Operation Garbo (7 page)

I spent the next two days dreaming up new rigmaroles about Nazism. But the second meeting was much easier because neither of us felt so tense; the awkwardness of our initial encounter had gone. After shaking my hand warmly, he told me in clear and forthright language that they were not in the least interested in any of my propositions; they just wanted material that would be of use to the Abwehr, the German
semi-military
intelligence and counter-intelligence service. To which I replied, somewhat rashly perhaps, that if they could get me a job as a foreign correspondent for a Spanish newspaper or magazine, I had what was necessary to travel to Britain, namely a passport. Once there, I’d be able to obtain information for them. Federico thought that a much more interesting
alternative
and asked for more time to think about it. I thought it best not to run for another interview too quickly, so told him that I was going to see my family in Barcelona – which in the end I never did – and that I would give him a call on my return.

After the civil war, General Franco’s government was in dire need of foreign exchange. The Bank of Spain was
heading
for bankruptcy, for neither industry nor agriculture were in any position to earn money through exports. A big advertising campaign was launched requesting people to surrender their gold and jewellery to help the nation, but little was forthcoming. Then they asked if Spaniards with assets abroad – and those who had emigrated to America – would make their resources
available to help the nation, but the results of this appeal only covered a few months’ deficit. Finally, the Bank of Spain said that it would open all doors and offer every facility to anyone who could procure any foreign assets for the national coffers.

It occurred to me to pretend that my father had left funds and shares in Britain and that all the relevant documents were in a deposit box in a Portuguese bank. This story got me my exit visa in no time at all, with the additional help of a Basque-Cuban friend of mine, Zulueta, who held some honorary post with the Bank of Spain’s currency police. Furnished with a passport and an exit visa for Portugal, I decided to leave Spain and to settle down in a country which offered better prospects for peace and security. Not that I had abandoned the possibilities opened up by my German contact in Madrid, but I had to earn a living and life at the Hotel Majestic was going from bad to worse.

To help me on my arrival in Portugal I had obtained a heavy gold chain from a relative, which I hid inside a wide belt in order to smuggle it through customs. I was careful not to arouse suspicion as there were stiff penalties for taking gold or jewellery out of the country. Once in Lisbon I stayed at the Hotel Suizo-Atlantico in Rua da Gloria, which was near both the Spanish consulate and the Spanish embassy. There was a large Spanish colony in Lisbon and I was determined to get to know as many of them as possible, beginning with the consular and embassy staffs.

I registered myself at the consulate as a Spanish resident abroad, alleging that I was a writer working in partnership with Luances, an Austrian poet living in Lisbon. Together we wrote two bilingual six-page pamphlets on what was happening in Europe, with Portuguese on one side and Spanish on the other, and sold about 10,000 copies of these to the various Allied embassies, who then gave them away free of charge as
propaganda
. I made sure that my signature was not on the pamphlets as I did not want my name spread around, least of all in foreign embassies.

I had thought that once in Portugal it would be easy for me to get a visa for Britain, which I would be able to show Federico when next we met, but when I went to the Spanish consulate to get one, they turned me down. The reason they gave was that as my passport had been issued by Madrid’s General Police headquarters, I had to go there to get my visa. I replied that I didn’t have enough money to return to Madrid before going on to England. I could only go if they would pay for my trip. ‘I’ve only enough money to get to London. I am on Spanish territory in this consulate, so I think that in all fairness I have a right to have my case dealt with here.’ But they were adamant, neither excuses nor reasonable explanations would move them; they stuck to their guns and would not budge.

But I too can be stubborn. I went to the Spanish embassy and asked to see the ambassador, Nicolás Franco, whose brother, General Francisco Franco, was dictator of Spain. I was dealt with by the ambassador’s secretary, who, if my memory serves me right, was the Marquis of Merry del Val. I asked him if he would make my passport valid for a visit to Britain, as at the moment it could only be used for Portugal, but the interview turned sour. Several times I explained why I wanted to go to Britain and kept insisting on the right of any Spaniard to be provided by his embassy with the necessary documents in the country where he happened to be residing. But he claimed that there was nothing he could do to resolve this matter, only the consulate at the General Police headquarters in Madrid could do so. The more I talked, the more excited I got, until I threatened to destroy my present passport so that they would have to issue me with a new one, which they would then be empowered to extend.

