"Look," he said. "It's a matter of days at most before the whole nation
will be mourning Tabio. The Constitution says that within thirty days
after the President dies, there must be a general election. I have an
idea that the race will be between Gamburdo and someone like Lavandero.
Both will claim that they are Tabio's real choice as a successor. If I
can get to Havana, I can dig up the truth about Gamburdo and Ansaldo in
a matter of days. I'm sure of it. If it's anywhere at all, it's in
Havana. Gamburdo is taking public credit for trying to save Tabio's life
by bringing Ansaldo to San Hermano. The truth can make this boomerang in
his face."
"Can't I help in any way?"
Hall stopped short. "Do you know what you're asking? That scrape in the
hotel this morning was nothing compared to the things you're asking for
if you stay. Even if Gamburdo is licked, it's only the beginning."
"But you're sticking it out, aren't you?"
"I have to. I've been in it since Madrid. There's no escaping it for me.
I'll never know any peace until the crime of Spain is liquidated.
Fascism isn't just an ideological enemy for me, baby. It's a cancer
burning in my own, my very personal guts. I'd go off my conk if mine
weren't two of the billion fists that are smashing and will go on
smashing back at fascism until it's deader than Willie Androtten. I've
never stopped to think of what my chances are of being alive at the
finish. All I know is that if I stopped fighting it I'd die."
"Let me stay," Jerry pleaded. "I'd be a liar if I said that's the way I
felt, too. But the war came to me this morning at the end of Androtten's
gun, darling. I can't escape it any more than you can now."
* * * * *
They had an early dinner with Gonzales and his daughter, avoiding all
serious discussion until Lavandero arrived. The Minister of Education
brought grim news: Anibal Tabio had suffered a second stroke and was
dying.
"Where is Ansaldo?" Hall asked.
"He is still on the ranch of Gamburdo's brother. He is waiting for an
answer to his ultimatum. Don Anibal's condition is still a secret."
"But Esteban," Gonzales said, "we cannot keep it a secret. You will be
accused of murdering Don Anibal if Gamburdo finds out."
"I know. I've asked Segador to come. I wanted to bring Simon Tabio, but
he refuses to leave the room while his father still breathes. What do
you think, _Companero_ Hall? What is the first thing we have to do? By
the way, does the senorita speak Spanish?"
"No. I will tell her what she should know later."
"Is she reliable?"
"I hope to marry her--if I am alive in three weeks."
Jerry looked at Hall's face and blushed. "I'll bet you just told him
about us," she said.
"My felicitations," Lavandero said, in English. He gave her his hand.
"But with your permission, we must speak in Spanish."
Hall told Lavandero and Gonzales his plan about Havana. "I was going to
do it in any event if Duarte didn't hear from his friends in Mexico."
"But why Havana?"
"Because Havana was the base headquarters in the Western Hemisphere for
all Falangist work. The boys in the Casa de la Cultura and on the staff
of _Ahora_ worked with the Batista government to break it up. They
arrested the key leaders, but even though they had to let them go back
to Spain, they took their confidential files away from them."
"And you think that Ansaldo will turn up in these files?"
"It is something we must not overlook."
"There is someone at the door," Gonzales said. "Wait." He slipped the
safety of the automatic in his pocket, and went to the door with his
hand on the gun.
"Be tranquil," Gonzales announced. "It is Diego."
The Major Diego Segador who walked into the room was quite a different
creature from the mournful-visaged officer in the neat uniform Hall had
met at the barracks. He wore a gray civilian suit, whose jacket was at
least four sizes too small for his broad frame, yellow box-toe shoes and
an incongruous striped silk shirt. The discolored flat straw hat he
carried in his tremendous square hands completed the picture which
immediately came to Hall's mind: a vision of Diego Segador as a tough
steel-worker on a holiday in Youngstown, Ohio, during the twenties.
"You look," said Gonzales, "like a Gallego grocer on his way to High
Mass."
"That's enough," Lavandero said sharply, "Don Anibal is dying."
The blood rose to Segador's head. "No!" he shouted.
"Sit down, Diego."
Gonzales opened a cabinet and took out a bottle of brandy. He shouted to
the kitchen for his daughter to bring glasses.
"Major," Hall said, "this is Miss Olmstead."
"Hello," Segador said, in English. "You have close shave, no?"
All the men had brandy. Jerry merely looked at the bottle with great
longing.
"Well then, Diego," Lavandero said, "minutes count now. Hall has a plan.
It is a good one." He described it for the Major. "If he comes back with
pictures of Ansaldo in the uniform of the Falange, we will have to flood
the country with them. They will not look nice next to the pictures of
Ansaldo embracing Gamburdo, no?"
"They will look very nice--for us. But how is Hall going to get to
Havana?"
"By plane. Why?"
"Why? Because you are a marked man, Hall."
"Get me to the border, then. I'll get to Havana from across the border."
"Not on your passport," Segador said. "It is too risky. Tomas, you have
a passport, no? Never mind. All right, then, Hall. You go on a passport
made out to Vicente, but with your picture on it. I'll drive you north
by car. You board a plane in San Martin Province--there's one that meets
the Clipper for Miami. The mining men use it. You travel to Havana as
one of our nationals, one Emilio Vicente. Then the officials of your own
government in San Juan won't ..." He stopped suddenly, filled his glass
with brandy, and drank it in one short gulp.
