“You.”
“Oh. Did he say why?”
Julie shook her head. Luis stood and worried for a moment. Then he telephoned the British embassy and talked to Templeton.
“He won’t say what it’s about,” he told her. “I’d better go and see him.”
She nodded. He got his hat.
“You might say goodbye,” he said.
“All right. Goodbye.”
Oh, bloody stinking hell! Luis said to himself as he ran down the stairs.
Templeton met him in the embassy lobby. “Things have changed a bit, Luis,” he said. “Between you and me, a few heads have rolled. Witteridge got the shove—sent to Mozambique. One of the new chaps is a man called Meredith. He’s come from Madrid. Ever met him? Commander Meredith.”
“The name means nothing.”
“Royal Navy type, something of a fire-eater. The thing is, he went through Witteridge’s files, read about you, and now I think he wants to talk business.”
“I see.” Part of Luis’s mind was still back in the office, silently fighting Julie.
“Word of advice, old boy,” Templeton said, leading him along a corridor. “Don’t take up too much of his time. He gets impatient.” Luis gave a snort of surprise. “We can work out all the details later,” Templeton whispered as he tapped on a door.
“Come!” boomed a voice. Templeton went in first. “Mr. Cabrillo, sir,” he said, and gave Luis a reassuring smile as he went out.
Commander Meredith was writing. He raised one hand and, without looking up, pointed to a chair. Luis saw a cup and saucer in the middle of it. He picked them up and sent them crashing into a metal waste-bin. He sat and crossed his legs.
Meredith raised his head an inch. A pair of baggy, overworked eyes examined Luis. He sniffed, and went back to his writing.
The minutes passed. Luis began thinking of the urgent work waiting for him in his office. Finally Meredith blotted the last sheet and straightened up.
“Right, let’s get on with it,” he said. He had a hard, nasal voice. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but you need a job.”
“You’re wrong,” Luis said.
Meredith exercised his jaws in a little demonstration of annoyance. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he snapped.
“I have a job. I don’t need anything from anybody.”
“You came here asking for employment, for God’s sake.” Meredith thumped the file in front of him.
“Rubbish. I offered to cooperate with British intelligence, to let your people use my channels of communication with the Abwehr. Nobody was interested and so—”
“Oh, never mind all that,” Meredith said brusquely. “The point is, your one-man band is now in the way. Frankly, it’s become a damn nuisance. The time has come for it to be absorbed into the overall system.”
“Oh, yes?” Luis said nastily. “And how is that supposed to happen?”
“You’ll join my department and operate under the super-vision of my men. We shall soon be setting up major projects of strategic deception in order to mislead the enemy. Your amateur effort will be integrated with our professional organization.” Luis made a sour face. “Oh, don’t worry,” Meredith added wearily, “you’ll get paid for your time, for God’s sake.”
“I’m already paid for my time,” Luis retorted, “and paid bloody well. What happens to that?”
“You mean the Abwehr income? It will be credited to His Majesty’s Government, of course.”
“No,” Luis said. Meredith made an amused snuffle. “I’ll say it again so that you can wet yourself laughing,” Luis snapped. “No!”
“You don’t understand, Cabrillo,” Meredith said. “These deception projects are crucial. Your involvement is required. You have no choice.”
Luis heaved himself out of his chair. “You ask me to join in your famous fight for freedom?” he said. “And then you tell me I have no choice?”
“Right.”
“Think again! You’re not talking to one of your thick Anglo-Saxon peasants. I am not a mechanic from Wolverhampton. I am Luis Cabrillo, I am a Spaniard, and I do as I damn well please.”
“I’ll tell you what you are,” Meredith said, sorting through his papers. “You’re a cocky little dago crook who’s taken a free ride inside the machinery of war. So far you’ve been lucky. You say you want a choice: very well, I’ll give you a choice. Either you do as you’re bloody well told, or I’ll make damn sure you get trapped in the works and squashed flat.” He opened another file and began reading.
“Your stupidity is exceeded only by your boorish manners,” Luis told him.
“You’ve got a week to decide,” Meredith said. The meeting was over.
