In the end Malloy had gone down to Chicago to the HQ of the American Railways Supervisors Association where a retired senior railwayman was to be his tutor for the next two weeks.
Malloy had never realised that operating a railway was so complex. To him a railroad was just some track, locomotives and coaches. He was quickly disabused of those thoughts on the first day. Hector Maclean had been vice-president in charge of all three of the major operational divisions—the operating department, maintenance of way and mechanical.
Even putting in twelve hours a day of concentrated instruction it still meant that there was no time to cover the legal, personnel and accounting departments.
But at the end of the two weeks he knew where a railroad was most vulnerable to disruption, how to put a locomotive out of action with minimal explosive and how to derail a freight train by remote control. He also knew how to give instruction on logging the loads and destinations of both freight and passenger trains being used by the Germans. Part of his training at SOE was to be identification of German units in transit.
When he went back to Washington his mind was still crammed with details of arch tubes, circulators, automatic oilers, flues, valves, pistons, cylinders and the vulnerability of welded boilers.
Aarons was exhausted as he sat on the bench nearest the entrance to the zoo at Chapultepec Park. There were thousands of people eating picnic lunches, playing with their children or just strolling through the park. It seemed as if everyone in Mexico City had decided to spend Sunday in Chapultepec. Despite the urgency in the note he had avoided the most direct route to Mexico and it had taken him five days to get there. The message told him where the meeting place would be. It had to be on a Sunday and the person who contacted him would be somebody he already knew. He had only arrived at the bus station two hours earlier.
In the distance he could see the sickeningly high curve of the roller-coaster in the amusement park and a cluster of signs indicated the direction of the museums, the boating lake and the restaurants. The guide book said that the park had originally been the royal hunting grounds of the Aztecs.
Twice, as he sat in the sunshine his eyes had closed and only the noise of people laughing had woken him up. But in the end he had slept, his worn canvas bag on his lap, his hand through the leather handles. When he awoke there was a woman sitting on the bench beside him. Not somebody he recognised and he rubbed the sleep from his eyes and looked at his watch. He had been asleep for nearly an hour.
There were two paths down which his contact could come and he watched them both carefully. He had watched for ten minutes when a voice said in Russian, “Welcome to Mexico City, comrade Aarons. We expected you last Sunday.”
He turned to look at the woman beside him but he didn’t recognise her. She smiled and said, “You don’t remember me, do you, Andrei?”
He shook his head. “I’m afraid I don’t.”
“Well it was a long time ago, my friend.” She smiled and said quietly, “Kuskovo Palace—the training school—and afterwards the special training at the apartment in Moscow. And you didn’t know whether you were to be Comintern or a spy.”
“You’re the Spanish girl. I remember now.”
She laughed. “Not a girl any longer, Andrei.”
“What are you doing here?”
She shrugged. “I’m Spanish.” She smiled. “They find me useful. And you? What are you doing?”
He smiled. “Like you I don’t ever answer such questions.”
“You’ll be staying with me while you’re here. Sounds like you’ll be here for a week.” She turned her head to look at him. “Your old friend Lensky’s here. Specially to see you. Quite an honour these days, believe me.”
“How long have you been here in Mexico?”
She sighed. “A long time.”
“When do they want to see me?”
“Tonight about ten. There’ll be time for you to have a sleep at my place if you want.” She stood up. “We’d better go.”
She walked him to a broad avenue and waved down a white taxi with a yellow stripe. As they got in the taxi she gave instructions to the driver in Spanish and then changed to English as she said, “The taxis with orange-red stripes are sitio cabs and they don’t cruise. And they’re twice the price. No meters.”
As he looked out of the window he said, “I’ve never seen so many flowers in a town before.”
“There are flowers in every street and every avenue. They love them. So do I.”
“Must be happy people.”
She shrugged. “They are, but not because of the flowers. They live in tin shacks with no sewage disposal, no medicines and no jobs.”
“How do they get by?”
“They’ve got guts. They don’t get by, they survive. The kids die while they’re still kids. The girls go on the streets and the men into thieving, if they’re lucky.”
The cab pulled up at an apartment block and when she’d paid the fare she took him up to her apartment on the fifth floor. It was small and well cared for and no traces of a man. As she locked the door she said, “The couch by the window is yours for the night. I’ve got an air-bed coming tomorrow.” She brushed back her hair. “You look tired. Do you want a sleep?”
“Do you mind if I do? Just an hour would do me.”
“Go ahead. I’ll wake you in an hour. I’ll let them know you’re here.”
He was deep asleep when she shook his shoulder to wake him and as he opened his eyes he couldn’t remember where he was. He seemed to spend his life waking up not knowing where he was. And then he saw her looking down at him. “There’s a
