by C. J. Sansom
‘Did you see that? The bloody swastika’s flying beside the Spanish flag on that building!’
Tolhurst nodded. ‘Have to get used to that. It’s not just swastikas – the Germans run the police and the press. Franco makes no secret he wants the Nazis to win. Now, look over there.’
They had stopped at an intersection. Harry noticed a trio of colourfully dressed girls wearing thick make-up. They caught his glance and smiled, turning their heads provocatively.
‘There are tarts everywhere. You have to be very careful, most of them have the clap and some are government spies. Embassy staff aren’t allowed near them.’
A pith-helmeted traffic policeman waved them on. ‘Do you think Franco will come into the war?’ Harry asked.
Tolhurst ran a hand through his yellow hair, making it stick up. ‘God knows. It’s a terrible atmosphere; the newspapers and radio are wildly pro-German. Himmler’s coming on a state visit next week. But you just have to carry on as normal, as much as you can.’ He blew out his cheeks and smiled ruefully. ‘But most people keep a suitcase packed, in case we have to get out in a hurry. Oh, I say, there’s a gasogene!’
He pointed to where a big old Renault was puttering along, slower than the donkey carts. Fixed to the back was what looked like a large squat boiler, clouds of smoke pouring from a little chimney. Pipes led under the car from the thing. The driver, a middle-aged bourgeois, ignored stares from the pavement as people stopped to look. A tram clattered by hooting and he swerved wildly to avoid it, the unwieldy vehicle almost teetering over.
‘What the hell was that?’ Harry asked.
‘Spain’s revolutionary answer to the petrol shortage. Uses coal or wood instead of petrol. OK unless you want to go uphill. The French have them too, I hear. Not much chance of the Germans being after that design.’
Harry studied the crowd. A few people were smiling at the bizarre vehicle, but it struck Harry that none were laughing or calling out, as Madrileños would have done before at such a thing. Again he thought how silent they were, the background buzz of conversation he remembered gone.
They drove into Opera district, catching glimpses of the Royal Palace in the distance. It stood out brightly amid the general shabbiness, the sun reflected from its white walls.
‘Does Franco live there?’ Harry asked.
‘He receives people there but he’s established himself in the Pardo Palace, outside Madrid. He’s terrified of assassination. Drives everywhere in a bullet-proof Mercedes Hitler sent him.’
‘There’s still opposition then?’
‘The civiles have security sewn up in the towns. But you never know. After all, Madrid was only taken eighteen months ago. In a way, it’s an occupied city as much as Paris. There’s still resistance in the north, from what we hear, and Republican bands hiding out in the countryside. The vagabundos, they call them.’
‘God,’ Harry said. ‘What this country’s been through.’
‘It might not be over yet,’ Tolhurst observed grimly.
They drove into a street of large nineteenth-century houses, outside one of which a Union Jack hung from a flagpole, blessedly familiar. Harry remembered coming to the embassy in 1937, to ask for Bernie after he was reported missing. The officials had been unhelpful, disapproving of the International Brigades.
A couple of civiles were posted at the door. Cars were drawn up outside the entrance so Tolhurst stopped a little way up the road.
‘Let’s get your bag,’ he said.
Harry looked warily at the civiles as he climbed out. Then he felt his leg tugged from behind. He looked round to see a thin boy of ten, dressed in the rags of an army tunic, sitting on a kind of wheeled wooden sled.
‘Señor, por favor, diez pesetas.’
Harry saw the child had no legs. The boy clung to his turn-ups. ‘Por el amor de Dios,’ he pleaded, thrusting out his other hand. One of the civiles marched sharply down the street, clapping his hands. ‘¡Vete! ¡Vete!’ At his shout the little boy slapped his hands on the cobbles, rolling his cart backwards into a side street. Tolhurst took Harry’s elbow.
‘You’ll have to be quicker than that, old boy. Beggars don’t usually get as far out as this, but they’re thick as pigeons round the Centro. Not that there are any pigeons left, they’ve eaten them all.’
The civil who had chased the boy away escorted them to the embassy door. ‘Gracias por su asistencia,’ Tolhurst said formally. The man nodded, but Harry saw a look of contempt in his eyes.