"Out with it, Major," Hall said. "What are you hiding?"
"Hiding?"
"About me and my government?"
"Nothing. It's just that you are too well known as Matthew Hall. You are
known by face in San Juan. Perhaps, when you land there to refuel,
someone will recognize you. And then there will be trouble about your
Vicente passport. Perhaps--one cannot be too careful."
Hall knew that the Major was concealing something from him, something
that had to do with himself. He thought of his low standing at the
American Embassy, and of some of the fascists in high places he had
offended in San Juan. "Yes," he said, "I think you are right." This, he
decided, was not the time to start new trouble.
"No," Lavandero said, "it is no good. We shall need another passport for
_Companero_ Hall."
"How can we get it?" Segador asked. "There is no time."
"There is time," Lavandero said, evenly. "Duarte is preparing a passport
and papers for Hall. Diplomatic. He will travel as Victor Ortiz Tinoco,
official courier of the Mexican Government."
"When did he start on the papers?" Hall asked.
"A few hours ago. He thought you might want to make the trip."
"Why didn't you tell me before this?"
Lavandero's face softened. "My dear friend," he said, "what you are
undertaking is no minor task. The complications are enormous. If you are
caught, you face much legal trouble at the very least; death by
violence, if the fascists catch you first. You are under no obligations
to this Republic. I had to hear it from your lips first."
"When can I start?"
"In two hours. You will have to give me your passport, so that I may
have the picture copied for the Ortiz Tinoco papers. Segador's idea is
the right one. He will drive you to the San Martin airport tonight. The
Mexican Embassy is ordering the tickets. I will leave you with Gonzales
and Segador to work out the rest of the details."
"Good. Here is my passport."
"The Republic will always be grateful to you, _Companero_ Hall."
Lavandero stood up and started for the door. Hall accompanied him.
"Well," Hall said, "I'll try to get back within the week--if I'm lucky."
He held out his hand to the Minister.
"Thank you, _companero_." Lavandero raised his arms to Hall's shoulders
and embraced him. "You were worthy of his trust."
"And you of his love," Hall answered. He was sorry for Lavandero, sorry
for him as a friend, as a man, as a leader so intent on answering his
responsibilities to his moment in history that he had to allow his own
personal rages to simmer unattended within him until there again came a
time when a man could walk off alone and be his own master.
"I will see you in a week, _companero_."
Hall walked back to the living room. Segador was trying to convey to
Jerry his impressions of Atlantic City in 1919. "Womans _bonitas_," he
was shouting, "whisky bad. Much bad. I have young years, much money.
Well, well. So."
"We'll listen to your memoirs when I get back," Hall said.
"When we get back," Segador said.
"You're coming with me?"
"I'm meeting you on your way back. We'll meet in Caracas. Listen to me,
_companero_. The chief of our Air Force is loyal. He will give me one of
our American bombers. From the San Martin airport, a bomber can make
Caracas in fifteen hours. Give me ten hours' notice, and I will meet you
in time. I already have a loyal flying crew standing by for my orders."
"Where can we meet in Caracas?"
"At the airport. I can meet your plane."
"Won't you be followed?"
"Of course. By three or four of my picked men. Don't worry about that."
Gonzales interrupted to say that there would be time for them to have
dinner at the house before starting on the drive north.
"Oh, while we're at it," Hall said, "I am going to ask you to be good
enough to keep my _novia_ here until I return. That is, if Segador
thinks it is safe."
"It is safe," the Major grunted. "We will make it safe."
"Then it is the privilege of my daughter and myself to make this house
the senorita's for a century." Gonzales called his daughter in from the
kitchen. "It will be very good for her, _amigos_. Maria Luisa is
studying English in high school. It will help her greatly."
"Let her teach Jerry Spanish in a week," Hall said.
The girl seemed pleased when her father told her about Jerry. "Oh,
nice," she said, trying out her English immediately. "You are very
welcome, Aunt. The pleasure it is all of mine."
"You are very kind," Jerry said.
"Please. May I show you the room? There are five rooms upstairs in my
father's house. Your room faces the ..." She paused, flustered, turned
to Hall. "_Como se dice, por favor, frente con vista al mar?_"
"Tell her that her room _faces the ocean front_, Maria Luisa. And teach
her two words of Spanish for every word you learn from her."
"Let's go," Jerry said to the girl. "Vamoose _arriba, si_?"
"Under no circumstances," Segador said when the girls were gone, "must
you attempt to come back by regular routes. If anything happens to me,
wait at the border. Get to Santiago by plane, and wait in the big hotel
for word from us."
"How bad is it for me?"
"Who knows? The fascists are mother-raping bastards, but they are no
donkeys. Today they must be looking for you in San Hermano. In a few
hours, they will begin to worry. Tomorrow they will become upset because
you are gone, and by tomorrow night they will turn the whole Cross and
Sword gang loose to look for you. But by tomorrow night, if all goes
well, and if that madman of a Duarte doesn't try to drive the car
himself but brings his driver along, you will be in Havana.
"Of course," Segador said, "we will do everything we can to end the
hunt. But we can only do the usual things. Perhaps we will identify the
body of some poor Hermanito who gets killed by a car as Matthew Hall.
