Текст книги "The Second Son"

Автор книги: Jonathan Rabb

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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

Hoffner was struck by how easily they tossed this all about. Leos would have shot Piera without a thought. He was just as likely to share a bowl of chicken with him. Evidently instinct worked minute to minute these days.

Piera pushed his bowl forward and sucked something in his teeth. “Did you find your son?” he said, with no real interest.

There was a commotion by the door, and they all turned to see the head man shaking his head. One or two others in line were doing the same. Finally the head man threw up his hands, stepped back, and little Aurelio-shirt and ginger hair matted in sweat-moved past him. The man with the droopy eyes was instantly on his feet.

Aurelio drew up and stared, his breathing heavy.

The standing man began to shake his head, as if to say, Well?

It took Aurelio another moment to focus. When he did, his voice was quiet.

“Patrullas,”he said. He seemed almost confused by it. “No papers. Nothing.” He looked at Hoffner, then Mila, then Hoffner again. “They took him. On the street.” It was as if he were watching it play out in front of him. “The butt of a rifle to the head and gone. There won’t even be enough of him left to bury.”

4

Pase De La Firma

In the early spring of 1919, while Detective Inspector Nikolai Hoffner recovered from his investigations into the murder of Rosa Luxemburg, General Severiano Martinez Anido arrived in Barcelona to quell the more dangerous elements within the anarchist Sindicato Unico. The Sindicato was the most powerful union in the country and had recently begun to encourage some of its members to explore alternative measures when dealing with work stoppages, lockouts, and industrialists in general. It seemed that bold words and tossed rocks were getting them only so far. The leadership wanted something more permanent. Thereafter, bullet and garroting-wire sales rose dramatically throughout the city.

General Martinez Anido, a mild soft-spoken little man, had been sent on direct orders from the prime minister, Don Eduardo Dato. Dato’s exact words-if his secretary’s memory can be trusted (she had somehow remained on the telephone line while Dato made his intentions clear)-were to “get yourself to that rat-infested Catalan pisshole, cut off the balls of every last swine-fucking anarcho, and feed them to the bastards’ wives.” Martinez Anido, never one to take an order at anything less than face value, immediately set about infiltrating the dark and murderous secret society of the Unico with men of his own. By December he had rounded up thirty-six of the worst of them-including their leader, Roy del Sucre-and had them all rotting behind bars in the always inviting Fortress of Mahon in the Balearic Islands. Rumor had it that one of these detainees had been accidentally castrated (although how one is accidentally castrated is anyone’s guess), but Dato’s secretary was less than forthcoming on that front. The rest of the inmates languished fully intact, one of them a twenty-two-year-old Josep Gardenyes, although no records show anyone of that specific name on the prison rolls at the time. His cellmate had been a droopy-eyed man with a scar on his left cheek. When, fifteen months later, the two managed to avenge themselves by ambushing and machine-gunning Dato in Madrid’s Plaza de la Independencia (by then Gardenyes had taught himself to steer a motorcycle with his knees), they became brothers in blood.

The sole surviving brother was now sitting in the corner of a dank bar six blocks from the Ritz, his fourth whiskey already gone, his droopy eyes unashamedly weeping. He had felt a moment’s hesitation crying in front of the woman, but she was a doctor and no doubt had seen worse. The two Communists had lived through bloodlettings of their own: who were they to fault a man his passion? And Aurelio was probably more drunk than he was himself. As for the German-he would be dead within a week, so what difference did it make?

Leos pushed the bottle toward the man and hoped one more glass might be enough to stop the wailing. Remarkably, the man was managing to cry even while drinking.

“It would be pointless,” said Aurelio. He had been working through a canteen of water and was in full command of his faculties. “I didn’t recognize any of the boys who picked him up, and I know them all.”

Leos said, “So how do you know these were patrullas?”

“Because they told us,” Aurelio explained. “ ‘We’re with the patrullas,’ one of them shouted. ‘We won’t put up with this kind of disgrace! You have us to thank. The true spirit of anarchism.’ On and on. Then they smacked the rifle across the back of his head and tossed the body into the car. They weren’t even carrying the right kind of pistols.”