‘It’s a bit of a shock at first, the children,’ Tolhurst said as he turned the handle of the big wooden door. ‘But you have to get used to it. Now, time to meet your reception committee. The big guns are waiting for you.’ He sounded jealous, Harry thought, as Tolhurst led the way into the hot, gloomy interior.
THE AMBASSADOR sat behind an enormous desk in an imposing room cooled by quietly whirring fans. There were eighteenth-century prints on the wall, thick rugs on the tiled floor. Another man, in the uniform of a naval captain, sat to one side of the desk. A window looked on to an interior courtyard full of potted plants, where a little group of men in shirtsleeves sat talking on a bench.
Harry recognized Sir Samuel Hoare from the newsreels. He had been a minister under Chamberlain, an appeaser dismissed when Churchill took over. A small man with delicately pointed, severe features and thin white hair, he wore a morning coat with a blue flower in the buttonhole. He stood and leaned across the desk, thrusting out a hand.
‘Welcome, Brett, welcome.’ The handshake was surprisingly strong. Cold, pale blue eyes stared into Harry’s for a moment, then the ambassador waved at the other man. ‘Captain Alan Hillgarth, our naval attaché. He has overall responsibility for Special Services.’ Hoare pronounced the final words with a touch of distaste.
Hillgarth was in his forties, tall and darkly handsome with large brown eyes. They were hard but there was something mischievous, almost childlike, about them and about the wide sensual mouth. Harry remembered Sandy reading adventure stories at Rookwood by a man called Hillgarth. They were about spies, adventures in dark backwaters of Europe. Sandy Forsyth had liked them but Harry had found them rather garbled.
The captain shook his hand warmly. ‘Hello, Brett. You’ll be directly responsible to me, through Tolhurst here.’
‘Sit, please; sit, all.’ Hoare waved Harry to a chair.
‘We’re glad to see you,’ Hillgarth said. ‘We’ve had reports of your training. You seemed to pick up everything reasonably well.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Ready to spin your yarn to Forsyth?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘We’ve got you a flat, Tolhurst here will take you round afterwards. Now, you know the drill? The cover story?’
‘Yes, sir. I’ve been seconded as an interpreter, after the illness of the previous man.’
‘Poor old Greene,’ Hillgarth said with a sudden laugh. ‘Still doesn’t know why he was rushed off home.’
‘Good interpreter,’ Hoare interjected. ‘Knew his job. Brett, you’ll have to be very careful what you say. As well as your – ah – other work, you’ll be interpreting for some senior people, and things are delicate here. Very delicate.’ Hoare looked at him sharply and Harry felt suddenly intimidated. He still couldn’t get used to the fact that he was talking to a man he had seen on the newsreels. He took a deep breath.
‘I understand, sir. They briefed me in England. I translate everything into the most diplomatic language possible, never add comments of my own.’
Hillgarth nodded. ‘He’s doing a session with the junior trade minister and me on Thursday. I’ll keep him in order.’
‘Maestre, yes.’ Hoare grunted. ‘We don’t want to upset him.’
Hillgarth produced a gold cigarette case and offered it to Harry. ‘Smoke?’
‘I don’t, thanks.’
Hillgarth lit up and blew out a cloud of smoke. ‘We don’t want you to meet Forsyth straight away, Brett. Take a few days to get yourself
known on the circuit, settle in. And get used to being watched and followed – the government put spies on all embassy staff. Most of them are pretty hopeless, you can spot them a mile off, though a few Gestapo-trained men are coming through now. Watch out for anyone on your tail, and report to Tolhurst.’ He smiled as though it were all an adventure, in a way that reminded Harry of the people at the training school.
‘I will, sir.’
‘Now,’ Hillgarth went on. ‘Forsyth. You knew him well for a time at school, but you haven’t seen him since. Correct?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘But you think he might be well disposed towards you?’
‘I hope so, sir. But I don’t really know what he’s been up to since we stopped writing. That was ten years ago.’ Harry glanced out at the courtyard. One of the men there was looking in at them.
‘Those bloody airmen!’ Hoare snapped. ‘I’m fed up of them peering in here!’ He waved a hand imperiously and the men got up and walked off, disappearing through a side door. Harry saw Hillgarth gave Hoare a quick look of dislike before turning back to him.
