Текст книги "A Broken Land"

Автор книги: Ludlow Jack

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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

‘Tyler, you sly old dog,’ Hemingway hooted.

Alverson called back. ‘You can’t have all the ladies, Ernie, stick to Martha.’

A glass was raised and Hemingway was not looking at Alverson, but then neither was anyone else in a group which, with his size and bulk, he dominated, his response another call. ‘When the cat’s away …’

‘Cal tells me you’re an anarchist?’ Alverson said, his attention back on Florencia, with a look that implied disbelief.

‘Si.’

‘Tell me, honey, how do I join?’

There is a fine line between flattering someone and patronising them, added to which there was Florencia’s ability to see a slight where there was none intended and she had a temperament to match. Seeing her eyes narrow, Cal had to intervene quickly.

‘Tyler helped me get guns into Ethiopia.’ That gave her pause. ‘You should read some of his reports on Italian atrocities. He hates Mussolini.’

As a way of saying ‘he’s one of us’ it was perfect and the look on her face changed from impending anger to a dazzling smile. Quite out of character, because he was not the type for gallantry, Tyler leant over, lifted her hand and kissed it, then smiled.

‘I would be happy to read them to you.’

‘As bedtime stories?’ Cal interjected, not without irony.

‘Can I buy you guys dinner later?’

‘We’ll see,’ was the reply from Callum Jardine.

The look on Tyler Alverson’s face then was a curious one, almost wolfish. ‘We’re bound to run into each other; after all, I’m staying in this joint too.’

‘I’m sure we will.’

‘And then, Callum Jardine, you can tell what it is you are being so secretive about.’

Cal tried bluff. ‘Who says I am being secretive?’

Tyler Alverson tapped his nose. ‘This old buddy of mine, and it’s never wrong.’

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Prime Minister Largo Caballero was not a man who could be called upon in secret; in the atmosphere prevailing inside his government, which, with much manoeuvring and abandonment of principle the anarchists were preparing to join, suspicion was the watchword. Trust no one, watch everyone and keep a keen nose twitching for betrayal, so arrangements had been made to meet him away from the parliament building, El Congreso de los Diputados.

But first Cal had to be introduced to the politician who would represent the CNT-FAI, Juan García Oliver, a man about the same age and, according to Florencia, as much of a long-time firebrand as Laporta, with whom he had planned and carried out assassinations. He looked very much less of a fighter, being slim and handsome, with a high forehead, though he shared a countenance not much given to smiling.

He certainly did not favour the foreigner with one, and though it was clear that he and Andreu Nin, now a full member of the Catalan regional government, had already agreed a common position, it was also obvious, from the looks thrown in his direction, that García Oliver questioned the need for Cal to be present. Nin had to take him aside and engage in a whispered discussion to put his mind at rest.

That over, the quartet – it included Florencia – proceeded to their destination. The meeting took place at the home of a trusted political ally of Caballero, a house in a quiet cul-de-sac where Cal came face-to-face with a man whom he knew from the reports he had boned up on had, as much as any other, inflamed the politics of elections during the Republic.

A fiery orator in the tradition of men obliged by internal competition to ratchet up the rhetoric of blood-filled gutters should his opponents get back into power, it was Caballero who had threatened mayhem should the parties of the centre and right triumph in the last elections, he who had possibly created in the generals, now fighting, the feeling that Spain was about to sink into anarchy.

Yet for someone supposed to be a demagogue, Largo Caballero looked remarkably ordinary, more like a career bureaucrat than a budding Lenin: silver-haired, well barbered, bland-faced and very polite, with a calm manner of speaking much at odds with the passionate arguments to which he was obliged to listen.

Cal could only be partly involved; his improved Spanish was insufficient to follow more than the drift of what was a circumlocutory conversation between the male trio, in which little would be openly stated, this not aided by the loathing each had for the other, while Florencia was too intent on what was being said to do much translating.

It was more by watching her face that he followed the drift of the conversation, which appeared to be positive, indicated more by half-smiles and semi-nods from Caballero than any outright declaration. The meeting broke up with handshakes, and only when they were away from the house, in the open, did Florencia fully enlighten him.

‘Caballero agrees that the possibilities should be investigated.’

‘No more than that?’

‘No.’

‘Money,’ Cal said as a weary reminder.

She nodded to include Nin and Oliver and, preparatory to telling him, she first advised them as to what she was about to say, before reverting to Englsih.