Hoffner, who had been listening for the better part of the last five minutes, finally spoke. “So you think they took Gardenyes for another reason.”

Aurelio reached for his canteen. “Whoever they were, they were sloppy.”

“How?”

Aurelio took a drink. “You have one on your belt. Put it on the table.”

Without hesitation Hoffner pulled the Luger out and set it next to his glass.

“That,” said Aurelio. “That was what one of them had.”

“Which means?” said Leos.

Aurelio looked across at Hoffner. “Those names on the list-the ones you gave him-Gardenyes found one of them.”

Vollman had been right, thought Hoffner. The SS had wasted no time in getting here. They had killed Gardenyes for poking around. “I know,” said Hoffner.

“No,” Aurelio said. “Not the chess player, the drugs. Bernhardt. Another German. That was what had these patrullas-not– patrullaslooking for him. It’s why Gardenyes sent my crying friend here to find you at the Chinaman’s.” Aurelio glanced over at the man. “All right-it’s enough already.”

The man went on undeterred and Aurelio looked back at Hoffner. “I’m guessing you knew that would happen-the patrullas.”

“I didn’t.”

“And I’m supposed to believe that?”

Hoffner picked up his glass. “The pistol’s there. I’m sure no one would mind if you used it.” He drank.

Aurelio nodded over at Mila. “She would.” Hoffner thought he saw a moment of color in her cheeks before Aurelio said, “She’s the one who’d have to clean it up.”

Leos tossed back the last of his glass and set it firmly on the table. He was done. “I’m sorry your friend is dead,” he said as he stood. “ Patrullasor not, I have to get back.”

Hoffner was peering into his glass. “New kind of deliveries to be made?” He lapped at the last of his whiskey and then said, “I’d be careful there.”

It was clear Leos understood exactly what Hoffner was talking about. Leos stared for several seconds before saying, “What else did Vollman overhear?”

“You’d have to ask him that yourself, wouldn’t you?” Hoffner now felt every eye at the table on him; he continued to gaze at Leos. “He thinks it goes through Teruel.”

“Then he thinks wrong.”

Hoffner waited. This wasn’t misdirection; this was a reclaiming of control. For better or worse, Leos was speaking the truth; the drug/gun conduit didn’t run through Teruel. The question was, What had Georg found to send him there?

Hoffner said, “You be sure to tell him that.”

Leos stood silently. He then swept a glance across the table and said, “ Salud. You have my condolences.” He turned and headed off.

Aurelio watched him through the door before turning to Hoffner. “What the hell was that?”

Hoffner leaned forward and took hold of the bottle. “He runs drugs. It’s a dangerous business.”

“So what’s in Teruel?”

Hoffner poured himself another glass and set the bottle down. “Evidently not drugs.”

With surprising speed Aurelio reached over and grabbed hold of Hoffner’s hand. The whiskey in the glass spilled to the table. For such a small man, Aurelio had a remarkably strong grip.

Hoffner said, “If you’d wanted a glass, I’d have been happy to pour you one.”

Aurelio tightened his grip.

Hoffner said, “It’s an easy hand to break. It’s been broken before.”

“What’s he moving?” said Aurelio. Hoffner said nothing, and Aurelio’s gaze grew more severe. “This is what got Gardenyes killed,” Aurelio said, “so I think I’d like to know.”

Hoffner was beginning to feel a deep ache up his wrist and into his forearm. Aurelio had done this before. Even so, Hoffner said, “He was already dead-isn’t that what he told me?”

Aurelio brought the thumb tighter into the palm, and the ache moved past the forearm and into the elbow. Hoffner shut his eyes momentarily from the pain, and the grip suddenly released. He opened his eyes and saw the Luger held just above the table and aimed at Aurelio.

Hoffner had been wrong at the clinic; Mila looked very comfortable with a gun.

