction. “I very much doubt if the British Ministry of Aircraft Production could improve on that,” he said. “It’s complete, it’s concise, and it reads like Hemingway.”

  “Yes, sir. I suspect that Eagle is an admirer of Mr. Hemingway, especially in view of Mr. Hemingway’s recent articles opposing American involvement in the war.”

  Christian nodded, too pleased to pay much attention. “The short, declarative sentence!” he said. “So easy to translate. It helps them enormously in Berlin, I know. No damned subjunctives!”

  “I’m afraid Eagle’s traveling expenses are especially heavy this time,” Otto said. “Southampton, Coventry, Newport—the one in South Wales, that is—Wolverhampton, Fort William in Scotland, and he even went to Northern Ireland for the bauxite works at Larne because—”

  “Pay it.” Christian waved impatiently. “We’re lucky to have a man who has access to all these places. There’s only one way to be sure, and that’s to go and see for yourself. I know; I’ve done it.” He flourished the report like a flag. “You don’t gather intelligence of this caliber by sitting on your ass in London. There’s only one tiny thing that puzzles me.”

  Otto cocked his head and looked receptive.

  “English spelling,” Christian said. “Eagle spells ‘tire’ with a ‘y,’ not an ‘i.’ He writes ‘aluminium’ instead of ‘aluminum.’ Strange?” He hoisted his shaggy eyebrows.

  “Yes and no, sir,” Otto said cautiously. “After all, Eagle is getting all his information from English sources. He must be accustomed to talking abou
t aluminum by now. And he was a Rhodes Scholar.”

  “True.” Christian tossed him the report. “Code it and forward it, top priority. Eagle gets a one-hundred-percent bonus and I want Dr. Hartmann in here at once.”

  Christian offered Hartmann a glass of dry sherry, sat him beside the fire, and together they reviewed Garlic’s output. “You know, it’s time Garlic broadened his horizons.” Christian said. “I want you to get him to concentrate on the lightweight alloys situation in Britain. Who makes them, where, how much: you know the sort of thing.”

  “Yes sir. Is there a deadline?”

  “No, but … Stir him up a bit. Hint that there’s big bonus money available if … Wait a minute. You have to brief Garlic through Eldorado, don’t you?”

  “That’s right.”

  Christian thought for a moment. “Let’s see if we can’t use Eagle to stimulate Eldorado. Tell Eldorado something about Eagle, not too much, just that Eagle’s doing very well over there and as a result certain funds may have to be diverted from Eldorado or his subagents … Get the idea? Make it look like an act of courtesy on your part.”

  “I gather the objective is to encourage a certain amount of healthy rivalry,” Hartmann said.

  “You gather right,” Christian declared, “and if it works, we shall all gather a rich reward.”

  When Dr. Hartmann went out, Wolfgang Adler was waiting at the door. This time he was not holding his folder. “Request permission to see Captain Mullen,” he said before Christian could speak.

  “I see.” Christian bared his teeth and scratched an incisor with the nail of his little finger. “Well, you have a right to go over my head, I suppose. See Otto. He will arrange it.”

  Ten minutes later Otto found Wolfgang staring out of a window. “Two o’clock in Mullen’s office,” he told him. Wolfgang grunted. “Look, I think you’re making a mistake,” Otto warned. “I can easily cancel it, if you like.”

  Wolfgang breathed deeply, in and out, until his shoulders slumped. “Not me,” he said softly. “The mistake is not mine.”

  At three minutes to two, he took the lift to the top floor. He carried his folder. The fingers of his right hand were throbbing and his palms were sweating slightly.

  Mullen’s outer office was empty. Wolfgang knocked on the inner door and pushed it open. Waiting for him behind the big, curved, mahogany desk was Brigadier Christian. “Come in, Adler,” he said. “Mullen’s gone, posted. I’ve got his job now. So what d’you want?”

  Wolfgang was shocked but not beaten. He took some stapled papers from his folder and dropped them in front of Christian. “That’s a copy of an Eldorado report,” he said, “it stinks with error and I can prove that. On page three he refers to St. Pancras in central London in a context which suggests that he thinks it is a church. St. Pancras is in fact a large railway station.” Christian linked his fingers behind his head and leaned back in his chair. “The next paragraph,” Wolfgang went on, “concerns supplies of coolant fluid for a certain radial-engined bomber. All radial engines are air-cooled.” Christian’s eyelids drooped slightly. “And worst of all, if you care to look on page six,” Wolfgang said in a voice flattened with anger, “you will find Eldorado relating with enthusiasm the views of a supposedly experienced aeronautical engineer about an advanced version of the Hurricane fighter which he claims is fitted with no fewer than four cannon-guns. Four seventy-five millimeter cannon-guns.” Wolfgang saw that Christian had stopped listening, and his voice became higher and harsher. “Such a machine is impossible! The recoil from the guns would stop it dead in mid-air! The wings would be torn off! The pilot would be hurled through the windscreen!” Christian stretched his neck to look at his desk diary. “Look, I was an engineer!” Wolfgang cried, “I studied in London, I know these things!”

  “Finished?” Christian said. Wolfgang nodded. His leg was beginning to ache from standing. Christian straightened up. “Three points,” he declared briskly. “First, this report went to Berlin over a week ago. It’s been sold and bought and paid for. The transaction is complete. Understand?”

  He looked up and stared until Wolfgang nodded.

  “Second point. You, Adler, have become more trouble than you’re worth. Just because Eldorado made a fool of you, you’re obsessed with making a fool of him. That’s no good to me. Understand?”

