by Orca Various
“It is good that people are not trying to bring the dictatorship back, but they are repressing their feelings. Not only that, but they are not allowing others to remember. Tens of thousands were systematically killed in Franco’s repression after the war. Many, women and children included, were hauled from their beds in the middle of the night, driven out of their villages, shot and buried in ditches somewhere. Their families were never allowed to grieve. Now the victims’ grandchildren want to give their ancestors a decent burial.”
“Like Lorca,” Laia said.
“Lorca?” I said.
“Federico García Lorca,” Laia reminded me, “the poet who wrote the book Sofia gave you. He was Spain’s most famous poet, but he was a socialist and a homosexual, so when the Fascists came to Granada, they took him out onto a hillside, murdered him and buried his body secretly.”
“And his family wants him found?” I asked, feeling vaguely guilty that I hadn’t read any of the poems yet.
“Oddly,” Felip said, “his family doesn’t want Lorca reburied; even they want to forget. It is the families of the other men who were shot with him who want to know what happened.”
“It’s complex,” I said, struggling to understand all that I was being told.
Felip shrugged. “Spain is a very complex land with a very rich history. Sometimes I think we have too much history. But forgetting it isn’t the answer. We must accept what we have done in the past before we can move on. Do you not have a similar situation in Canada with the Aboriginal people and the residential schools?”
“I suppose we do,” I said. “I’ve never thought of it that way before.”
Felip smiled. “See how easy it is to forget.”
“Laia said that you were also working on getting compensation for the villagers where the four nuclear bombs fell,” I said. I wanted to talk about Spain, not Canada.
“Palomares, yes. There are still a lot of questions about what happened there in 1966, but we’re making progress. The Americans are close to agreeing to finish the cleaning they began at the time. In fact, I’m meeting an American investor there tomorrow to talk about the possibility of purchasing the contaminated land after it’s cleaned up. Land is very valuable all along the coast, and hundreds of acres have been fenced off at Palomares for nearly fifty years.”
“What’s the contamination?” I asked. “Uranium?”
“Mostly plutonium,” Felip said.
“Laia said that there was no nuclear explosion at Palomares,” I said.
“That’s right,” Felip agreed. “We were lucky.”
“Why didn’t the bombs go off?”
“It’s hard to be precise, because the design of the bombs is still classified information, but we think that the heart of the bomb was a plutonium core surrounded by uranium. It probably looked a bit like a soccer ball, a sphere made up of hexagonal sections. Each of those hexagons contained regular explosives. For the plutonium part of the bomb to explode, every single one of those explosive charges had to go off at exactly the same time. That would be unlikely, unless the bomb was armed by the plane’s crew, and none of the Palomares bombs were.”
“Okay,” I said, frowning with concentration, “so at Palomares, only some of the regular explosives went off. Not enough to trigger a nuclear explosion, but enough to spread the plutonium around the area.”
“Exactly,” Felip said. “That’s how the soil around Palomares became contaminated with plutonium.”
“Plutonium’s one of the most poisonous substances on earth,” Laia said, her voice rising with anger, “and it lasts for thousands of years. The Americans have to do something to clean it up.”
Felip smiled. “Laia, like her mother, can be quite dramatic. But she’s right,” he went on quickly before Laia could say anything. “As long as the plutonium remains in the soil, it’s relatively safe. You can place a piece of plutonium on your skin without too much problem. The danger is if the plutonium becomes dust in the air and you breathe it in. Then it is extremely deadly. Only a few thousandths of a gram can kill you if it gets into your lungs.”
“So plowing the land on a dry, windy day wouldn’t be a good idea,” I said.
“Probably not,” Felip acknowledged. “I doubt if there are high concentrations of plutonium in the soil, but we don’t know for sure. Much was kept secret in 1966, but stories keep cropping up. For example, there’s a persistent rumor that there was a fifth bomb that was never found.”
“There’s still a plutonium bomb lying around somewhere?” I asked, horrified at the thought.