Luis was still grim with anger when he got back to the office. Julie listened in silence to his account. “So much for democracy!” he scoffed at the end. “So much for liberty! For justice!”
“Well, they’re fighting for their lives,” she said. “What are you fighting for, Luis?”
He gestured at his surroundings. “You should know,” he exclaimed. “What does it look like?”
“Sometimes it looks like vanity, selfishness and greed,” she said, “but I’ve been wrong before.”
“Look, I fight a separate war,” he told her fiercely. “I owe nothing to anybody.”
“Yeah? I’ve a feeling it’s not as easy as that,” she said. “And I don’t think you’re really fighting at all. I think you’re just playing with your toys.”
*
Brigadier Christian finished reading the last sheet of notes, shuffled the pages together, and banged a staple through the corner. “That turned out to be quite a considerable exercise for you, Adler,” he said.
Wolfgang stirred his Scotch with his forefinger. “There was a lot to read,” he said.
“And a lot to write.” Christian rapped the bundle of pages with his knuckles. “You’ve done a remarkable job. I’m grateful.”
“My pleasure.”
“Of course I don’t pretend to understand all the points you raise. Some are rather technical and …”
“Oh well. I expect I made a few mistakes myself.”
They chuckled, and examined their drinks.
“Any word from Berlin?” Wolfgang asked.
“Yes,” Christian said. “Yes, by a coincidence it came today, just a little while ago.” He looked and sounded very serious, even stern. Wolfgang waited and watched, but Christian said no more about Berlin.
“Well, that’s something, anyway,” Wolfgang remarked.
Christian nodded. He turned and flicked the pages of his desk diary. “How would you like to come and meet Eldorado?” he asked.
Wolfgang tried to read Christian’s expression and failed. “Is this business or pleasure?” he inquired.
“Let’s say it’s a surprise party.”
“Ah.” Wolfgang smiled. “Well, nobody deserves it more.”
*
The message which Julie had been dreading arrived the next day. Luis came back from the bank with a letter from Madrid Abwehr. Brigadier Christian wanted to see him. The rendezvous was to take place in Lisbon in four days. This allowed Eldorado time to get a flight from London on a neutral airline. He was to take a room in a central hotel, telephone his whereabouts to a certain number at the German embassy, and wait.
Julie’s reaction was immediate. “Beat it,” she said. “Get out while you can. You’ve had a damn good run and you’re lucky to get your notice in writing. Pack up and scram.”
“Perhaps he just wants a conference,” Luis said. He felt very nervous; the last thing in the world he wanted was a conference with Christian. “If it’s just a conference and I don’t turn up, he’ll mistrust everything.”
“So what? Who cares? Cash in, and get out.”
“Damn it, I care. All these months of work … The business is running beautifully, it’s going like a factory. If we keep expanding at our current rate, we’ll be turning over half a million dollars in the financial y
ear 1942! D’you realize that? I’m not going to just … chuck it all away.”
“You don’t need to chuck it all away. Transfer it to the British.”
Luis glared. “So they make a profit out of my work? Not on your life.”
“It’s your life, you great Spanish dope, and any day now some big hairy kraut is going to put an end to it!”
“You said that six months ago.”
“So now the odds are even shorter. You want to be a millionaire corpse? Go ahead. I’ll have you cremated over a nice hot fire of greenbacks.”
“I will not work for that bastard Meredith,” Luis said firmly. “Never. I thought the British had style. Meredith is a boor. He makes Attila the Hun look like Cary Grant. I won’t work for that bastard, ever.”
“Style,” Julie said. She sucked her teeth. “Is that what this war’s all about, style?”
He refused to argue. “I’ve made up my mind,” he said.
The next three days were tense and gloomy. Lisbon cooperated with a spell of cloudy, muggy weather which from time to time made an attempt to rain but never got beyond a half-hearted drizzle. Luis went on working; there was nothing else he could think to do. Julie found reasons to go out on business for Bradburn & Wedge. She spent a lot of the time walking the wet streets and worrying.