‘The POUM have agreed to provide funds from their party coffers to begin the investigation in to making a purchase of arms, though apart from Andreu they have no knowledge of you. Likewise, García Oliver and Juan Luis will be the only anarchists who know of your identity and purpose.’

The use of the names had both men looking at him keenly.

‘No one else must know. Caballero dare not be found undermining his cabinet, for if he is it will fall apart, nor can he seek to apportion what is needed for purchase until matters are close to a conclusion, since he will have to sneak the payment past the communists, but he is sure it can be shipped, as and when needed, at a few days’ notice.’

‘That will not do, Florencia.’ Unfazed by her flash of anger, picked up by the two men, Cal continued, ‘The money has to be there before the deal is done. It is a transfer that has to be simultaneous. This is a business in which there is no such thing as trust.’

That was followed by a rapid burst of explanation. Nin, who responded after a brief word with Oliver, which was followed by a handshake and his departure, was thankfully more calm and measured than her.

‘Andreu says one step at a time,’ Florencia said, with none of the tone in which it had been imparted to her.

‘I gathered that.’

They were now near the main boulevard, and worried about being observed in Nin’s company, Cal had a look around. Tyler Alverson was easy to spot, mainly because he was making no attempt to disguise himself or hide; he was, after all, dressed in a near-white suit. Cheekily, the American touched the rim of his panama, then immediately spun round and departed.

Annoying as it was, there being nothing he could do to change that Cal concentrated on finalising the arrangements to transfer funds into the account that he had opened with Monty Redfern’s bank draft, which was obviously a speculative amount and he was careful to ensure there could be more if needed.

There was no way of knowing if and what Drouhin would send him and what would be required to be expended, so he was obliged to play safe and request a hefty sum of money that made Nin think hard before agreeing, with the caveat that approval for such a large amount would have to be sought from his committee.

That engendered a discussion of keeping the information secure; if infiltration was a communist tactic, Cal insisted, it would be naive to assume that spies had not penetrated both the POUM and the CNT. That was when it ceased to be a dialogue and became a row, Nin and Florencia displeased with the notion that their close comrades would betray them.

Agreement was reached eventually that the money would be earmarked for foreign propaganda purposes – no mention would be made of armaments to anyone who did not already know of the plans – and finally Cal and Florencia parted company and made their way back to the Florida Hotel as night began to fall. Tyler Alverson was in the lobby.

‘Bit early to eat, Cal,’ he boomed, ‘but just the time for the first drink of the evening.’

The American was too shrewd to enquire what Cal was up to while Florencia was present, instead he kept the conversation genial and general about the places he had been and the things he had seen – and often wished he had not – in the trouble spots of the world. A natural topic was his and Cal’s shared adventure in Abyssinia; the one subject he tried to stay off was the present civil war.

If he was aware that Cal was watching him the way a tabby cat eyes a mouse, and he had to be, Tyler Alverson ignored it, moving on to talk about President Roosevelt and the proposed Second New Deal, the ’36 election just having been decided, only referring to what was happening in Madrid in his explanation of why America would not support the Republic with weapons and credits.

‘I don’t know if Franco and his guys figured on this, but they kicked off right in the middle of an election campaign and nobody could have predicted that the Democrats would win by a landslide. Roosevelt had to promise to stay out of European affairs to get the votes he needed.’

‘But now?’ Florencia asked, her face eager. ‘Perhaps he will help now.’

‘Honey,’ Alverson intoned, that alone enough to dampen any enthusiasm, ‘I don’t think you know how bad things are in the USA. If you ain’t got your own house in order, you can’t go getting involved in saving the abode of anyone else. I think we will be sorry one day, and a lot of other folk do too, but them and I don’t run things.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Is it time for dinner yet? I can’t wait till ten, when you guys eat.’

Florencia stood. ‘I will go and change.’

‘Nice dame,’ Alverson said as she walked away, his eyes not the only ones following her. ‘And I mean as a person too.’

‘She has her moments.’

‘I bet.’

‘You know, I don’t take to being tailed.’

‘Who says me seeing you was not just a coincidence?’

‘I do.’

‘So, I followed you. I figured you were up to something and it’s my job to find out stuff like that.’

‘You could have just asked.’

Alverson produced a lazy grin. ‘And you would do what you are about to do now, tell me to mind my own business.’

‘Yes.’

