Tapestry of Spies

by Stephen Hunter

“Chap calling himself Harry Uckley. Ex-British army officer. Actually an Eton man, a few years before us. A footballer, they tell me.”

  “From the old school,” said Florry.

  “He and a chap called Dyles, sitting pretty as you please in Pamplona with their fine uniforms, hobnobbing with Jerry, guzzling tinto, and chasing the señoritas. Stinky, it’ll be such fun. Do join me. You see, the two who replace the unfortunate Harry and his chum have just got to be old Eton boys. The other Brits in the militia haven’t got the polish. Can you imagine poor Billy Mowry trying to pass at Eton? Good heavens, out of the question.”

  “It’s much to ask,” said Steinbach, “but these are hard times. The hardest times, perhaps.”

  “It is the right thing, Stink. It really is.”

  “A bridge,” said Florry, in private bitterness.

  “What say, Stink? What heroes we’ll be. How Sylvia will be impressed with her two brave boyos, and all the rest of the señoritas!” He smiled loonily.

  Florry looked at them. Julian, whom he did not know, not really, Portela whom he did not care to know, and finally Steinbach whom he did not like. Fools, all. But he could not face saying no to something Julian had already said yes to. He could not face Sylvia having said no.

  Oh, blast, he thought. In for a penny, in for a pound.

  “Let’s drop the bastard into the river like a smashed birdcage,” he said.

  Later, near eleven, Florry went to her room and knocked.

  There was no answer. He knocked again, louder.

  After a while, he felt quit idiotic. He went back to his room. But he could not settle down. Where in God’s name was she? He was going off in the morning to risk everything. Where was she?

  He went to Julian’s room and knocked. There was no answer. He knew he ought to settle down, what with tomorrow coming. But this business with the girl was going too far. He went down into the lobby.

  “Have you seen Miss Lilliford,” he asked the porter, who spoke no English. “Pret-ty la-dy,” he said slowly, as if in adding space between the syllables the man would be able to comprehend him. “Señorita. Mucho bonita señorita.”

  “Robert. There you are!”

  He turned. The two of them were just coming in.

  “We went for a walk. We came looking for you but you’d disappeared.”

  “I was in my room.”

  “Oh, we thought you’d be in the bar. Time for a last drink, eh?”

  “I think not, Julian.”

  “Listen, old man, you’ll want to get a good night’s sleep tonight. Busy times ahead.”

  “Of course.”

  “Well, I must leave you two lovebirds. Goodnight, darling,” he said, and gave Sylvia a kiss.

  When Julian had gone, Florry said, “I thought you were coming to my room.”

  “I’m sorry. I was on my way when I ran into Julian. Robert, please calm down. You look terribly agitated.”

  “Well, where were you? Where did you walk to? What did you—”

  “Robert, it was just a stroll. He told me he was leaving tomorrow. And that you were, too. He was very charming but very vague. What on earth is going on?”

  “It’s nothing. Yes, we’ve got to go back to the war tomorrow.”

  “God, it was over so soon. I’ll miss you both so much. You know, I’ve really had a wonderful time here and—”

  “Sylvia, I want to marry you.”

  “What?”

  “I want to marry you.”

  “Robert, don’t be ridiculous. Here? Now? In the middle of this?”

  “No, I want you to be my bride.”

  “Why, absolutely not. Not until I think about it.”

  “We’re going off on a job tomorrow. It’ll be quite dangerous, or so they say. It’s a special thing.”

  “For whom?”

  “Our old outfit. The POUM people. I can’t tell you more. But I want you to be my wife. I want to marry you when I get back. So that you’ll be mine forever, all right?”

  She shook her head in wonder.

  “I love you, Sylvia. Do you understand that? Let me tell you, I’m not as charming as he is, but I love you in a way he never will. What he’s good at is getting people to care for him. That’s his special talent. I don’t have it. But in the long run, I’m better for you, Sylvia, don’t you see? Really, I’m—”

  “Robert. Please.”

  “Do you love him?”

  “Yes. But in a different way than I love you. I respect him. It all means so much to him, the revolution, the war. He’s so passionate. That’s a part of his charm.”

