The Time in Between: A Novel (52 page)

“Very well. What do I do with the portfolio when I arrive?”

“You hand it over at the cloakroom. You ought always to leave it with some other item—an overcoat, a raincoat, some small purchase, so it isn’t too conspicuous on its own. Then head for one of the rooms and wander around at a leisurely pace, enjoy the paintings. After half an hour, return to the cloakroom and ask them to give the portfolio back to you. Then take it to one of the rooms and sit and draw for at least another half hour. Look at the clothes that appear in the paintings, pretend that they’re inspiring you for your future creations; behave, in
short, in whatever way you think most convincing, but first check that the envelope has been removed from inside. If it hasn’t, you’ll need to return on the Sunday and repeat the operation, though I don’t think that should be necessary: using the hairdresser’s salon as cover is new, but we’ve used the Prado before and it’s always been satisfactory.”

“And I won’t know who’s picking up the patterns there either?”

“Again, someone trustworthy. Our contact in the cloakroom will take charge of passing the envelope from your portfolio to another belonging left there by another contact the same morning—that’s something they can do very easily. Are you hungry?”

I looked at the time. It was past one. I didn’t know whether I was hungry or not: I’d been so busy absorbing each syllable that I’d barely noticed the time passing. I looked out to sea again; it seemed to be a different color now. Everything else was just the same: the light on the white walls, the gulls, the voices in Arabic from the street. Hillgarth didn’t wait for my reply.

“I’m sure you must be. Please, come with me.”

___________

W
e ate alone in a wing of the American embassy that we reached by going down still more corridors and staircases. On the way Hillgarth explained to me that the building was the result of a number of extensions to an old main house; that explained why it lacked uniformity. The room we arrived in wasn’t exactly a dining room; it was more like a little drawing room with few furnishings and lots of paintings of old battles in golden frames. The windows, firmly closed despite the beautiful day, looked out over a courtyard. In the middle of the room someone had set out a platter of veal for two. A waiter with a military crew cut served us some rare-cooked meat accompanied by roast potatoes and salad. On a side table he left two plates of cut-up fruit and a coffee service. As soon as he’d finished filling our glasses with wine and water, he disappeared, closing the door behind him without a sound. The conversation resumed its former course.

“When you arrive in Madrid you’ll be staying at the Palace for a week; we’ve made a reservation in your name—I mean, in your new name. Once you’re there, you’re to go in and out all the time, get yourself seen. Go to shops, walk over to your new residence to familiarize yourself with it. Go for walks, go to the cinema; in short, move about as you like. With just two restrictions.”

“Which are?”

“The first is that you stay within the bounds of the smarter parts of Madrid. Don’t make any contact with people from outside that world.”

“You’re telling me not to set foot in my old neighborhood or see my old friends or acquaintances, right?”

“Precisely. No one should be able to link you to your past. You’re a new arrival in the capital: you don’t know anybody, and no one knows you. In the event that you run into anyone who happens to recognize you, do whatever you can to deny it. Be rude if you have to, do anything you need to, just don’t let anyone discover that you aren’t who you claim to be.”

“I’ll bear that in mind, don’t worry. And the second restriction?”

“Absolutely no contact with anyone of British nationality.”

“You mean I can’t see Rosalinda Fox?” I said, unable to hide my disappointment. Even though I knew our relationship couldn’t be public, I’d been counting on being able to have her support in private; being able to rely on her experience and her instincts whenever I found myself in trouble.

Hillgarth wiped his mouth with his napkin and took a sip of water before replying.

“I’m afraid that’s the way it has to be. I’m sorry. Not her, nor anyone else who’s English, except for me and then only in absolutely unavoidable situations. Mrs. Fox knows all about this: if by any chance you find yourselves in the same place, she knows she’s not to approach you. And as much as possible avoid contact with North Americans as well. They’re our friends—you can see how well they treat us,” he said, opening his hands as though taking in the whole room with them. “Regrettably they are not equally good friends of Spain and the Axis countries, so try to keep your distance from them, too.”