Angrily, I pointed out that I was a Spaniard away from home, unloved and helpless, standing in my own embassy, which international law had established was territorially a piece of my own country, so why should I have to return to Spain for a visa? As my fury increased, my voice rose higher and higher
until the ambassador himself appeared to ask what on earth was going on. Immediately, I reeled off all my arguments again. The ambassador assured me that he would try to solve my problem and courteously asked his secretary to take down my particulars; then he suggested that I leave.

I returned to my hotel a little happier, although my problems were by no means over, but I placed great hopes on the
ambassador’s
assurances. But days went by and I heard nothing, which was very worrying for it was becoming increasingly urgent that I return to Madrid to renew my contact with my German friend Federico. Just as I was getting desperate, I met someone who influenced me to take an entirely different course of action.

The owner of the hotel where I was staying was a Galician who’d been living in Lisbon for some time and done very well for himself; he now introduced me to another Galician staying in the hotel, who showed me with great pride what he claimed was his special diplomatic visa. This was a sheet of paper headed Ministry of Foreign Affairs and embossed with the arms of Spain, underneath which was a typewritten text asking that every assistance be extended to Señor Jaime Souza, who wished to travel to Argentina; below the text was the ministry’s rubber stamp and an indecipherable signature. This document was produced by the owner with a great flourish, for he thought himself very important because of it. He told me that he was waiting for a seat on the Pan American hydroplane to South America, but that there was such a demand for places that he did not know for sure when he would be leaving.

I resolved to become better acquainted with the owner of such a magnificent document and spent many evenings
cultivating
his friendship, visiting local amusement parks, night clubs and cabarets with him. He was older than I, a paunchy fellow who dressed well and gave the impression of a man of means, for he was always waving away my attempt to pay for tickets and meals. Being a Galician, his command of Portuguese was better than mine and he would translate jokes and repartees
for my benefit, particularly when we went to some light review where the plot turned on a country yokel’s visit to town. Jaime always had an excellent grasp of the intricacies and subtleties of the story and would make sure that I understood what was being said.

We spent many warm nights at terrace cinemas where we could sit drinking while we watched the film; other nights we would frequent cafés where
fados
were sung, those sorrowful Portuguese laments full of inconsolable woe which are not unlike Seville’s
saetas
with their poetry, their love and their melancholic nostalgia. I have heard
fados
sung many times since, but none with the intensity they had in those Lisbon cafés, which were shrines of tradition.

In order to repay him for his generosity, I decided to ask Jaime to visit the casino at Estoril with me, although my finances were in a parlous state. I had sold the heavy gold chain brought from Spain, but had spent nearly all the money and now had no other source of income.

My invitation was not entirely without an ulterior motive. I wanted to take a photograph of Jaime’s diplomatic visa without in any way hurting him; honour after all demands loyalty to friends. If I could make a copy of such a document, I could show it to Federico as proof that I was serious about my projected trip to England, so I proceeded to borrow a
sophisticated
camera.

We put up at the Monte-Estoril Hotel, which was near the Lisbon–Cascais coastal railway line and only about three streets away from the casino. We not only shared the same room but we each put 10,000 escudos into a common purse to gamble with and agreed to split our gains and losses evenly between us. We played with great caution, moderation was our motto, and ended the week slightly up on what we had started with.

One afternoon, while we were gambling at the casino, I began to complain of abdominal cramps and told Jaime that I’d have to go back to the hotel but I hoped it wouldn’t be for too
long; I suggested he continue to play as we seemed to be on a winning streak. Once back at the hotel, I quickly photographed his diplomatic visa and then returned to the casino.