Give me some papers, by the way; we'll need them if we can get the right
body."
"Lavandero has my American passport. And here's my wallet. That's good
enough." Hall took the three photos out of the wallet. "The pictures are
for her--if I don't come back."
"And the money?"
Hall flipped his fingers through the eight hundred-odd dollars worth of
travelers' checks. "I'd better sign these, just in case," he said. "I
want you to split it between Pepe Delgado and Emilio Vicente."
"I understand," Segador said. "Duarte is bringing some money for you to
travel on."
"I'll repay him when I return. Is there anything else I should know? I
have to write a letter. Have you any paper, doctor?"
"In a moment."
"Just a few things," Segador said. "A simple code for sending messages
to us." He explained the code system in a few minutes. "And one other
thing. I have the pictures we took of that Nazi Vicente shot; pictures
of his face and his fingerprints. We will seal them in the pouch you are
carrying. Perhaps you can identify it in Havana somehow."
"I will try. Ah, thanks for the paper. This will take me only a few
minutes." Hall propped the writing pad on his lap and wrote a short note
to his attorney in New York.
"Well, this is it," he wrote, "and I'll be more surprised than you are
if you ever receive this letter. I'm about to leave this country on what
might turn out to be a one-way trip to the grave. If I don't come back,
this letter is to be sent to you. It's about my will. I still want the
dough to go to the Spanish refugees and the veterans of the
International Brigades, but I want to lop off about a quarter of the
total in the bank and due me from Bird and leave it for Miss Geraldine
Olmstead. She is an American citizen and, if you hadn't received this
note, would by now be Mrs. H. When you meet her, introduce her to my
friends and take her around to the Committee; she wants to help the
Spanish Republicans. If I really thought this was my last trip, I guess
I'd close this letter with some appropriate and high-sounding last
lines--you know, the kind of crap a guy would write as the lead for his
own obit. But we'll skip the farewell address. This letter is being
witnessed by two good friends, one a doctor and the other a major in
this country. I guess that makes it legal."
Hall signed the letter, told Gonzales and Segador what he wanted done
with it, and handed them the pen. "How much time do we have?" he asked.
"You will have to leave in less than two hours," Segador said. "Duarte
will be here long before then."
"Good." Hall looked at his watch. "I would like to see the girl alone in
her room for a while. There is much that I must tell her before I go."
"I understand," Segador said.
"Are you making the trip to San Martin with me?"
"No. I will only ride the first twenty miles with you. I have a car
waiting for me at Marao."
Hall waited for Gonzales to call his daughter, and then he went up to
Jerry's room.
_Chapter fifteen_
Hall had time to buy a paper at the Havana airport before the Panair bus
started out for the city. In the half-light of evening, he could read
only the headlines, and the front page carried nothing about Tabio's
condition. It meant only one thing, that Don Anibal was still alive. His
death would have rated a banner headline in every paper published south
of the United States borders.
He folded the paper under his sealed attache case, sat wearily back in
his seat as the half-empty bus rolled through the flat table lands
between the airport and Havana. It was a run of fifteen miles from
Rancho Boyeros to the Prado, a stretch long enough to give Hall another
opportunity to review in his mind the nature of the tasks that lay ahead
of him.
Physically, there were few details which could trap him. Duarte had been
very thorough, even to the point of bringing Mexican labels for Jerry to
sew into every item of apparel on Hall's body and in his Mexican leather
grip. The credentials in his worn Mexican wallet had carried him through
the control stations of four governments, including the station in San
Juan (although the night in Puerto Rico had been a jittery twelve hours
of sulking in his room like a caged animal). He wore a hat and a pair of
soft ankle boots which belonged to Duarte, and a pair of broad-framed
tortoise-shell reading glasses he had borrowed from Dr. Gonzales. The
attache case, protected by the Mexican seal, contained the pictures of
Androtten, a letter from Duarte to a man named Figueroa in the Mexican
Embassy, and the automatic Segador had given him the day after he was
drugged.
It was too late to report to the Mexican Embassy and deliver the letter
to Figueroa. But the Casa de la Cultura would be open (there were
lectures and meetings of some sort going on every night at the Spanish
Republican society), the boys on the staff of _Ahora_ would be at their
desks at the paper, and Colonel Lobo could always be reached within a
few hours. The idea was to contact all three tonight; if the documentary
bomb which would blow up Ansaldo was anywhere in Havana, it would be
either at the Casa, the paper, or in the files of the Secret Police.
His heart quickened as the bus reached the narrow streets of Havana,
honked its way to the Maceo, and then turned lazily down the Prado. He
loved this city as he loved only two others, New York and Madrid. In the
course of nearly four decades, Hall had spent a mere four months in
Havana, but these were months in which he rarely got more than four
hours' sleep a night. He had worked hard in this city, but for a
hundred-odd nights he had also known the fantastic pleasures of merely
walking the streets of the Cuban capital, talking to friends, stopping
off to rest and have a tropical beer or a tall glass of mamey pulp,
getting drunk only on the green softness of the Havana moon and the cool
pleasures of the Gulf breeze. Here he had found old friends from Spain,
and made new and life-long friendships with a host of Cubans. He knew,
when he last left Havana, that the city had become one of his spiritual
homes, that always he would think of it as a place to which he could
return when he wanted the peace which comes to a man from being where he
belongs.
