Artillery of Lies (15 page)

“Let's go and see the Oxford colleges,” Julie said.

“Oh, Oxford!” Luis scoffed. He reached a corner and made a tricky turn. “Nowadays it's just the Latin Quarter of the Cowley Motor Works.”

“How d'you know? You've never been there. You read that in a book.”

“I've read all the books,” Luis said. “Listen, I'm hungry. What's for lunch?” He jumped down.

“I'll find you some jolly good pageantry,” Freddy promised. “You'll like that.” But as they went indoors the phone was ringing. It was the Director. Freddy went to his office and took the call on his scrambler.

“Something odd has happened,” the Director said. “Madrid
Abwehr
has sent a signal saying they want Eldorado to go to Liverpool next Tuesday. They've never done that before, have they?”

“Not since we brought him to England, sir.” Freddy thought hard. “They once tried to set up a rendezvous with another agent but that was a long while back. Anyway, it flopped. Do they say why?”

“Report from a normally reliable source that Winston Churchill is going to be at Liverpool railway station on Tuesday at twelve noon. Platform one, so they say.”

“I see.” Garcia's mind bounced rapidly off the various implications. “I wonder why they want Eldorado to go, sir? I mean, Seagull is in Liverpool. They know that.”

“Yes. But it was Eldorado who recently reported Churchill
en route
to India.”

“Um.” Freddy scratched his nose. “Can we find out if the
Abwehr's
information is correct, sir?”

“Probably. To what end?”

“Well, sir, if the Prime Minister is
not
going to visit Liverpool on Tuesday, we've nothing to worry about. Eldorado can simply tell the
Abwehr
he went there and nothing happened.”

“What if someone who looks like Winston Churchill arrives on platform one? To my knowledge at least two men who could pass as Churchill's double are in circulation. What then?”

“Yes, but … I mean, the
Abwehr
aren't going to know that.” Silence from the other end. “Are they, sir?”

“Look, Freddy: my guess is Eldorado's controllers in Madrid are less than happy. Eldorado promised them a convoy. No convoy, and it seems they've got wind of a visit by the Prime Minister to Liverpool instead. Now, if you were the
Abwehr,
what would you want?”

“I'd want to know what the dickens was going on, sir.”

“Quite. And you might even want to reassure yourself that your man in England was absolutely straight. That he wouldn't lie to get himself out of an awkward corner. How would you do that?”

“Um … How would I do that? I suppose …” Freddy was talking
to gain time to think. “Well, I suppose I'd … Let's see … Yes, I think the best way would be …” His brain came galloping to the rescue. “Would be to have
another
agent on Liverpool station next Tuesday. Watching Eldorado, to see what he sees.”

“And that's why Eldorado's got to go to Liverpool,” the Director said. “He must be seen to be there. It's too risky, otherwise. Do you agree?”

“Oh, absolutely, sir,” Freddy said. “The whole network might be at stake.”

“You can use this Liverpool expedition to promote Operation Bamboozle,” the Director said. “I don't want him coming back still believing we control every
Abwehr
agent in Britain.”

“Yes, sir.” There was a pause while they each reviewed the situation. “Of course, I may come back not believing it either.”

The Director grunted, and hung up.

Luis and Julie had begun lunch. “Toad-in-the-hole again,” Luis complained. “Tastes even more disgusting than it sounds.”

“Never mind,” Freddy said brightly. “I've just arranged a super outing. We all go to Liverpool on Tuesday!”

“Not me,” Luis told him. “I'm not going anywhere. I've decided to become a recluse.”

“You'd hate it, old chap. And think how much Madrid would miss you.”

“Fuck ‘em.” Luis put his elbows on the table and put his head in his hands.

“OK. You stay, we'll go,” Julie said. “Has Liverpool got much pageantry?”

“Liverpool has
everything,”
Freddy said. “It's the gateway to England. It has a cultural heritage you simply can't find anywhere else. Its ambience is absolutely … um … unique.” Freddy thought hard. “We have a saying: ‘The man who is tired of Liverpool is tired of life.'”

“Dr. Johnson,” Luis said. “And it was London, not Liverpool.”

“He was misquoted.”

Luis looked at him with suspicion. “Can I get fresh sardines in Liverpool?” he asked.

“Luis, if you can get them anywhere in Britain you can get them there,” Freddy said. “That's my solemn promise.”