  “You don’t know him, Sylvia. When he gets bored with you, he’ll cut you loose. He doesn’t really care about other people.”

  “Robert, I—”

  “Please. I must know. Tell me now. If you want, I’ll go away forever. Just tell me. I can’t stand this business in the middle.”

  She looked at him.

  “I won’t marry you, Robert, because of Julian. But I shall make love to you. Julian thinks he’s going to die. That is what he told me. I think I’m in love with him, not that it matters to him. But I will make love to you if you promise me you will watch him and protect him on this job coming up tomorrow. I know you want more, but that is the only thing I can give you.”

  Their sex had an intensity that was almost brutal. It felt to Florry, after his long hunger and his despair and in his pain, like a battle. It was all muscles and sweat; it was work. He wanted to taste her and he did and it drove her wild, like an animal. He wanted her to taste him and she fought him and he forced her down and made her do it.

  When they were done they lay there, smoking cigarettes in the dark. They did not quite touch.

  Finally he said, “I love you,” and waited for her to respond and she didn’t.

  “I’ve lost you, haven’t I?”

  “I’m not sure. I don’t know. I’m going to do a lot of thinking. I’ll wait in Barcelona. I have to sort this out.”

  “Maybe I’ll get killed and you won’t have to be confused.”

  “Don’t talk like such an ass.”

  “I think I’m going to my room. I’ve got some plans to make.”

  “All right.”

  “I’m going to tell Julian about this. I think he should know.”

  “All right. Do you want me to come?”

  “No. Good-bye, Sylvia. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Florry paused at the door to Julian’s room. Odd, he thought he heard talking.

  He waited. No, it was quiet.

  He knocked.

  “Good God, what fool can be pounding on my door at midnight? Go away, Wee Willie Winkle, the children are fast asleep.”

  “Julian, it’s Robert.”

  “Stink, there’s plenty of time to talk later.”

  “Julian, it’s important.”

  “Christ.” There was some stirring inside.

  Finally the door opened a bit and Julian, looking frazzled, leaned out. A puff of the warm Mediterranean sea breeze inflated the curtain behind him and mussed his hair.

  “Love to have you in, old man, but people would talk. Now what on earth is this?”

  “Julian, look, I wanted to tell you. Before tomorrow, before we leave.”

  “God, Stink, from the look on your bloody face I believe you have finally succeeded in getting yourself listed ahead of me in Mother’s will.”

  “No, Julian, it’s serious.”

  “You’ve sprained your thumb and thought better of tomorrow. Odd, I’ve just stubbed a toe and come to the same conclusion. Quite natural, old man, and—”

  “Julian, I’ve just come from Sylvia. We’ve been together. Do you see what I’m saying? But I think she would really rather be with you. We’ve actually had a row. I just want you to know.”

  “All right, Robert. That’s actually less interesting news to me than you might suppose. Now, good God, go to bed, you fool.”

  Florry stood there and started to walk away,
thinking about Julian’s luck and his own lack of it. Julian had her and it meant nothing; he’d lost her and it meant everything. He hated Julian for that, most of all: his sublime indifference. And then he noticed what it was that had him feeling odd, feeling peculiar, feeling unsettled about the whole scene.

  It was something borne on the sea breeze from Julian’s room.

  It was the scent, however diluted, however mixed with other odors, and however much Florry willed it not to be, of peppermint.

  Florry stood rooted to the floor. He looked up and down the corridor.

  Julian, you filthy bastard, he thought.

  And then Florry realized what he must become.

  He must become a spy.

  He went swiftly to the door next to Julian’s. The hotel was largely empty: the chances were that the room would be empty, too. He tried his own key, which didn’t work. He opened his pocket knife and slipped it into the doorjamb and pushed mightily; the door popped open with a snap. He stepped in, preparing an excuse in case he should have roused someone, but saw instantly the beds were unused and the room immaculate. He pulled the door behind him and walked through the darkness to the balcony. He eased open the french doors and stepped through. Before him, the formal gardens radiated an icy glaze in the patina of the white moon like a dream of a maze. Beyond, the sea, a sheet of dazzled glow, altered its surface microscopically under the pressure of the light. The wind was soft yet sure.