‘Those are pilots who had to bale out over France,’ Hillgarth said pointedly. ‘Some of them have walked here.’
‘Yes, yes, yes,’ Hoare said pettishly. ‘We must get on.’
‘Of course, ambassador,’ Hillgarth said with heavy formality. He turned back to Harry. ‘Now, we first heard about Forsyth two months ago. I’ve an agent in the Industry Ministry here, a junior clerk. He let us know they were all very excited there about something that was going on out in the country, about fifty miles from Madrid. Our man can’t get to the papers but he overheard a couple of conversations. Gold deposits. Large ones, geologically verified. We know they’re sending mining equipment out, and mercury and other chemicals; scarce resources.’
‘Sandy was always interested in geology,’ Harry said. ‘At school he had a thing about fossils, he used to go off and try to find dinosaur bones.’
‘Did he now?’ Hillgarth said. ‘Didn’t know that. He never got himself any formal qualifications that we know of, but he’s working with a man who has. Alberto Otero.’
‘The man with experience in South Africa?’
‘Just so.’ Hillgarth nodded approvingly. ‘Mining engineer. They gave you some reading up on gold mining back home, I believe.’
‘Yes, sir.’ It had been odd, grappling with the heavy textbooks in the evening in his little room.
‘So far as Forsyth’s concerned, of course, you know nothing about gold. Babe in arms on the subject.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Harry paused. ‘Do you know how Forsyth and this Otero came together?’
‘No. There are a lot of gaps. We only know that while he was working as a tour guide Forsyth got in with the Auxilio Social, the Falange organization that handles what passes for social welfare here.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘It’s corrupt as hell. Rich pickings, with supplies so short.’
‘Does Forsyth still keep in touch with his family?’
Hillgarth shook his head. ‘His father hasn’t heard from him in years.’
Harry remembered the one time he had seen the bishop; he had come down to the school after Sandy’s disgrace to plead for his son. Looking from the classroom Harry had seen him in the quadrangle, recognized him by the red episcopal shirt under his suit. He looked solid and patrician, nothing like Sandy.
‘Forsyth supported the Nationalists, then?’ Harry asked.
‘I think it was the rich pickings he supported,’ Hillgarth replied.
‘You weren’t a Republican supporter, were you?’ Hoare gave Harry a searching look.
‘I didn’t support either side, sir.’
Hoare grunted. ‘I thought that was the great dividing line before the War, who supported the Reds in Spain and who the Nats. I’m surprised at a Hispanicist supporting neither side.’
‘Well I didn’t, sir. A plague on both their houses was what I thought.’ He’s a tetchy little bully, Harry thought.
‘I could never understand how anyone could think a Red Spain could be less than a disaster.’
Hillgarth looked irritated by the interruption. He leaned forward. ‘Forsyth wouldn’t have known any Spanish before coming out here, would he?’
‘No, but he would have picked it up quickly. He’s smart. That was one reason the masters hated him at school; he was bright but he wouldn’t work.’
Hillgarth raised his eyebrows. ‘Hated? That’s a strong word.’
‘It got to that, I think.’
‘Well, according to our man he’s got in with the state mining agency. Does wheeler-dealing for them; negotiating supplies and so on.’ He paused. ‘The Falange faction dominates the Ministry of Mines. They’d love Spain to be able to pay for food imports, instead of begging us and the Americans for loans. Trouble is, we’ve no hard intelligence in there. If you could get directly to Forsyth it could be of incalculable help. We must find out if there’s anything in these gold stories.’
‘Yes, sir.’
There was a moment’s silence, the oily swishing of the ceiling fan suddenly loud, then Hillgarth went on. ‘Forsyth works through a company he’s set up. Nuevas Iniciativas. It’s listed on the Madrid Stock Exchange as a supply procurement company. The shares have been going up, Ministry of Mines officials have been buying in. The firm has a little office near Calle Toledo; Forsyth’s there most days. Our man hasn’t been able to get his home address, which is a blasted nuisance – we just know he lives out in Vigo district with some tart. Most days at siesta time he goes for coffee to a local cafe. That’s where we want you to make contact with him.’