Luis pushed his lunch away, only half-eaten. The tip of a sausage poked through a crust of batter, like a whale breaking the surface
of a golden-brown sea. The longer Luis looked at it, the lower his eyelids sank. “Mr. Churchill did not sail to India in a convoy,” he said softly. “The British navy canceled the convoy when they discovered that so many U-boats had been diverted to intercept it.” He prodded the sausage with his fork and made it submerge.

“Of course they did,” Freddy said. “Will you write it?”

Luis stood. “I might,” he said.

Everyone noticed that Laszlo Martini was in much better spirits since the
Abwehr
armory had issued him with a pistol. What gratified him as much as the weapon was its silencer, an attachment as big as a beer bottle. He wore the gun in a huge holster that dangled under his left armpit. It made him feel tremendously strong.

Laszlo had never shot anyone in his life; indeed he had never even struck anyone. He was small and not muscular; it was wise to stay out of fights. The night after he got his pistol he went out and shot two men. Their names were Stefano and Joaquim. They were large men who made a living as debt-collectors: they beat up people who owed money. It was a family concern. Stefano's uncle lent the money at high rates; when repayment was late his nephews found the borrower and hit him. Laszlo had suffered at their bruising hands more than once. Now he found them in a bar and invited them to come outside. In the alley behind the bar he shot one of them in the shoulder and the other in the leg. They fell down. The pistol made little noise, just a gasp like suppressed surprise. It was all so easy. Laszlo wished he had done it long ago. Nevertheless he took no further chances. He went straight to the German embassy and stayed there until the end of the agents' training. Then Brigadier Wagner decided that they all deserved one last night out on the town, at the
Abwehr's
expense.

He took them and the controllers to an expensive restaurant. Laszlo felt fairly secure there. Ferenc Tekeli ate and drank hugely; Docherty was relaxed and amusing; Stephanie Schmidt became tearfully patriotic and offered to sing the Horst Wessel song. That was when Brigadier Wagner suggested they move on and see a bullfight. Laszlo was reluctant to show himself in public but he really had no choice, and so he put a good face on it. “I was a matador once,” he announced. “I was the youngest matador in Spain.”

“Good for you,” Franz Werth murmured.

They awarded me both ears
five times,'
Laszlo said. “Once I got both ears and the tail.”

“A meal in itself,” Ferenc said.

“That's nothing,” Docherty said. “In Dublin cattle market I could have got you the ears and the tail and both kidneys with a good pound of ox-liver thrown in at no extra cost. They know me well in Dublin cattle market,” he told the Brigadier.

“Very gratifying, I'm sure,” Wagner said.

Five of the eight advertised bulls had been killed by the time they reached the ring. It was very early in the season and the experiment of holding midweek bullfights in the evening was not hugely popular, so the Brigadier's party was able to get good seats. The sixth bull was a disappointment: stupid and slow and speedily brought to its end. A disgruntled shower of seat cushions and oranges flew into the arena, and the band played a
paso doble
very loudly. Ferenc Tekeli went off and came back with whole trays of salt peanuts and blood oranges and sugar doughnuts. He was having a wonderful time.

Laszlo was nervous. He felt dreadfully exposed, surrounded by all these people. Any one of them might be an enemy, or might report his presence to his enemies. He began searching for someone staring at him, for the fatal flicker of recognition.

Richard Fischer saw Laszlo looking about him and said, “Quite like old times for you, I suppose.” Laszlo needed a couple of seconds to understand the remark.

“Yes,” he said. “I killed my last bull over there.” He pointed to a distant stain in the sand. “He was colossal, the greatest bull in Spain.” Then he fell silent. He was convinced that someone was watching him. Anxiety made his heartbeat skip and stamp.

The gates swung open as the seventh bull came hurtling into the ring like the shaggy wrath of God. Clearly it was in a ferociously bad temper.

Everyone cheered up. The picadors tried a nervous bit of bloodletting and a horse got smashed sideways. Now everyone was gripped by the spectacle; everyone except a young peanut-vendor in the aisle a few rows below the Brigadier's party. He was looking upward. He was staring at Laszlo, or so it seemed to Laszlo when he noticed this solitary face amongst all the backs of heads. He looked hard and long at the youth, and the youth turned and walked away. Strolled away. No hurry.

