“What about this guy Levitsky?”
“Ah. A wily old fox. They call him the Devil Himself, for certain colorful exploits. He’s gone. He disappeared from Moscow even as the security people were coming to arrest him.”
Lenny nodded.
“I tell you this to encourage your vigilance. We are preparing to move against our enemies here. The days of cafe sitting will soon be coming to an end.”
“You can count on me,” said Lenny.
“Of course. You are an extraordinarily valuable man.”
Glasanov handed him a piece of paper. On it was written a name.
“An oppositionist. He leads the propaganda battle against us in his newspaper. His organization is powerful, and he is one of its leaders.”
It was just like at Midnight Rose’s. The word came, and you took somebody for a ride.
“You want him killed.”
“Ah?”
“Believe me, he’s gone.”
“There will be others. Some to be arrested and interrogated, some to be liquidated. You must cut off the head of a beast before you dispose of its body. A period of great struggle is coming, and I am personally charged with commanding our forces.”
But Lenny wasn’t really listening, nor was he thinking about the man he would pop that night.
He was thinking of what old Tchiterine had told him.
Lenny smirked in triumph. He knew what none of them knew. He was ahead of this smart Russian, he was ahead of everybody in the world. He knew where this Levitsky, this
Well, the old guy was coming straight to Barcelona, to check up on his boychik. And he’d lead Lenny to him. He’d lead him to the
“Comrade,” said Glasanov. “To the future.” He handed him a small glass of vodka. “You must not refuse me.”
“Let us go forward into the modern age,” said Lenny, throwing the vodka down his throat.
He hated vodka.
4
MR. STERNE AND MR. WEBLEY
Florry met Holly-Browning the following Tuesday on a bench in Hyde Park. The older officer had a bag of peanuts for the pigeons and a briefcase. Mr. Vane sat quietly three benches down the walk, looking blankly off through the trees.
The major sighed, his eyes settling on some obscure object in the far distance. He shelled a peanut, launched it to the walk, and a doddering, scabby old pigeon contemptuously gobbled it off the concrete.
“I wonder if this is quite necessary,” said Florry impatiently.
“Oh, there’s not much to say, Mr. Florry. The technical business is quite easily taken care of. We try to keep things simple. You’ll find this is useful.” He handed over a package, which Florry opened quickly. It was a thick, densely printed book.
“I haven’t met anybody who has. And that’s the point. But it will do for an introduction to a chap in Barcelona called Sampson. David Harold Allen Sampson?”
“The
“Yes, indeed. You’ve seen his dispatches?”
“He’s awfully dull, I think. Julian’s stuff is much better.”
“Sampson represents our interests there, and through him you’ll keep us informed. He’s got an office on the Ramblas, Number 114 Rambla San Jose. He can reach us quickly via the consulate wireless. Can you remember that?”
“Of course.”
“Show him the book. It’s a way of saying hullo, we’re in the same firm. He’ll guide you to Raines.”
“I’m sure I’ll have no trouble finding Julian.”
“And there’s this.” From the briefcase he withdrew another bulky package, something heavy wrapped in oilskins. Florry took it in his lap and began to pull apart the rags.
“Not here. Good Christ, man, somebody might see?”
But Florry plunged ahead: he got enough of the material apart to penetrate to the center of the treasure. Wrapped in an elaborate leather rig there was a vaguely familiar object, and as his fingers flew across it, he recognized it immediately. He put his hand on the grip and pulled it out.
It was a well-oiled Webley Mark I, a big revolver with a short octagonal barrel.
“God, you’re not joking about all this, are you?” Florry said.
“Put it away, Florry. Somebody could come along.”
But Florry continued to look at it, fascinated. He experienced the weapon’s heft and weight and perfect easy feel. He’d carried much the same thing in Burma, though in a slightly later model. With a dexterity from memory that surprised him, he hit the latch to break the action and the barrel obediently dropped to expose the cylinder. Six gleaming brass circles peeped out, like six coins on a pewter plate.
“Loaded,” he said.
“The bloody things are useless without bullets. That’s a shoulder holster, by the way. It’ll hold the weapon neatly out of sight under a coat or cardigan. And as you know, the four-five-five will knock down anything on two feet at close range. Now put it away, Florry. Someone could come.”
Julian? What would a monster like a Webley do to vivid, charming, cruel Julian? It would blow his guts in quarts across the landscape.
He shook his head, quickly replaced the pistol in the holster, wrapped it in the cloth, and put it back in the briefcase. Mr. Sterne and Mr. Webley were to be his companions in Spain.
“I suppose that’s it, then?” he said. “A revolver and a code book. It
“It’s not a game, Mr. Florry. Never think of it as a game. Think of it as life and death.”
“I wonder if I could ever do the final thing.”
“You’ll do what’s necessary. You’ll see your duty.”
“I suppose you’re right. And that is what frightens me.”
Florry turned and issued the major a look that was either stupidity or shock. The major had seen it before, but not since 1916. It was the look of men in the trenches, about to go over the top, who didn’t believe their moment of destiny had finally arrived. Florry got up and walked away gloomily.
The major peeled another peanut and turned it over to the hungry pigeons. Soon Mr. Vane joined him.
“I trust it went well, sir?”
“It went as well as could be expected, Vane. Given the circumstances.”
“Did you think he’s up to it?”
“Not yet. That’s Sampson’s job.”
“Yessir.”
“We’ll have to play Mr. Florry very carefully, won’t we, Vane?”
“Yessir.”
“Levitsky can make a traitor of anyone. Can I make a murderer so easily?”
They watched as Florry, now a small figure, disappeared in the traffic.
