Horse Under Water

50 One named OSTRA has no number

If you ever get clear away from a difficult situation by abandoning a large part of your personal belongings, you may feel an urgent need of certain articles you have left behind, like a Locarte fluorimeter that has an eight- month delivery time. Don’t send for them; because that’s how we traced da Cunha.

I asked Alice for a manilla cover and wrote ‘Ostra’ on the front. Into that I put certified copies of all Ivor Butcher’s mail. I added six foolscap sheets of his statement, laced the file and locked it back into the top drawer of my desk. So far it had no file number. It was my special secret contribution to the nation’s security. I looked at the map. The Ford station-wagon with da Cunha’s laboratory equipment was moving north and looked as though it would cross the Spanish border near Badajoz.

Dawlish called me up for a drink that evening. He had been so busy building the administrative side of the Strutton Committee that I had seen little of him. I knew that O’Brien was still making things difficult for us. O’Brien, unmarried, propped up the corner of the downstairs bar at the Travellers’ Club, twenty-four hours a day. What he was giving up in food he was gaining in influence. O’Brien was trying to get Foreign Office people on all the subcommittees with executive power. Dawlish said that, at the meeting I had missed, he had taken the liberty of putting me up as convening chairman of the training structure sub-committee. I told him that I might be away for a few days. Dawlish said he thought that might be the case. He blew his nose loudly and smiled drily from behind his big handkerchief. ‘I’ll convene the meeting and you delegate your vote to me. It will be all right.’

‘Thank you very much, sir,’ I said, and I drank to his success. Dawlish came from behind his desk and stood near the gas fire, which was popping and spluttering as they always do about 5 p.m.

‘Did you check with the Sc.Ad.C.[35] about the molecular ice-melting theory?’ I asked him.

Dawlish gave a histrionic sigh. ‘Don’t you ever give up?’ he said. ‘It is impossible to rearrange molecules as a way of changing ice to water.’ We stared at each other for a minute or so. ‘Very well, my boy, I’ll ask him.’ He closed his eyes, gulped down his claret and leaned against the wall like a worn-out roll of lino.

He said, ‘Keightley was on the phone today.’ (Keightley was the liaison officer at Scotland Yard.) ‘You can’t keep this man Butcher available for questioning unless you are preferring charges.’

‘I’ll clear that in a few days,’ I said, ‘he’ll make no complaint; he wants to be in custody.’

Dawlish said, ‘I’m feeling a certain amount of pressure in respect of the Alforreca business.’

‘Look,’ I said, ‘I didn’t ask you to hold the door open. But don’t start closing it now that I’m half-way through.’

Dawlish produced another handkerchief with the aplomb of a tea-party conjurer. ‘Careful not to slam it on my fingers,’ he told me, ‘there’s a good boy. Oh, I know that you have a thousand reasons for not slipping up, but remember that the man who fell off the Empire State Building said to a resident on the first floor as he fell past him, “So far so good”.’ Dawlish smiled blankly.

‘Thank you for those words of encouragement,’ I said. Dawlish walked across to the drink cupboard. He spoke over his shoulder. ‘There are certain things which if I know about I must act upon. As it is I’m happy enough to leave them. But if you go wrong I’ll tear you to shreds and anyone you try to protect will be torn up with you.’

‘What about another drink?’ I said.

‘It’s a good thing you like Tio Pepe,’ replied Dawlish self-consciously.

Dawlish thought I was heading for where the sherry comes from.

51 Where I shine

The brown tilled earth of the Castilian steppe surrounds Madrid like a brim around a stone hat. The northern section of the stone crown has crumbled to produce the Cuatro Caminos where thousands of productores live in the rubble. Along the streets which lie deep between pink-brown buildings only the blue-shirted Falangists go jacket-less. Traffic cops wear flashing white cross-straps on their uniforms and cite, pass and dedicate the brave blue two-decker buses, while between the densely packed riflemen there is scarcely room to pry a peasant. They stand, eyes focused on long ago, lining the route of a procession that never comes.

Cafe la Vega is a bright, stainless, espresso temple. Cups clatter, machines hiss and high heels click across the white marble floor. An elderly American couple argued about pasteurized milk and Felix the Cat tripped happily through the TV screen in a city where TV is something to go out to. From the Super Mercado across the street there is a continual flash of red neon, and an advertisement for sherry balances on a skyline of tiles.

I sat near the door where I could see the street. I ordered some hot chocolate and watched a bald-headed man shining a pair of two-tone shoes. I sipped the sweet cinnamon-chocolate for which Madrid used to be famous. The shoe-shine man’s box was studded with brass studs; inside the lid were pin-ups of movie stars. He delved amongst the bottles, tins, brushes, and cloths and offered a last flick to the toes. From the upper extremities of the two-tones a large hand descended with paper money.

A young army officer in a grey, immaculate uniform, hung around with aiguillettes, tapped his saucer to summon the shoe-shine. The high black boots were a long and careful operation. It was 7.30 p.m. I looked at the menu. I was worried in case something might have gone wrong. This was a country where it is easy to go wrong.

The shoe-shine man was kneeling at my feet. He placed small pieces of paper inside the shoe to prevent polish soiling my sock. After he had finished polishing, one piece of paper remained there. I could have shouted or tapped my saucer in the Spanish manner, or I could have merely pulled the paper out and thrown it away; but I went to the toilet and read it. On the paper it said, ‘Calle de Atocha and Paseo del Prado. Corner. 8.10.’ Both the Army officer and the two-tones were gone by the time I returned to my table.

The wind whistled down the Paseo del Prado and the night was suddenly cold, the way it goes in Madrid’s fickle climate. A new Chev. rolled down on me like the day of judgement, all headlights and flashing signals with chrome and enamel poured over it like cranberry sauce. I sank into the pink upholstery, the hood dipped, and we purred south towards the river.

Cats sat around with their hands in their pockets and stared insolently back into the headlight beams. The driver parked the car with meticulous care and killed the lights. He opened a wrought-iron gate for me and conducted me to a first-floor front. A man silhouetted in the narrow rectangle of window was studying the cafe opposite with an enormous pair of binoculars. He moved to one side.

Across the street in the tiny tasoa the marble table-tops were covered in glasses of Valdepenas, the stone floor with prawn shells and dirty boots. The men in the boots were shouting, smoking, drinking wine and then shouting again. I applied my eyes to the soft rubber eye-pieces of the binoculars. They were trained on the window next door to the cafe. Iron bars divided the window into rectangles. The scene beyond was bright and clear. The Chevrolet was parked carefully with good reason. The car had more lenses, spotlights, fog lights, overtaking lights — more lenswork than a fly’s eye. Now I realized that one of the headlights had infra-red beams and was still switched on. Through the infra-red binoculars I saw two men taking scientific instruments out of their packing. Shavings and screwed-up paper littered the floor. Into my ear a voice said, ‘They must be nearly finished. They’ve been at it for nearly an hour.’ It was Stewart, one of the Navy’s Intelligence, who had probably been put on that frogman course just to watch me.

‘They aren’t setting it up,’ I said. It wasn’t the sort of room that would make a good laboratory. I moved aside for the other man to resume observation.

‘What do you want us to do, sir?’ Stewart asked.

‘Who does this house belong to?’ I asked.