Tapestry of Spies

by Stephen Hunter

  “Come on,” yelled Julian, clambering past him. Florry rose. There seemed other dark shapes coming from the Fascist position at them and he fired his remaining five chambers of four-five-five at them, driving them back, and turned to race after Julian.

  “Come on, Stink,” screamed Julian, pulling him along. He was delirious with joy. “Good Christ, man, but that was bloody marvelous, that was more bloody fun than old Julian’s ever had! Blast, you potted him right in the bloody snout!”

  But Florry felt only queasy and ashamed. He’d seen the boy’s face in the spurt of flame and he knew he was perhaps fifteen, with a vague sprig of mustache. The bullet had smashed into his brain, that huge four-five-five, heavy as the Liverpool Express, shattering the whole upper quadrant of his face. He lay in a slop of mud and blood, utterly defunct. Christ, why couldn’t it have been a Moorish sergeant or a German colonel, why a silly, dim little child?

  Julian was yanking him along savagely. Explosions and gunfire seemed to be coming from every direction in the dark. Weird illuminations lit the horizon. The trench seemed endless. Bullets pranged into the dirt or thunked against the sandbags, making a peculiar hop-hop sound. Julian suddenly leapt back, pinning him to the ground. He heard, besides the thumping of Julian’s heart, the heavy sound of a mass of men running through the mud. It must have been the attacking party, unsupported since the destruction of the Maxim gun.

  “Listen. We’ll never make it back. I think there’s a party of them up ahead in the trench.”

  “Ah! The bastards.”

  “Yes. Unsporting of them, eh? Why don’t we crawl about a hundred meters or so out on the left. If we stay low, we should be all right. When they pass on by, we can return to our own lines. All right?”

  “You clever chap.”

  “Brilliant Julian, always thinking. Come on, then.”

  Julian pulled himself out of the trench and pivoted to offer Florry a hand. Florry, thus assisted, scrambled out. Julian shimmied away, and Florry began to—

  It was as if he were at the center of an explosion. There was no pain, only the stunned sense of a tremendous blow to the throat knocking him down, filling his eyes with light and drama. He fought for strength but could find none; he put his hand to his wound and was further stunned to discover his fingers were wet and black.

  God, he’d been shot. He lay, waiting for death. The blood flowed over his tunic. The numbness and incoherence spread.

  Julian appeared, inches from his eyes.

  “I’m dying,” Florry said.

  “Can you move?”

  “I’m dying. Go on, get out of here.”

  “Ah, rot, Robert. I’m the hero here, I’ll make the dramatic suggestions, the glorious sacrifice, all right? Lord, you’re a mess, Stinky. You look worse than when you pissed yourself up in fifth form.”

  Somehow Julian got him turned over onto his belly and aimed in the proper direction. Florry floundered along ineffectively and Julian shoved him on, half-pushing, half-pulling him. Above them, bullets tore through the night, occasionally popping with a rude sound and a cloud of spray into the wet ground. They seemed to move groggily for the longest time, but at last they reached a less barren area, where gullies and thick brush offered them some protection and Julian got him up and stumbling along.

  Behind them, another machine gun opened up.

  “Damn them, they’ve brought another gun up. Come on, Stinky.”

  But Florry was at last spent.

  “I don’t think I can make it.”

  “Of course you can, old boy. Here, let me take another look. I don’t even think the thing hit you square. These bloody Spaniards can’t do anything right. A lot of blood, and you’ve messed a very nice tunic, but if you’ll just—”

  “Julian, shut up. I can’t make it. I’m going to pass out.”

  “Now, none of that. Come along.”

  “Please, go on. Go on, damn you, you always were the brilliant one. Julian, why did you cut me? At school, you cut me dead. You filthy bastard.”

  “Long story, old sod. No time for it now. Do come on, then, I think I see some of their chaps moving this way. We’re going to end up practice for pig sticking if we don’t—”

  “Go on, damn you. Christ, it hurts.”

  “Wounds are supposed to hurt. Every sod knows that. Now come along.”