As they approached the Panair office, Hall became apprehensive. He was
afraid that he might be recognized by one of the clerks. He dug into his
wallet for an American two-dollar bill and handed it to the driver.
"Take me directly to the Jefferson Hotel, _chico_," he said. "It is only
two streets out of your way."
"I won't get shot if I do, _amigo_."
He chose the Jefferson because it was a small, ancient and very
unfashionable hotel, without a bar, and completely overlooked by the
American colony. It was also very inexpensive, just the kind of a place
a new courier, anxious to make a good record, would choose. It was on
the Prado, it was clean, and the bills were modest enough to reflect to
the credit of the government traveler who submitted them. Not the least
of its charms for Hall was that the Jefferson was the one place where he
stood not the slightest chance of being known by either the guests or
the employees.
He signed the register with a modest flourish, insisted upon and
obtained a reduced rate due to his standing as a courier, and then,
spotting the large safe in the office behind the counter, he asked for
the manager. "I am," he said, flourishing his identity papers, "a
courier of the Mexican Government. Since I have arrived too late to
present myself to my Embassy tonight, could I ask for the privilege of
depositing my case in your safe for the night?"
The manager said he would be honored to oblige. He had, he said,
traveled widely in Mexico, and admired the Mexican people, the Mexican
Government, and most of all Senor Ortiz Tinoco's Department of Foreign
Relations, and did the visitor expect to make frequent stops in Havana?
The visitor assured the manager that he did.
The case was handed to the night clerk, who opened the safe, deposited
it, and closed the heavy iron door. "It will be as safe," the manager
said, "as the gold in the teeth of a Gallego."
"That," said Hall, "is security enough for me."
He got into the rickety elevator and went to his room. It was a large
room overlooking the Prado. He opened the shutters, looked out at the
star-drenched skies. He was home again. Outside, juke boxes in three
different open cafes on one street were playing three records with
maximum volume. A baby in the next room was lying alone and cooing at
the ceiling. Near by, a light roused a rooster on some rooftop to let
out a loud call.
Hall heard the sounds of the city as they blended into the tone pattern
peculiarly Havana's own. He took a quick shower, changed into some fresh
clothes, and went downstairs to the Prado. He stopped first at a cigar
stand a few doors from the hotel, bought a handful of choice cigars, and
lit a long and very dark Partagas, being careful to remember that only
gringos removed the cigar band before lighting up.
He walked casually down the Prado, toward the Malecon, pausing in the
course of the four blocks between the Casa de la Cultura and the
Jefferson to study the stills in the lobby of a movie house showing an
American film, to sip a leisurely pot of coffee, and to buy a box of wax
matches and a lottery ticket from a street vendor. From the street, he
could see that the windows of the Casa were well lighted. He walked
another block, crossed the street, and then, very casually, he studied
the signs on the street entrance to the organization's headquarters.
_Tonight: Lecture on History of Music by Professor A. Vasquez. Dance and
ball for young people._ And why shouldn't a bachelor courier on the
loose in Havana attend a dance for the young _refugiados_? He went
through the motions of a visiting blade debating with himself the
propriety of attending such a ball.
Squaring his shoulders, the Mexican courier put the cigar in his mouth
and started to climb the stairs to the headquarters of the Casa. He
climbed slowly, afraid of receiving too enthusiastic a greeting when he
reached the first-floor landing.
There was a light in the small meeting room at the end of the corridor.
Hall stood near the door for a few minutes, listening for a familiar
voice through the opened transom. Then, carefully, he knocked, and
turned the handle of the door. It was open.
He stepped into a meeting of a small committee. Eight men were sitting
around a long table. They were talking about the problems of getting
help to the Spaniards in the French concentration camps in North Africa.
All discussion stopped the moment the confreres saw Hall.
"I am looking," he said, "for Santiago Iglesias."
A tawny-haired Spaniard at the table looked up. "_Viejo!_" he shouted,
springing from his chair and rushing over to confront Hall.
The right hand which rose to take the cigar from Hall's mouth also
lingered long enough to hold an admonishing finger to his lips. "Hello,
Rafael," he said. "I didn't know you were in Cuba."
Rafael was grinning like a Cheshire cat. "Neither did Franco," he
laughed. "Last week I found out for the first time that the fascists had
jailed you and that you got out after the war. I thought you were dead,
M..."
The look in Hall's eyes stopped him from pronouncing the rest of the
American's name.
"Let's go outside," Hall said, softly. "I do not have much time."
They stepped into the corridor. "Where can we talk?" Hall asked. "Is
anyone using Santiago's office?"
"No. We can sit there."
They found the office unoccupied. "Don't turn the light on," Hall said.
"The window faces the street."
Rafael locked the door, pulled two seats close to the big desk in the
corner. "We can sit here and talk quietly," he said.
"It's wonderful to see you, Rafael. I'd heard you were captured in a
hospital during the Ebro retreat."
"_Mierda!_ That's what the fascists boasted. No. I came out of the
retreat in good order. I started with thirty men, but, instead of taking
to the roads like the Lincolns, I started to cross the mountains. I went
up with thirty men, and I came down on the other side with a battalion.
Most of them got through alive after that."
"Good boy! Where have you been since then?"