  The leap to Julian’s balcony was about six feet and it never occurred to him to look down or to believe he couldn’t make it. He slipped off his shoes, climbed over the railing, hung for just a second as he gauged the distance and prepared his nerve, and then with a mighty push flung himself across the gap, snaring Julian’s railing with his hand and the balcony ledge with his foot. He climbed quietly over, edged along the wall. The door was slightly open.

  “You’ve never wavered?”

  The bloody voice. Unfilled with jangled Germanisms, unaddled with madness, but the same—or different. Calm, somehow; the accent vague, the tone sympathetic, assuring, oddly filled with conviction.

  “Of course I’ve wavered,” said Julian, distraught. “I’ve hated myself. I revolt myself. Who do you think I am, a bloody saint?”

  “No, of course not. You are only another weak man such as myself.”

  “Not such as yourself. You’re a bloody inspiration. I’m just sullied flesh.”

  “You must be strong.”

  “Ah, God.” Julian seemed to arch with agony and disbelief. Florry had never heard him so close to losing control. His voice was full of tremulous emotion.

  “You cannot help yourself,” said Levitsky.

  “No, I can’t,” said Julian. “I try. But you’ve got me wholly, totally.” He sounded angry now.

  “You’ll come in the end to accept your other self, your true self. You’ll see how your mission is the most important part of you. How all the misrepresentations, the lies, the deceits—how they make you stronger over the longer course. You will understand things you might not otherwise. Your sensitivities are increased, they are keener, more perceptive. It means you are special. You’ll come in the end to define it as a strength.”

  Florry could stand no more.

  That was it, then—utterly and irrevocably. Damn them. Damn them both.

  He retreated swiftly, slipping back across the gap and quickly put on his shoes. He checked his watch. It was almost one. The car would come at nine tomorrow and by nightfall they’d be off.

  It was time at last to read Tristram Shandy.

  In the morning, Florry went down to the lobby. Julian and Sylvia were already talking.

  “Oh, hullo, Stink. Just saying our good-byes.”

  She was watching him talk, her eyes radiant with love and submission. She hardly looked at Florry.

  “Well, look, here comes the car and bloody Steinbach and his chum Portela. I suppose I should let you have a last minute alone. May I, Robert?” He kissed Sylvia lightly on the cheek, then backed off. “Good-bye, Sylvia. It was splendid.”

  He turned and went out to the car.

  “Sylvia, can you do me one favor?” Florry said.

  “Yes, Robert.”

  “Look here, it’s so silly, I borrowed a copy of Tristram Shandy from this chap Sampson in Barcelona. A newsman of The Times. I know it sounds silly, but I’d like to get it back to him. Do you think you could drop it off? You’d find him at the Café de las Ramblas.”

  “Yes, Robert, of course.”

  “Thank you. And I shall see you—ah, the week of the twentieth, shall we say? At the Grand Oriente. At eleven in the morning? Tuesday, shall we say?”

  “Yes. I’ll be there.”

  He wanted to take her in his arms and kiss her.

  “This would be so much bloody easier if I didn’t love you so much.”

  “I wish I loved you the way you require, Robert. I wish you didn’t feel you had to own me. Watch after yourself. Watch after Julian.”

  Florry turned and left for the car. He would not look back. He could feel his Webley against his side in the shoulder holster. He’d oiled and cleaned it. And loaded it.

  23

  ¡VIVA LA ANARQUÍA!

  LEVITSKY SAT IN THE SQUARE AT THE CAFÉ. HE WAS VERY tired. He ordered a cup of café con leche. He looked about. It could have been any village in Spain. It was called Cabrillo de Mar, about ten miles out of Salou on the road to Lerida. Soon a Twenty-ninth Division staff car that would be taking Florry and Julian Raines on their mission would pass through the village on the way toward the front.

  He was so tired of traveling. Yet there was one last thing to do.

