Tapestry of Spies Part 19

"Yes. I'll just be a while."

He began to creep forward edgily, feeling his way with his hand in front of him. He advanced for what felt like hours in this fashion-it was more like fifteen minutes-while the odd shot popped overhead and the odd bomb exploded in the far distance. He had begun to feel like a Nottingham miner in the deepest, loneliest shaft. He imagined he could hear the groaning of the walls and smell the dust heavy in the air as the cave-in threatened.

d.a.m.n you, Julian, where the devil are you? Why Why do such a foolish thing? do such a foolish thing?

At one point something moved just ahead, and Florry brought his pistol up; it was a rat, big as a cat, with filthy rotten eyes and quivering whiskers. It perched on its hind legs barring the way. Florry hated rats. He felt about on the gummy trench floor for a rock, found one, pried it free, and hurled it at the beast. The throw was off and the thing just stared balefully at him with what seemed to be Oxbridge arrogance. A university rat, eh? A b.l.o.o.d.y Trinity College rat. Finally, bored, it ambled haughtily off.

Florry was surprised to discover himself breathing hard at the ordeal. Gathering his nerves back in a tight little bundle, he proceeded along, adding rats to his worries. He clambered over a broken timber. A body lay nearby but Florry could make out nothing of it in the dark, so coated with mud as it was; it was like a sack of sodden rags. He went on farther. There was no movement and the only sound was the splashing of the drops into the puddles.

"Julian? Julian?" he whispered.

There was no answer. A fusillade sounded above, and then an angry reply. The Fascists were getting ready to counterattack. At the same time, a mist rose to cling to everything, a kind of ghastly soup lapped everywhere in the trench.

"Julian?" He thought Julian was probably back by this time, full of marvelous stories and having appropriated a flask of Fascist brandy and treated the troops to a sip. d.a.m.n you, Julian, so like you! And here I sit out on a b.l.o.o.d.y limb.

"Julian!" he whispered again. How far out was he? How close to their position? The urge to retire grew heavy and tempting. It was almost an ache. But he knew somehow that he could not. He could not abandon Julian, not here. He was bound to him in peculiar ways.

He squirmed ahead a few more feet, tripping through the mist. He reached another zigzag in the trench. He eased around it.

"Shhh! G.o.d, they're right ahead, Stink."

"Jul-"

"Shhh! Do you know I heard you the whole way? It's a good thing they're not paying attention."

Julian was crouched in a niche in the wall.

"Thank G.o.d you're all right. Come on, Mowry says they'll attack any moment."

"Of course they will. Now listen here, they won't come through this trench because it zigs and zags so furiously and because they'll a.s.sume we have it covered. They'll be above, moving through the mist. When they go by-"

"Julian!"

"Just listen, chum. They'll go by and we can squeeze ahead another few yards or so. It's not far off. I was almost there. And I'll chuck a bomb into that Maxim gun."

"Julian, no. Christ. Listen, Mowry says the attack is all fouled up. We may be out here all by ourselves. The Germans never jumped off. We're out on a limb."

"Well, if that doesn't just prove you can't get good help any more. The cheeky b.a.s.t.a.r.ds."

"Come on, we've-"

But Florry was stunned into silence by the awkward shambling noise of a large body of men beginning to move up ahead. Julian pulled him back into the niche and they lay in the mud, enwrapped in each other. Florry could barely breathe. He felt his heart throbbing and his chest aching. He pressed himself into Julian's chest and sensed the heart pumping madly. They could hear the low squish-slip of boots moving through the mud close by, but Florry was too scared to focus. Whispered commands in Spanish flew softly through the mist like sparrows. There was the jingle and clink of equipment, the occasional harder clack of a bolt being thrown.

Each second Florry knew they'd be discovered. Wave after wave pa.s.sed by. They must have gotten reinforcements. A whole army seemed to be creeping by above them through the mist.

"Get ready," Julian commanded, at last disconnecting himself from Florry. He began to slither down the trench with the bomb in his hand. Florry followed, c.o.c.king the Webley.

A sudden spatter of shots announced the beginning of the attack. Florry heard the pop and snap of rifle bullets and the bursting of bombs. With the cover of the noise, Julian rose and began to close the distance to the main trench with manful strides. Florry hurried after him.

The Maxim opened fire from quite nearby: its clatter was tremendous. It poured bullets out into the night at an incredible rate and seemed to Florry like some industrial instrument for the manufacture of wickets or camming gears, sparking and laboring mightily in its moorings. He could see Julian pluck the first pin from his bomb and then begin to slide toward the gap that marked the intersection between their trench and the larger enemy one.

What happened next happened fast, particularly after the long, slow miner's descent toward it. A youth appeared as Julian stepped into the trench and pointed his rifle at him. Florry, just behind Julian, shot the young man in the face.

"Good show!" shouted Julian, bounding ahead and pulling the second pin, as he lobbed the bomb underhand toward the sound of the machine gun. In another instant he was back, knocking Florry flat. The burst, so close, lit the sky with burning fragments and hot wind and hurt their ears. The Maxim quit abruptly.

"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 on, Stink," screamed Julian, pulling him along. He was delirious with joy. "Good Christ, man, but that was b.l.o.o.d.y marvelous marvelous, that was more b.l.o.o.d.y fun than old Julian's ever ever had! Blast, you potted him right in the b.l.o.o.d.y snout!" had! Blast, you potted him right in the b.l.o.o.d.y 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 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 ma.s.s of men running through the mud. It must have been the attacking party, unsupported since the destruction of the Maxim gun. sound. Julian suddenly leapt back, pinning him to the ground. He heard, besides the thumping of Julian's heart, the heavy sound of a ma.s.s 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 b.a.s.t.a.r.ds."

"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 pa.s.s 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 a.s.sisted, 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.

G.o.d, 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 I'll make the dramatic suggestions, the glorious sacrifice, all right? Lord, you're a mess, Stinky. You look worse than when you p.i.s.sed yourself up in fifth form." make the dramatic suggestions, the glorious sacrifice, all right? Lord, you're a mess, Stinky. You look worse than when you p.i.s.sed 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.

"d.a.m.n 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 b.l.o.o.d.y Spaniards can't do anything anything right. A lot of blood, and you've messed a very nice tunic, but if you'll just-" 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 pa.s.s out."

"Now, none of that. Come along."

"Please, go on. Go on, d.a.m.n you, you always were the brilliant one. Julian, why did you cut me? At school, you cut me dead. You filthy b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

"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, d.a.m.n you. Christ, it hurts."

"Wounds are supposed supposed to hurt. Every sod knows that. Now come along." 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 t.i.tties, old man. Great soft t.i.tties. Think of squashing them about in your fingers while she tells you she wants you to do it harder."

"You filthy b.a.s.t.a.r.d!"

"Think of her wonderful c.u.n.t, 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 f.u.c.ker, Julian. I ought to-"

"Yes, that's the spirit, chum. Come along then."

"Julian, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d-"

"Stink, she's just quim. d.a.m.ned good quim, I'd bet, but quim just the same. Come on 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. 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 Cafe de las Ramblas and sat nursing whiskeys and grousing bitterly about their a.s.signments 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.

"Si, 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 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 went 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 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 s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g 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 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 b.i.t.c.h, someday I'll be really f.u.c.king big and then you'll know who I am.

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

18.