"In hell!" Rafael spat, angrily. "Rotting in a French concentration
camp, mostly. I organized an escape. We killed six guards, and more than
twenty prisoners got away. I got to Casablanca through the underground,
and they put me on a Chilean ship. Two weeks ago we reached Havana. I'm
to eat and rest for a month. Then I go back to Spain for more fighting.
With the guerrillas. When did you get here?"
"An hour ago. Listen, I want to talk to you. But it is important that we
find Santiago. Is he in town?"
"Yes. He is supposed to be at our meeting. He'll be here."
"Can you go back and leave word for him to join you in here the minute
he comes? It's very important."
Rafael jumped from his chair, struck an absurd caricature of military
posture, and made a limp French salute, his hand resting languidly
against his ear. "_Mais oui, mon general_," he said. "_Mais oui, oui,
oui._" He marched stiffly out of the room, posing at the door to make an
obscene gesture meant for the men of Vichy.
He glided noiselessly back to the dark office in a few minutes, waved
Hall's proffered cigar away. "I can't smoke any more. We had nothing to
smoke the last year in Spain, and Monsieur Daladier and Company never
sent us any tobacco. Now I just can't stand it. I walk around Havana and
everyone offers me cigars, but I've lost my taste for it."
"It will come back, Rafael."
"Why are you in Havana, Mateo?"
"It is a long story, _chico_. I'd rather tell you in front of Santiago.
It's about Anibal Tabio. I left San Hermano two nights ago. Things are
serious, there. Falange."
"Is Tabio really so ill?"
"He is dying, _chico_. He may be dead by now. I think he was killed by
the Falange. I came here for the proof. Santiago knows. We've exchanged
letters."
"_Hola!_" Santiago Iglesias was at the door. "Then you got my letters?"
He was ten years older than Rafael, tall and powerfully built. He
crossed the room in long, athlete's strides, his head thrown back as if
to announce to the world that the white hairs which outnumbered the
black of his head were merely an accident of the war.
"I knew you would understand," Hall said.
"What happens?"
"Don Anibal is dying. I think Ansaldo did it."
"He is a fascist, Mateo. You were absolutely right."
"How do you know? I need the proof immediately."
"There is a man in town who was trapped behind Franco's lines for two
years. He knew Ansaldo well."
"That is good--for you and me. But it is not enough. There is too much
at stake."
"I guessed as much, Mateo. General Mogrado sent a message from Mexico
City a few days ago. He wanted the information also. I took this man in
Havana and we went to a lawyer and he made a long affidavit about
Ansaldo. Mogrado has the affidavit by this time."
"Who is this man? Is he well known?"
"No, Mateo. He was a minor official of the Ministry of Commerce. I have
a copy of his affidavit, and you can meet him tomorrow if you wish. He
is staying with relatives in Marianao."
"Let us try to see him tomorrow. But I need much more than his
affidavit. I need more than anything else a picture of Ansaldo in
Falange uniform, a picture that shows him with officers of Germany and
Italy. I was in Burgos when the picture was taken--and I have a feeling
that the picture is right here in Havana."
"Here? In Havana?"
"Listen, _companeros_. I saw the _Arriba_ man take that picture. I was
standing a hundred feet away. It was in the spring or summer of 1938,"
Hall said. "I know you have the complete file of _Arriba_ here."
"No, Mateo. We do not."
The blood left Hall's head. "You don't?" he said. "But when I was here
we ..."
"It is the complete file of _Arriba_ of Madrid since April of 1939,
Mateo. Since Franco entered Madrid, _amigo_."
"And before that?"
"There are some, but not a complete file. They have many fascist papers
at _Ahora_, and at the University there is Dr. Nazario with his personal
collection of fascist publications. It is very large, and it goes back
to 1935 in some cases, but it has many empty places."
"And the Secret Police? What has Colonel Lobo got?"
"Dossiers and documents. But papers--who knows?"
"I'll be back in Madrid in a month," Rafael said. "I can go back sooner
if it will help the cause, Mateo. There is surely a complete file
there."
"No, thank you, Rafael, but I need the picture in a few hours." He told
them why the pictures were needed, and how they would be used if he
could find them.
"Don't worry," Santiago said. "There are three collections to examine,
and in the meanwhile we might get some further clues from de Sola. He is
a very intelligent fellow. I'll put him to work on Dr. Nazario's
collection in the morning. Rafael, tonight you go to _Ahora_. Go through
their Spanish collection, and then examine their files of _Arriba_ of
Havana. The local _Arriba_ used more pictures than an American magazine,
and most of them came from Franco Spain. You'd better go right now."
"I'll be there in ten minutes. Shall I tell them what it's about,
Mateo?"
"No, I'll tell them myself. I'm here on false papers. Just warn them
that if they see me on the street I'm not to be recognized. But I'll see
them before I leave."
"I'm going to call Lobo," Hall said. "At the very least his dossiers are
more official than de Sola's affidavit."
Santiago shoved the phone toward Hall. "I was going to suggest it
myself. Do you remember the number?"
"Of course."
There was no answer at Lobo's house. Hall called the headquarters of the
National Police. "I want to reach Colonel Lobo," he said to the man who
answered his call.
"We no longer have a Colonel Lobo."
"What?"
"We have a General Lobo, senor."
"Where is he?"
"Who is this speaking?"