“Put it down,” Hoffner said.

She was staring across at Aurelio: the little man hadn’t moved. “He was going to break your hand,” she said.

“He might have broken it already,” said Hoffner. He was stretching the fingers and wrist. There would be pain but nothing else.

Piera, silent to this moment, said quietly, “Put the gun on the table, Mila.”

The sound of her father’s voice did nothing to shake her. It was several long moments before she turned and held the gun out to Hoffner. Reluctantly he took it. She sat back and he set the gun down.

Hoffner said to Aurelio, “You can take your hand off your own gun now, or you can shoot me. It’s up to you.”

Aurelio remained absolutely still. He then slowly brought his other hand up from under the table. It was clear Mila had not been aware of this. Aurelio said, “I wasn’t going to shoot you.”

“I know that,” said Hoffner. “She didn’t. So now we all know.” With his good hand, Hoffner poured a glass and placed it in front of her. The color had yet to return to her face. Mila took it and drank, and Hoffner said, “So-about this Bernhardt. Gardenyes found him?”

Aurelio was still studying him. He slid a glass to the center of the table and watched as Hoffner filled it. “His place,” Aurelio said. “Not what you’d expect. Down by the docks. Too nice for the neighborhood and much too nice for a drug addict.”

“But no Bernhardt.”

“No.” Aurelio took the glass.

“And nothing else?”

Aurelio drank.

Hoffner said, “So now they come looking for you and Gabriel?”

Aurelio finished the glass and held it out for another. Hoffner refilled it.

“They’ve made their point,” Aurelio said, “but who knows? The CNT will take credit. This is what they were going to do anyway. They like statements like this-a man tossed in a car, beaten, a bullet to the neck, no trial, no discussion. It keeps the socialists and Communists thinking we anarchists can be trusted. That we can take care of our own loose cannons. Whoever did this knew how to play it.” He drank. “Leos is moving guns?”

Hoffner appreciated how easily Aurelio got to it. He recapped the bottle. “He’s trying to.”

“And your son is helping?”

Hoffner felt Mila’s eyes on him. He ignored them. “No. That’s not why he’s here.”

“A great many people will be coming to Spain for one reason and leaving for another. You know your son that well?”

Hoffner pulled out a cigarette and set the pack on the table. “I need to go south.” He lit up.

“That requires papers.”

“Then it’s lucky I’m sharing a drink with you.”

Aurelio leaned forward, took one of the cigarettes, and waited for a light. He sat back through a stream of smoke. “You know the terrain?”

“No.”

“Then it’s suicide.”

Mila said, “That’s why he’ll be needing two sets of papers.”

The table was suddenly quiet. Even the man with the scar stopped crying. Piera let out an audible breath and Hoffner turned to her. She was staring across at Aurelio.

The little man returned her gaze and then looked at Hoffner. “What is she saying?”

Hoffner was still fixed on her. “I have no idea.”

She turned to Hoffner. “Do you know the terrain?”

There was something so familiar in the gaze. “Stop it,” he said.

“Stop what?”

“This. Whatever you think you’re doing.”

Piera let out another long breath, and Mila turned her head to him. “You knew it would be this the moment he walked in the house,” she said. “The moment you heard him speak.”

Piera was reluctant to answer. “No,” he said. “That’s not true.”

“Then with the boy,” she said. “When I told you about the boy. You knew then.”

Again Piera tried to hold himself. “Yes,” he said at last. “It doesn’t mean a thing. You kill yourself if you do this.”

“I kill myself if I don’t.”

Hoffner was done catching up. He had been there for everything they were talking about, and yet he hadn’t the slightest idea what any of it meant.

“Knew what?” he said. Mila continued to look at her father and Hoffner repeated, “Knew what?”

She turned. The eyes were now completely unknowable.

“You love your son,” she said. “I love my brother. Gardenyes could get you a pass out of Barcelona, and you’d need someone to show you the way. That would get me to Zaragoza.”

Aurelio said, “Zaragoza isn’t the way you get to Teruel.”

