Tapestry of Spies

were defeated in Barcelona because our ideas were bad, because we could not compete ideologically, because the people would not believe in us, then our theory is wrong, and we are doomed. On the other hand, if we were defeated because we were betrayed ? because of a Judas planted by Stalin ? then our ideas remain sound and will continue to inspire. They in fact are so frightening to Moscow that Stalin himself leads the fight against us. That is impressive. Thus it is necessary that there be a spy. It doesn’t even really matter if he’s the right spy. Just so that we find him, try him, sentence him, and execute him. Thus, surely you can see how nice it would be for you to leave that confession. That little ribbon for history. Where’s your sense of duty? Surely they taught you that at Eton?”

“Bugger Eton,” said Florry. “I only care about Sylvia.”

“She is a lovely thing. Florry, I was once young myself, and in love. She was killed by Friekorps officers in Munich in ’nineteen. Raped, beaten, shot. It cured me of my illusions. And my eye.”

He smiled.

“Let her live, Steinbach, and I’ll sign something.”

“All right,” said Steinbach. “You’ve made your bargain.”

It took them a while to work something out that Florry could put his name to, but in the end, the document, though more vague than Steinbach would have preferred and more explicit than Florry wanted, was complete.

“This is utterly idiotic,” he said, scratching his name at the bottom.

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. In any event, it shall eventually be run in a leftist newspaper someplace or other as part of our testament. You have managed one thing, Comrade Florry. You have managed to enter history.”

“History is revolting,” said Florry.

* * *

The execution was set for dawn; about an hour before, they served him his last meal, some scrawny chicken cooked in too much oil, and a large skin of red wine.

“The chicken isn’t terribly good, I’m afraid,” said Steinbach. “But the wine should prove helpful.”

“I’m already numb, you bastard.”

“Try not to be bitter, comrade. Surely all the men here will join you under the ground in the weeks ahead.”

“It can’t happen too soon for my taste. What about the girl?”

“She’s fine. Tough, that one. I’m impressed. Would you like me to bring her by? A sort of last-minute farewell. It might appeal to your romanticism.”

“No, spare her that. This is hard enough without that. You’ll see that she gets out?”

“We’ll do what we must. Would you like a priest?”

“I’m not a Catholic. Besides, I haven’t sinned. And aren’t you an atheist?”

“In my dotage, I seem to have acquired the habit of hypocrisy. Then, should I tell her anything? The obvious?”

“How would you know what was obvious?”

“I’m not so stupid, Florry. I’ll tell her that you loved her till the end. She’ll have good memories of you, then.”

“She’s lost everybody that she cared about in Spain,” said Florry.

Steinbach laughed evilly. “So has everybody, Florry.”

Florry found he had no taste for the wine, which was young and bitter anyway, but that the chicken was rather good. Steinbach had lied about that as well as everything else. He tried to take a little nap after he was through eating because he was still exhausted, but, of course, he could get no sleep. It was absurd. They were going to shoot him because they needed a demon and he was available. He was in the right category.

Yet as the time of his death neared, he found what he regretted most was not being able to give Julian’s mother her son and husband’s ring. That was the one thing Julian had wanted and the one thing he’d thought of at the moment of his own death. It seemed like one more failure to Florry. It was in the Burberry smashed into the suitcase in the closet of the hotel. He brooded about this obsessively until he could stand it no longer. He banged on the door, and after a while Steinbach came by.

“Yes?”

“Have you seen the girl yet?”

“No. She’s resting. She doesn’t know what’s happening.”

“Look, tell her this for me. Tell her the ring in the coat is for Julian’s mother. She’s to get that to the woman, all right?”

Steinbach said he would, though his look informed Florry he thought it a queer last request. Then he left again. In a bit, a gray light began to filter through the cracks of the closet in which they’d locked him. He heard laughter and the approach of footsteps.

The lock clicked as the key turned in it; the door opened. A boy stood there with a rifle.

“Es la hora, comrade,” he said.

Florry rose and was roughly grabbed by three other boys. His hands were tied behind his back. They fell into formation behind him and led him through the deserted garage.

In the half-light, the deserted mountaintop had turned ghostly. Mist had risen and clung everywhere and the amusement apparatus, scabby ancient machines, loomed through it. The Ferris wheel was a circle of comical perfection standing above it all. The boys led him to the scaffolding that was the base of a roller-coaster.

“Cigarette, Florry?” asked Steinbach, waiting with several others.

“Yes,” said Florry. “God, you’re not going to do it here? In a bloody park?”

“No. The boys will take you down the hill into the forest. The grave has been dug. Actually, it was dug yesterday morning.” He lit a cigarette in his own mouth, then placed it in Florry’s in a gesture of surprising intimacy. Then he added, “Or rather two graves.”

He could see her now, in the group of men. They had gotten a cape for her, to keep her warm, but her hands had been tied.

“You told me?” Florry started.

“I argued, old man, but the judges were insistent. You wrote that note to her. She sat with Brea. Clearly she was involved.”

“Oh, God, Steinbach, she’s innocent, don’t you see? Tell them, for God’s sake.”

“Take them,” said Steinbach, turning away. “And be done with the filthy business.”

The rough teenage boys pushed Florry along.

“God, Sylvia, I’m so sorry,” he said. “It’s all so unfair.”

Sylvia looked at him with dead eyes. “I knew what I was getting into,” she said.

“I love you,” he said.

“As if that helps,” she replied, with a little shake of her head.

They walked down the steeply sloping road away from the park surrounded by five boys, the eldest perhaps twenty, who was the sargento and chief executioner. On either side of the road, the dark, dense forest rose. It was perfectly still, though the sky had begun to fill with light, and the air was moist. The road descended Tibidabo by virtue of switchbacks, and after they had gone around several sharp turns and had traveled perhaps half a mile, the young sergeant halted them.

“This way,” he said in polite English. He had a big automatic pistol; the others had gigantic, ancient rifles.

He took them off the road and through the damp bracken and groundcover of the woods. They followed a path a few hundred feet in, though the going was awkward, given the extreme slope of the land, until they reached a small clearing in the trees, where two shallow graves had been scooped out.

“It’s a pity, isn’t it?” Florry said. “All of it. They’re just bloody fools, doing their worst. Animals, idiots.”

“I say, do you mind awfully shutting up?” she said. “I don’t feel much like chatter.”

The boys got them to the edge of the holes, then stood back to form what appeared to be an extremely amateur firing squad. Each seemed to have a different firearm, and the youngest looked absolutely sick at what was about to happen, not that Florry could spare the wretched boy any pity. The sargento was the only one among them who had any sort of self-possession. He busied himself importantly examining weapons and setting caps just right and making sure belts were properly adjusted. He’d make a fine little Bolshevik