"Who am I?" Hall hesitated. "If he's there, just tell him it's Johnny
Verde Luna. He'll know who it is." Lobo called all Americans Johnny;
Verde Luna was a horse he and Hall had played for three straight weeks
at the Hipodromo until it romped home in front at the longest odds in
ten years.
"I will, Mr. Johnny Green Moon," the other man said, in English. "When I
see him tomorrow."
"I don't understand you, senor. I ..."
"He is not here, senor."
"I know. Don't tell me where he is. But do you know?"
"That depends."
"Listen to me, my friend," Hall said, his voice rising angrily, "I have
no time to play games. If you know where he is, find him and give him my
message. I'll call you every fifteen minutes until you get word from
him."
"Yes, senor. I will do what I can. Where can I call you?"
"Never mind. I will call you." Hall hung up. "A clown!" he muttered.
"I forgot to tell you that Lobo is now a general."
"When did it happen?"
"Last week. It came as a reward for breaking up the Pinar del Rio
Nazi-Falange ring. You know, the one that was in radio contact with the
German submarines."
"I remember it well." Hall had worked with Lobo in rooting the spy ring
out. "I wonder where the hell he is?"
"Who knows? But listen, Mateo, I know a man who knows all of Lobo's
hangouts. Suppose I send him out to look?"
"Excellent. Just tell him to give Lobo this message--that he is the only
man who can save the life of Don Anibal Tabio. Eh?"
"We'll try it. Wait here for me. I'll be right back."
Hall started to tell Santiago the whole story of his experiences in San
Hermano when the Spaniard returned to the office. As soon as he
mentioned the fact that Ansaldo's assistant Marina was a morphine
addict, Santiago interrupted him.
"_Hijo de la gran puta!_ I think I know him. Wait, I'll describe him. I
know him, all right, Mateo. Wait, I'll close the shutters. Then we can
turn on the light. I think I have his picture in this room."
"Who is he, Santiago?"
"Just a second. That's better." He turned on the small desk light.
"Let's go to the files."
The Spaniard took a set of keys from his pocket, opened a heavy door
behind the desk and snapped on the light in a small store room. He
stepped in front of a row of steel filing cabinets, opened one with
another key. "He used another name in Spain--and in Paris. I know it's
the same man. Called himself Marcelino Gassau in 1937. Wait. Here it
is."
"It's the _maricon_!" Hall cried when he saw the picture Santiago drew
from the file.
"I knew it."
Hall glanced at his watch. "Just a second. I'm going to call Lobo back.
It's time. Let's bring the whole file on the bastard out to the desk."
The man at police headquarters had no news of Lobo. "I'll call you
back," Hall said. "Keep trying him."
"So Gassau is your Marina," Santiago laughed. "We knew him well, the
_cabron_. He was working in Portugal and Berlin as a liaison between
Sanjurjo and von Faupel in 1935 and 1936. Then, when the war started, he
went to Paris, the coward, spying on the German anti-fascists who were
on their way to fight with the Thaelmanns in Spain. He posed as a
contact man for the U.G.T., and then he'd lead the Germans straight to
the French police and notify the German Embassy. Then the Nazis would
start to complain that they were criminals who escaped from German
prisons and claim them back. Not one of the poor devils ever got to
Spain, but some of them were ultimately turned over to the German
Government and killed. It's all in this file."
"What else can I find here?"
"Not too much. He made a trip to Barcelona in 1937. The authorities
arrested him, but his friends got the British consulate to make a
special plea for his release, and the damned fools gave in and let him
go. After that he went to Argentina, but he returned to Madrid in May of
1939."
The papers contained a detailed record of the fascist agent's crimes
against the Republic, and ended with a clipping from _Informaciones_ of
Madrid which revealed that Gassau-Marina was one of ten men to be
decorated by the Falangist Government for distinguished service during
the three years of the war. A footnote to this list said that
Gassau-Marina was one of the three men decorated that day who had
previously been awarded the Order of the German Eagle, Second Class, by
German Ambassador to Spain, General Wilhelm von Faupel.
"This will help," Hall said. "It's a good start."
"There's my phone. Just a minute." It was Rafael. He was calling from
the offices of _Ahora_, and he suggested that Santiago join him there.
"Let's go," Hall said. "Do we use separate cabs?"
"Don't be a child, Mateo. You're in Havana."
"I'd better check with police headquarters on Lobo before we leave."
They found Rafael in a tile-lined office on the second floor of the
newspaper building. He was sitting at a large table, three large piles
of fascist publications before him, and an opened copy of the Havana
_Arriba_ in his hands. "No luck yet," he said. "But Eduardo Sanchez had
an idea where the picture can be found."
"Where is he?"
"He's in there," Rafael pointed to a door. "He's digging out some more
magazines."
Sanchez walked in with an armload of bright-colored Havana _Arribas_.
"It's good to see you again, Mateo," he said. "What passes?"
"Trouble. How are you making out?"
"Who knows? Are you going to stay long?"
"I'm leaving tomorrow if I can get what I need."
"You say the picture would be in _Arriba_ for 1938?"
"If at all, Eduardo."
"That's serious. There is only one place in town where I know definitely
there is a complete file of _Arriba_. It might be a little hard to get
into."
"Where is it?"
"The third floor of the Spanish Embassy."
"That's bad," Hall said.