“Maybe not a complete bomb, but perhaps the plutonium core from one of the bombs that broke apart.” Felip shrugs. “It’s probably just a story. Secrecy is always a mistake. It breeds suspicions and provides a fertile ground for all kinds of wild conspiracy theories to grow. I don’t think there ever was a fifth bomb. The Americans searched a huge area very thoroughly. I think they would have found something the size of a soccer ball, but the story got started somehow. There was too much secrecy back in 1966—and too many spies.”
“Spies!” I exclaimed.
“Oh yes,” Felip said. “A Soviet spy ship sat offshore watching everything that went on. There were probably spies on the mainland as well. Have you ever seen the James Bond movie Thunderball?”
“Is that the old one about the stolen nuclear bombs?”
“With Sean Connery, yes. It came out in 1965, and after the Palomares accident, everyone worried about the Soviets stealing the lost bomb before it could be found. It was all very exciting and dramatic, but then, Spain is a very popular place for spies. The English spy Kim Philby lived just two doors away from here during our civil war. He spent most of the war as a journalist on the Fascist side. His open sympathy for Franco allowed him to travel all over Spain, but he was really spying for the Soviets.”
“Wait till I tell my cousin Spencer. He’s really into spies and espionage,” I said. “Didn’t Philby go on spying for the Soviets after the war?” I asked, vaguely remembering a TV show I’d seen on famous spies.
“There were five of them,” Felip said. “Philby, Guy Burgess, Donald Maclean, Anthony Blunt and an unknown man. They were called the Cambridge Five, although there were probably more. All were high up in the British Secret Intelligence Service, but were passing what they knew to the Russians. Burgess, Maclean and Philby fled to the Soviet Union and Blunt died in 1983.”
“The number five seems to be the theme here,” Laia said. “A lost fifth bomb, an unknown fifth man. Maybe your grandfather was the fifth man.” She said the last bit with a laugh, but the thought had crossed my mind as well.
“Your grandfather was a spy?” Felip asked.
“No,” I answered instinctively. “DJ and the others have found something at my grandfather’s cabin that might have something to do with spying. He’s going to send me what he’s found in an email today.”
Felip nodded. “Many strange things happened in secret during the Cold War, especially in Spain when Franco was the dictator.”
“You said you’re meeting an American tomorrow about buying land?” Laia asked.
“Yes, I’m going to drive down to Palomares to show him around. If an American businessman wants to invest in Palomares, it might help speed the cleanup process along. You two are welcome to come with me, or you can stay here while I’m gone and see some more of Seville.”
I kind of liked the idea of us having the apartment to ourselves for a few days, but Laia said, “I’d like to come with you. Palomares is close to Cartagena, and maybe we could stop at Granada on the way back.”
She looked at me with raised eyebrows. What could I say? “Sure. Sounds good. We can look for lost bombs and unknown spies.”
Felip laughed. “I’m afraid it won’t be that exciting, but we can go to Cartagena. It’s just up the coast.”
“There’s lots to see there,” Laia added happily. “Hannibal and his elephants set off from near there to cross the Alps and defeat the
Romans at the Battle of Cannae. And Granada too? I’d love to show Steve the Alhambra. And we can visit the house where Lorca lived.”
Laia grinned at me, her eyes sparkling with enthusiasm.
“Sounds awesome,” I said, and I meant it. I’d gladly ride one of Hannibal’s elephants over the Alps as long as I did it with Laia.
After breakfast, we went out to see some of Seville’s sights—the cathedral, palaces, gardens. Felip even drove us across the river to the ruined Roman town of Italica, where the emperor Trajan was born. It was a great day, warm and sunny, but two things distracted me. The ancient history was wonderful, but, after talking to Felip, I kept wondering why there were no monuments to Spain’s more recent history. I also couldn’t stop imagining what DJ was going to email me that day. He could hardly have done a better job of piquing my interest.