At the end of the week I paid both our hotel bills and was able to leave Estoril with only a few escudos less than I’d had on arrival. Once back in Lisbon, I had two enlargements made of the photograph I’d taken. I then cut the Spanish coat of arms off one of the enlargements, took it to a firm of engravers and asked them to make me a plate. Armed with this plate and the other enlargement, I went to an old printing works – Bertrand Irmãos, 7 Rua Condessa do Rio – and, posing as someone from the Spanish Chancery staff, gave them the plate and the enlargement and ordered 200 copies. When these had been printed, I collected them without anyone asking any questions and then went elsewhere to order an identical rubber stamp to the one visible in the enlargement. Using the same false
identity
as before, I said nonchalantly that the previous stamp had deteriorated to such an extent that it was now useless. I never knew, nor indeed was interested in finding out, whether or not they believed my story: all I do know is that having been paid, they produced the stamp.

Jaime had been ringing Pan American Airways every day to see if there was any chance of him getting a seat; he was worried that a long delay might lead to his trip being cancelled altogether. To help him, I suggested that he sound out one of the airline staff about his chances or give someone there a tip so that he was offered the first seat that came up. I presume he did as I suggested, for a few days later he left for South America on what he called a ‘political and cultural mission’, without once having suspected any of my stratagems.

Although I still hadn’t a very clear idea of exactly how I was going to make use of my newly printed visa forms, I did not think I’d need very many, so I got rid of all but ten or twelve; it was going to be difficult enough to smuggle even that number back into Spain as it was. If I was returning to Spain,
you may well ask, why ever had I come to Portugal in the first place? Well, I had come with the sole aim of being classified as a Lisbon resident. This, you may argue, was not in itself of great value. But I always considered it exceptionally important, for it meant that I would never have to apply for an exit visa again, as I now qualified as permanently resident abroad, and this would enable me to move about much more freely.

I was fully aware of the risks I was running and always had a lurking fear that my whole operation would suddenly collapse, but as I seemed to have managed so far without raising any suspicions, I carried on with my plan to return to Madrid. I was just trying to decide how I would smuggle in the wad of visa forms with their official-looking seals when I received a summons to the Spanish consulate.

It was only three weeks since my contretemps there, so I was very surprised when one of the consular officials greeted me with: ‘What influential people have you been stirring up, Señor Pujol? Who are your friends in high places?’ As he said this, he handed me a telegram from Madrid, which asked that I be granted visas for Europe, excluding Russia, and the whole of America, except for Mexico. It was signed Colonel Beigbeder, Minister for Foreign Affairs. It was indeed a shock, for it was much more than I had ever dreamed of getting, and with this and my Lisbon residency permit I need no longer worry about a few sheets of embossed and rubber-stamped paper. However, I held on to them because, as the popular Spanish saying has it, a mouse is lost if he only has one means of escape, for if he fails to reach it, that’s the end.

I returned to Madrid in the early spring of 1941 and put up at a small bed-and-breakfast lodging house on the Gran Via. More enthusiastic than ever, I was ready for action. I telephoned Federico and arranged to meet him at the Café Negresco near the Bank of Spain on the way to the Puerta del Sol.

The meeting was much longer and more fruitful than either of the others had been. I began by telling him that I had been
to Portugal instead of Barcelona, and then invented a long, fictitious story about my friends the Zulueta brothers; through them, I said, I had been approached by the Bank of Spain’s Foreign Exchange Police section and asked to go to Portugal on their behalf to contact a man who wished to buy pesetas in exchange for escudos. I said that I had monitored the
transaction
and brought the escudos into Spain, while the
pesetas
were to be handed over to the Portuguese man’s trusted contact in Madrid. Interspersing lies with the truth, I explained to Federico that my main interest in the transaction had been to get to Lisbon in order to become a resident there and so gain a resident’s visa, both of which I had accomplished. I hoped this proved to him that I was able to move both in and out of Spain.