Tapestry of Spies

by Stephen Hunter

  “Bolodin,” said Glasanov, watching as the armored vehicles at last ceased fire, “take them in.”

  Lenny Mink nodded, pulled his Tokarev automatic from his belt, and gave the signal to the troops. He himself began to rush through the smoke toward the shattered hotel; he could feel the men behind him, feel their energy and tension and building will to violence. They were screaming. Lenny reached the bullet-splintered main door first, kicked it open. There were two bodies immediately inside, a man and a woman. He stepped over them. A wounded man behind the desk tried to lift his rifle toward Lenny; Lenny shot him in the chest. Another man, already on the floor, moaned, tried to climb to his feet. Lenny smashed him in the skull with his gun barrel.

  “Go, go,” he screamed in Russian as the assault troops began to pour through the building. He could hear them on the stairs already and hear the screams beginning to spread through the hotel as they pounded through, beating indiscriminately, threatening, screaming curses, smashing furniture, and in all other respects attempted to shatter the will of their victims.

  He went up the stairs himself to the second-floor offices of the Party. The Asaltos had already been there. Torn papers and shattered furniture were everywhere. The smell of burned powder hung heavily in the air. The walls had been ripped with gunfire. Two men were dead and two others wounded. Lenny went to one of the wounded, a redheaded runty fellow bleeding from the leg and from the scalp.

  “Nationality?” he demanded in English.

  “Fuck you, chum,” said the man, in a heavy Cockney.

  “A Brit, huh? Listen,” he spoke in English, too, the English of Brooklyn, “listen, you know a guy named Florry? A Brit, I’m looking for him.”

  “Fuck off, you bloody sot.”

  Lenny laughed.

  “Look, you better help me. You’re in a shitload of trouble.”

  The man spat at him.

  Lenny laughed.

  “You a soldier boy, huh? Nice suntan. Spend a lot of time in the trenches. Look, tell me what I want, okay?”

  “Bugger off, you bloody scum,” the angry Brit said.

  “Okay, pal,” said Lenny. He shot him in the face and began to roam through the building in search of somebody who had a line on this Florry.

  Meanwhile, Asalto units neutralized other targets around the revolutionary city. The Lenin barracks was held the most important, because its arsenal was the largest and its troops held to be the most dangerous in Glasanov’s mind. This turned out to be an illusion; most of the arms had been moved to the front and the soldiers were largely illiterate peasant youths who’d joined for the promise of steady meals. They surrendered in the first minutes.

  Among the other targets were the main telephone exchange on the Plaza de Catalunya, guarded originally by Anarchists but since the fighting in May by POUM fighters; the Anarcho-Syndicalist headquarters; the offices of La Batalle, the banned POUM newspaper whose physical plant was still a gathering place for dissidents; the offices of The Spanish Revolution, the POUM English-language newsletter; the radical Woodworkers Guild; and the Public Transportation Collective, a number of former estates seized by the youthful radicals for a variety of political purposes. In every location it was the same: the swift shocking blast of gunfire, the brutal rush by the well-trained Asaltos, and the mopping up.

  The prisoners, who accumulated rapidly and were the principal booty of the operation, were swiftly separated into three categories. Leadership, including Andres Nin, POUM’s charismatic chief, and thirty-nine other intellectuals and theoreticians, were taken to special, secret prisons called, in the colloquial, checas, for careful and extensive interrogation, in preparation for what was expected to be a series of show trials very like the ones that had so shocked the world when they had been performed in Moscow. The second category, the militant, bitter rank-and-file—that is, mostly the fiery young anti-Stalinist European leftists of all stripe and coloration that had flocked to the POUM banner—was taken to the Convent of St. Ursula, which would rapidly earn, in the next few days, its nickname in history: the Dachau of Spain. These men were interrogated, though rather perfunctorily and without much nuance or subtlety, and then shot. The executions, as many as five hundred in the first several hours (though estimates vary), were carried out in the graveyard near the convent, hard by a grove of olive trees under a little bluff. The shootings were done in batches of as many as fifteen or twenty by special NKVD death squads, using Maxim guns mounted on the backs of old Ford lorries. The bodies were buried in mass graves gouged into the meadow.