I was disappointed when we returned, tired, to the apartment to find no email. We took a late siesta, showered and headed out to do the rounds of the tapas bars. Spaniards eat very late and nibble a lot. We moved around, ordering a bewildering variety of foods—Laia even convinced me to try snails with garlic—and meeting and talking to the people at nearby tables. It was a lot of fun. Felip could have written the Wikipedia entry on Spanish history, and he was interested in everything. Laia and I told him about our scooter tour following in Grandfather’s footsteps. I had brought Grandfather’s journal with me and promised to let him read it.
When Felip started asking about Canadian history, I began to feel as if I were sitting an exam and wished I’d paid more attention in history class. After a few stories about explorers, the War of 1812, Vimy Ridge and D-day, I was struggling, and Felip always wanted more detail.
When we eventually made it back to the apartment, around two in the morning, I was so exhausted and my brain so full of new information and experiences that I forgot to even look for DJ’s email before I collapsed into bed.
SIX
As soon as I woke up on the 28th, I flipped open my laptop and saw DJ’s email. There were five (that number again) PDF attachments. There was also a separate email from PayPal notifying me that two thousand Euros had been deposited and asking if I wanted it transferred to my bank account. That woke me up fast. If DJ was sending me that much money, how much had there been in the cabin? Where had Grandfather got it? Was it payment for being a spy, or money to carry out some secret operation?
My hand was shaking with excitement when I clicked open the email. DJ’s covering note didn’t tell me much that I didn’t already know. He had no idea what the codes meant—mine or his—and he was sending me money. He did say he was flying to England and was going to stay with his friend Doris, but he didn’t know what he would do there.
The first PDF I opened was a photo taken in Grandfather’s cabin. It showed a hole in the wall beside the fireplace. Bunny was crouched beside it, grinning and pointing into the dark space.
The second PDF was a photograph that showed the table at the cabin covered with piles of money, passports, a hat, what looked like a fake beard and mustache, a small black notebook, a bag of golf balls and a pistol. Bunny was in this one as well, standing behind the table, grinning happily and holding a wad of money. It was all so bizarre, but it had to be true, even if it didn’t make sense. Golf balls?
The third PDF was a scan of an old Spanish passport. It had been issued in 1965 to someone called Pedro Martinez and had been stamped for entry into Spain at Madrid airport on January 10, 1966. There was no exit stamp. I had no idea who Pedro Martinez was, but the photo was of Grandfather, older than in the photo I had of him from 1938 and younger than when I knew him.
The fourth PDF was a scan of an envelope, plus a handwritten page from a notebook. The words You are a traitor and You deserve to die were faintly legible on the envelope. On the page was written: I hoped I’d never have to use this book, but I needed to keep my own record, my own account, in case things ever came tumbling down around me. Maybe I know better than anybody that you can never trust anything or anyone, and I needed proof of who I was and what I did. I just know that I always did what needed to be done. Nothing more, and nothing less.
The fifth PDF had scans of a couple more pages from the same notebook. The pages showed a few letters and some intelligible words, but they were mostly groups of numbers. If this was Grandfather’s record and proof, it meant nothing to me. In fact, since it was in code of some kind, it probably wasn’t meant to mean anything to anyone other than him.
I sat and stared at the PDFs for a long time. I felt as confused as I had in the summer when the things Grandfather had left me tumbled out of the envelope after the will reading. At first they had meant nothing, but with DJ’s and Laia’s help, I had figured it all out. Could I figure out this mystery too?
I doubted it. That first envelope had contained clues from Grandfather that led me to a path to follow to get to the answer. Here, there was nothing to even suggest where to start. Grandfather had kept this record for himself. He’d probably never intended for anyone, least of all his grandsons, to find this stuff.
There was a knock on my door. “Come on, sleepyhead,” Laia shouted. “Felip wants to get on the road early, so you’d better hurry if you want any breakfast.”
“Okay, coming,” I replied. I took the laptop with me and showed the email to Laia as I ate my croissant.
“Quite the mystery,” she commented. “Do you have any idea what the numbers mean?”
