Tapestry of Spies

“Come on, Stink,” screamed Julian, pulling him along. He was delirious with joy. “Good Christ, man, but that was bloody marvelous, that was more bloody fun than old Julian’s ever had! Blast, you potted him right in the bloody snout!”

But Florry felt only queasy and ashamed. He’d seen the boy’s face in the spurt of flame and he knew he was perhaps fifteen, with a vague sprig of mustache. The bullet had smashed into his brain, that huge four-five-five, heavy as the Liverpool Express, shattering the whole upper quadrant of his face. He lay in a slop of mud and blood, utterly defunct. Christ, why couldn’t it have been a Moorish sergeant or a German colonel, why a silly, dim little child?

Julian was yanking him along savagely. Explosions and gunfire seemed to be coming from every direction in the dark. Weird illuminations lit the horizon. The trench seemed endless. Bullets pranged into the dirt or thunked against the sandbags, making a peculiar hop-hop sound. Julian suddenly leapt back, pinning him to the ground. He heard, besides the thumping of Julian’s heart, the heavy sound of a mass of men running through the mud. It must have been the attacking party, unsupported since the destruction of the Maxim gun.

“Listen. We’ll never make it back. I think there’s a party of them up ahead in the trench.”

“Ah! The bastards.”

“Yes. Unsporting of them, eh? Why don’t we crawl about a hundred meters or so out on the left. If we stay low, we should be all right. When they pass on by, we can return to our own lines. All right?”

“You clever chap.”

“Brilliant Julian, always thinking. Come on, then.”

Julian pulled himself out of the trench and pivoted to offer Florry a hand. Florry, thus assisted, scrambled out. Julian shimmied away, and Florry began to ?

It was as if he were at the center of an explosion. There was no pain, only the stunned sense of a tremendous blow to the throat knocking him down, filling his eyes with light and drama. He fought for strength but could find none; he put his hand to his wound and was further stunned to discover his fingers were wet and black.

God, he’d been shot. He lay, waiting for death. The blood flowed over his tunic. The numbness and incoherence spread.

Julian appeared, inches from his eyes.

“I’m dying,” Florry said.

“Can you move?”

“I’m dying. Go on, get out of here.”

“Ah, rot, Robert. I’m the hero here, I’ll make the dramatic suggestions, the glorious sacrifice, all right? Lord, you’re a mess, Stinky. You look worse than when you pissed yourself up in fifth form.”

Somehow Julian got him turned over onto his belly and aimed in the proper direction. Florry floundered along ineffectively and Julian shoved him on, half-pushing, half-pulling him. Above them, bullets tore through the night, occasionally popping with a rude sound and a cloud of spray into the wet ground. They seemed to move groggily for the longest time, but at last they reached a less barren area, where gullies and thick brush offered them some protection and Julian got him up and stumbling along.

Behind them, another machine gun opened up.

“Damn them, they’ve brought another gun up. Come on, Stinky.”

But Florry was at last spent.

“I don’t think I can make it.”

“Of course you can, old boy. Here, let me take another look. I don’t even think the thing hit you square. These bloody Spaniards can’t do anything right. A lot of blood, and you’ve messed a very nice tunic, but if you’ll just?”

“Julian, shut up. I can’t make it. I’m going to pass out.”

“Now, none of that. Come along.”

“Please, go on. Go on, damn you, you always were the brilliant one. Julian, why did you cut me? At school, you cut me dead. You filthy bastard.”

“Long story, old sod. No time for it now. Do come on, then, I think I see some of their chaps moving this way. We’re going to end up practice for pig sticking if we don’t?”

“Go on, damn you. Christ, it hurts.”

“Wounds are supposed to hurt. Every sod knows that. Now come along.”

“I–I-”

“Think of England, old boy. Think of the wonderful piece you can write for Denis Mason. You’ll be the toast of Bloomsbury.”

“Oh, Christ.”

“Think of Sylvia, old man. Think of the beautiful Sylvia.”

“I can’t think of?”

“Think of her titties, old man. Great soft titties. Think of squashing them about in your fingers while she tells you she wants you to do it harder.”

“You filthy bastard!”

“Think of her wonderful cunt, old man, all wet and fishy and warm. Think of grousing it out as a piggy snorts after truffles. That should revive your interest in living.”

“You filthy fucker, Julian. I ought to?”

“Yes, that’s the spirit, chum. Come along then.”

“Julian, you bastard?”

“Stink, she’s just quim. Damned good quim, I’d bet, but quim just the same. Come on, old boy.”

Up ahead, they saw figures on the crestline coming toward them.

17 COMRADE MAJOR BOLODIN

Lenny Mink felt good, for one thing, in the sour aftermath of the Levitsky debacle, he had received a promotion from the desperate Glasanov. He was now a major in the SIM and had control of his own unit. But he had other reasons for his joy. For in the matter of Levitsky, he had a considerable edge on everybody else. He knew that the chances of spotting the old Jew randomly were almost nil; Levitsky was simply too smart for that, too shrewd, too much the devil. But Lenny knew why he was here. To see his boy.

To get the gold.

Lenny had figured it out. The old Jew was after the same thing he was. What else could explain the desperation and the cunning and the courage of the old man?

Old devil, Lenny thought, you’re not so special. Just another Jew on the track of a big score. You’ll see your boy and he’ll tell you, huh? He’ll point you in the right direction. You’ve just got to find him.

And his boy was English.

Thus it took no great powers of deduction but only simple cleverness to identify and establish surveillance on the several concentrations of Englishmen around Barcelona. For surely the old devil would be found sniffing in their fringes. These were not many: there was, first off, the press corps, a group of gray-suited cynics that gathered each night in the Cafe de las Ramblas and sat nursing whiskeys and grousing bitterly about their assignments and their editors and exchanging sarcastic bets on the outcome of it all. Lenny ordered that Ugarte, his number one, who did all the talking, take up a nightly position there.

“Suppose I get bored, boss?”

“I break every bone in your body. Every single one, no?”

Ugarte had a particularly unpleasant laugh, more a whinny, which he issued at that point, partially to conceal his extreme nervousness. Bolodin frightened him, too.