Tapestry of Spies

Florry stood rooted to the floor. He looked up and down the corridor.

Julian, you filthy bastard, he thought.

And then Florry realized what he must become.

He must become a spy.

He went swiftly to the door next to Julian’s. The hotel was largely empty: the chances were that the room would be empty, too. He tried his own key, which didn’t work. He opened his pocket knife and slipped it into the doorjamb and pushed mightily; the door popped open with a snap. He stepped in, preparing an excuse in case he should have roused someone, but saw instantly the beds were unused and the room immaculate. He pulled the door behind him and walked through the darkness to the balcony. He eased open the french doors and stepped through. Before him, the formal gardens radiated an icy glaze in the patina of the white moon like a dream of a maze. Beyond, the sea, a sheet of dazzled glow, altered its surface microscopically under the pressure of the light. The wind was soft yet sure.

The leap to Julian’s balcony was about six feet and it never occurred to him to look down or to believe he couldn’t make it. He slipped off his shoes, climbed over the railing, hung for just a second as he gauged the distance and prepared his nerve, and then with a mighty push flung himself across the gap, snaring Julian’s railing with his hand and the balcony ledge with his foot. He climbed quietly over, edged along the wall. The door was slightly open.

“You’ve never wavered?”

The bloody voice. Unfilled with jangled Germanisms, unaddled with madness, but the same ? or different. Calm, somehow; the accent vague, the tone sympathetic, assuring, oddly filled with conviction.

“Of course I’ve wavered,” said Julian, distraught. “I’ve hated myself. I revolt myself. Who do you think I am, a bloody saint?”

“No, of course not. You are only another weak man such as myself.”

“Not such as yourself. You’re a bloody inspiration. I’m just sullied flesh.”

“You must be strong.”

“Ah, God.” Julian seemed to arch with agony and disbelief. Florry had never heard him so close to losing control. His voice was full of tremulous emotion.

“You cannot help yourself,” said Levitsky.

“No, I can’t,” said Julian. “I try. But you’ve got me wholly, totally.” He sounded angry now.

“You’ll come in the end to accept your other self, your true self. You’ll see how your mission is the most important part of you. How all the misrepresentations, the lies, the deceits ? how they make you stronger over the longer course. You will understand things you might not otherwise. Your sensitivities are increased, they are keener, more perceptive. It means you are special. You’ll come in the end to define it as a strength.”

Florry could stand no more.

That was it, then ? utterly and irrevocably. Damn them. Damn them both.

He retreated swiftly, slipping back across the gap and quickly put on his shoes. He checked his watch. It was almost one. The car would come at nine tomorrow and by nightfall they’d be off.

It was time at last to read Tristram Shandy.

* * *

In the morning, Florry went down to the lobby. Julian and Sylvia were already talking.

“Oh, hullo, Stink. Just saying our good-byes.”

She was watching him talk, her eyes radiant with love and submission. She hardly looked at Florry.

“Well, look, here comes the car and bloody Steinbach and his chum Portela. I suppose I should let you have a last minute alone. May I, Robert?” He kissed Sylvia lightly on the cheek, then backed off. “Good-bye, Sylvia. It was splendid.”

He turned and went out to the car.

“Sylvia, can you do me one favor?” Florry said.

“Yes, Robert.”

“Look here, it’s so silly, I borrowed a copy of Tristram Shandy from this chap Sampson in Barcelona. A newsman of The Times. I know it sounds silly, but I’d like to get it back to him. Do you think you could drop it off? You’d find him at the Cafe de las Ramblas.”

“Yes, Robert, of course.”

“Thank you. And I shall see you ? ah, the week of the twentieth, shall we say? At the Grand Oriente. At eleven in the morning? Tuesday, shall we say?”

“Yes. I’ll be there.”

He wanted to take her in his arms and kiss her.

“This would be so much bloody easier if I didn’t love you so much.”

“I wish I loved you the way you require, Robert. I wish you didn’t feel you had to own me. Watch after yourself. Watch after Julian.”

Florry turned and left for the car. He would not look back. He could feel his Webley against his side in the shoulder holster. He’d oiled and cleaned it. And loaded it.

23 ?VIVA LA ANARQUIA!

Levitsky sat in the square at the cafe. He was very tired. He ordered a cup of cafe con leche. He looked about. It could have been any village in Spain. It was called Cabrillo de Mar, about ten miles out of Salou on the road to Lerida. Soon a Twenty-ninth Division staff car that would be taking Florry and Julian Raines on their mission would pass through the village on the way toward the front.

He was so tired of traveling. Yet there was one last thing to do.

The coffee arrived. He poured the milk into it, mixed it until it was thick, and then took a sip: delicious. As you get old, certain comforts matter more.

You should get going, he told himself. Back to Barcelona. Finish it. Why wait?

I wait because I am tired. And because I must see.

Go on, old man. Leave.

No. He had to see the car and know they were off. It was the old empiricist in him, that unwillingness to trust what he hadn’t observed. He wondered when he would feel the triumph. Or would he feel it at all? He had done it, after all; but at such cost.

Sacrifices. Old man, you are the master of sacrifice. Let no man ever say the Devil Himself doesn’t understand two things: the theory of history and the theory of sacrifice. However, perhaps in this century they are the same.

He felt eyes on him and looked up. A member of the Guardia Civil was headed toward him. It was a pockmarked boy with a Labora machine pistol slung over his shoulder. He wore a khaki mono and a gorilla cap with a red star on it. He looked stupid.

“Salud, comrade,” called Levitsky.

The boy regarded him, and Levitsky, bleary eyed, could feel the hate. What was it, the battered way he looked? The smell of peppermint? His clear foreignness?

“Your papers, comrade,” said the boy.

Levitsky got out a passport.

“A foreigner?”

“Yes, I’m an international,” Levitsky said, and knew instantly he’d blundered.

“Are you English? Russian?” asked the boy.

“No, comrade. Polish.”

“I think you’re Russian.”

“No. No, comrade. Long live the revolution. I’m Polish.”

“No, I think you’re a Russian.” He swung the machine pistol over onto him.

“Hands up,” he said. “You’re a Russian, here to take over. Get going.” The gun muzzle looked big as a church