“It is now,” she said, as she continued to stare at Hoffner.

He was expecting a look of victory, the conceit a woman holds in reserve for those moments beyond a man’s control, but there was nothing so cunning in the eyes. Mila’s gaze carried only its strength of purpose.

“Who’s to say I’ll take you?” he said.

“Who’s to say there are any other volunteers?”

Hoffner wanted more-stifled hope, desperation-but she gave him none. He would have given none either, and it was why he said to Aurelio, “You can get us two sets?”

Aurelio was weighing something behind the eyes. “Yes.”

“Two sets to get us through,” Hoffner said, “and another two to square us with the Nationalists. You can do that?”

Aurelio said, “I think you’ll want to avoid the Nationalists.”

“Can you do it?”

Again Aurelio stared at Hoffner. It seemed a very long time before he slowly nodded.

“Good,” said Hoffner. He looked at Mila. “I’m assuming you have a gun.”

The details proved surprisingly simple. It was just a matter of finding space on a truck, stuffing a canvas bag with the necessities-Hoffner’s empty satchel and suitcase remained at Piera’s-and then meeting up with Aurelio.

The choice of meeting spot, however, was another matter. At a little before six, the message came through from one of Gardenyes’s-now Aurelio’s-minions that he wanted them out in the Plaza d’Espana within half an hour. And not just on the plaza. He wanted them at the far side, along the westernmost gate of the Arenas bullring. To Hoffner this seemed slightly bizarre; to Mila it made perfect sense. The man had a car waiting downstairs.

They drove in dead silence, probably a good thing, since Hoffner was forced to keep his palm planted firmly on the ceiling to make sure he remained inside the car: Why speak and tempt even a moment’s break in the man’s concentration? Mila sat between them in the front seat, her shoulders bouncing back and forth, her expression devoid of concern. Evidently this was the way one drove through Barcelona-corners taken to the sound of screeching wheels, pedestrians nimble and happy to skip out of the way no matter how narrow the streets. That the sun was perched on the horizon so as to blind them made the prospect of hitting someone-or being hit-slightly less problematic: there might be a thud or a bump, but at least it would come as a complete surprise.

In the rare moments of manageable speed, Mila tried to point out some of the more interesting spots along the way: a palace with some exotic ironwork that looked like a fat scorpion climbing between the two front archways; a music hall with scars still dug into the stone from a decades-old anarchist bomb; a movie house with a Spanish-print poster for Hop-a-long Cassidy-extended through July 24-although Hoffner was guessing that the “yarn with a kick like a loco steer” might be waiting quite some time for its next showing. After that it was a straight shot up the Paralelo, across the plaza, and over to the arena.

The place had the look of any number of killing pits, two vast coliseum tiers behind countless arches, although these were more Moorish than Roman. The red brick was another distinguishing mark, as was the strange little dome atop the main entrance tower, a red cupola more fitting for a mosque than a bullring. Large posters from the most recent combats were still plastered to the front walls. The most daring was of a torero, Marcial Lalanda, painfully suave and a far cry from the six-shooting Senor Hop-a-long. Lalanda was staring down the back of a bull, his haunches raised high-Lalanda’s, not the bull’s-in a pose of ultimate courage: the motionless pase de la firma. According to the lettering, the fight had been to benefit the city’s newspapers in a “sumptuous manifestation of artistry.” If Lalanda’s hindquarters were any indication, the crowd had not gone home disappointed.

Hoffner slammed the car door shut, and the man sped off in a grinding of tires on gravel. Mila was already heading across to the entrance gate, where a long tunnel led down into the ring. Standing inside and in half shadow was Aurelio, with a rifle over his back. He stepped out.

“Did you sleep?” he said.

“No,” said Hoffner, as he drew up.

“That was stupid.”