On the fourth day Luis took a room in the Hotel São Jorge and telephoned the German embassy. He was glad the waiting was over but he was also scared. Hidden in his briefcase was the hefty Colt revolver, now cleaned and oiled. Whether or not he would be able to get it out in time was very uncertain.
He sat in the room all morning. At 12:30 the phone rang and his heart kicked his ribs. He took several deep breaths and picked up the receiver.
“Is that you?” It was Julie.
“Yes, it’s me,” he said. “Nobody’s come yet.”
“Jesus … Listen, I can’t stand it here. I’m coming over. I’ll wait downstairs, in the bar.” She hung up before he could speak.
Just before three o’clock, Brigadier Christian opened the door. Luis got to his feet. He felt curiously blank, as if he were about to undergo an unavoidable major operation. “Hello,” he said. Christian walked in without a word. Behind him came Wolfgang Adler, wearing a new brown suit, bought off-the-peg in Madrid. “Hello,” Luis said again.
Christian cleared his throat. He was holding a typewritten statement, and he began reading from it. “Acting on the instructions of Admiral Canaris, head of the Abwehr, under the authority given him by the Fuehrer, the Third Reich,” he said rapidly, and looked up to make sure Luis was listening.
Christ, Luis thought, it’s a death warrant. His left knee was refusing to lock into place; it kept twitching forward.
“‘After a full and thorough review of your operational activities,’” Christian went on, forcefully, “‘which have taken place in an area that is not only highly sensitive but also militarily vital …’” He looked up again, chin out-thrust, and glanced at Wolfgang. Wolfgang was standing with his right hand inside his bulging jacket-pocket. Luis knew that he had no hope of reaching the briefcase, let alone the gun. “Plus a good deal more which needn’t concern us,” Christian said. “What matters is that you have been awarded the Iron Cross, Second Class.” He had it in his hand, strung on a ribbon. He hung it around Luis’s neck. “Congratulations,” he said.
Luis reached up and gripped the ribbon as if it were a lifebelt. “Thank you very much indeed,” he said.
Christian gave Wolfgang a sidelong look. “Now what d’you think of that, Adler?” he asked.
Wolfgang took his hand from his pocket. “I’m too full to speak, sir,” he said.
*
They stayed for an hour, just chatting. Christian talked most; Wolfgang said very little. After they left, Luis watched from the window until he saw them walk across the forecourt and drive away in an embassy car. Then he telephoned the bar and told Julie to come up.
When she came in he was slumped in a chair, arms dangling.
“I brought a bottle,” she said, showing it. “After all, what’s a wake without booze?”
“I could do with a drink.”
“They didn’t shoot you too much, then. You don’t look too dead.”
“They gave me a bloody medal, Julie.” He swung it until the ribbon wound around his finger. “I got the Iron Cross, Second Class.”
She pulled the cork and looked for glasses. “I’ll say one thing for the Third Reich,” she said. “They recognize mediocrity when they see it.”
They worked their way through the bottle and Luis had another sent up. Julie had heard all about the meeting—Christian’s warmth and confidence, Wolfgang’s curious silence—and it was beginning to seem funny. As they started on the second bottle, it became even funnier. “You know I’m not even supposed to have this thing?” he said, whirling the medal above his head. “I mean, it’s strictly illegal.”
“Luis, you wouldn’t do anything crooked,” Julie said. “You wouldn’t get Bradburn & Wedge flung out of Rotary.”
“It’s supposed to be only for Germans. I’m not a German.”
“Hell, no. You’re the king of Albania.”
“Right! And I am also now a cavalry lieutenant in the Spanish Blue Division, in action somewhere on the Russian Front! Aren’t you proud?”
“That deserves a drink.” They drank.
“Apparently it was the only way Christian could get the award past the lawyers,” Luis explained. “You see, the Abwehr had me commissioned retrospectively …” He stopped and looked puzzled. “Ret-ro-spect-ively,” he said. “Very peculiar word.”
“I can’t even pronounce it,” Julie told him. “Retrospectively is one of the many words I just cannot pronounce.”