"Bad, yes," Santiago said. He put his arms over the shoulders of Rafael
and Eduardo. "But not hopeless, eh, _companeros_?"
Eduardo smiled, grimly. Rafael grinned, a sudden glint in his blue eyes.
"What do you think, Rafael?"
"I think we should shoot our way in, _mi coronel_."
"And you, Eduardo?"
"I don't know. If we shoot our way in, we have to shoot our way out
again too. Maybe we'll kill a few fascists, but will we be able to get
at their files?"
"It would do us good," Rafael said, "to kill ourselves a few fascists. I
think we are getting out of practice."
"Sit down," Santiago said. "This takes some planning. Mateo, you had
better tell Eduardo what is at stake."
"In a minute. I want some water. And I'd better phone Lobo's
headquarters again."
"Use this phone," Eduardo said. "I'll bring you water." He took three
sheets of gray copy paper from his desk and fashioned a water cup. "We
can't get paper cups since Pearl Harbor."
"Listen to me," Santiago said. "There is a way we can kill two birds
with one stone. Eduardo, if Hall gets the picture, it kills Gamburdo and
the Falange in San Hermano. That's one bird."
"And the other?"
"The other, _companeros_, is Fernando Rivas."
"Rivas?" Eduardo's dark, good-looking face grew puzzled. "Is he in this
too?"
"Wait. I should bring _Companero_ Hall up to date. You don't know Rivas,
Mateo. He is a queer bird. He comes from a good Republican family in
Madrid. A very good family. Republican since before the First Republic.
This Rivas, this Fernando, he was good. Under Alfonso, he got a job in
the Foreign Office. They sent him to Havana as an attache in the
legation. Even then he was a good Republican. But something happened to
the man when the war started. He didn't fight for the fascists, but ..."
"Tell him about his wife," Rafael said.
"That's what I think did it. He had a British wife, and she had
high-life aspirations."
"I think I understand," Hall said.
"I don't have to go into the details. There is no time for that, anyway.
The point is that he had to go to Spain last year, and he came back
filled with loathing for everything he saw. This I know for a fact.
First, he started to sit home alone every night and get drunk, and then
he began to write a memoir about what he saw. He didn't think anyone
would ever see it. He still doesn't know that anyone but himself has
ever seen it. I got it from his servant one morning a few weeks ago. She
is one of ours. We photographed it and she put it back before he got
home that night."
Eduardo passed a box of inexpensive cigars around. "The week before
that," he said, "I ran into Rivas at a cafe in Matanzas. He was sobering
up after a drinking bout. I tried to avoid him but he followed me out of
the place. He was crying. He called himself a son of a whore mother and
a traitor to his honor and his people and carried on like a fool. Then
he started to tell me about his wife's lover--we've known all about that
for months, but Rivas had just found out--and I became filled with
disgust for the creature. I shook him off and left him standing in the
street crying like a whipped dog. I hate weaklings."
"I get it," Hall said. "But when you saw his diary, you started to
change your mind, eh?"
"I still don't trust him. I introduced him to Santiago because Santiago
wanted to meet him."
"I wouldn't trust him with Franco's daughter," Rafael said.
Santiago Iglesias sighed heavily. "No one asks you to sleep with him,
Rafael," he said. "It isn't that. But you remember what happened in the
early days of the war. We had to take any officer who swore loyalty to
the Republic. We had no choice in the matter, did we, _chico_?"
"But we also put in commissars to keep an eye on them."
"It's true, _chico_. But some of them proved to be really loyal, eh?"
"A handful."
"All right, even a handful. But the point is that they were useful. Here
is the situation as of tonight: if the pictures which will kill the
Falange in San Hermano are anywhere within our reach at all, they are in
the Spanish Embassy. We have no contact we can trust inside the Embassy.
The nearest thing to such a contact is Rivas. He is a weakling and he
was a traitor. We know that. What we don't know is whether his
repentance is sincere. The only way to really find out is to test the
man. This is the time to test him. I've spoken with him three times in
the past week. He begs for a chance to prove that he has the right to
serve the Republic again."
"He can serve the Republic best," Rafael insisted, "by blowing his
brains out."
"Rafael!"
"I'm sorry, Colonel Iglesias. I hate traitors."
"I don't love them, _chico_. But it is not for us to put our personal
likes and dislikes before our greater duties, Major. And please
remember," he added, smiling, "you still are a major in the People's
Army. Neither your commission nor your Army has expired yet."
"What do you want me to do?" Rafael asked, softly. "I will respect your
commands as my superior--and my friend."
Santiago toyed with a thick copy pencil. "I am going to put it to a vote
right here. Who is for getting Fernando Rivas to let us into the Spanish
Embassy and removing what we need from the files? Understand, we won't
tell him what we want in the files--that would be trusting him too much
before he proves himself. Who is for raiding the Embassy with the help
of Rivas? On this, Mateo, you will have to vote also."
Hall and Eduardo Sanchez raised their hands.
"Against?"
The three men looked at Rafael. He folded his hands in his lap,
ostentatiously studied the ceiling.
"Are you against the idea, Rafael?"
"I think it is crazy, Santiago. I am not afraid. I just think it is
crazy. Can't we get in without the traitor?"
"I don't know how," Santiago said. "I guess we'll have to try it without
you, Rafael."
