Tapestry of Spies Part 37

"Under the outer man, with his gloss, his charm, under the skin, the hair, the teeth, among the bones, the blood, the grief, there's another man, a secret man, who would do harm."

"Now isn't that interesting, Comrade Florry? It seems he's describing you you, does it not?"

No it did not. It was Julian describing himself and his own secret self.

"Who else, Comrade Florry, could Julian have been describing?"

Florry looked to the rafters. Give them Julian, he thought, but it occurred to him that he was doomed anyway. They didn't have Julian. They had him.

"I have these many hours pored over the records," Steinbach continued, "until at last I could see the pattern. I hold myself personally responsible for not seeing it sooner. I am an idiot. Perhaps my trial should begin after the conclusion of this one. But the truth is, wherever Comrade Florry or his lady friend have been and whomever he talks to, they have an odd habit of disappearing. Each mission he is a.s.signed to has an odd habit of failing. And each disappearance and each failure is another nail in the coffin of our party."

"Sylvia had nothing to do with it," said Florry. "She's utterly innocent."

"And yet, Comrade Florry, is it mere coincidence that when our Comrade Carlos Brea sat at a table in the Grand Oriente, who should show up next to him but the girl? And within minutes, the Russian secret policemen arrive. And minutes later, Comrade Brea is shot dead in the street by parties unknown, in the care of the NKVD?"

Then Florry had an inspiration. "The dates," he argued. "Look at the dates. I didn't arrive in Barcelona until the first part of January. Yet the arrests of your people had begun before that. There, does that not prove my innocence?"

But Steinbach was ready for this.

"Actually not. Before January there was no pattern to the arrests. The NKVD was clearly scooping up people blindly. In fact, as one example of their gropings, the category which suffered the most arrests was clearly non-political: it was dockworkers and minor maritime or port officials. Literally dozens of these chaps disappeared. Then Mr. Florry and Miss Lilliford arrive, and as if by magic, the arrests and liquidations of POUMistas begins in earnest."

Florry stared at him in fury.

"I fought for you people. I killed for you. I nearly died-I would have died-for your b.l.o.o.d.y party. A man I loved more than any other died for your b.l.o.o.d.y party. The girl worked for months on your silly stinking little newspaper. Why are you doing this to us?"

"You betrayed the comrades at Party headquarters. You betrayed the working cla.s.ses of the world. You betrayed your countrymen Julian Raines and Billy Mowry. You betrayed the future. You and your master in the Kremlin. Only we have you and not him. So you will have to pay his debt, too."

When it came time for Florry to address the court, he had it all planned out.

"Comrade?"

"I ask," he said, feeling very much the fool, "that since you are going to kill me, you at least spare the girl. She had nothing to do with any of this."

"If you confess, it will help," said Steinbach. "Help her, that is. You are clearly beyond mercy."

"I cannot confess to what I have not done," said Florry. "You ask a great deal of me."

Steinbach came over to where he was sitting and leaned over to talk more intimately.

"You know," he said, "you'll make everybody much happier if you confess. It would put a pretty ribbon on it."

"I cannot confess to something I haven't done," said Florry. "If you're going to shoot me, shoot me. But let's be done with the game."

"It doesn't really matter in the end. I just thought you might care to help the party out a bit."

Florry looked at him in dumfoundment. After several seconds his mouth closed.

"I say," say," he said, "you do expect a lot! I'm innocent and you know it and you're evidently going to shoot me. And you have the nerve to ask if I care to pitch in?" he said, "you do expect a lot! I'm innocent and you know it and you're evidently going to shoot me. And you have the nerve to ask if I care to pitch in?"

"I suppose it does seem somewhat much. But look at it this way: whether you're innocent or not isn't really the point."

"It is very much to me."

"But in the larger view. You must learn to see the larger view, though admittedly it's a bit late in the game for you. The point is, there was was a spy. Indisputedly. I know where he was, how he worked. I've spent hours on the pattern. Yes, he was there, all right. You, perhaps six or seven others, including the late Julian. The girl even-" a spy. Indisputedly. I know where he was, how he worked. I've spent hours on the pattern. Yes, he was there, all right. You, perhaps six or seven others, including the late Julian. The girl even-"

"Stop it."

"Comrade, please. We have no time for sentiment. It doesn't matter in the long run, for just as surely as you you are doomed, so are are doomed, so are we we. I am the most wanted man in Barcelona and these others will go down with me. But what is at stake here goes beyond us and beyond Barcelona. You see, there are others in our struggle against Stalin for the soul of the left. Trotsky is one, but again, the man doesn't matter so much as the idea of the world revolution. It's worth dying for. The point, however, is this. If we were defeated in Barcelona because our ideas were bad, because we could not compete ideologically, because the people would not believe in us, then our theory is wrong, and we are doomed. On the other hand, if we were defeated because we were betrayed-because of a Judas planted by Stalin-then our ideas remain sound and will continue to inspire. They in fact are so frightening to Moscow that Stalin himself leads the fight against us. That is impressive. Thus it is necessary that there be a spy. It doesn't even really matter if he's the right spy. Just so that we find him, try him, sentence him, and execute him. Thus, surely you can see how nice it would be for you to leave that confession. That little ribbon for history. Where's your sense of duty? Surely they taught you that at Eton?"

