between him and his chum. He thought of Sylvia, perfectly innocent of it all. He wished she were there. What a laugh they would have once had over something quite this silly! He gunned the car past the vehicles, fled by a sign that said HUESCA 44 KM, and pushed ahead. The road was relatively clear for a time, but after a bit they came to a small garrison town called Baiolo, and pulled into it, under the watchful eyes of several Moorish sentries.
“God, it looks like Berlin,” said Julian.
Indeed it did; the square was jammed with gray Jerry vehicles, not only the tanks but armored trucks with machine guns and tank tracks on them. German specialists stood about barking orders stoutly to their assistants who translated into Arabic. For of the vast population of the village, nearly three-quarters were Moorish infantry, now loading aboard the trucks with the grave look of men headed into battle.
“These would be the shock troops headed for Huesca,” Julian said.
“We’d best get going,” said Florry. “It’s drawing near. The bridge must be just ahead.”
“You. You there!” a voice screamed at them with great authority and Florry could see an ominous figure in black leather raincoat and helmet approach with a forceful stride.
The man, some sort of senior officer, leaned into their car and said to Florry, “Who the devil are you?”
“Herr Colonel, I’m sorry to be a nuisance,” said Julian from the back. “Von Paupel, Panzer Engineers. Poor Braun here of the embassy staff to help me was rather hurriedly pressed into service.”
“I’ve got to get to that damned bridge,” said Julian nonchalantly. “They’re worried that the thing might last only a few hours under beating from the tanks. I must say, I had no idea Panzer Operations had such a show planned up here.”
Florry could feel the colonel’s breath warm upon him.
“You damned engineers, if you can’t build a bridge that’ll hold up my tanks, I’ll see you in the guardhouse.”
“Of course, Herr Colonel. But we want to get it down pat. When we move across the Russian plains, we won’t have time for mistakes. You bring your Panzers and I’ll build a bridge to hold them.”
“In future, Herr Leutnant, the Panzers will get bigger,” said the colonel.
“And so will the bridges, Herr Colonel,” said Julian tartly.
“Go on then. Fix that bridge. I’m planning to liberate Huesca by suppertime.”
“Yessir.”
“And keep your damned eyes open, Von Paupel. We’ve received word saboteurs are about, English dynamiters. It seems the reds have fifth columnists also.”
“Please, leave that paperhanger’s name out of it. This is a war, not some Bohemian’s political fruitcake. Now, get going.”
He waved them on brusquely, and Florry pressed the gas, the car shooting with a squeal through the square, narrowly missing a queue of Moors filing into a huge iron boat of a vehicle. He slipped into another lane and began to zip along. He took the Mercedes-Benz south. The country was scruffy and severe. Off on the left an immense mountain, looking like an ice-cream cup, bulked up, gleaming with impossible whiteness in the sun.
“Hurry,” said Julian, looking at his watch. “It’s after eleven.”
“Somebody betrayed us,” said Florry.
“Oh, Robert, rubbish. Keep driving.”
“They knew. ‘English dynamiters.’ If we’d have come on with Harry Uckley’s credentials, we’d be dead. Your Russian chum. Did you tell him?”
“He’d never do such a thing.”
“You’d be surprised what he’s capable of.”
“Robert, he’d never do such a thing. I won’t talk of it. Some lout at Party headquarters talked too loud in a Barcelona cafe?”
“It was your bloody Russian chum who?”
“HE WOULDN’T!” Julian screamed. Florry was stunned at the passion. “He’s above that, don’t you see? He’s a
They drove on in silence. Florry could hear Julian breathing heavily in the back seat.
“He’s
“When I knew him he was a bloody German cabin boy. With a plate in his head. Good Christ, Julian, the man can?”
“Stop it. I won’t hear another WORD! Not another word, unless you want to turn back now, chum.”
Florry said nothing.
In time the land changed, yielding its arid, high stoniness to pine forest, which spread across rolling ridges and gulches and crests like some kind of carpet.
“What time is it?” Julian asked at last.
“It’s half past eleven,” he said.
“Oh, bloody hell, we shan’t make it.”
But they came suddenly to a slope, and a half mile down the tarmac, flanked by stately green pines and high, shrouded peaks on either side, they saw it: the bridge.
31
THE SUPPRESSION
At 0600 on the morning of June 16, two armored cars equipped with water-cooled Maxim guns in their turrets pulled up the Ramblas and halted outside the Hotel Falcon. The range between the gun muzzles and the hotel’s ornate facade was less than thirty meters. Two more armored cars went to the hotel’s rear. Down the street lorries unloaded their troops of Asaltos, and German and Russian NCO’s formed them into action teams.
At 0605 hours, the machine guns opened fire. Three of the four guns fired approximately three thousand rounds into the first two floors of the old hotel; the fourth gun jammed halfway through its second belt, perhaps the only Russian setback of the day. Still, the firepower was adequate. Lead and shrapnel tore through the hotel, shattering most of the glassware in the Cafe Moka, ripping up tiles and woodwork and plaster in the hotel meeting rooms and offices, cutting through the chandeliers and the windows. In seconds the three guns transformed the lower floors of the building into a shambles of wreckage and smoky confusion.
“Bolodin,” said Glasanov, watching as the armored vehicles at last ceased fire, “take them in.”
Lenny Mink nodded, pulled his Tokarev automatic from his belt, and gave the signal to the troops. He himself began to rush through the smoke toward the shattered hotel; he could feel the men behind him, feel their energy and tension and building will to violence. They were screaming. Lenny reached the bullet-splintered main door first, kicked it open. There were two bodies immediately inside, a man and a woman. He stepped over them. A wounded man behind the desk tried to lift his rifle toward Lenny; Lenny shot him in the chest. Another man, already on the floor, moaned, tried to climb to his feet. Lenny smashed him in the skull with his gun barrel.
“Go, go,” he screamed in Russian as the assault troops began to pour through the building. He could hear them on the stairs already and hear the screams beginning to spread through the hotel as they pounded through, beating indiscriminately, threatening, screaming curses, smashing furniture, and in all other respects attempted to shatter the will of their victims.
He went up the stairs himself to the second-floor offices of the Party. The Asaltos had already been there. Torn papers and shattered furniture were everywhere. The smell of burned powder hung heavily in the air. The walls had been ripped with gunfire. Two men were dead and two others wounded. Lenny went to one of the wounded, a redheaded runty fellow bleeding from the leg and from the scalp.
“Nationality?” he demanded in English.
“Fuck you, chum,” said the man, in a heavy Cockney.
“A Brit, huh? Listen,” he spoke in English, too, the English of Brooklyn, “listen, you know a guy named Florry? A Brit, I’m looking for him.”