  “I-I-”

  “Think of England, old boy. Think of the wonderful piece you can write for Denis Mason. You’ll be the toast of Bloomsbury.”

  “Oh, Christ.”

  “Think of Sylvia, old man. Think of the beautiful Sylvia.”

  “I can’t think of—”

  “Think of her titties, old man. Great soft titties. Think of squashing them about in your fingers while she tells you she wants you to do it harder.”

  “You filthy bastard!”

  “Think of her wonderful cunt, old man, all wet and fishy and warm. Think of grousing it out as a piggy snorts after truffles. That should revive your interest in living.”

  “You filthy fucker, Julian. I ought to—”

  “Yes, that’s the spirit, chum. Come along then.”

  “Julian, you bastard—”

  “Stink, she’s just quim. Damned good quim, I’d bet, but quim just the same. Come on, old boy.”

  Up ahead, they saw figures on the crestline coming toward them.

  17

  COMRADE MAJOR BOLODIN

  LENNY MINK FELT GOOD, FOR ONE THING, IN THE SOUR aftermath of the Levitsky debacle, he had received a promotion from the desperate Glasanov. He was now a major in the SIM and had control of his own unit. But he had other reasons for his joy. For in the matter of Levitsky, he had a considerable edge on everybody else. He knew that the chances of spotting the old Jew randomly were almost nil; Levitsky was simply too smart for that, too shrewd, too much the devil. But Lenny knew why he was here. To see his boy.

  To get the gold.

  Lenny had figured it out. The old Jew was after the same thing he was. What else could explain the desperation and the cunning and the courage of the old man?

  Old devil, Lenny thought, you’re not so special. Just another Jew on the track of a big score. You’ll see your boy and he’ll tell you, huh? He’ll point you in the right direction. You’ve just got to find him.

  And his boy was English.

  Thus it took no great powers of deduction but only simple cleverness to identify and establish surveillance on the several concentrations of Englishmen around Barcelona. For surely the old devil would be found sniffing in their fringes. These were not many: there was, first off, the press corps, a group of gray-suited cynics that gathered each night in the Café de las Ramblas and sat nursing whiskeys and grousing bitterly about their assignments and their editors and exchanging sarcastic bets on the outcome of it all. Lenny ordered that Ugarte, his number one, who did all the talking, take up a nightly position there.

  “Suppose I get bored, boss?”

  “I break every bone in your body. Every single one, no?”

  Ugarte had a particularly unpleasant laugh, more a whinny, which he issued at that point, partially to conceal his extreme nervousness. Bolodin frightened him, too.

  “Look,” said the American, leaning across and pinching him playfully. “You do what I say, when I say it, and you’ll come out of this okay. Okay?” He spoke English because among Ugarte’s attainments was the language.

  “Sí, yeah, boss.”

  Lenny’s other trusted aid was Franco, called Frank for obvious reasons, an ex-butcher who had beaten his wife to death in 1934 and was freed from his life sentence in August of 1936 by the libertarian Anarchists, who did not believe in prisons. Lenny stationed him outside the British consulate.

  Both men carried with them hand-drawn copies of the original etching from the 1901 Deutsches Schachzeitung, as adjusted and improved by Lenny’s suggestions after having seen the old man at close range in the cell. It was a reasonable likeness. Lenny knew therefore that if things wen
t as they should, it would only be a matter of time before one of them tumbled across the old man. He had a hunter’s confidence and a con artist’s patience.

  He positioned himself on the Ramblas, across from the third and most likely spot where Levitsky might be counted on to appear: the Hotel Falcon, the enemy headquarters, with its flapping red POUM banner. It was full of Brits. These were the idealistic kids who came to take part in the revolution but didn’t quite have the guts to join the fighting. They always came here, no place else. As he sat in the 1933 Ford, he conceived the idea that it was like some kind of fancy college club or something, and there seemed to be a lot of screwing and drinking and singing going on. It was a party or something.