Aurelio led them down the tunnel-the ground was now packed earth and rock-through torn papers and pieces of metal wire strewn across. The papers were snatches from recent programs and posters, but the wire was a complete mystery. Odder still were the tire tracks that crisscrossed everything, and the walls-chipped stone and brickwork-that seemed to be sweating with the smell of gasoline. The light at the end was a dull orange, filled with aimless clouds of grit and dust rising from the ring.

Everything came clear as the three emerged. It was cars everywhere, in every shape, size, and state of disrepair. They were parked at odd angles, up against the wooden fencing or in klatches across the ring. A few were burned out, most stripped of their tires. The glare off the windscreens made it necessary to bring a hand up. They were Spanish, German, American, and even one of those Dutch Spykers with its ludicrously heart-shaped grille. This particular one had lost its front axle and looked as if it were kneeling in prayer or, better yet, waiting for a swift kick to the backside; even it understood this new Barcelona. Elsewhere a group of about ten saloons stood in an oval, lost in some frozen rally race, eternally waiting for the one just ahead to step on the gas.

These were the remnants of a now extinct race-the bourgeoisie-branded and on display. The markings were simple, the letters CNT-FAI meant to codify and classify for future generations.

Hoffner said, “I’m guessing we can have our pick.”

Aurelio moved them across the ring as he spoke. “You bring one of these back to life,” he said, “it’s yours for the taking.”

They passed a man who was rummaging through the open bonnet of an old Mercedes. Half the engine parts lay in piles in the dust, another piece of metal tubing finding its way onto the heap as the man tossed it to the side.

Hoffner said, “He has no idea what he’s doing, does he?”

“With the car?” said Aurelio. “Of course not. To melt it down and make it into something that fires a bullet? That he knows how to do.”

Hoffner looked back and saw the man toss out another large piece of something. “Clever,” he said.

“Very-if he can find some bullets.”

Aurelio nodded them over to one of the openings in the fencing and ushered them through. The light was now in the form of hanging lamps along the vast scaffolding maze underneath the seats. Deeper in, Hoffner saw two enormous water tanks with a truck that looked almost roadworthy nestled in between. Aurelio led them over, and the smell of gasoline became suffocating.

“Best station in the city,” said Aurelio. “The cemetery out there might give the boys something to play with, but it’s the gas that’s the real prize.” He shouted over to the truck. “You’re loaded?”

“Loaded,” a voice shouted back.

“How many jars?”

“Six.” The voice became Gabriel’s as he stepped out from behind the truck. “Enough to get us out and back.”

He looked exhausted. Worse, his left ear was bandaged, and the right eye and cheek were swollen. The gashes were deep and well-placed: something metal, thought Hoffner, maybe even brass. Whoever had done this had planned to take their time killing him.

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” Gabriel said. Even with the swelling, he still had a cigarette tacked onto his lip. The thick mustache was all but swallowing it.

“Good to hear. Same men who took Gardenyes?”

Gabriel ignored the question and stepped over for Mila’s bag. “Doctor.” The hand was also black and blue, and two of the fingernails had been torn off.

Mila said, “I should have a look.”

“At what?” Gabriel took her bag and headed to the back. “I’ve had a bit of a sore throat, but aside from that…”

Hoffner followed Gabriel as Aurelio helped Mila into the cab. “You’re lucky to be alive,” Hoffner said.

Gabriel reached the back and pulled up the flap. “Not so much luck.” He tossed the bag in.

Hoffner drew up next to him and saw the two dead bodies laid out against the jars of gasoline. Both were dressed in the usual getup-suspenders, trousers, neckerchiefs-except these had small bullet holes just below the right eyes. From the tiny shards of glass, one of them had worn eyeglasses. The back of the heads had been completely torn off.

Gabriel said, “The Nazis are going to have to send in better than these if they think they’re going to help the generals win the thing. I mean, how clever do you have to be to remove a gun from its holster before you try to torture and beat a man to death? Guns stay outside the room. It’s the first rule, isn’t it?”

Hoffner saw the stacks of rifles, rolls of bandages, and packages of food strewn haphazardly throughout the hold. He looked back at the Germans. “They’re quick learners,” he said.