‘So let’s see what my nose tells me. You are caught in Spain because you are tied up with Florencia which, I have to admit, is a damn good reason. Maybe because of her, but more likely for all the right reasons, you get involved in a couple of shoot-outs—’

‘They were a bit more than that.’

‘Battles, then – but you’re not battling now, Cal, you are visiting a discreet location in the company of a couple of guys called Andreu Nin and García Oliver, who, I hear, is being touted to join the government.’

‘You’re so sure you know their identities?’

‘Cal, it’s my job to know. I have a photograph of every serious player on both sides in my suitcase.’

‘Go on.’

‘Now, when I first met you, what were you doing?’ There was no need to answer. ‘And what does the Republic need right now?’

‘A bit tenuous, Tyler.’

‘Is it, Cal? You’re a gunrunner and they need weapons, and my guess is that they worry about depending on Stalin for everything. I know the guys I’ve met in Madrid don’t like taking orders from the Russians, just as I know how much those communist bastards like giving them out.’

‘They’re not short on arrogance.’

‘So now that I have said all that, you have a choice. You can either let me speculate in print – in short, tell the American public what I suspect is going on – or you can tell me the story and ask me to sit on it.’

‘How do I know you would be satisfied with that?’

‘You don’t, and it won’t be friendship that decides, it will be what I consider best for the papers that pay my wages and are waiting for an explanation of what is going on in this benighted part of the globe. So it’s half a story now, cobbled together out of speculation and observation, or the full shebang later on.’

Cal stood up and rubbed his chin. ‘I need to change for dinner too.’

Alverson’s look was salacious enough to explain his reply. ‘Don’t you go getting distracted up there in that bedroom, my stomach is already rumbling.’

* * *

As he scraped his chin, in a mirror steamed up by his bathwater, listening to Florencia singing softly in the bedroom as she dressed, Cal was aware that he had to open up to Alverson. Whether, come the endgame – always supposing there was one – he would tell all, was another matter. What he needed now was secrecy – any hint that an international gunrunner was seeking weapons would be fatal.

He trusted the American would not use his actual name, but nor would he just settle for the nebulous story so far. He would be on his tail, asking questions at every stage of any deal, and if he was, he would be hard to fool. There was a moment, when he dipped his face to wash off the last of the shaving foam, when he wondered whether to pack the whole thing in, but Florencia had reached a high note in her song and he knew he was committed, and why.

With Florencia a late riser, Cal met Tyler Alverson over breakfast, taking a table as far away as possible from any other journalists, the first bit of the tale his trip to Monaco and what had transpired.

‘So old Zaharoff is on the way out?’

‘Sadly, yes.’

‘Not many would share that sentiment.’

‘Because people like you have demonised him.’

‘Hey, buddy, hold on. Zaharoff is not only a crook, he admits he’s one and takes pride in telling the world of his scams.’

‘You don’t know the gunrunning business, Tyler; it’s full of crooks, and when it comes to governments it is a case of dealing with charlatans.’

‘I’ll leave it to you to tell me which one of those you are, Cal.’ That was responded to with a jaundiced look, as Alverson added, ‘But if you don’t mind I will alert the rag. Zaharoff is news and they will want someone there when he pops his clogs.’

‘Can’t see it makes any difference.’

‘So how can he help you if he is so ill?’

The name Drouhin was kept back and Alverson did not push for it, though Cal knew he might at a later stage. He explained the arrangement, as well as the reasons, glad that the American was not taking notes. As he suspected, the reporter was not satisfied with just that.

‘For me to get this right, I need to know where you’re going, when you are there and who you are dealing with.’

‘You can’t use names, Tyler, especially not mine.’

‘I can use hints, brother. I will give you a cable address in the States. I will be like you, moving around, but Scripps Howard always know where I am and you can use that to tell me where you are, then I can keep in touch.’

‘Why don’t you just wait till it’s all done and dusted?’

‘Because, Cal, I am not a dummy. If I wait, you will have all the information and the decision to give or withhold it. This way you don’t.’

‘I will not put myself in danger to keep you posted, that you have to know.’

‘I can live with that.’

‘I wouldn’t live without it – I’d end up face down in a river, if I’m lucky.’

‘Now, how would you come to a fate like that, friend?’

Concentrating, neither had seen Hemingway approach and both were obliged to look up at him, the first thing to notice the fact that he looked pretty bleary in the eye. There was also a more gravelly quality to the voice, which indicated a heavy night.

‘You look well, Ernie.’

