Volodya looked panicked for a moment, then hid his feelings with an effort. ‘I know no one of that name.’
Lloyd decided not to press the point. He could guess why Volodya was jumpy. The Russians were as terrified as everyone else of their secret police, the NKVD, who were operating in Spain and had a reputation for brutality. To them, any Russian who was friendly with foreigners might be a traitor. ‘I’m Lloyd Williams.’
‘I do remember.’ Volodya looked at him with a penetrating blue-eyed stare. ‘How strange that we should meet again here.’
‘Not so strange, really,’ Lloyd said. ‘We fight the Fascists wherever we can.’
‘Can I have a quiet word?’
‘Of course.’
They walked a few yards away from the others. Peshkov said: ‘There is a spy in Garcia’s platoon.’
Lloyd was astonished. ‘A spy? Who?’
‘A German called Heinz Bauer.’
‘Why, that’s him in the red shirt. A spy? Are you sure?’
Peshkov did not bother to answer that question. ‘I’d like you to summon him to your dugout, if you have one, or some other private place.’ Peshkov looked at his wristwatch. ‘In one hour, an arrest unit will be here to pick him up.’
‘I’m using that little shed as my office,’ said Lloyd, pointing. ‘But I need to speak to my commanding officer about this.’ The C.O. was a Communist, and unlikely to interfere, but Lloyd wanted time to think.
‘If you wish.’ Volodya clearly did not care what Lloyd’s commanding officer thought. ‘I want the spy taken quietly, without any fuss. I have explained to the arrest unit the importance of discretion.’ He sounded as if he was not sure his wishes would be obeyed. ‘The fewer people who know, the better.’
‘Why?’ said Lloyd, but before Volodya could reply he figured out the answer for himself. ‘You’re hoping to turn him into a double agent, sending misleading reports to the enemy. But, if too many people know he has been caught, then other spies may warn the rebels, and they will not believe the disinformation.’
‘It is better not to speculate about such matters,’ Peshkov said severely. ‘Now let us go to your shed.’
‘Wait a minute,’ said Lloyd. ‘How do you know he is a spy?’
‘I can’t tell you without compromising security.’
‘That’s a bit unsatisfactory.’
Peshkov looked exasperated. Clearly he was not used to being told that his explanations were unsatisfactory. Discussion of orders was a feature of the Spanish Civil War that the Russians particularly detested.
Before Peshkov could say anything further, two more men appeared and approached the group under the tree. One of the newcomers wore a leather jacket despite the heat. The other, who seemed to be in charge, was a scrawny man with a long nose and a receding chin.
Peshkov let out an exclamation of anger. ‘Too early!’ he said, then he called out something indignant in Russian.
The scrawny man made a dismissive gesture. In rough Spanish he said: ‘Which one is Heinz Bauer?’
No one answered. The scrawny man wiped the end of his nose with his sleeve.
Then Heinz moved. He did not immediately flee, but cannoned into the man in the leather jacket, knocking him down. Then he dashed away – but the scrawny man stuck out a leg and tripped him up.
Heinz fell hard, his body skidding on the dry soil. He lay stunned – only for a moment, but it was a moment too long. As he got to his knees the two men pounced on him and knocked him down again.
He lay still, but all the same they started to beat him up. They drew wooden clubs. Standing either side of him they took turns to hit his head and body, raising their arms above their heads and striking down in a vicious ballet. In a few seconds there was blood all over Heinz’s face. He tried desperately to escape, but when he got to his knees they pushed him down again. Then he curled up in a ball, whimpering. He was clearly finished, but they were not. They clubbed the helpless man again and again.
Lloyd found himself shouting a protest and pulling the scrawny man off. Lenny did the same to the other one. Lloyd grabbed his man in a bear hug and lifted him; Lenny knocked his man to the ground. Then Lloyd heard Volodya say in English: ‘Stand still, or I’ll shoot!’
Lloyd let go of his man and turned, incredulous. Volodya had drawn his sidearm, a standard-issue Russian Nagant M1895 revolver, and cocked it. ‘Threatening an officer with a weapon is a court-martial offence in every army in the world,’ Lloyd said. ‘You’re in deep trouble, Volodya.’
‘Don’t be a fool,’ said Volodya. ‘When was the last time a Russian was in trouble in this army?’ But he lowered the gun.
The man in the leather jacket raised his club as if to hit Lenny, but Volodya barked: ‘Back off, Berezovsky!’ and the man obeyed.
Other soldiers appeared, drawn by the mysterious magnetism that attracts men to a fight, and in seconds there were twenty of them.
The scrawny man pointed a finger at Lloyd. Speaking English with a heavy accent, he said: ‘You have interfered