“Very well,” I agreed. I didn’t like the restriction that prevented me from seeing Rosalinda, but I knew I had no choice but to observe the rule.

“And talking about public places, there are a few where I’d advise you to allow yourself to be seen,” he continued.

“Go on.”

“Your hotel, the Palace. It’s full of Germans, so keep going there regularly with any excuse even when you’re no longer staying there. Eating at the grill there, that’s very fashionable right now. Go for a drink, or to meet up with a client. Of course, in the New Spain it doesn’t look good for women to go out on their own, smoke or drink or dress showily. But remember that you’re not a Spaniard anymore, but a foreigner from a country that’s a bit exotic, newly arrived in the capital, so you can behave accordingly. Go by the Ritz often, too, that’s another nest of Nazis. And especially to Embassy, the tearoom on the Paseo de la Castellana—do you know it?”

“Of course,” I said. I refrained from telling him about the times in my childhood when I’d pressed my nose against the glass, my mouth watering at the sweets on display. Cream tarts garnished with strawberries, butter pastries, charlotte russes. In those days I never even dreamed that crossing that threshold would one day be within my reach, let alone the range of my pocketbook. In one of life’s little ironies, I was now, years later, being asked to go there as often as possible.

“The owner, Margaret Taylor, is Irish, and she’s a great friend of ours. Right now it’s perfectly possible that Embassy is the most strategically interesting spot in Madrid, because there—a small shop not much larger than seven hundred and fifty square feet—you find us all, members of the Axis and Allies alike, meeting in one place, without any apparent friction. Separately, of course, each with his own. But you’ll often find Baron von Stohrer, the German ambassador, there at the same time as the top brass of the British diplomatic corps as he drinks his lemon tea, or I’ll find myself at the bar shoulder to shoulder with my German counterpart. The German embassy is almost exactly across the street and ours is very close by, too, on the corner of Fernando el Santo and Monte Esquinza. As well as hosting a large number of foreigners, Embassy is the main meeting point for a lot of Spaniards from the noblest families: it would be hard to find more aristocratic titles all together anywhere in Spain than you’ll meet there at aperitif time. Most of these aristocrats are monarchists, and Anglophiles, meaning that on the whole they tend to be on our side, so that in terms of gathering information they’re not very valuable to us. But it would be interesting
if you could get some clients from that milieu, because they are the class of women whom the Germans admire and respect. The wives of the high command in the new regime tend to be a different matter entirely: they know little of the world, they’re much more demure, they don’t wear haute couture, they enjoy themselves much less, and they naturally don’t frequent Embassy for champagne cocktails before lunch; you understand what I mean?”

“I’m getting the picture.”

“If we’re unlucky enough that you end up in any serious trouble, or you think you have any information you need to get to me urgently, Embassy at one p.m. is the place you can contact me any day of the week. Let’s say it’s my undercover meeting place for a number of our agents: it’s a place that’s so brazenly exposed that it’s extremely unlikely to arouse the least suspicion. To communicate we’ll use a very simple code: if you need to meet me, come in with your bag on your left arm; if you’ve just come for a drink and to be seen, carry it on your right. Remember: left, problem; right, normal. And if the situation is an absolute emergency, drop the bag as soon as you’ve come in, as though it’s just carelessness or an accident.”

“What would you consider an absolute emergency?” I asked. I sensed that his words, which I didn’t completely understand, hid something extremely unappealing.

“Direct threats. Severe coercion. Physical aggression. Breaking into your home.”

“And what will you do with me then?” I asked, once I’d swallowed the knot that had formed in my throat.

“That depends. We’ll analyze the situation and act, depending on the risk. In the most severe case we would abort the operation, try to put you somewhere safe, and evacuate you as soon as possible. In an intermediate situation, we’d study a variety of ways we could protect you. In any case, rest assured that you can count on us, that we’ll never leave you out on your own.”

“Thank you.”

“You needn’t thank us—that’s our job,” he said as he cut one of the last pieces of meat on his plate. “We’re confident that everything will
work out well—the plan we’ve designed is very safe, and the information you’re going to be passing us isn’t high risk, for the moment. Would you like some dessert?”