‘Does he go by himself?’
‘Apart from him there’s just a secretary at the office. He always takes that half-hour by himself in the afternoon.’
Harry nodded. ‘He used to like going off alone at school.’
‘We’ve had him watched. It’s bloody nerve-racking – I worry Forsyth might spot our man.’ He passed Harry a couple of photos from a file on the desk. ‘He took these.’
The first photograph showed Sandy, well dressed and tanned, walking down a street talking to an army officer. Sandy had bent to catch his words, his face solemnly attentive. The second showed him striding carelessly along, jacket unbuttoned, smoking. There was a confident, knowing smile on his face.
‘He looks prosperous.’
Hillgarth nodded. ‘Oh, he’s not short of money.’ He turned back to the file. ‘The flat we’ve got you is a couple of streets from his office. It’s on the fringe of a poor area, but with the housing shortage it’ll be credible to house a junior diplomat there.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Your flat’s actually not bad, I’m told. Used to belong to some Communist functionary under the Republic. Probably been shot by now. Settle in there, but don’t go to the cafe yet.’
‘What’s it called, sir?’
‘Café Rocinante.’
Harry smiled wryly. ‘The name of Don Quijote’s horse.’
Hillgarth nodded, then looked steadily at Harry. ‘Word of advice,’ he said with a smile, his tone friendly though his eyes were hard. ‘You look too serious, like you had the weight of the world on your shoulders. Cheer up a bit, smile. Look on it as an adventure.’
Harry blinked. An adventure. Spying on an old friend who was working with fascists.
The ambassador gave a sudden harsh laugh. ‘Adventure! Dear God preserve us. There are too many adventurers in this damn country if you ask me.’ He turned to Harry, his face animated. ‘Listen, Brett. You sound like you’ve got your head screwed on, but be damned careful. I agreed to your coming because it’s important we find out what’s going on, but I don’t want you upsetting any applecarts.’
‘I’m not sure I understand, sir.’
‘This regime is divided in two. Most of the generals who won the Civil War are solid sensible people who admire England and want Spain kept out of the war. It’s my job to build bridges and strengthen their hand with
Franco. I don’t want it getting to the Generalísimo that we’ve got spies nosing round one of his pet projects.’
Hillgarth nodded.
‘I understand,’ said Harry. Hoare doesn’t want me here at all, he thought. I’m in the middle of some bloody piece of politics.
Hillgarth rose. ‘Well, I’ve got this ceremony for the Naval Heroes of Spain. Better show the flag, eh, ambassador?’
Hoare nodded and Hillgarth rose, Harry and Tolhurst following. Hillgarth picked up the file and handed it to Harry. It had a red cross on the front.
‘Tolly will take you to your flat. Take Forsyth’s dossier, have a good look, but bring it back tomorrow. Tolly will show you where to sign it out.’
As they left, Harry turned to look at Hoare. He was staring out of the window, frowning at the airmen who had started to drift back into the yard.
Chapter Four
OUTSIDE THE AMBASSADOR’S ROOM Tolhurst smiled apologetically. ‘Sorry about Sam,’ he said in a low voice. ‘He wouldn’t normally be in at a briefing for a new agent, but he’s nervous about this job. He’s got a rule: intelligence gathering is allowed, but no espionage, no antagonizing the regime. Some socialists came a few weeks ago to try and get help for the guerrillas fighting against Franco. Bloody dangerous for them. He sent them packing.’
Harry hadn’t liked Hoare, but was still slightly shocked by Tolhurst calling him Sam. ‘Because he wants good relations with the Monarchists?’ he asked.
‘Exactly. After the Civil War they hate the Reds, you can imagine.’ Tolhurst fell silent as they stepped into the street, the civiles saluting as they passed. He opened the door of the Ford, wincing at the heat of the handle.
He renewed the conversation as they drove away. ‘They say Churchill sent Sam here to get him out of the way,’ he confided cheerfully. ‘Can’t stand him, doesn’t trust him either. That’s why he put the captain in charge of Intelligence; he’s an old friend of Winston’s. From his days out of government.’
‘Aren’t we all supposed to be on the same side?’
‘There’s a lot of internal politics.’