  The last category of prisoners—those not on Glasanov’s leadership list and those lacking the fiery believer’s spark in their eyes—were dispersed to a number of hastily improvised disciplinary centers for further interrogation and incarceration until their destinies could be determined. Included in this category were the “Milicianas,” or female members of the POUM. In many cases, these prisoners had no idea what was going on and were completely certain it was some idiotic misunderstanding that would in some way be straightened out. In this group was Sylvia. She was removed with several dozen other Milicianas of POUM and the other groups of women, many of them internationals, and taken to a wire stockade in the courtyard of a small convent near Bardolona, just north of the city. It was a jaunty, uppity mob in whose company she found herself, who bandied with great sarcasm at their Asalto guards.

  “Hah. Fascist sister, how about a nice fuck?” the tough young men would call.

  “Fuck your face. Or fuck your cow saint, La Passionaria,” the women would call back through the wire.

  “Fascist cunts,” the soldiers chimed merrily, “can’t wait to screw Moors and Nazis.”

  “I’d sleep with ten Moors and ten Nazis before I’d sleep with scum like you, with a shooter so small it would fall out.”

  There was much laughter.

  Sylvia did not share it. It wasn’t that the banter upset her, but she had a profound mistrust of men with guns. Although it did not occur to the others that there was danger, Sylvia was quite uneasy. She didn’t like the way the soldiers joked with them, unafraid to say anything; she did not like the loose, confident way they carried their rifles; she did not like the coarseness of the experience or the absurdity of the situation.

  In the stockade, there was surprisingly little political rhetoric, as if everybody was by this time quite exhausted with politics. At the lunch hour they were brought a little wine and some bread—no less, really, than their guards, who seemed as confused as they were—and everybody waited patiently until somebody showed up to set it all straight.

  An hour after lunch, five of the women were called out by name—two Germans, a fiery Frenchwoman named Celeste, who seemed to be the spirit of the group, and an Italian anarchist who had actually fought at the front as a man—and taken over to the wall and shot.

  Their heads flew apart when the officer leaned over each and fired a pistol bullet into the ear as a coup de grace. Sylvia didn’t scream, although most of the others did; she simply cursed her luck and tried to figure a way out.

  An hour later, another six women were led out and executed. The survivors had become by this time exceedingly morose. A few wept and were comforted by the stronger. Sylvia sat by herself, with her arms wrapped around her, and though it was warm, she felt her teeth chattering.

  Then her name was called.

  She stood.

  “Be brave, comrade,” said one of the Belgian women. “Don’t let the bastards see your tears.”

  Hands all around touched her. She was smothered in a kind of love that had been transformed radically from the generally political into the specifically personal. A woman hugged her and held her tight and told her to be brave.

  “Spit in their faces,” she was told.

  “Don’t give them the pleasure of seeing you beg. Long live the revolution.”

  “Yes,” said Sylvia, though it had a kind of irony to her, “yes, long live the revolution.” She turned to face her suitors, two st
ony Asaltos with submachine guns.

  They led her from the courtyard into the church, over to one of its axial chapels, where a young man with gray eyes sat writing at a small table.

  “Comrade, ah, Lilliford,” he asked, not really looking up. As soon as she saw that he wouldn’t look up, she knew she was in trouble. When a man didn’t look at her, it meant he’d already seen her and been somehow hurt by her beauty, and would therefore go to great lengths to show her how unimpressed he was, or how indifferent he could be.

  At last he looked up. He had pale, pimply skin and blondish hair and large circles under his eyes. Though he wore the khaki Asalto mono and a brace of pouches and holsters and belts about him, he was clearly not Spanish but some kind of Russian or European and rather pleased with his own authority.