This time once again he didn’t wait for me to accept his offer or refuse it; he just got up, gathered up the plates, took them over to the side table, and returned with others filled with cut-up fruit. I watched his quick, precise movements, perfect for someone whose absolute priority was efficiency, someone unused to wasting a second of his time or allowing himself to be distracted by trivialities and vagueness. He sat back down, stabbed at a piece of pineapple, and continued with his instructions as though there had been no interruption.

“In case we’re the ones who need to make contact with you, we’ll use two channels. One will be the Bourguignon florist on the Calle Almagro. The owner—a Dutchman—is another good friend of ours. We’ll send you flowers. White, maybe yellow; in any case, they’ll be light colored. The red ones we’ll leave to your admirers.”

“Very thoughtful,” I remarked ironically.

“Look at the bunch of flowers very carefully,” he went on without acknowledging the comment. “There will be a message inside. If it’s something innocent, it’ll be in a simple handwritten card. You should always read it a number of times, try to figure out whether the apparently trivial words might have a double meaning. When it’s something more complex, we’ll use the same code as you, inverted Morse code transcribed on the ribbon tied around the flowers: undo the bow and decode the message in just the way you’d write it yourself—right to left, in other words.”

“Very well. And the second channel?”

“Embassy again—not the place itself, though, but the candies. If you receive a box unexpectedly, you’ll know it’s come from us. We’ll arrange for it to leave the shop with the message inside it, which will also be in code. Take a good look at the cardboard box and the wrapping paper.”

“Such gallantry,” I said with a touch of sarcasm. He didn’t seem to notice it, or if he did he didn’t show it.

“It’s simply how we deal with it: using unlikely mechanisms to transmit confidential information. Coffee?”

I hadn’t yet finished my fruit but I accepted. He filled the cups, having first unscrewed the top part of a metallic receptacle. Miraculously the liquid came out hot. I had no idea what it was, this machine that could pour out the coffee that had been there for at least an hour as though it had just been prepared.

“A thermos, a great invention,” he said, noticing my curiosity. He took out several pale slim folders from his briefcase and placed them in a pile in front of him. “Next I’m going to show you the characters we’re most interested in having you watch for us. Our interest in these women might increase or decrease with time. Or indeed disappear entirely, though I doubt that. Most likely we’ll be adding new names; we’ll be asking you to concentrate your attentions on one of them in particular or to try to track down certain specific pieces of information. For now, though, these are the people whose agendas we want to learn about right away.”

He opened the first folder and took out a few typewritten sheets. In the top corner there was a photograph affixed with a metal clip.

“Baroness de Petrino—of Romanian origins. Maiden name, Elena Borkowska. Married to Josef Hans Lazar, head of press and propaganda for the German embassy. Her husband is one of our top targets for acquiring information: he’s an influential man with immense power. He’s very capable and extremely well connected in the Spanish regime, in particular with the most powerful of the Falangists. On top of that he’s extremely gifted in public relations: he organizes wonderful parties at his Castellana mansion and invites dozens of journalists and businessmen whose support he buys by regaling them with food and drink that he brings over directly from Germany. His lifestyle is scandalous in a Spain that’s suffering so much right now; he’s a sybarite and a lover of antiques—he’s probably been able to get hold of the most valued pieces, paid for by other people’s hunger. Ironically it would appear that he’s Jewish and of Turkish origin, something he’s careful to hide. His wife is completely a part of his hectic social life and is just as showy as he is
in her incessant public appearances, so we have no doubt that she’ll be one of your first clients. We’re hoping that she’s one of the ones who’ll bring you the most work, both in sewing and when it comes to passing us information about her activities.”

He didn’t give me time to see the photograph, because he immediately closed the folder and pushed it across the tablecloth toward me. I was about to open it but he stopped me.

“Leave that for later. You can take all these files away with you today. You’ll have to memorize the information and destroy the papers and photographs as soon as you’re able to retain them in your head. Burn everything. It’s absolutely critical that these dossiers do not travel to Madrid and that nobody but you should know what’s in them, is that clear?”