by C. J. Sansom
The film began with newsreel of German troops marching into Warsaw, shifted to tanks smashing through the French countryside, then Hitler looking out over Paris. Bernie had never seen any of it before; the scale of what had happened was terrifying. Then a bombed and smoking London appeared on the screen. ‘Only Britain has not surrendered. She ran away from the field of battle in France and now Churchill sulks in London, refusing either to give battle or surrender honourably, believing he is safe because Britain is an island. But revenge comes from the skies, destroying Britain’s cities. If only Churchill had followed the example of Stalin and made a peace that would benefit both him and Germany.’
The images shifted from a burning London to a room where Soviet Foreign Minister Molotov sat at a desk signing a paper, while Ribbentrop stood laughing as Stalin patted him on the back. Seeing it was a shock to Bernie. So often he had wondered why Stalin had made his pact with Hitler last year instead of joining the Allies, it had seemed crazy. The Communists said that only Stalin knew the concrete realities, you had to trust his judgement, but seeing him celebrating with Ribbentrop sent a shiver down Bernie’s spine.
‘Through its pact with Germany, Russia now not only occupies half of Poland but has a booming trade with Germany, receiving foreign exchange in return for its raw materials.’
There was a shot of a huge goods train being checked at a border, German soldiers in coal-scuttle helmets looking through manifests with greatcoated Russians. The film went on to laud German achievements in the occupied countries; Bernie’s attention drifted away as Vidkun Quisling welcomed a German opera company to Oslo.
At the quarry that afternoon, he had complained to Agustín of diarrhoea. It was a trial run to establish Bernie had a problem. ‘You’d better go behind the bushes then,’ Agustín said loudly. He shackled Bernie’s feet and led him round the side of the hill. From there the land sloped downhill, there was a vista of white rolling hills. It was a cloudy day; the light starting to fade.
Bernie looked at Agustín. His narrow face was set in its customary gloomy, worried expression but his eyes scanned the landscape with keen intelligence. ‘Go to that fold in the hills first,’ Agustín said quietly, pointing. ‘There’s a path, you can just make it out through the snow. I have been down there on my days off. There are some trees – hide among them until it’s dark. Then just keep going straight downhill, follow the shepherds’ tracks. Eventually you come to the road alongside the gorge.’
Bernie looked across the unbroken expanse of snow. ‘They’ll see my footprints.’
‘Perhaps the snow will have gone. But even if it hasn’t, if you go late in the afternoon they will not be able to start a proper search before dark. Your tracks will be harder to follow then. The guards will send someone down to the camp to raise the alarm but by the time Aranda has sent a search party out you should be almost in Cuenca.’
Bernie bit his lip. He had a vision of running downhill, the sound of a shot, crashing down to the earth. The end of everything. ‘Let’s see how the weather is on Saturday.’
Agustín shrugged. ‘You may only have this one chance.’ He looked at his watch, then glanced round nervously. ‘We should go back. Study the landscape, Piper. If we come back here a second time before the day someone may think it odd.’ He hitched his rifle over his shoulder, giving Bernie an uneasy, unhappy look. Bernie gave a wicked grin.
‘Perhaps they’ll think we are making a marriage, Agustín.’
Agustín frowned, indicating with a sharp gesture with his rifle for Bernie to walk back to the quarry.
THE FILM DRONED ON, showing German engineers modernizing Polish factories. A damp unwashed smell rose from the prisoners. Some had fallen asleep in the unaccustomed warmth, others sat staring sullenly ahead. It was always like this during propaganda films and church services: miserable, resentful sullenness. Could even Father Eduardo believe those services had any value? They were like the films, just another type of revenge, punishment. Bernie glanced at Pablo, sitting further along the row. Since the crucifixion he had been withdrawn, hollow-eyed, his arms gave him much pain. Sometimes he had the look of one who had given up – Vicente had had an expression like that towards the end. Establo treated Pablo with surprising kindliness. His strength was failing and he got Pablo to help him with things; Bernie suspected to give Pablo something to do, stop him sinking into depression.