  Another stare forced another nod.

  “Third and last, you’re posted. The Abwehr is forming new sections on the Russian Front. Berlin has requested the release of any personnel who are surplus to requirements, fighting fit and eager for a fresh start. You qualify on all three counts, Adler.”

  Wolfgang felt the folder slip from his cold fingers. “For God’s sake, I don’t want to go to bloody Russia,” he muttered.

  “You want to grow up, don’t you? Well, this is your big chance. You’re posted to …” Christian’s finger traced an entry in his desk diary. “… Novgorod. Now get out. And take that tosh with you.” The Eldorado report came spinning across the desk. Wolfgang grabbed at it and missed.

  Chapter 54

  The news that Eagle was not only an employee of Madrid Abwehr but also a serious rival to Eldorado came as a shock. When Luis got Dr. Hartmann’s briefing letter, with its hint that Eagle’s remarkable success might oblige Madrid to redirect its funds, he became angry and depressed. “Look at that, for Christ’s sake,” he said disgustedly. “After all the slaving and sweating I’ve done … I feel like telling them to go to hell.”

  “Then why don’t you?” Julie was unconcerned. “If they’re not going to pay you, why work? We can even go to Oporto.”

  Luis turned away. They had been bickering for a week, on and off, about their way of life. She argued in favor of making money solely to enjoy the world; he argued that his work was what he enjoyed most, and that in any case they had obligations, commitments, deadlines … In this running quarrel, Oporto had come to symbolize, for her, an escape from endless money-making in Lisbon, while for him it represented a flimsy fantasy-world, an avoidance of responsibility. Escape versus escapism.

  Meanwhile, it rained.

  “We can go to Oporto in the spring,” he said. “The weather in Oporto is rotten now.”

  “The weather here is rotten now. Why can’t we have rotten weather somewhere new?”

  Luis read Dr. Hartmann’s letter again.

  “I can’t believe this bastard Eagle is really all that hot,” he muttered.

  “You can always go to England and find out,” she suggested. “I understand the weather there is no lousier than it is here.”

  “Oh, go to hell,” he growled.

  “Believe me, any change would be an improvement.” She went into her office and banged the door.

  Luis forced himself to get down to work. Lightweight alloys. Where would Garlic go to find something about the British lightweight alloys industry? He reached for Jasper H. Stembridge and found the chapter on Scotland. Picture of Highland cattle. Picture of stag. Picture of golden eagle. He read: “Little blue tarns lie half-hidden in the mountain, while through the rugged boulder-strewn glens that seam its sides dash foaming” (turn the page) “torrents fed by the rains of this, one of the wettest districts in the British Isles. South of Fort William, lying at the head of the blue waters of Loch Leven, is Kinlochleven, where mountain falls are harnessed to generate electricity for the aluminum factory.”

  And there was a picture to prove it: six huge pipes running down a mountainside and plugging themselves into a factory.

  Terrific. A marvelous starting-point.

  Luis took a fresh block of paper and a sharp pencil and prepared to make. Eagle look stuffed.

  Half an hour later he had the framework of a powerful report. Kinlochleven was the key to British alloy output. Production was up 73 percent over 1940. Heavy rainfall (twelve inches above average) ensured record electricity output. New aluminum plants were being completed in secret at (see Michelin map 8) Fort Augustus, Inveraray and Drumnadrochit. For these plants, C
anadian tunneling experts had bored through three mountains to reach high-level water supplies. Luis chewed his pencil. Drumnadrochit, he thought. What a name!

  He looked up and saw Julie standing in the doorway of her office, looking fairly bleak. He stopped chewing his pencil. “You realize this is all a waste of time,” she said, holding up the report she was typing. Her voice had a harsh edge that he had not heard before. “I mean, it doesn’t mean anything. It’s just marks on paper. You’re just playing silly games.”

  “Madrid believes in it.”

  “So they’re just playing silly games too. None of this makes any difference to anything.”

  “It makes money.”

  “Sure. But that doesn’t mean anything either. That’s just different marks on different pieces of paper. Bank shit. Eldorado shit. What’s the difference?”

  He looked down, determined not to give in and fight. His cheek twitched with suppressed rage. The door slammed.

  Luis picked up his sheet of paper. Bitch, bitch, bitch, he thought. He wanted to smash something, but he knew that it would give her pleasure so he sat hunched over his optimistic report. After a while he tore it up. “Kinlochleven,” he scribbled, “is a disaster area. Drought, sabotage and managerial incompetence have dragged down aluminum output to a pathetic 23% of last year’s figure. Attempts to rush construction of new plants have met with catastrophe. Last week, sixteen Polish tunneling engineers died in explosions.” Rain lashed against the windows and briefly drowned the sound of typing next door. Luis crossed out “sixteen” and wrote “twenty-five.” He began to feel better.

  *

  “All right, who’s wrong?” Brigadier Christian asked.

  Dr. Hartmann and Otto Krafft sat at each end of a large sofa and said nothing.

  Christian was on the prowl around the room, rapping the wall with his knuckles as he went. Now that he had moved into Captain Mullen’s office, he had greater scope for prowling. “Look, I didn’t get where I am by sending contradictory reports to Berlin,” he said. “They don’t buy guesses, they don’t pay us to spin a coin, they want facts. You know what you’ve brought me? A salesman’s catalog. If I don’t like it in blue you’ll sell me something else in red. Choice! I don’t want choice, I want the real thing!” He crashed the flat of his hand down on the nearest piece of furniture.