The Second Son

was an unexpected coup.

Save for one small point. While Moscardo might have shown remarkable savvy in ferreting away men and soldiers and guns and children, he was less astute at protecting his own. Somehow, in all the mayhem, he forgot his sixteen-year-old son Luis outside the fortress walls. Within hours, the boy was taken hostage by the militias, who promised to shoot him if his father refused to surrender. It was a brief conversation on the telephone, at which point Moscardo asked to speak to his son.

“They have me, Father,” said Luis. “What shall I do?”

Moscardo thought a moment. “If this is true, commend your soul to God, shout ‘?Viva Espana!’ and die like a hero.”

“That,” said the boy, “I can do.”

It was an act of uncommon bravery. Word of it had spread to the south and the far north, where Moscardo and the Alcazar were already things of legend for the rebel fascist soldiers: the new Abraham, they called him, although this time God had failed to reach out to save his Isaac. This time, faith had truly been tested.

The fascist soldiers chanted their names, and the great fortress became the bastion of all that was good and true in Spain.

Hoffner said, “The barman said we’d do best with a group headquartered near the cathedral.” He tossed back the last of his drink. “Republican army. Slightly more organized than the Communists.”

“That’s no great surprise,” said Mila.

“The man said ‘slightly.’ I don’t think this is going to be files in triplicate.”

“Is he sending someone to take us?”

“Why?”

“Because it’s Toledo. He could draw us a map and we’d never find it.” She finished her glass and stood. “And I’m all out of bread crumbs.”

Mila was right. It would have been impossible to maneuver through the city without a guide. The boy was no more than ten years old, his canvas rope-soled shoes worn through with a few toes sticking out, but he moved them along at a nice clip. The streets were narrow and dark and slipped from one to the next, turning, then rising up a hill, before seeming to double back on themselves. Hoffner expected the bar to reappear each time they turned a corner-a sheepish look from the boy, a recalculation-but the streets poured on in endless variation: smooth stone against jagged rock, box windows of iron or wood. And always the balconies-barely enough room for a man to stand, rails only tall enough to a keep a child from falling.

The trio arrived at a large building on one of the more sunlit squares-crucifixes and shields emblazoned in the stone-and the boy motioned to the door. He offered a quick nod, shouted the requisite “?Viva la Libertad!” and raced back to the bar. Three weeks ago he would have been beaten or paid for his services, depending on the client. This seemed better all around. Hoffner led Mila in.

There was a strange similarity to Zaragoza in the look of the large receiving hall and stairs along the walls to the upper floors, but the smells and sounds here were completely different. Barked conversations, along with the crackle of a radio, swirled above, while men sat in half-back wooden chairs, leaning against whitewashed walls and playing at games of cards or pennies. Some were in uniform, most not. Hoffner could almost taste the oregano in the air and something sweet, like the oil of pressed almonds. Odder still was the sound of laughter in the distance, husky laughs with tobacco and age grinding on the throat. Things were getting done. What that might be, though, was anyone’s guess.

A uniformed soldier walked over. He wore the brown-on-brown of the Republican army, with a thick black belt and buckle at the waist, both in need of repair. The belt holstered a pistol and a small leather satchel behind. He was at most thirty, and his hair hung loose to the brow.

“Salud, friends,” he said. “What is it you need here?”

Before Hoffner could reach for the papers, Mila said, “We have a car filled with explosives. We bring them from Buenaventura Durruti. Viva la Republica.”

Bombs were more persuasive than papers. They gave any and all questions about Georg the army’s full attention. The car was brought around, lieutenants sent off to uncover the whereabouts of a German and his movie camera, and Hoffner and Mila were invited to eat. The stories of Captain Doval and Major Sanz made for lively conversation.

“Christ, I like hearing that.”

A large captain sat at the end of an oak table and laughed through a mouthful of stew. It was potatoes and leeks and something with the taste of cinnamon, although there was too much heat on the tongue for that. Hoffner watched as the large captain dipped a fat wedge of seeded bread into the broth, waited for the crust to turn a nice oily orange, and then shoved it in. The man laughed again, and a chunk of venison popped from his mouth and back into his bowl. He apologized even as he continued to laugh.

“Gentlemen soldiers,” he said. “All idiots. You say he put gasoline in the car?” Hoffner chewed and nodded, and the large captain laughed again. “And with the explosives right under his nose? That’s marvelous.”

Four others sat with them-younger, trimmer-but it was clear they deferred to the large one. He had the thickest mustache, the fattest cheeks, and a jaw that reached out beyond the ears before turning in for the chin. It was a massive face, with warm, thoughtful eyes. He shoveled another spoonful of meat and carrots into his mouth.

One of the others, quiet to this point, said, “And you do all this just to find your son?”

Hoffner took a taste of the wine and again nodded.

The large captain said, “Just to find?” His face was more serious despite the chewing. “Is there anything more heroic? This is what a father does if he’s a man.” He scooped up another spoonful.

The other said, “And Moscardo? He makes half the country call him a hero.”

“Moscardo is a traitor,” said the captain, “and a coward. He hides himself away and lets his son pay for his cowardice. A true caballero would have offered his own life.”

“And we would have taken it?”

“For a boy of sixteen? Of course.” The large captain looked at Hoffner. “The son is alive, by the way. Unlike Moscardo, we don’t kill a boy for his father’s failings. But of course we can’t say it, otherwise Franco or Queipo de Llano would think we’re weak. They’d want to see if they can come and try and finish us. Or they might come to avenge the boy anyway, so however it goes, this business with Moscardo is bad for us. Nothing we can do about it now, though.”

Franco, as it turned out, had proved to be a fine swimmer. He was already moving up to Seville, according to the large captain, although the reports were still a bit vague. Meanwhile, Toledo’s fate was being tossed around like so many mouthfuls of venison boiled too long in a pot. Maybe Barcelona’s arrogance did extend this far. Maybe it had to.

The younger one was not done with Hoffner. “And Durruti,” he said. “He gave you these explosives so you could find your son? Why would he do that?”

Arrogance and mistrust-the only way to win a war. Hoffner said, “He wanted me to use them in Zaragoza.”

“But you didn’t.”

“No.”

“And if you had, you’d be dead.”

“More than likely, yes.”

“So he expected you to die.” This was where the young one had been leading them.

Hoffner said, “I imagine he did.”

“And the senora?”

“I imagine her, as well.”

Which left only one logical answer: “So the explosives weren’t really to help you find your son, were they?”

Hoffner said evenly, “Durruti told me my son was dead. I knew he was wrong. I chose to make fools of the requetes instead.”

The young one refused to back down. “Fools can still shoot rifles and drive tanks. Maybe better to have used