Father Eduardo, too, had been affected by the crucifixion. Bernie had seen him watching Pablo as he shuffled uncomfortably across the snowy yard. The priest seemed withdrawn, preoccupied, his face full of pain as his eyes followed Pablo. Bernie avoided Father Eduardo now, he still felt ashamed of his part in tormenting him. But the previous day the priest had come up to him in the yard after roll-call.
‘How is Pablo Jimenez?’ he asked. ‘He is in your hut.’
‘Not good.’
The priest looked Bernie in the face. ‘I am sorry for it.’
‘You should tell him.’
‘I did. Or I tried to, he ignored me. I wanted you to know too.’ Father Eduardo shuffled away, his head sunk between his shoulders like an old man’s.
There was a whirr and a click and the screen went black. A guard lit the oil lamps and Aranda stepped in front of them. He folded his hands behind his back, smiling. He enjoys our humiliation, Bernie thought.
‘Well, gentlemen, did the film impress you?’ he asked. ‘It showed what shivering, frightened cowards the Communists are. They would rather sign a treaty with their enemy Germany than fight. They are not real fighting men, any more than the skulking British.’ He waved the swagger stick. ‘Come on, let me hear what you think, who has something to say?’
Responding to these verbal challenges was a dangerous game. Aranda could label a reply that displeased him as insolence and punish the man who made it. Next to Pablo, though, Establo dragged himself painfully to his feet with the aid of his stick. His face was yellow and jaundiced now, making a terrible contrast with the red streaks of his scabies. But Establo would never give up.
‘Comrade Stalin is wiser than you think, señor comandante.’ His voice was a wheeze; he had to pause for breath. ‘He waits. For the imperialist powers to wear themselves out with their war. Then, when the British Empire and Germany have fought each other into the ground, the workers of both countries will rise, and the Soviet Union will help them.’
Aranda was delighted. He smiled at Establo’s ravaged face. ‘But Britain stands on the verge of defeat, while Germany is mightier than ever. There will be no fighting to a standstill, just a German victory.’ He waved his stick at Bernie. ‘What does our English Communist think?’
Everything depended on keeping out of trouble now. Bernie stood up. ‘I don’t know, comandante.’
‘You saw from the film that Britain will not come out and give Germany a clean fight. Do you not hope they will fight, so that Britain and Germany’s ruling classes can destroy each other as your comrade said?’
Establo stared round at him challengingly. Bernie said nothing. Aranda smiled. Then, to Bernie’s relief he indicated he should sit down again.
‘The British know they will be defeated, that is why they stay at home. But next spring, Chancellor Hitler will invade and then all will be over.’ He smiled round at the prisoners. ‘Then, who knows, he may turn his attention to Russia.’
AFTERWARDS in the hut, Bernie was lying on his bunk, thinking. Thick snow on the ground for weeks now, surely it couldn’t go on for much longer. But only five days left. He heard the tap of a stick and looked up. Establo couldn’t walk unaided now and Pablo was supporting his other arm. He stood at the foot of his pallet and contemplated Bernie, his eyes as alive and intense as ever in the candlelight, the only part of him that wasn’t shrinking, being eaten away.
‘You did not have much to say to the comandante tonight, Piper.’
‘There is no point in arguing with madmen.’
‘Britain still fights on the sea. It remains a formidable foe to Germany.�
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‘I hope so.’
‘Because then Britain and Germany can so weaken each other that the workers feel safe to rise, no? You saw how Comrade Stalin fooled the Germans into thinking they are his friends.’
‘If he’d joined Britain and France last year, perhaps Germany might have been beaten.’
‘So you agree with Aranda then, Comrade Stalin is a coward?’
‘I don’t know why he made the pact. No more than you do.’
‘He is right. This is an imperialist war.’
‘It’s a war against fascism. That’s what I fought for in 1936. Go away, Establo, I would not argue with a sick man.’ Bernie glanced at Pablo. His face was drawn with pain, one hand on the bedrail to support himself even as his other hand supported Establo.
‘One day,’ Establo said quietly, ‘when the Soviets have won, you will wish you had kept your faith. I will not be here to denounce you as an enemy of the working class, but others will.’ He jerked his head at Pablo. ‘These people will be my memory.’
