Tapestry of Spies

“What is your name, comrade? To whom do I speak?”

“Speshnev,” the man said. He sounded very young.

“The Speshnev who works for Glasanov? Of NKVD?”

“Identify yourself.”

“Listen, Speshnev, and listen good. I’m only going to say it once. I wish to denounce a traitor. A secret Trotsky pig and a wrecker.”

“Most interesting.”

“He’s third assistant secretary in the Maritime Commission. One Igenko. But he’s a fat cocksucking rat. He’s sold us out to the Jews.”

“And you have proof of these charges?”

“Of course. This Igenko was a comrade of the traitor Levitsky. Do you know of this Levitsky, Speshnev of the NKVD? You should. Second only to Trotsky.”

“Keep talking.”

“Igenko’s trying to get papers together so he and his loverboy Levitsky can take off. They’ll fly the coop tonight. They’re going to meet on the Ramblas across from the Plaza Real tonight, near the stall of the lady who sells chicken on a spit. Don’t ask me how I know. It’ll be at seven. Just show up and nail the two butt-fuckers yourself.”

“Who?”

Levitsky hung up. He felt as if he were going to vomit.

* * *

“There,” said the second undersecretary, wiping the sweat off his face. It was excruciatingly hot in the tailor’s shop, on the Ramblas, overlooking the entrance to the Plaza Real, and the steam from the presses in the back room hung heavy and moist in the air. “The fat one, with the sour look, in the mottled white suit, comrade commissar.”

“Yes,” said Glasanov. “Do you see, Bolodin?”

Lenny Mink, standing next to him, nodded. He could see the fat guy through the window and down across the street, standing in the crowded thoroughfare with a nervous tightness, an aching discomfort on his mug. He was obviously a nellie, too, with his mincing walk, and his big ass stuck out like a girl’s. His face was milky and unshaven.

“He was exceedingly distracted today, comrade commissar,” said the second undersecretary. “So much so that had not your phone call come when it did, I would myself have most certainly reported it. One can tell when a man is guilty, even if one?”

“Yes, that’s fine,” said Glasanov. “I’ll note it in your record. Your record will reflect your service to Security, you may rest assured. Now the driver will take you back. And I think you’d best tell your staff the workload is going to increase.”

“Of course, comrade commissar. We are only too happy to make any sacrifice for the good of?”

“No shooting, Bolodin,” said Glasanov. “Tell your people. I want Levitsky alive. Anybody who harms Levitsky is to be severely disciplined. Is that understood?”

The fifteen other men in the room nodded.

“Bolodin, do you think you can get down and into that stall? Stay back. We don’t want Levitsky to see you. But when he approaches, you can knock him to earth. You knock him down, do you understand, and pin him to the street. The others will be there in seconds. But he’s a clever old wolf; he will have found a weapon by this time, perhaps even a revolver. He will not hesitate to use it.”

Lenny nodded again. He’d like to see that old guy try something smart with him. He took off his leather overcoat. He wore the blue overalls of a POUMista, and he pulled out a black beret and put it on his head.

“I’ll be here, of course. Watching it, you understand.”

“What if he bolts?” asked Speshnev, the young Russian. “These jobs can go all to hell if the rabbit bolts. Why, in Moscow?”

“If he bolts, I’ll catch him and snap his legs,” said Lenny Mink, and nobody disagreed with him.

“All right. Now go, go quickly. This may be our best chance, our only chance.”

They began to file out, and just as he left for the stairway, Lenny felt Glasanov’s hand on his shoulder and felt his breath warm and quick in his ear. He turned, to see the man’s eyes almost aflame with urgency.

“Comrade Bolodin, for God’s sake, don’t fail.”

Lenny grinned and proceeded to walk on his way.

He came out of the stairway onto the sidewalk, waited for a break in the traffic, then darted across to the broad center strip of the Ramblas. Keeping his face low, he pushed his way through the throngs, past somebody selling birds and somebody selling flowers and somebody selling militia hats, sliding through soldiers and revolutionary women and young intellectuals, and approached the old lady’s chicken stall on the oblique, maintaining it between himself and Igenko.

He ducked into it.

“Eh, senor?” The old lady looked at him. “What is ??”

“Beat it,” Lenny Mink said. “Take a hike.”

“Ahhh. Who?”

“Here, take this, old one,” said Ugarte, Lenny’s best boy, who had discreetly slid in behind Lenny. He handed the woman a hundred-peseta note. He told her to have a nice cool drink at a cafe for a while.

“You take the counter,” said Lenny, and Ugarte moved past him, throwing on an apron lying on the table. Lenny drew back, into the shadows. He could see the fat man in the white suit real good. The distance was about thirty feet The fat man had a briefcase in his left hand.

Come on, old devil, he told himself, looking around nervously. Come on.

* * *

Just inside the main police station courtyard, Levitsky encountered two Asaltos with German machine pistols who demanded abruptly and impolitely to know who he was and where he thought he was going. They insisted on papers. Levitsky let them carry on for a few seconds in Spanish, full of their own toughness and importance, then halted them with a Russian curse.

“NKVD, comrade,” he said, fixing his eyes on the eyes of the bigger of the two, who immediately melted like a chocolate soldier in the sun.

“Comrade Russki?”

“Da. Si,” said Levitsky. “De Madrid, no? Comrade Glasanov?”

“Russkis?”

“Si, Russkis. Glasanov, NKVD?”

“Ah, si, si. Primo Russki.”

“Da,” said Levitsky in a dead voice.

The man pointed up the building to the fourth floor. He showed four fingers.

“Gracias, comrade,” said Levitsky. He turned, went into the building through a set of double doors under one of the porticos, found some stairs, and walked swiftly up them. He passed several policemen, but nobody challenged him.

At the fourth floor, he turned down the dank hall until at last he found a huge poster of Stalin and a desk. The air was thick, where men had been smoking, but now only a single woman sat at her desk, and near her a hulking Spanish youth lounged proudly with his machine pistol, an American Thompson.

He walked to the woman, whose eyes rose as he approached.

“Comrade,” he announced in a clear, commanding, humorless voice, “I’m Maximov. From Madrid. You have my wire. Where is Comrade Commissar Glasanov? Let’s get going. I’ve had a long and dusty drive. I have come to take possession of the criminal Levitsky.”

He watched a great range of emotions play across her face in what seemed to be a very short time. Finding at last her breath and her way out of her shock to some kind of coherence, she leaped up and shouted, “Comrade! It’s a pleasure to meet you and?”

“Comrade, I asked a question. I did not come by for meaningless chitchat of a social nature. Where the bloody devil is Glasanov? Didn’t he receive the wire?”