  The coffee arrived. He poured the milk into it, mixed it until it was thick, and then took a sip: delicious. As you get old, certain comforts matter more.

  You should get going, he told himself. Back to Barcelona. Finish it. Why wait?

  I wait because I am tired. And because I must see.

  Go on, old man. Leave.

  No. He had to see the car and know they were off. It was the old empiricist in him, that unwillingness to trust what he hadn’t observed. He wondered when he would feel the triumph. Or would he feel it at all? He had done it, after all; but at such cost.

  Sacrifices. Old man, you are the master of sacrifice. Let no man ever say the Devil Himself doesn’t understand two things: the theory of history and the theory of sacrifice. However, perhaps in this century they are the same.

  He felt eyes on him and looked up. A member of the Guardia Civil was headed toward him. It was a pockmarked boy with a Labora machine pistol slung over his shoulder. He wore a khaki mono and a gorilla cap with a red star on it. He looked stupid.

  “Salud, comrade,” called Levitsky.

  The boy regarded him, and Levitsky, bleary eyed, could feel the hate. What was it, the battered way he looked? The smell of peppermint? His clear foreignness?

  “Your papers, comrade,” said the boy.

  Levitsky got out a passport.

  “A foreigner?”

  “Yes, I’m an international,” Levitsky said, and knew instantly he’d blundered.

  “Are you English? Russian?” asked the boy.

  “No, comrade. Polish.”

  “I think you’re Russian.”

  “No. No, comrade. Long live the revolution. I’m Polish.”

  “No, I think you’re a Russian.” He swung the machine pistol over onto him.

  “Hands up,” he said. “You’re a Russian, here to take over. Get going.” The gun muzzle looked big as a church bell.

  Levitsky rose. The boy walked him across the square.

  The boy seemed to hate Russians for some reason. Or perhaps it was something else: he had just wanted to parade somebody through the square at gunpoint with his shiny new weapon to show off for the girls of the town.

  As he walked he could sense something odd about this place: the slogans smeared on the stucco walls in the hot sun had a kind of stridency to them h
e hadn’t noticed in other such villages. He translated.

  FREE THE LAND

  UP THE CNT

  FAI FOREVER

  THE REVOLUTION NOW

  He soon found himself in the Guardia Civil station—or what had once been a Guardia Civil station and was now littered and looted and clearly in the possession of some sort of People’s Committee for Order. The boy put him in the one cell of the dirty little building overlooking the square.

  They were waiting, the boy had explained, for the sargento, who would take care of everything. Levitsky told himself he really ought to get some sleep. You’re an old man, comrade, he thought. Almost sixty; you’ve still got something to do. You need your rest.

  And thus he was situated when a car did in fact appear in the square. It was not, however, the car he expected; it was another vehicle altogether, and when it drew to a halt and its door popped open, two thuggish Spaniards in overcoats got out, checked around, and nodded into its dark interior. Comrade Bolodin emerged.

  Levitsky drew back. Trapped.

  As the two thugs came inside, Levitsky quickly dropped to the straw bunk and turned toward the wall, wrapping himself in the blanket. He heard the two newcomers arguing with the boy. The men kept saying SIM, SIM, over and over. No, the boy kept saying, FIJL, which was the Federación Iberia de Juventudes Liberatatión, the radical anarchist youth organization.

  The boy, in short, wouldn’t listen to them because they were the enemy, here to take over the revolution from the people in this small seacoast village.

  “Sargento,” he kept saying. “Sargento.”

  The two men after a time returned to the car, and Levitsky heard one of them speak in heavily accented English to Bolodin.

  “Señor Boss, this snot-nose kid, he say is nothing he can do until his sergeant come.”

  “Christ,” said Bolodin. “You show him the picture?”

  “Boss, this kid, he is having a machine gun. Is no toy.”

  “You moron. I ought to turn him loose on you.”

  “Sorry, Comrade Boss.”

  “Don’t ‘Sorry, Comrade Boss’ me. I didn’t drive here half the night from Tarragona for the old goat to hear you say you were sorry. Just get over there and wait.”