‘Yes, comrade.’ Bernie rose from the bed. He had to bring this to a halt. ‘I have to piss, if you will excuse me.’ He walked to the door then went round the side of the hut and relieved himself. He looked through the barbed wire at the white landscape beyond. Let there be no moon that night, he thought. Then he jumped, almost cried out, at a hand on his shoulder. He whirled round. Agustín was standing there.
‘What the fuck are you doing?’ he whispered angrily.
‘I have been waiting an hour, waiting to see if you would come out.’ Agustín took a deep breath. ‘The shifts have been changed. I am being made to take Saturday off. We cannot go.’
Chapter Forty-One
HILLGARTH AND TOLHURST were due at Harry’s flat at seven, Sandy at half past. When Tolhurst told Harry he would be accompanying Hillgarth, his face had flushed with pride. ‘The captain’s asked me to come and help this time as I know all about it,’ he said self-importantly, as though Harry cared.
When Harry got home from the embassy late that afternoon the flat was bitterly cold. It hadn’t snowed again but there was a heavy frost, thick fingers of ice on the window. He lit the brasero and went into the kitchen and he put his keys in the little saucer where he kept them. They had been in his overcoat and the metal was cold. He remembered a line from Richard III – he had helped produce the play at school: Gloucester seeking assurance the Duke of Clarence was dead and being told he was ‘key-cold’.
He went into the salón and straightened one of the watercolours. Waiting was the worst part. There would be a lot of it between now and Saturday when they went to Cuenca.
The room held the faint tang of Sofia’s scent. Strange how scent smelt musky in warm air, tangy in cold. The two of them had sat up most of last night, talking about the rescue. What they were doing was a serious offence. If they were caught there would be diplomatic immunity for him and protection for Barbara, but Sofia was Spanish and it could mean a long prison sentence. Harry had spent half the evening trying to dissuade her from coming, but she was adamant.
‘I faced enough danger during the Siege,’ she said. ‘If I’m going to leave my country at least I can do one good thing, rescue one person.’
‘Bernie’s important to me – I wouldn’t do it otherwise. But you don’t owe him anything.’
‘I owe all the people who came out here to help the Republic. I want to do something before I leave.’ She smiled sadly. ‘Does that sound very romantic and Spanish and stupid?’
‘No, no. It’s something clean.’ He wondered for a moment if she wanted to see if he too was capable of something clean, after the murk he had been involved in, the betrayals. He had told Barbara he would help, partly because his heart had leapt at the news Bernie was alive, partly to make up for his lies, but also to show Sofia he could do something good. Something had changed between them; a slight withdrawing on her part, a tiny hesitation only a lover would have noticed.
She hadn’t hesitated though when Harry told her he had arranged for them to be married at the embassy. It would be a civil ceremony as he wasn’t a Catholic, but the embassy could do that, perform a marriage according to English laws. Tolhurst had had a word in certain quarters, smoothed the wheels.
‘The only thing that worries me,’ he said, ‘is whether Barbara is strong enough for this.’
‘I think she is. She’s brought it this far alone. This Bernie, he must be very special. Most of the Spanish Communists were bad people.’
‘He was my best friend. Bernie would never let you down, he was like a rock.’ Not like me, he thought. ‘And how he stuck to his socialism.’ He laughed softly. ‘It didn’t go down well at Rookwood, I can tell you.’ He smiled wryly. ‘Paco must never go to one of those public schools. Either you rebel, or they send you sleepwalking through life.’
THE DOORBELL rang shrilly, bringing Harry out of his reverie. He took a deep breath and went to open it. Hillgarth and Tolhurst stood together in trilbies and thick overcoats. He invited them in and took their coats and hats. Underneath they wore smart suits. Hillgarth rubbed his hands.
‘God, Brett, it’s cold in here.’
‘It takes a while to warm up. Would you like a drink?’
He poured whisky for Hillgarth, brandy for Tolhurst and himself. He looked at his watch: a quarter to seven. Tolhurst sat down on the sofa, looking nervous. Hillgarth walked round the room, examining the pictures. ‘These from the embassy?’
‘Yes, the walls were bare when I came.’
‘Find any souvenirs of that Communist who had it before?’ He smiled. ‘Any directives from Moscow down the backs of the chairs?’
