Tapestry of Spies Part 25

He waited. No, it was quiet.

He knocked.

"Good G.o.d, 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 is this?" this?"

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

"G.o.d, Stink, from the look on your b.l.o.o.d.y face I believe you have have finally succeeded in getting yourself listed ahead of me in Mother's will." 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 G.o.d, 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 b.a.s.t.a.r.d, 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 b.l.o.o.d.y voice. Unfilled with jangled Germanisms, unaddled with madness, but the same-or different. Calm, somehow; the accent vague, the tone sympathetic, a.s.suring, 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 b.l.o.o.d.y saint?" I've wavered," said Julian, distraught. "I've hated myself. I revolt myself. Who do you think I am, a b.l.o.o.d.y saint?"

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

"Not such as yourself. You're a b.l.o.o.d.y inspiration. I'm just sullied flesh." such as yourself. You're a b.l.o.o.d.y inspiration. I'm just sullied flesh."

"You must be strong."

"Ah, G.o.d." 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. d.a.m.n them. d.a.m.n 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 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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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 Tristram Shandy from this chap Sampson in Barcelona. A newsman of from this chap Sampson in Barcelona. A newsman of The Times 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 Cafe 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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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 ANARQUiA!.

LEVITSKY SAT IN THE SQUARE AT THE CAFe. HE WAS VERY tired. He ordered a cup of tired. He ordered a cup of cafe con leche cafe 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 pa.s.s 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 see the car and the car and know 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. 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 pa.s.sport.

"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 he 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 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 Federacion Iberia de Juventudes Liberatation, 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. he kept saying. "Sargento." "Sargento."

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

"Senor 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."