“That’s a pity.”

These two couldn’t have been more than twenty-five. Hoffner noticed the Bifora wristwatch on one of the arms and thought, They really have no idea what they’re doing, do they?

Hoffner said, “You took the gun when one of them leaned in to pull out the fingernails. Lots of screaming and distraction.” He didn’t need to turn to sense Gabriel’s appreciation.

“Yes,” Gabriel said.

“You shoot well with your left hand.”

“Close range. Not that difficult.”

“And you keep them as souvenirs?”

Gabriel took hold of Hoffner’s bag and tossed it in. “Better if they’re missing. A dead body gets replaced by someone not as good at dying. Let them wonder for a few days where their friends have gotten to.” He let go of the flap and started back to the cab.

Hoffner asked, “They wanted to know if you’d found Bernhardt?”

Gabriel stopped at the door and took the handle. He looked back. “Have I?”

“Not yet,” said Hoffner, “but you will.”

It was three hours later, and a hundred kilometers of safe Republican territory behind them, when Gabriel shut off the headlights.

The sun was long gone, but he continued to drive. Not that there had been much to see since the outskirts of the city. It was fields and hills and, somewhere in the distance, mountains, but even with a full moon there was little chance of seeing any of it as more than vague shadows. Towns had come and gone as pockets of light, with the occasional barking of a dog to remind them of lives being plotted and endured along the way. They had passed two checkpoints. The men at each had gone through their papers; the dead Germans had been admired and forgotten.

After that, Hoffner, Mila, and Gabriel had settled into an easy silence. The constant jolts to the chassis, and the grinding of the gears, continued to beat out a comforting rhythm.

Hoffner stared out through the windscreen. It was a road incapable of holding its line for more than thirty meters at a time. Now, with the light gone, he was strangely aware of the smell of manure. He hadn’t smelled it before but knew it must have been there.

“You know the road?” he said.

Gabriel’s left hand was resting on the steering wheel in a pose far too casual for the speed. Mila sat sleeping between them.

“Let’s hope.” Gabriel lit his next cigarette. He set it on the edge of his lip and tossed the match out the window.

Hoffner said, “It seems very peaceful.”

“It does.”

“But you don’t believe it.”

“I don’t.”

“You do know you’re winning the thing.”

“Yes, so I’ve heard.”

“Tell me,” said Hoffner. “What is it that makes me so lucky to have found the one group of anarchists in Spain who can’t enjoy the taste of victory?”

Gabriel fended off a smile. “Common sense?”

“That’s never it.”

“Then an instinct for your own kind. You wouldn’t know what to do with it either.”

A curve forced them to the left, and Gabriel brought his full focus to the road. He ground the gears until the cab hitched at the loss of speed. Hoffner gripped the dashboard and placed an arm across Mila. She continued to sleep.

Hoffner said, “I think this is different.”

“Then you’d be wrong. It’s never different. Not when you’ve been through it before.”

Hoffner waited for more. Instead, Gabriel reached his hand down to a small tin box on the floor. He flipped open the lid, pulled out a Coca-Cola, and handed it across to Hoffner. For the fifth time in the last two hours, Hoffner opened a bottle and handed it back. This was the last of the stash Gabriel had brought.

Hoffner said, “A Spanish anarchist and his dedication to the American capitalist dream.”

“It tastes good. That’s all.”

“I’ve seen this stuff take the rust off a tire bolt in twenty minutes.”

Gabriel nodded and took a swig. “Just think how clean my insides must be.”

For the first time since Hoffner had met him, Gabriel pulled a healthy cigarette from his mouth. He held it in the hand with the bottle. He was thinking something through. Finally he said, “You know Asturias?”

Hoffner had never been to the northwest of Spain. He shook his head.

“Very beautiful. My family has been there a long time. Gijon. On the coast.”

Gabriel set the cigarette back on his lip and placed the bottle between his legs on the seat. He downshifted as the road began to climb.