“Like corrugated iron,” Luis said. “A very hard word, corrugated iron.”
“Not as hard as psychic phenomena.”
“I thought psychic phenomena were soft. And mysterious. And …” Luis kissed her on the neck and began undoing buttons. “I don’t know what else. The correct word escapes me.”
“How about ‘indescribable’?” She was tugging his shirt out. “That’s a good three-dollar word. House-trained, washable. One size fits all.” She slipped out of her dress.
“Yes, maybe.” Luis kicked off his shoes. “It has an indefinable je ne sais quoi.”
“You couldn’t put it better.”
“Well, I’m going to try.”
He was down to his boxer shorts and she was getting out of her slip when someone knocked on the door. They froze.
“For Pete’s sake!” Julie whispered.
“It can’t be room service, can it?” he asked softly.
“The hell with them.”
They stood motionless, waiting for the sound of someone going away. Instead the door opened and Wolfgang Adler came in.
“Hello?” Luis said.
“Hello. Is there anything left in that bottle? May I have some?”
They watched him fill a glass and drink most of it. He topped up the glass and found himself an armchair. “That’s much better,” he said. “Excellent stuff.”
“Periquita,” Luis said. “They make it in Setubal. Quite drinkable, isn’t it?”
Wolfgang took another big swig and breathed deeply. “Sorry about my awful manners,” he said to Julie. “I’ve been in Russia, you see. The main problem is the cold. Were you going to bed?”
She shrugged. “It’s a movable feast, I guess. Is this Wolfgang?” she asked Luis.
Luis nodded. He was putting on his shirt and looking for his socks. “Wolfgang Adler, Julie Conroy … Did you …” He coughed, nervously. “Did you forget something, or something?”
“What do you think of the war?” Wolfgang asked.
“The war? Well, it’s going splendidly,” Luis said. “I mean, look at Rommel. Look at the U-boats. Look at Russia.” He found his socks. “That’s more or less what you’ve been doing, isn’t it?”
“And America, Mrs. Conroy?”
Julie did her best to sneer. “You can forget America.”
“By the way, Mrs. Conroy is a close associate of mine,” Luis said, putting his trousers on. “She knows all about my work. You can speak freely.”
“Ah,” Wolfgang said. He drank more wine.
“Americans aren’t going to get involved in Europe,” Julie told him. “They’ve got their hands full in the Pacific. My money’s on Hitler, always has been.” Her voice was muffled as she pulled her dress over her head.
“I see,” Wolfgang said.
Julie tugged the dress straight and gave Luis a what-the-hell-is-going-on? look. He made a brief, baffled lift of the eyebrows.
“And Britain?” Wolfgang asked.
“Oh, finished,” Luis said. “Blockaded, demoralized and isolated. Britain is irrelevant.” He amazed himself by the clarity of his speech. He was suddenly very sober.
Wolfgang sat nodding gently. Luis saw how tired he looked, how emotionally spent. “Let me tell you the way it really is,” Wolfgang said. “Hitler cannot defeat Stalin. The Russians will not be beaten. We shall have to kill them all. That’s a lot of Russians, you know. Maybe two hundred million. Of course the S.S. is doing its best. They carry out about ten thousand executions a day, I reckon.”
“Good Christ,” Julie said.
“But at that rate it will take fifty-four years, ten months and ten days to kill them all,” Wolfgang said. “I have worked it out, you see. And by that time the Fuehrer will be a hundred and seven.”
“Oh dear,” Luis said.
“In fact it’s worse than that. While the S.S. executes ten thousand a day, the rest are still breeding! At a rate of five percent per annum! That means the Fuehrer must live an extra seventeen-and-a-half years to see final victory. He’d have to be a hundred and twenty-four.”
“That old, huh?” Julie said.
“It’s asking a lot of the man,” Wolfgang said. “I doubt if he can do it.”
“Look, Wolfgang,” Luis said, “I’m delighted to see you, of course, but … Why have you come back? Is there something you want?”
Wolfgang drank from the bottle. “I want to go over to the British,” he said. “I know a lot, and I want to tell them everything. I thought you could help.”
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