‘Tyler, I feel like shit,’ he croaked. ‘I woke up on a table in Chicote’s Bar. Is there any coffee in that pot?’

‘Sure.’ Alverson pushed his empty cup across the table and Hemingway filled it and drank deeply, just before sitting down. ‘Do join us.’

‘You goin’ to introduce me, Tyler?’

‘Why not? Ernie Hemingway, meet Callum Thomas.’

Cal just held out his hand, not in the least fazed by the false name, paying no attention to the way that the American squeezed it far too hard, just as he ignored the look in those reddened eyes that went with it. As he had observed before, this was a man who liked to dominate.

‘So, Mr Thomas, how does someone like you end up face down in a river?’

‘Drinking too much, maybe,’ Cal replied, holding the stare.

‘I’d take that as a warning, Ernie.’

‘Was it meant as that, Mr Thomas?’

Cal smiled, but there was no humour in his voice. ‘It has been my practice in life, Mr Hemingway, never to warn people.’

The decision that he was dealing with a possible bully was quickly arrived at and there was only one way to counter that: make it known right away that you are up for a scrap. The mutual stare, still in place, lasted only a few more seconds. Then Hemingway laughed, a booming sound that filled the room and turned heads.

‘Maybe, Mr Thomas, we’ll have a drink sometime.’

‘If you wish.’

‘Hey there,’ Alverson cried, looking towards the door to the lobby. ‘Here comes the lovely Florencia, and at a run.’

Cal could see her hair was still tousled from sleep and what clothes she was wearing had been flung on; whatever it was she was coming to say had to be important and he stood to go and meet her halfway, only to be given the news with a shout.

‘The Nationalist pigs will attack Madrid in two days.’

That got Alverson and Hemingway to their feet as well, but it was Tyler who spoke. ‘How do you know?’

‘Some comrades have found the plans in an Italian tank,’ she answered, breathlessly, grabbing a roll from the bowl on the table. ‘I must go to the front.’

‘You can’t print that, Tyler, it will tell Franco his plans are no longer secret.’

The American looked at the other occupants, all of whom were staring at Florencia, now munching away. ‘Can’t see why not, brother, it’s not much of a secret.’

That was when it became easy to tell the journalists from the rest of the hotel guests: they were the ones running off to the phones, and it had to be said that Hemingway, hung-over as he was, led the pack and showed that elbows made good weapons.

In the end, it was not a scoop, it was common knowledge; Largo Caballero came on the radio to announce to the world the impending attack, and worse, as far as Cal Jardine was concerned, he told the enemy just how and where they were going to be repulsed, naming by number and strength the newly formed brigades that had been cobbled together in an attempt to impose some order on the militias who still constituted the majority of fighters.

Trying to calm an excited Florencia, he knew he had to go back to Barcelona, first to arrange to see if any package had arrived for Mr Maxim, and suggested she come with him, an offer that she would not accept, but she was not about to say goodbye to Callum Jardine without a proper parting, albeit a very quick one; the situation did not allow for languorous carnality.

They found Tyler Alverson in the hotel lobby, camera over his shoulder and dressed in the kind of garments that suggested, despite his protestations, he was going to look for a story where the bullets flew. The look he gave Cal when he said he had to make a quick trip to Barcelona, while Florencia was staying in Madrid, was one designed to take the rise out of him.

‘Don’t you worry, Cal, I will take care of your gal.’

‘That’s what worries me, Tyler.’

In truth, it was not the American who worried him but Florencia herself; she thought herself immune from harm and she would, regardless of what he said, want to be in the forefront of the fighting, doing battle alongside her comrades, many of whom, as he had seen in Barcelona, were like her, young women. He had tried to lecture her upstairs about taking care and she had responded with her customary dismissals and a confidence not in the least dented by what she had experienced up till now.

‘We will beat them into the dust, querido!’

It had been impossible not to laugh, and there was no derision in it either. She just looked so damned beautiful in her fighting overalls, with the heavy pistol at her hip; blonde hair, golden olive skin, dark-brown eyes and that smile to melt his heart. If he had ever wondered why he was proposing to do what he was about to try and achieve, standing before him was the answer.

He paid for the room for another week, then departed to the sound of air raid sirens and the citizens rushing for the shelters, which was followed by a snowstorm of leaflets which filled the sky. He only had to open a window to catch one and his schoolboy Latin aided him in reading the warning message to the people of Madrid, telling them to surrender or the Nationalist aviators would wipe them off the face of the earth.