  “Yes?” she said, hating herself for the way her voice quavered.

  “Please. Sit down.” He gestured to a wooden chair adjacent to his table.

  “I think I’d rather stand, actually,” she said.

  “As you wish.” He smiled charmlessly, showing bad teeth. “You travel on a British passport?”

  “Yes. I am a British citizen. Would you please tell me on what authority you hold me and what charges have been pressed, if any.”

  “No. What specifically is your connection with the Party of Marxist Unification?”

  “I’m a volunteer on their newspaper. I help with the page layout and I do some proofreading for them.”

  “You are not specifically a member?”

  “I am not a joiner.”

  He considered this for a time. “Do you sleep with the boys?”

  “You can’t expect me to answer that.”

  “Why would an Englishwoman become involved with Fascists and Trotskyites and—”

  “These people aren’t any more fascist than I am. I don’t know where you got your ideas, but—”

  The young commissar smiled deeply, his eyes merry with condescension. It was his huge sense of moral certitude that she loathed.

  “My dear lady,” he said through his grin, “could we not argue this all day? Perhaps if I refrain from attacking the POUM, you could refrain from defending it. Cigarette?”

  “Thank you. No.”

  “You’re a very attractive woman.”

  “What on earth does that have to do with anything?”

  “It has to do only with my romantic nature. A weakness for which I consistently apologize. So then. Let me ask you this. Could you explain your true relationship to this illegal organization.”

  “It wasn’t illegal until this morning.”

  “Times change, Miss Lilliford. Answer, please.”

  “I said all I care to on the subject.”

  “You know, it would help if you would look upon me as a friend or at least an interested person. I’m not without a certain amount of sympathy in these matters. Could I have from you please a list of all the names of your—look, why don’t you sit? I feel quite silly sitting in your presence.”

  “Then why don’t you stand?”

  He smiled again. His eyes took on the aspect of a person about to deliver a treasured and much-rehearsed witticism. “Why are pretty women so headstrong? All my life I have wondered this. I think that your daddies did not spank you enough.”

  “Will you please get to the point?”

  “Forgive my little jokes. I am not as serious as I should be. So: will you be prepared to provide a list of the names of your coworkers over the past six months. If you would list the names of all the people you have—”

  “You must be joking.”

  “In my private life, Miss Lilliford, I joke all the time. I am indeed proud of my sense of humor, which is said to be rather keen. In this matter, pretty lady, alas, no, I do not joke. Serious charges have been raised. It’s not our policy to make jokes.”

  “I’ve noticed.”

  “You’ll cooperate?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “You could end up against the wall. Such a shame, a pretty woman like you.”

  “You are an exceedingly slimy young man.”

  “You are brave now, but when the Asaltos are getting ready to shoot you, you may find your courage somewhat reduced.”

  “I’m sure you are right. You are probably an expert; you have probably sent many women to their death. But I’m not frightened now. Not of an ugly little man like you.”

  “Well, no matter,” he said.

  “I demand to see the British consul.”

  “Miss Lilliford.”

  “This is an illegal detention. I demand to see my consul or representative of my government.”

  “I am sorry to report that such a demand cannot at this time be accommodated.”

  Another volley of shots crashed out; Sylvia jumped.

  “You had better get used to the sound of gunfire, Miss Lilliford, if you expect to be a revolutionary.”

  The three coups de grace came immediately.

  “Why?” she said. “For God’s sake, why?”

  “It’s a matter of discipline, one supposes. These things are ugly. I’ve seen them before.”

  “It’s so pointless and awful.”

  “It is indeed awful, Miss Lilliford, but it is never pointless. Now let me ask you one more question. Now wait, don’t interrupt me. You may even be surprised. The question is: If I let you go, will you do me the favor of leaving Spain as quickly as possible?”

