attack would fail. And that meant Florry would die. Julian would kill him. Even now as he addresses me, he addresses me as the executioner talking to the victim, assuring him that the drop of the gallows trap is nothing personal, but purely in the best interests of the Party.
“Good, chum,” said Julian. “And when I’m gone, you remember that.”
“I will, Julian,” said Florry, “I will.”
“Sylvia deserves somebody dogged and solid with virtue. And that’s you and it’s grand. Be good to her.”
“I’m sure in twenty years we’ll all get together at the Savoy over cocktails and laugh about this conversation.”
“I’m sure we
They crouched in the forest. It was time. Florry found himself breathing heavily.
“Comrades,” said Portela, who had blacked his face out under his black beret. He carried an American Thompson gun. “For you,” he said. “Salud.” He got a flask out from under his cape and handed it over. “From Comrade Steinbach. For the English dynamiters.”
He handed it to Julian, who sniffed at the snout voluptuously. “God, lovely. Whiskey. Wonderful English whiskey. Bushmill’s, I believe. To the bloody future,” he toasted, taking a bolt, “that ugly whore.” He handed the flask to Florry.
Florry threw down a swallow. It was like the brown smoke from a thousand English hearths.
“Shall we go then, lads?” said Julian, and they were off.
Portela led them down the slope and out into no-man’s-land. A mist had risen, and the three men seemed to wade through it. Oddly, up above, the stars were clear and sharp, shreds and flecks of far-off, remote light. Florry was last in the file. He had the Webley in his hand, and a four-five-five in each chamber. He was just behind Julian.
Wait till you get beyond the lines. Wait till Portela leaves you. Wait till you get to the truck. Wait till you’ve changed into your fine English suit. Wait till you’re in the truck and setting off to Pamplona. Then lift and fire. Clean. Into the back of the head. It’ll be much easier than the boy in the trench.
Then what? he wondered.
Then you go on. To the bridge.
That’s absurd.
They waded through the mist. The silence fell upon them heavily. The mist nipped and bobbed at his knees. Portela halted suddenly, turning, and waved them down.
Florry knelt, sinking into the mist. For a second, all was silent and still. Then there came the low slush of boots pushing their way through the wet, high grass, and Florry made out the shape of a soldier ? no, another, three, four! ? advancing toward them in the fog. They were Fascists on patrol, somber men in great coats with German helmets and long Mausers with bayonets. Florry tried to sink lower into the earth, but the men continued their advance, gripping their rifles tightly, their eyes peering about. Florry thought of Julian: had he somehow alerted the NKVD who had in turn alerted the Fascists?
If they find us, Julian, I’ll kill you here, he thought, his hand tightening on the bulky revolver.
It was ghastly, almost an apparition, like a post patrol in some Great War legend, the tall soldiers isolated in the rolling white fog. Florry suddenly saw that they were Moorish legionnaires, huge, handsomely formed men, with cheekbones like granite and eyes like obsidian. Savages. They’d just as soon cut your guts up as look at you. They preferred the bayonet. At Badajoz, they’d put thousands to the blade, or so the propaganda insisted.
Florry gripped his Webley so tight he thought he’d smash it: what an opportunity for Julian, and so early on! A single noise, a cough, the smallest twitch, and the bloody thing was over. Florry brought the revolver to bear in the general direction of Julian. If Julian made a noise, he’d ?
He heard the footfalls growing louder.
He could hear them talking in Arabic. They laughed among themselves only feet away, and Florry fancied he could smell the cheap red wine on their breath.
They halted fifteen feet off.
More laughter.
More chatter.
Florry could feel his heart beating like a cylinder in an engine block. The sweat ran hotly down his face, though the night was cool. He lay hunched on the mist, and its moisture soaked him; he could see the damned glow of the Webley barrel.
The soldiers laughed again, and then began to move away. In minutes they had vanished altogether.
Florry felt a stream of air whistle out of his mouth in pure animal relief. He thought he might begin to tremble so hard he couldn’t move. But before him first Portela with his Thompson and then Julian with his small.25 automatic rose. He came off his knees and creakily climbed to his feet. Julian flashed the old Great War high sign: thumbs up, chum.
Portela began to move up the slope and the two Englishmen followed. In the fog they stayed closer together and Portela motioned for them to hurry. They seemed to be walking in milk and Florry had lost all contact with where they were. Had they reached the Fascist line yet? Shouldn’t they be crawling? What was going on?
Suddenly there was a noise. They sank back into the fog again.
There was the chink of something falling and some laughter. Then Florry heard the sound of running water ? it was a man nearby pissing in the fog.
Something tapped his shoulder: Portela, gesturing him to rise quietly. Florry stood and the three began to walk swiftly ahead. They were on flat ground, it seemed, and ?
They were in the yard of a small house.
“Ha!”
A man leaned out the open window, a cigarette in his mouth.
He yelled something Florry couldn’t follow.
Portela yelled back. The two argued back and forth for some time.
Suddenly another voice screamed out.
The first man said something under his breath. Portela muttered a reply. The two conversed in low tones.
From inside the hut came the sound of raucous, dirty laughing.
They walked on, climbing a low stone wall, until they found themselves in an orchard. Portela took them down its ghastly ranks, around some deserted buildings, and down at last a road. They halted in the lee of a wall.
“I didn’t think you were quite
“I have been an atheist since 1927,” Portela said, “but on this night we needed the help of God, and so we got it.”