"b.u.g.g.e.r Eton," said Florry. "I only care about Sylvia."

"She is is a lovely thing. Florry, I was once young myself, and in love. She was killed by Friekorps officers in Munich in 'nineteen. Raped, beaten, shot. It cured me of my illusions. And my eye." a lovely thing. Florry, I was once young myself, and in love. She was killed by Friekorps officers in Munich in 'nineteen. Raped, beaten, shot. It cured me of my illusions. And my eye."

He smiled.

"Let her live, Steinbach, and I'll sign something."

"All right," said Steinbach. "You've made your bargain."

It took them a while to work something out that Florry could put his name to, but in the end, the doc.u.ment, though more vague than Steinbach would have preferred and more explicit than Florry wanted, was complete.

"This is utterly idiotic," he said, scratching his name at the bottom.

"Perhaps. Perhaps not. In any event, it shall eventually be run in a leftist newspaper someplace or other as part of our testament. You have managed one thing, Comrade Florry. You have managed to enter history."

"History is revolting," said Florry.

The execution was set for dawn; about an hour before, they served him his last meal, some scrawny chicken cooked in too much oil, and a large skin of red wine.

"The chicken isn't terribly good, I'm afraid," said Steinbach. "But the wine should prove helpful."

"I'm already numb, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

"Try not to be bitter, comrade. Surely all the men here will join you under the ground in the weeks ahead."

"It can't happen too soon for my taste. What about the girl?"

"She's fine. Tough, that one. I'm impressed. Would you like me to bring her by? A sort of last-minute farewell. It might appeal to your romanticism."

"No, spare her that. This is hard enough without that. You'll see that she gets out?"

"We'll do what we must. Would you like a priest?"

"I'm not a Catholic. Besides, I haven't sinned. And aren't you an atheist?"

"In my dotage, I seem to have acquired the habit of hypocrisy. Then, should I tell her anything? The obvious?"

"How would you know what was obvious?"

"I'm not so stupid, Florry. I'll tell her that you loved her till the end. She'll have good memories of you, then."

"She's lost everybody that she cared about in Spain," said Florry.

Steinbach laughed evilly. "So has everybody, Florry."

Florry found he had no taste for the wine, which was young and bitter anyway, but that the chicken was rather good. Steinbach had lied about that as well as everything else. He tried to take a little nap after he was through eating because he was still exhausted, but, of course, he could get no sleep. It was absurd. They were going to shoot him because they needed a demon and he was available. He was in the right category.

Yet as the time of his death neared, he found what he regretted most was not being able to give Julian's mother her son and husband's ring. That was the one thing Julian had wanted and the one thing he'd thought of at the moment of his own death. It seemed like one more failure to Florry. It was in the Burberry smashed into the suitcase in the closet of the hotel. He brooded about this obsessively until he could stand it no longer. He banged on the door, and after a while Steinbach came by.

"Yes?"

"Have you seen the girl yet?"

"No. She's resting. She doesn't know what's happening."

"Look, tell her this for me. Tell her the ring in the coat is for Julian's mother. She's to get that to the woman, all right?"

Steinbach said he would, though his look informed Florry he thought it a queer last request. Then he left again. In a bit, a gray light began to filter through the cracks of the closet in which they'd locked him. He heard laughter and the approach of footsteps.

The lock clicked as the key turned in it; the door opened. A boy stood there with a rifle.

"Es la hora la hora, comrade," he said.

Florry rose and was roughly grabbed by three other boys. His hands were tied behind his back. They fell into formation behind him and led him through the deserted garage.

In the half-light, the deserted mountaintop had turned ghostly. Mist had risen and clung everywhere and the amus.e.m.e.nt apparatus, scabby ancient machines, loomed through it. The Ferris wheel was a circle of comical perfection standing above it all. The boys led him to the scaffolding that was the base of a roller-coaster.

"Cigarette, Florry?" asked Steinbach, waiting with several others.

"Yes," said Florry. "G.o.d, you're not going to do it here? In a b.l.o.o.d.y park?"

"No. The boys will take you down the hill into the forest. The grave has been dug. Actually, it was dug yesterday morning." He lit a cigarette in his own mouth, then placed it in Florry's in a gesture of surprising intimacy. Then he added, "Or rather two two graves." graves."

He could see her now, in the group of men. They had gotten a cape for her, to keep her warm, but her hands had been tied.

"You told me-" Florry started.

"I argued, old man, but the judges were insistent. You wrote that note to her. She sat with Brea. Clearly she was involved."