“Some kind of code,” I said. “See how most of them are written in groups of four? That’s often how codes are written. That way, it gives no clue to the lengths of the underlying words.”
“These numbers aren’t written in groups of four.” Laia pointed to several lines that were different from the others. I shrugged.
“Why don’t you forward the email to me and I’ll print out the attachments?” Felip suggested. “Then you can examine them to your heart’s content in the car. But be quick. We have to leave soon if I’m to make my meeting with Chad.”
“Okay,” Laia said, finishing off her coffee in one gulp and standing up. “I’ve got some stuff to pack.” At the door she stopped and turned around. “And bring the book of Lorca’s poetry that Sofia gave you. If we get to Granada, it’d be cool to read some there.”
“I’ll bring it,” I said. I’d sent the email to Felip and the printer in the corner was clacking away before I realized what he had said. “Who did you say you were meeting in Palomares?” I asked. How common a name was Chad in Spain?
“A guy called Chad Everet,” Felip replied. “To be honest, he’s a bit too smooth for my liking, but we’ll see how useful he can be.”
I had pulled out the business card the boring guy on the plane had given me.
Chad Everet
Investment Counselor and
International Real Estate Advisor
“I know him!” I exclaimed.
“You know Chad Everet?”
“Well, I don’t really know him. He sat next to me on the flight to Barcelona. He talked nonstop about investments and hedge funds.”
“That sounds like him,” Felip said with a smile. “You’ll be able to renew your friendship.”
I groaned. Now I really wanted to stay in Seville with Laia, but it was too late. I collected the pages from the printer and went to throw my stuff in my backpack.
As we sped west across the dry Andalusian plain, Laia and I examined the printouts. The photos of the cabin and the passport didn’t tell us much. We discussed the fourth PDF at length, but since we didn’t know who had written that Grandfather was a traitor, and since the other message was so cryptic, we didn’t make much progress. For many kilometers, we stared blankly at the mysterious pages from the notebook.
“The simplest number codes substitute numbers for letters of the alphabet,” I said. “A is 1, B is 2, C is 3, and so on. So Laia would be 12-1-9-1.”
“But that’s not what this is,” Laia said. “Your grandfather’s code is written different
ly. There are no gaps to show the letters, so how would we know if 12 was L for Laia or A-B for about? Besides, each group of four letters begins with one, two, three or four. If those are letters, it’s much too regular to be words.”
“There must be a key. Some codes use a book as a key.”
“Your grandfather’s journal from the war?” Laia suggested.
“Maybe,” I said, unsure. “It’s in my backpack in the trunk. We can check it later, but I can’t see how the letters could possibly relate to it.”
We puzzled over the numbers for a few more kilometers but got nowhere. “What about the line at the top of the page?” Laia suggested. “It’s not numbers.”
“It looks more like a mathematics equation,” I said.
FGL@=5pm
“Maybe five PM is a time,” Laia said.
“How will that help us?” I guess the frustration in my voice came through, because Laia fell silent and gazed out at the countryside.
“Sorry,” I said. “I hate having a problem I can’t solve or a mystery I can’t unravel.”
“Not all mysteries can be unraveled,” Laia pointed out, but she returned her attention to the pages. “So we’ve got the line at the top, which may or may not have a time in it. Below that we’ve got lines of numbers divided into blocks of four, each of which begins with one, two, three or four. Then we have ten lines of numbers not in blocks of four, followed by a large block with the numbers again in blocks of four beginning with one, two, three or four. My guess is that the first line is some kind of key to the groups of four numbers, and I have no idea what the other numbers mean.”
“That sounds reasonable,” I agreed, “but without the key, we’re completely stuck.”
“Maybe we should take a break,” Laia suggested.
“Good idea.” I took out the book of Lorca’s poems and began thumbing through it.
“Read ‘Lament for Ignacio Sánchez Mejías,’” Laia suggested. “It’s Lorca’s most famous poem. Mejías was a friend, a bullfighter who was gored to death in the ring.”