  “I—”

  “You have friends, it seems, in high places. I will have a driver return you to the city. Please, please, leave Spain as fast as you can make the arrangements. As charming and lovely as you are, I have no desire to repeat our conversation. I might not be able to enjoy myself as much if I had to shoot you. And one word of advice: get out of that mono. Wear some womanly things. Be pretty. Return to the bourgeoisie. You will be safer.”

  Sylvia thought it some crude Russian prank. But in fact, at the young commissar’s nod, two guards took her outside to an unmarked car, and a driver took her swiftly and without incident into the city. He told her there was a nice hotel across from the cathedral; would she like to go there? Yes, she said. She went and had no trouble getting a room. Then she went into the Gothic quarter and found a small dress shop and she bought a dress. They let her change in the rear.

  She went back to her room and locked the door and sat breathing heavily. Occasionally through the night there was the sound of shooting, but in all other respects the city seemed much calmer. The sense of oppressiveness had vanished. There was no longer any feeling of waiting for something ominous to happen. It had.

  Sylvia thought she’d been lucky. Some bureaucratic slip-up had somehow spared her. She looked at her calendar; June 16 had been a long day.

  She might not have slept nearly so soundly as she did that night had she known that her escape from the firing squad occurred not by virtue of a slip-up. In fact, somebody in high places did know her, or had that day learned of her. It was Colonel Bolodin, commander of the SIM.

  32

  THE BRIDGE

  NOW LILI,” JULIAN SAID, “LILI WAS A RARE BEAUTY. HER father’s estate, near Breslau, had this wonderful hunting schloss, where the old brute went to shoot boar in the winter—and Lili and I had some exquisite weekends there. In the spring. Oh, it was wonderful.”

  Florry nodded enthusiastically. His breath was ragged and dry.

  They had passed unnoticed beyond the first construction sheds, where the Spanish workers had been quartered during the rebuilding. Up ahead there was some kind of guard post and beyond that Florry could see the bridge, an ancient rough stone arch, now buttressed smartly with a gaudy framework of Krupp steel. Beneath it, a surprisingly mundane little river cut its muddy way through a deep gorge, but neither Florry nor Julian cared for a glimpse. Rather, they had by this time seen the low concrete blockhouse that had brought them all this way.

  It seemed so utterly nondescript, a prosaic little cube of concrete ranged with gun slits. They
were too far to see, but Florry guessed the Germans had at least four Maxims—one for each slot—in the little fort. Against and upon it now, a batch of Condor Legion troopers lounged in their undershirts, smoking and telling jokes. Indeed, all about the bridge, Condor Legion officers could be seen.

  “They certainly don’t look as if they’re expecting raiders,” said Florry. He glanced at his watch. It was five to twelve.

  “Now Suzette,” Julian was saying in German, “Suzette had wonderful, wonderful breasts.”

  “You! You there!” The voice had a commanding ring to it.

  “Why, yes,” replied Julian, turning mildly.

  “Just who are you?” The officer, whose hair was cut short as peach fuzz, had a set of ball-bearing eyes and a scar running down his face as if his head had been once disassembled, then reassembled, though hastily and somewhat inexactly. On the one side of the line, the skin had a dead, plastic look, an abnormal sheen.

  “Herr Leutnant Richard Von Paupel, Combat Engineers Section, Condor Legion, at your disposal, Your Excellency,” said Julian crisply, snapping off a salute—the army’s salute, not the Party thing.

  The half-faced officer returned the snap perfunctorily.

  “I’m here as an observer, Herr Colonel,” Julian said coolly.

  “Ah! And for whom, may I ask?” the officer demanded.

  “Certain elements, sir.”

  “And what is that supposed to mean? Or do you mean to have me play a little guessing game?”

  “Perhaps I’d best just say not only is the general staff interested in the outcome of this afternoon’s exercise, Herr Colonel, but equally so are certain elements in Berlin. They have requested an independent report on the outcome.”

  “You’re from Security?”

  “I’m not Gestapo, Herr Colonel.”