"Over my dead body, my friend. I'm going with you. I've been wrong
before, but I've never avoided a battle. I'm not ducking this one,
Santiago."
Eduardo winked at Hall. "Listen to the strategist," he laughed, but
there was pride and real affection in his words. "Rafael," he said, "if
you didn't shoot so straight I'd say that you talk too damned much."
"Go to hell," Rafael said. "You're wasting good time. Let's finish
examining these fascist papers. Maybe we'll find the filthy picture
tonight in these piles, and then we won't have to risk three, no four,"
he looked at Hall, "four good Republican lives on the guts of a traitor.
Come on, Eduardo, get to work."
Hall motioned Santiago to the door. "Let's go around the corner," he
whispered, "and bring back a few bottles of Cristal."
They walked slowly to the _cantineria_ on the corner, had some beer, and
bought a dozen bottles to take back with them. Santiago said that he
hoped it would not be necessary to raid the Embassy without previously
testing Rivas on less hazardous tasks.
"Personally," he said, "I think Rivas is honest about wanting to come
back. I think he can be trusted if we have to do it with him. But it
might mean shooting, and you cannot afford to get shot. Perhaps you had
better not join us."
"No. Don't try to cut me out, _viejo_, or I'll do it alone with Rafael."
"All right. But I hope we find it before we have to raid the fascists."
They went upstairs. "Call Fabri at your office," Eduardo told Santiago.
"He says he has some good news for you."
"He must have found Lobo." Santiago was right. His man had reached the
General. "He says for you to meet him at headquarters in an hour. Fabri
found him at a party in Vedado. If I know Jaime Lobo, that means he will
actually be back in two hours. You've got plenty of time."
Eduardo took a bottle opener from his desk. "You'll get me in trouble,"
he said. "We're not allowed to drink in the office."
"Tell Escalante it was my fault," Hall laughed.
"You'd better sign a sworn statement."
"Tomorrow. Listen, Eduardo, there is something you must do for me.
Santiago has a file on a man named Marcelino Gassau. I want the whole
thing copied on microfilm, four negatives of everything in the file. Can
you have it done in your dark room tomorrow morning?"
"Consider it done, Mateo."
Rafael drank his beer and cursed the magazines for not having the
pictures of Ansaldo that Hall wanted. "Let's get back to work," he said,
impatiently. "Let's find the damned pictures if they're here."
Hall and Santiago sat down at the desk and started to go through
individual issues of various fascist publications for the year 1938.
While they worked, Hall asked Santiago if he knew the Figueroa whom he
had to see in the Mexican Embassy.
"He is a friend," the Spaniard said. "He is completely reliable. He will
do anything you ask within reason--and nearly anything that is without
reason at all."
None of the men found the photo Hall was seeking by the time he was
ready to leave for General Lobo's headquarters. "I'll get you a taxi,"
Eduardo said. "You can take a look at the AP ticker in the wire room in
the meanwhile. There might be some news on Tabio's condition."
The wires reported that Tabio still breathed.
* * * * *
It was nearly midnight when Hall crossed the threshold of the brooding
stone building that was Secret Police Headquarters. Like all police
headquarters the world over, this one also smelled faintly of carbolic
and damp stone, a stench Hall had grown to detest in San Sebastian. He
walked briskly down the dark corridor which led to Lobo's office.
A young lieutenant was sitting at the desk in the anteroom. "Mr. Johnny
Green Moon?" he asked, grinning.
"Hello," Hall laughed. "You still here?"
"Just a second." The lieutenant pressed a button on his desk. There was
a click in the electric door stop of the massive oak and iron door
behind the desk. "Go right in, Mr. Green Moon."
Hall pushed the door open, stepped into the Spartan simplicity of Lobo's
private office, and quickly shut out the smell of carbolic by slamming
the door behind him. Lobo, who had equally good reasons for hating that
odor, had installed an American air-cleaning system in his own office.
The young general--he was about three years younger than Hall--was
sitting at his tremendous carved desk and studying some papers.
"Johnny!" he shouted. "_Que tal?_" He was wearing a very formal white
dress uniform heavy with medals and gold braid.
"Hello, Jaime," Hall said. "You look like an American Christmas tree."
"Johnny, you dog! You took me away from a most beautiful reception."
"Beautiful?"
"A dream. Unbelievable! Four and twenty blonde Vassar girls dancing
around Lobo and wondering out loud if the handsome spik speaks English.
Sensational!"
Hall had to laugh with the general. He could easily picture the effect
of Jaime Lobo's towering dark attractiveness--more than once in the
United States Hollywood talent scouts had begged him to sign
contracts--in the eyes of the American women one could find at a lavish
reception in Havana. "An American sugar king's party?"
"No. The British business colony. It was stupendous." Lobo had lived in
the United States for five years, got a great kick out of scattering the
superlatives of Hollywood in his speech when he spoke English.
"O.K.," Hall said, dryly. "It was super-colossal." He sat down in the
large armchair at the side of the desk, helped himself to one of Lobo's
cigars.
"So you don't want to play," Lobo said, sobering and taking his own
seat.
"Some other time, Jaime."
"Sounds bad, keed. But tell me, Johnny, is it true that Don Anibal is
dying?"
"He may be dead by now."
"Ansaldo killed him?"