The Five Arrows Part 71

"Exactly. I don't suppose I have to tell you, Hall, that the enemy has been sinking our shipping in the South Atlantic and the Caribbean at a rate that spells one h.e.l.l of a long war. I know, as you do, that Falangist Spaniards on sh.o.r.e are working with the n.a.z.i undersea raiders.

But even if we wanted to, we couldn't send enough Marines to South America to root 'em out. We've got to rely on the local governments to do the job."

"Yeah." Hall was bitter. "We want this Republic to root out the Falangists, so we send an Amba.s.sador who plays footy with the Falangists in public and calls the anti-Falangist President a dirty Red."

"You're carping, Hall."

"All right. I'm carping. I'm a taxpayer, it's my prerogative to carp. We want the Latin American Republics to get tough with the Franquists who are helping the n.a.z.is sink our ships, so we sell the Spanish fascists the oil they transfer to the n.a.z.i subs, and we send an Amba.s.sador to Madrid whose only exercise is kissing Franco's foot in public every Sunday morning, and when any of our sister Republics want to break with Franco we dispatch a sanctimonious buzzard in striped pants from the State Department and he tells them to lay off Franco, Spain's Saviour from Atheism and Communism. How in the h.e.l.l can we expect the Latin Republics to crack down on Franco's stooges at home when we ourselves play up to Franco in Madrid?"

"Let's have that lighter again." Barrows was cool and unruffled, the smile that danced across the smooth lines of his face never wavered.

"I'm a soldier," he said, pleasantly. "I can't discuss policy. I can only talk tactics. You know that, Hall. Tactics is the art of working with an existent situation and licking it--not waiting for the millennium. You think our policy toward Franco Spain should be changed.

Maybe you're right. Maybe it will be changed. But, in the meanwhile, Franquists in Latin America, in this country specifically, are putting the finger on our ships. Fielding's reports might be accurate. If we are to act on them, we need the help of pro-Allied members of this government. Who is our man?"

"There is one man in these parts who can be trusted completely to do the right things with those reports," Hall answered. "Give him the reports, and after the polls close he'll be in a position to round up every fascist Fielding listed and put them on ice for the duration. He's an army man--Major Diego Segador."

"And you think he's our man, eh? Would you mind writing his name in my book, and the best place to reach him?"

Hall carefully printed the information Barrows wanted and then, as he returned the book, he said, deliberately, "But there's one thing you should know about Segador. He's everything I said he is, and more. But he's also a leftist. He's very close to the Communist Party."

"So what?" Barrows said, casually. "The Russians are killing plenty of Germans, and I understand their chief is a member of the party, too. Man named Stalin, or something like that."

"Do you mind if I call you unique?"

"Not at all. But let me ask one. What are you planning to do for the duration? Ever think of G-2?"

"Yeah. I applied before Pearl Harbor. They turned me down so hard I thought I was. .h.i.t by a truck. I applied again on December 8th, 1941. It was still no soap. I was for the Loyalists in Spain, you know. That made me what the bra.s.s hats term a 'premature anti-fascist' and definitely not officer material."

"I didn't know about that," Barrows said. "What would you do if the door was opened for you now? Understand, I'm not making an offer. I'm just asking."

"I don't know," Hall said. "I don't think the door would be opened. If it was--I'd have to think about it."

"May I have your lighter again?"

Hall watched Barrows make a major operation of relighting his pipe, and recognized it as the officer's neat device for creating a break in a conversation that needed breaking. Barrows had a way of making the ritual of lighting his pipe serve as the curtain that falls on a given scene of a play.

"The Amba.s.sador," Barrows smiled. "He's been tearing his nice white hair since you got back from Havana. You put him on an awful spot, you know."

"It'll do him good, the old b.a.s.t.a.r.d. Do you know what Tabio told me about him a few days before he died? He said that he was with Skidmore at a dinner a few days after Germany invaded Russia and that Skidmore said he was glad that now the Russians would get what was coming to them."

"Not really?"

"Lavandero was there. He'll back me up." Hall stopped. "Say, I have an idea," he said. "There's one thing I can do for G-2. I can write a report on Skidmore. I'll do it right after the elections."

"Oh-oh! It'll mean trouble with the Spats Department."

"Spats?"

"State. But you make your report, and give it to me. I'll turn it in with the rest of my stuff when I get back. Why not? You're a civilian.

The worst that can happen to you after you write the report is that you'll have trouble getting pa.s.sports and visas."

"I don't give a d.a.m.n," Hall said. "And I'll do something else. You gave me an idea. I'm still a civilian, you said. Swell, then I won't be climbing over anyone's bra.s.s hat if I see to it that a copy of the report reaches the White House."

Barrows leaned back in his chair, laughing. "He told me that you threatened to do just that," he said. "But he's just a harmless old duffer, Hall. He told me he wanted to shake your hand."

"He can shove it. Did you meet his daughter?"

"Once. She doesn't like you."

"Ever receive any reports in Miami about her?"

"You know I can't answer that question, Hall."

"O.K. That means--oh, I guess it means that you got reports that she sleeps around plenty. But her political life is more important to G-2 than her s.e.x didoes."

"Gossip?"

"Fact. She's secretly engaged to be married to the man who killed Fielding. The Marques de Runa. But don't worry--he'll never be brought to trial for it. He's in Spain. Left by Clipper over a week ago with his chauffeur, the man who actually ran poor Fielding down."

The officer from Miami laid his pipe down on the desk. "This is pretty serious," he said. "I don't want to get it all by ear, old man. Would you mind talking while it was taken down? Not only about Margaret Skidmore. About everything you can give your Uncle about the Falange?

Facts, names, addresses, opinions--the works. I brought a young lieutenant with me from Miami; he was a crack stenographer in civilian life. How about spending a few hours with us?"

"Sure. I can give you the rest of the day, if you like."

"I'd like it fine. But if you don't mind--not here."

"O.K. Dr. Gonzales' house. It's on the outskirts of the city, and we'd be alone."

Hall spent the rest of the day at Gonzales', dictating to the lieutenant. While they worked, Duarte phoned to tell him that Gamburdo had formally conceded the election. "What are your dinner plans?" he asked the Mexican.

"None. I have to finish a long report on the elections before I eat.

Where and when are you eating?"

"I don't know. I thought that for sentimental reasons I'd eat with Jerry and Pepe and Vicente and Souza at the Bolivar. Lobo is tied up for the evening."

"I'll join you when I can, Mateo."

Later, when the American officers left, Hall tried to reach his friends by phone. Arturo, the desk clerk, told him that Souza had taken the day off and that Pepe and Vicente had been called up with the reserves. He gave Hall a list of numbers where he might possibly find Pepe. Hall finally reached him at the Transport Workers' Union. "Can you eat with me tonight?" he asked.

"Yes. Where are you? Our officers just handed us our new orders. I am to be your driver and Emilio your guard."

"What?"

"Sergeants Delgado and Vicente at your orders, sir."

"Is this official?"

Pepe laughed heartily. "Official," he said. "We can show you our orders."