  Lenny sat outside it day after day, smoking the Luckies he bought on the black market, quietly watchful, utterly imperturbable, in his blue serge suit, his almost handsome, almost ugly, blunt features calm and under control. He merely watched and smoked.

  It was on the third day when he noticed her.

  She was pretty and slim and lively. Everybody liked her, he could tell. She was the sort of girl you could like a lot.

  I never had a girl like that, he thought.

  In time, he grew to hate her. She made him think of who he was, and what he was, and he didn’t like that one bit. It was her eyes, those sleepy, calm, knowing gray green eyes, and the way she stood, so ladylike and refined, and the way she listened so intently. She seemed to work for their English-language newspaper, The Spanish Revolution, which they sent out, and it meant she knew everybody. One night, Glasanov had them do a crash job on some guy named Carlos. They picked him up at the Grand Oriente and the girl was there. Lenny hung back. He didn’t want her looking at him. He was so close to her, yet he kept his face down, not looking at anything because he was somehow ashamed.

  The next day, a boy showed up and handed him a note from Ugarte which said he’d seen Levitsky; he’d been calling himself Ver Steeg and claimed to be a Dutch journalist and was heading out to the front. The boss had better get out there fast.

  Lenny looked back at the girl. The POUM people were all low today because of poor Carlos.

  He thought, You bitch, someday I’ll be really fucking big and then you’ll know who I am.

  Some day I’ll have gold. And I’ll have you.

  18

  NEWS FROM THE FRONT

  THE INTELLIGENCE AND PROPAGANDA COMMISSAR OF THE Twenty-ninth Division, as the POUM militia was called, issued his communiqué about the glorious victory at Huesca a day and a half later at his headquarters at the big, battered house at La Granja. The recipients of the news were a crew of mangy reporters who had spent the intervening hours in transit to the front by any means possible, in the hope of actually seeing something.

  The statement was typed and posted on a bulletin board outside militia headquarters. It read,

  Our troops advanced in perfect order in a series of well-coordinated movements until in several places around the city, the Fascist lines were broken. In this new situation, they inflicted grievous casualties upon the enemy, taking from his stores much valuable war matériel. It was another example of working people, in service to the revolution, triumphing against all odds and defeating the German-Italian-Rebel Combine. Many prisoners were taken and much of intelligence value was also removed.

  Later in the morning, our troops, sensing they had achieved their tactical goals, repositioned themselves so as to consolidate their gains.

  “In other words,” said the Reuters man, “it was another bloody muck-up.”

  “What I’m wondering,” said the man from the Standard, “is bloody why the whole thing was tossed together at the doubletime. They usually don’t like to move so fast, they like to take their bloody time. Mañana, eh? Always bloody mañana.”

  “God, the Spanish. Anytime you’ve got the Spanish and the Italians in the same war, you’ve got the potential for a comic opera on a grand scale.”

  There were several reporters, however, who did not take part in the cynical give and take, perhaps because they were new to the front or new to war reporting or new to Spain. One of these was a tall, elderly Dutchman of intellectual carriage named Ver Steeg—Ver Staig, the pronunciation went, he informed them, his only utterance thus far—who worked for a Dutch press syndicate. He appeared to listen intently to all that was said and when at last the bulletin’s author, Commissar Steinbach, appeared to answer, however obliquely, questions, this spry old fellow moved to the front of the crowd.

  “Comrade Steinbach, we hear rumors that the Thaelmann Column of the PSUC Militia did not enthusiastically support the POUM and the Anarcho-Syndicalists in this attack, even though the worker’s militias have been theoretically combined under one leadership,” the Daily Mail man began.

  “Is this an essay or do you have a question, Mr. Janeway?” Comrade Steinbach replied with an icy gleam in his famously bright good eye.

  “The question, Comrade Steinbach, is, first, did the Communist militia aid in the attack, and second—”

  Steinbach, a witty man whose incisiveness of mind was as famous as his bright eye, enjoyed these sessions, and interrupted swiftly. “Each militia performed its duties outstandingly,” he said. “The Anarchists were brilliant, the Communists heroic, and our own Workers Party troops solid as a rock. There is sufficient glory for each.” He smiled.