You don't fool me so easy,
Laszlo thought,
you cocky little pipsqueak.
The face was unfamiliar but that meant nothing. Blow holes in a couple of Madrid's gorillas and all their pals were out looking for you. Laszlo stood up and squeezed past the knees of the Brigadier's party. “Have one for me while you're at it,” Ferenc said.

The peanut-vendor was wearing a bright yellow coat which made it easy to track him. He went down a flight of stairs and turned left into a wide, curving corridor ribbed with girders that had been white once, back in the days of El Greco when paint was cheap. Laszlo kept pace with him while bits of paper, chocolate wrappings and trampled pages from old newspapers kept pace with Laszlo, urged along the corridor by one of those quirks of ventilation that inhabit large arenas. Every few seconds the crowd roared, and the roar filtered down to the corridor as an oddly random, pointless noise, like the sound of wild weather outside a castle. The kid was taking off his yellow coat as he walked. He went down more steps, turned to the right into another corridor and stopped at the window of a little office. As Laszlo walked past he was handing in his coat and his peanut tray. Now the sporadic roars were dulled and distant. Laszlo's footsteps echoed off the white-tiled walls like constant warnings.
This is not wise,
he told himself.
This is not necessary. This is a terrific risk.
Which produced the answer:
Sure it's a risk. But it's terrific, it's irresistible, and it's too late to turn back now.

He stopped at a barred window with a broken pane. It gave a dusty view of a flaking wall. The more he looked at this nothingness the sillier he felt, and it made him angry.

The kid left the office and came toward him, whistling. Laszlo waited until he was about to pass and then turned, cleverly revolving on his heels, and said, “OK, junior. What's the message?”

The kid was a lot younger than he had seemed upstairs. The big yellow coat had hidden his boney shoulders, which were like wire coat-hangers inside a too-small, too-old jersey. He was fourteen, maybe fifteen. But Laszlo didn't scare him. “Beats me,” he said. “What is the message?”

Laszlo stared into his eyes. Gray eyes, high cheekbones, big lower lip, pointed chin, needed a haircut. There were ten thousand kids like this in Madrid. Maybe gypsy, maybe a touch of Moor in the Arab nose. And the olive skin. A born liar, this one. Been stealing since he could walk. Since he could run, anyway. “You know what happened to Stefano,” he said.

“Sure I know. Stefano got caught.”

“Don't make jokes with me.”

Now the kid seemed puzzled. “Which Stefano? You mean Stefano the waiter? He got six months, didn't he? Why? Did he owe you—”

“Cut it out. You saw me upstairs.”

The kid shrugged. “I saw a thousand people upstairs. You, I don't know from a hole in the ground.” He walked away.

Laszlo followed, anger burning like acid. “Listen, you little piece of piss,” he said, and shoved the kid's shoulder. The kid stumbled and bounced off the wall.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he said. Fear made his voice crack. “I don't know you. Get away from me, you lousy lunatic” It was a very grown-up word and he stuttered a little over it. This encouraged Laszlo.

“You tell Stefano's uncle something from me,” he said, and began poking the kid in the chest to emphasize his words. “You tell—”

“I wasn't looking at you, for Christ's sake!” The kid had worked out where Laszlo came from. “It was the guy who bought my peanuts. He bought the whole damn tray! I never saw anyone do that before.” Upstairs, the roars of the crowd were following each other like heavy surf.

“You find Stefano's uncle,” Laszlo said, “and you tell him from me to lay off.” He took out his gun, just for display.

The kid jumped away and his throat made a high, squeaking sound.

“Lay off, remember?”

“Yes. I'll tell him.”

Laszlo scratched his head with the muzzle of the big long silencer, the way they did in the movies, and stared the kid in the eyes until he made him blink. “You lying piece of pigshit,” he said. “You're not going to Stefano's uncle. You're going to the cops.”

The kid instantly ran, pigeon-toed and head back, arms pumping like pistons. Laszlo chased him. There were stairs at the end of the corridor. The kid went down them three and four at a time, much too fast, until his heel skidded off the edge of a step and he finished the rest in a whirling fall, an ugly blur of arms and legs and a shuddering head that only stopped when it whacked against some crates of empty bottles. Even then the kid got up, or nearly: one knee had quit. Laszlo was a fuzzy silhouette at the top of the stairs. Pointing. Aiming. The kid threw a bottle. It smashed halfway up. He threw another. Same result. Laszlo fired. He put three bullets into the kid's chest, all within a hand's span, just like that:
phut-phut-phut.