“Two years ago we had a miners’ strike. Very bloody. Strikes weren’t popular back then. Right-wing government. The miners tried to take the capital. They marched on Oviedo. They were gunned down. Three thousand killed, another twenty-five thousand thrown in prison. And the man the government sent to break the back of Asturias? Franco. The same Franco who now sits in Morocco and waits to do the same to Spain. Not so different.”

Gabriel spat something out the window, and Hoffner said, “You were there?”

“In the streets, at the barracks, in the hills-of course.” Gabriel took the bottle from between his legs. “I told my wife to spit on my picture when the asaltoscame looking to arrest me. I haven’t been back since. Now I go home.” He drank.

“And she knows you’re coming?”

Gabriel remained quiet for nearly half a minute. “Yes,” he finally said; if there was regret in his voice, he refused to admit it. “She knows.”

Hoffner watched as Gabriel tipped the bottle all the way back before setting it on the floor.

Gabriel said, “I hear our doctor pulled a gun. Impressive.”

Mila was now leaning against Hoffner’s shoulder, the heat from her back and neck full against him. She had shivered once or twice in sleep-from a dream or a memory-but now lay perfectly still.

Hoffner said, “I’m sure Aurelio was impressed.”

“She’s too slim for Aurelio to be impressed. You’d think he’d like them that way-little as he is-but he never does.”

“I was talking about the gun.”

“Anyone can pull a gun. It’s the shooting that makes the difference.”

“And you think she can do that?”

“What? Shoot a gun?” Gabriel took a pull on the cigarette. “Why not? Don’t worry. She’ll get through. She’s a doctor. Everyone needs a doctor.”

“If they believe her.”

“Why shouldn’t they believe her? It’s you they won’t believe.” Gabriel was baiting him.

“You think I’m going with her?”

Gabriel tried a laugh, but the pain in his cheek got the better of him. “No, of course not. You’ll be letting her slip into Zaragoza all by herself. By the way, did she sleep alone last night?”

Hoffner let Gabriel sit with this one before saying, “I’ve no idea.”

Again Gabriel snorted, and again the pain was too much. “I imagine she likes them older.”

And Mila said, “I imagine she does.”

Her eyes were still closed, her arms folded gently across her chest. Gabriel was lucky to have the road in front of him; Hoffner stared out as well and tried to piece together the last half minute. There was a chance he had made an ass of himself. Cleverness was never much of a virtue in his hands.

Mila said, “Where are we?” Her eyes were open now as she straightened herself up.

Gabriel said, “Coming up on Barbera.”

She peered out. “And he likes a bigger woman, something to grab onto?”

Hoffner expected a look of embarrassment from Gabriel, but all he saw was the smile underneath the mustache. The cheeks rose and Gabriel suddenly coughed through a laugh. This, evidently, was worth the pain. “Something like that,” he said.

She looked at Hoffner. “Would you have guessed that, seeing how little he is?”

She was giving him a way out. She might have been giving him more, but Hoffner knew not to take it. “He’s keen on guns,” he said. “A girl like that-more space to hide one.”

Gabriel’s laugh became a throaty growl, and Mila said, “What happened to the headlights?” It was only now that she seemed to notice.

Again Gabriel spat something out the window. “Not so good to advertise through here.”

“I thought it was safe up to the Durruti line?”

“It is-mostly. Just not through here.”

“And they won’t hear us?”

Gabriel downshifted and the truck began to climb. “They’ve been hearing us for the past ten minutes. Hearing, seeing-either way it’s not so good, but why take the chance? Even a blind pig finds the mud sometime.”

“This is Republican territory,” she said.

“Is it? My mistake. I must have missed the day they brought the mapmakers out, pictures for everyone nailed to the doors. You be sure to tell the boys guarding the church up ahead that they’re breaking the rules.”

The road leveled off and the truck took on speed. There were lights somewhere in the distance-candles, judging by the flickering-but most impressive now was the moon. It was directly in front of them, its glare spreading out across the fields like foam on lifeless waves. It was only a momentary pleasure.