"Oh, G.o.d, Steinbach, she's innocent innocent, don't you see? Tell them, for G.o.d's sake."

"Take them," said Steinbach, turning away. "And be done with the filthy business."

The rough teenage boys pushed Florry along.

"G.o.d, Sylvia, I'm so sorry," he said. "It's all so unfair."

Sylvia looked at him with dead eyes. "I knew what I was getting into," she said.

"I love you," he said.

"As if that helps," she replied, with a little shake of her head.

They walked down the steeply sloping road away from the park surrounded by five boys, the eldest perhaps twenty, who was the sargento sargento and chief executioner. On either side of the road, the dark, dense forest rose. It was perfectly still, though the sky had begun to fill with light, and the air was moist. The road descended Tibidabo by virtue of switchbacks, and after they had gone around several sharp turns and had traveled perhaps half a mile, the young sergeant halted them. and chief executioner. On either side of the road, the dark, dense forest rose. It was perfectly still, though the sky had begun to fill with light, and the air was moist. The road descended Tibidabo by virtue of switchbacks, and after they had gone around several sharp turns and had traveled perhaps half a mile, the young sergeant halted them.

"This way," he said in polite English. He had a big automatic pistol; the others had gigantic, ancient rifles.

He took them off the road and through the damp bracken and groundcover of the woods. They followed a path a few hundred feet in, though the going was awkward, given the extreme slope of the land, until they reached a small clearing in the trees, where two shallow graves had been scooped out.

"It's a pity, isn't it?" Florry said. "All of it. They're just b.l.o.o.d.y fools, doing their worst. Animals, idiots."

"I say, do you mind awfully shutting up?" she said. "I don't feel much like chatter."

The boys got them to the edge of the holes, then stood back to form what appeared to be an extremely amateur firing squad. Each seemed to have a different firearm, and the youngest looked absolutely sick at what was about to happen, not that Florry could spare the wretched boy any pity. The sargento sargento was the only one among them who had any sort of self-possession. He busied himself importantly examining weapons and setting caps just right and making sure belts were properly adjusted. He'd make a fine little Bolshevik commissar, Florry thought; too bad he'd picked the wrong party. was the only one among them who had any sort of self-possession. He busied himself importantly examining weapons and setting caps just right and making sure belts were properly adjusted. He'd make a fine little Bolshevik commissar, Florry thought; too bad he'd picked the wrong party.

d.a.m.n these boys: could they not get it b.l.o.o.d.y over? Florry's knees had begun to knock and his breath came in little pinched sobs and his eyes were wide open like upstairs windows into which flew birds and clouds and everything on earth. Sylvia leaned or almost huddled against him; he could feel her trembling and wished he could at least hold her or offer her some comfort in this terrible moment. these boys: could they not get it b.l.o.o.d.y over? Florry's knees had begun to knock and his breath came in little pinched sobs and his eyes were wide open like upstairs windows into which flew birds and clouds and everything on earth. Sylvia leaned or almost huddled against him; he could feel her trembling and wished he could at least hold her or offer her some comfort in this terrible moment.

"Preparen para disparar!" barked the barked the sargento sargento.

The boys attempted to come to a formal position and lifted their rifles to aim. The muzzles wobbled terribly, because the weapons were so heavy. One of the idiot children had even fixed a bayonet to his rifle.

Sylvia had begun to weep. She had collapsed against him, yet he could not hold her because his hands were tied. He looked about. His eyes seemed magically open-the forest, filled with low beams of light and towering columns of mist and soft, wet, heavy air, seemed to whirl about him.

Let it be clean, he prayed. Let it be clean.

"Apunten," the the sargento sargento barked. barked.

"The b.a.s.t.a.r.ds," Florry heard himself saying.

Then they heard the noise.

"Esperan. Que es eso ruido?"

At first it was a far-off putter, almost something to be ignored. Yet it rose, persistent, the labored sound of an engine-no, two, perhaps three-climbing the steep road of Tibidabo.

"Es una camion, sargento," one of the boys said. one of the boys said.

"Carrajo! Bueno, no disparen," the sergeant said, looking about in confusion. The soldiers let their rifles droop. the sergeant said, looking about in confusion. The soldiers let their rifles droop.

Through the trees, they saw the vehicles, big and c.u.mbersome, loaded with troops as they lumbered by.

"Asaltos," somebody whispered.

Just beyond them, the trucks halted. An officer got out and the men climbed down in their clanking battle gear. Their bayonets were fixed. They formed into a loose attack formation, rifles at the half-port, and began a jogtrot up the hill toward the amus.e.m.e.nt park. Two men at the rear of the column carried a Hotchkiss machine gun and tripod.

"The Stalinists have caught up with Steinbach," Florry murmured.

Sylvia collapsed to the ground, but only Florry noticed. At the top of the hill, there was no suspense. The firing started almost immediately. They could hear the dry, rolling crack of the rifles and the stutter of the Hotchkiss gun.