‘No, nothing at all.’
‘Franco’s people would have picked the place clean. By the way, you’re still not being followed, are you?’
‘No. Not for weeks now.’
‘They must have decided you’re too junior.’
God, Harry thought, the things he was keeping from them; and that was nothing to what he was going to do on Saturday. He mustn’t think about that, he must stay cool. Key-cold.
‘By the way,’ Tolhurst said, ‘your fiancée needs to come for an interview at the embassy tomorrow. Just for political vetting, to make sure she’s not a Franco agent. I can brief you on what she should say.’
‘OK. Thanks.’
‘The little boy should be OK,’ Tolhurst continued, ‘but she’ll need to prove she’s been looking after him.’ He looked at Harry with that serious, owlish expression of his.
‘She collects his rations, has done for a year and a half.’
He nodded. ‘That should do.’
Hillgarth looked between them, nursing his drink. ‘You should be grateful to Tolly, Brett. He was over in immigration half yesterday afternoon.’
The doorbell rang again, a sharp peal. For a second all three stood silent, as though gathering their resources. Then Hillgarth said, ‘Let him in, Brett.’
Sandy was outside, slouching, smiling. ‘Hello, Harry.’ He looked over Harry’s shoulder. ‘They here?’
‘Yes. Come on through.’
He led him into the salón. Sandy nodded at Hillgarth and Tolhurst, then looked round the room. ‘Nice flat. See you’ve got some English pictures.’
Hillgarth stepped forward, extending a hand. ‘Captain Alan Hillgarth. This is Simon Tolhurst.’
‘Pleased to meet you.’
‘Drink, Sandy?’ Harry asked.
‘Whisky, please.’ He looked at the bottle on the sideboard. ‘Oh, you’ve got Glenfiddich. I wonder if your supplier’s the same as mine. Little black-market place behind the Rastro?’
‘Embassy supplies, actually,’ Hillgarth said. ‘Straight from England. Perk of the job.’
‘Home comforts, eh?’ Sandy gave Harry his broad smile as he took his drink. Harry squirmed inwardly.
‘Shall we sit down?’ Hillgarth asked.
‘Of course.’ Sandy took a seat, offering his silver cigarette case to Hillgarth. ‘Smoke?�
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‘Thanks.’ Sandy offered one to Tolhurst. ‘I know Harry doesn’t,’ he said, snapping the case shut. He leaned back in his chair. ‘So. What can I do for you?’
‘We’ve been keeping an eye on you, Forsyth,’ Hillgarth said smoothly. ‘We know about your involvement in the mine out beyond Segovia, we know it’s a big project and you’ve been having trouble with Colonel Maestre’s committee. We believe his Monarchist faction want to wrest control of a major resource from the Falangists at the Ministry of Mines.’
Sandy’s face went blank, expressionless. He stared at Hillgarth. Harry thought, Sandy will realize the only way you could know all this is through me. Hillgarth could have warned him they were going to dive straight in like this.
‘The shares in your company, Nuevas Iniciativas,’ Hillgarth went on, looking Sandy in the eye. ‘They’re going down.’
Sandy leaned forward, tapped the ash from his cigarette carefully into the ashtray, then sat back, raised an eyebrow. ‘That’s the stock market for you.’
‘And of course things must be getting very difficult now Lieutenant Gomez’s body has been discovered.’
Sandy’s face remained expressionless. He said nothing. It was only a few seconds but it seemed to stretch out for ever. Then he glanced at Tolhurst before returning his gaze to Hillgarth’s face.
‘You seem very well informed,’ he said quietly. ‘So Harry has been spying on me? Not my old pal?’ He turned slowly and looked at Harry. The large brown eyes were full of sorrow. ‘You’ve been into everything, haven’t you?’
‘The information’s accurate, isn’t it?’ Hillgarth prompted.
Sandy turned back to him. ‘Some of it might be.’
Hillgarth leaned forward. ‘Don’t play games with me, Forsyth. You’re going to need a bolt-hole soon. If the state takes over exploiting the mine you’d be seriously out of pocket. Someone could even decide to prosecute you for Gomez’s murder.’
Sandy inclined his head. ‘Not my fault if some of the people I work with got carried away.’