He said, ‘Salak was a name MacIntyre gave me just before we left. A wrestler in Istanbul, known member of the local underworld, and recruited as a top British agent. The significance is obvious. Now if Mönch had trotted out Doktor Alan Reiss’s name, it might have meant nothing, as he’d already heard it from us. But Mönch could not have possibly known about Salak, except from his own experiences. Nor does he say here that Salak was a British agent. Perhaps he didn’t know — or more likely, he regarded him as a loyal German agent doing a good job double-crossing the British.’
With some difficulty he attracted the waiter’s attention and ordered more beer, careful to keep Mönch’s notes concealed. ‘The rest is a bit diffuse. Salak was working for “Bettina” in Istanbul. Mönch also says that two top British agents were operating in Central America, ensuring the safe transportation of fuel across the Atlantic. Presumably the old fox is holding those two names up his sleeve, waiting to barter them for the balance of four thousand dollars.’
‘How does it end?’
‘Just a note that Reichsminister Himmler, in the name of the Führer and of the whole German People, expressed his deepest gratitude to the operatives of “Bettina”, but on account of the extreme secrecy and delicacy of the operation, no formal or official recognition could be granted.
‘That’s Mönch’s way of signing off and telling us what a wonderful person he was. There’s no signature, no date.’ He paused, then folded the pages up and returned them to the envelope, which he slipped under the table as the barman arrived with their drinks. When the man had gone, Hawn leant further over and tucked the envelope into Anna’s bag, which was hanging under the table from her chair. ‘Angel, when I’m halfway through this beer, I want you to get up and go to the loo. When you get back, the drinks will have been paid for and I’ll be gone. You stay and finish your drink, look a bit impatient, then go up to the barman and ask if he’s seen me.’
‘Trouble?’
‘I think we’re being followed. We’re certainly being watched. I’m not particularly worried — I just want to find out how good he is. Ask the barman to get you a taxi and tell him to take you to the Ritz. When you get into the taxi, say you’ve changed your mind and give him the address of our hotel.’
Five minutes later Hawn was walking briskly down the Ventura de la Vega. He bought a packet of cigarettes, an airmail edition of the Daily Telegraph, crossed the street twice, and stopped in a bodega for a quick brandy and a glimpse to see how the late Norman French’s death was rating in the British Press. His name had disappeared. The smart man with the dark glasses was leafing through a copy of Olé on the newsstand across the street.
When Hawn got back to the hotel he called Anna up on the house phone. ‘Angel, ring down to the desk and ask for some writing paper and an envelope. Then stick Mönch’s stuff inside and address it to yourself at the LSE — not the flat, remember. They might just have someone tampering with the mail.’
‘I’ll do better than that —’ her voice was crackling, distant — ‘I’ll send it to my brother in Harrogate.’
‘But better not post it yourself. The porter can do it for you. Then go to the Ritz. I’ll join you there, one way or another, in about half-an-hour.’
‘Are we still being followed?’
‘I am. You didn’t see anyone?’
‘I didn’t get much chance. The taxi driver was like a madman.’
‘Good. If there’s only one of them, he’s probably decided to follow me. So champagne at the Ritz — in half-an-hour. And make sure you give the porter enough for the right postage.’
‘Any more paternal advice? What sort of disguise should I wear? Or should I create a diversion by going out into the street in my knickers and nothing else?’
‘Just look out for bag snatchers,’ Hawn said, and hung up.
He went outside, into the Puerta del Sol, where he had a couple of coffees and wrote half-a-dozen postcards to fictitious addresses. He saw Anna leave the hotel, and after a moment get into a taxi. The aficionado in dark glasses was having his shoes shined in a cafe a couple of doors away.
Hawn paid, and strolled back to the hotel. As he asked for his key the receptionist handed him an envelope, addressed to M. Thomas Hawn. The sealed flap bore the blue insignia of the Ritz Hotel. Inside, on Ritz notepaper, in a big childish scrawl, was the message in French: ‘Meet me here at 12.45. Lunch. With my best compliments, Charles.’
Hawn had a confused sense of a time lag. It was now nearly 12.30. Anna would be at the hotel in five minutes. If he hurried, he would just make it by 12.45. He had told Anna to go to the Ritz because it was the only big hotel he knew in Madrid — at least, the only big civilized one. It was also spacious and quiet, and an easy place to spot strangers.
He thanked the receptionist and walked out again into the bright autumn sunlight. The man in dark glasses was looking into a shop window and blowing his nose on a clean white handkerchief. Hawn went up and stood beside him and looked into the window. It was a leather shop — mostly women’s shoes, belts, handbags. The prices seemed even higher than Bond Street. He took a step sideways and said, in his best Spanish, ‘Will you share a taxi with me to the Ritz?’
The man looked at him with empty black lenses. The bullfight gazette was again rolled up under his