  “Is it not a fact, comrade,” asked Sampson, the Times man, “that your forces are in exactly the same situation—that is, the same trenches—as before the attack?”

  “Certain modifications of our positions were necessary late in the attack as a means of consolidating our advances.”

  “In order, if I may follow up, to consolidate your advances, you had to abandon them?”

  “It is well known that the Times will write whatever it chooses, regardless of the truth, Comrade Sampson, so why bother to press on this issue?” He smiled blandly.

  “We’ve heard that the German troops of the Thaelmann Brigade, under the command of Communist Party commissars, never left their trenches, thus isolating your people in the Fascist parapets, and that the slaughter was awful.”

  “Good heavens, how do these terrible rumors get started? Fifth columnists, gentlemen, fifth columnists spreading lies. In fact, political solidarity was observed throughout the operation. Losses were acceptable.”

  “Why was the attack put together so hastily?”

  “The attack was organized at a normal pace.”

  “Comrade Steinbach, you know as well as we do these things are prepared weeks in advance. It seems clear this one was thrown together in less than forty-eight hours. What’s the reason?”

  “The attack proceeded normally.”

  “Is it true that the Twenty-ninth Division—that is, the POUM militia and the POUM itself—has staked its survival on breaking the siege at Huesca, and as external political pressure against POUM mounts, so will the pressure to take Huesca?” Sampson asked.

  “This is a purely military situation; it has no political ramifications. I suggest you check with the Central Committee at Party headquarters in Barcelona for any political questions.”

  “Will we be able to tour the battlefield?”

  “In due time.”

  “Will you release casualty figures?”

  “It would serve no purpose.”

  “Were British troops involved in the action?”

  “The British Centura of the POUM militia—excuse me, the Twenty-ninth Division—had a brave and leading role in the drama. The Centura is a unit of roughly one hundred men, who have been a proud part of the militia since August of 1936. These were among the most ardent troops in the attack.”

  At last the Dutch reporter spoke.

  “Were there any British casualties?”

  Steinbach paused a second.

  “It is with deep regret,” he said, “that I announce the death of a revolutionary fighter of great heroism, idealism, and discipline. He was also a great poet and scholar. Julian
Raines, author of the famous poem ‘Achilles, Fool,’ was killed in action in the attack against Fascist troops on the outskirts of Huesca.”

  There was a gasp.

  “Also,” Steinbach continued, “a British writer named Robert Furry perished.”

  The press party moved to the trench and Steinbach showed the correspondents the line of attack through a brass telescope.

  “As you can see, gentlemen,” he said, “it’s terrible terrain to cross at night, but our brave fighters were able to get within bomb range before being spotted. You can see the redoubt.”

  “Keep your ’eads low, boys,” called a redheaded Cockney captain with a bloody leg. “Bob the Nailer don’t give a bloody damn who you are.”

  “Is that where the Englishmen died?” asked Sampson.

  “Bloody right,” said the runty little man. “Up there. Comrade Julian went out alone to bomb an enemy machine gun. His chum went out after him. They sent the gun to hell, but neither man made it back.”

  “I say, captain,” said Sampson, “what’s your name? And what part of England are you from.”

  “Legion, chum. And I’m from all over.”

  “Hmmm. So there are no bodies?”

  “No. But no man could survive up there,” said Steinbach.

  “Perhaps they were taken prisoner,” said a young American correspondent—to some laughter.

  “I’m afraid prisoners are seldom taken on this front,” said Steinbach, a special, almost magical vividness coming into his good eye. “We all feel his loss keenly. He was one of those special men. You are all familiar with his poem ‘Achilles, Fool,’ which has been taken to express the confusion of a generation. Well, perhaps by the end, Comrade Raines had solved his confusion.”

  “What about this other chap?”

  “Only Julian Raines is important, as the symbol of a revolutionary generation who, rather than living his life in the comfortable circumstances of his birth, instead chose to come to Spain and risk everything for his beliefs.”