David Hatton, who had found some reason to be going to Eire, travelled with Eve on the aeroplane from England. He felt it necessary to reinforce in a low voice what Janet McKenzie had impressed upon her many times. ‘You don’t know Spain; you don’t understand any of the languages, but you will pick up useful phrases as any visitor would, and you go about with a little English / Spanish dictionary in your pocket.’
She gave him an arch expression, and said in the languid, amused tone she had adopted, ‘David, darling, I shouldn’t dream of mistreating any pocket of mine… you see?’ And slipping a hand into a fine leather pochette, she retrieved a slim volume, and a pair of fine gold-rimmed glasses, which she donned, turning to look directly at him.
He raised his eyebrows and gave her a pleased look. ‘Is this another of Phoebe’s ideas?’
‘Actually, no. I do have a minor defect, so these are perfectly genuine.’
‘Whoever said “Men seldom make passes / At girls who wear glasses” was an idiot. You look stunning.’ He put his hand over hers and squeezed it in a friendly way, so that she didn’t retreat from it immediately.
‘David, please tell me what happened about Dunkirk.’ Even as she had been leaving for Eire, she had seen in the newspaper the first of Portsmouth’s “little boats” returning from France with troops who had retreated as far as possible so that there was only sea left behind them. ‘How will I know…?’
‘Pick up what you can. You are too much of a spoiled society lady to care much about some little battle that’s hundreds of kilometres away. You’ll be asked whether you would like morning papers with your breakfast. If you just say OK, you’ll get something, but days late because the English papers have to be flown in. Just don’t read them avidly.’
‘I’m well aware that “the devil is in the detail” – Peter Follis hammered that into me.’
‘Madrid will be buzzing with regular SIS agents. If you think you spot any of them, report to Electra.’
Electra would be stationed in Eire for the duration of the Windsor surveillance operation. She would be Eve, DB and Paul’s ‘Aunt Maureen’, to whom Eve would book regular calls.
‘I have a wager with a chap in MI6 that we could run one of ours right under their noses and they would never know who it was. So I’m relying on you.’
‘You really are all just a bunch of schoolboys.’
‘I wish I were coming with you. I’d love to see the place now. Take me a lot of photographs.’
He walked with her to the steps of the Lisbon plane. ‘I wouldn’t dream of wishing you good luck. You’ll be too good to need it.’
She kissed him lightly on both cheeks in the French style, then ran the tips of her calf-clad fingers lightly from his ear to his chin. ‘Thank you, David darling.’ And then in a whisper, ‘Just you get Electra to tell me about Dunkirk – not the full story, just about how it went for us.’
As she boarded the aircraft, she could have staked anything that his eyes would be following her silk-stockinged ankles, high-heeled court shoes and peach-coloured barathea skirt as she mounted the steps. She gave him the whole film-star departure, and loved it. Just as she reached the top of the steps, she turned and waved a fingertip kiss at him. He touched the peak of his uniform cap and left.
He was more handsome now than when they’d first met five years ago. On the flight, she allowed herself to think a little about him. It was weeks since she had made love. She still wondered what it would be like with him.
Waiting for her at Lisbon was a highly polished motor, an enormous Buick convertible, cream with green trim and crimson upholstery, huge chrome headlamps and foglights. A real motor – but with a false chauffeur: Mendoza. He was Portuguese, and one of Colonel Faludi’s ‘people’ who had had experience in some other branch of the service. He was Eve’s senior, and she supposed that he would also be advising the Chief on how she performed.
She felt nervous. Her hands were cold and shaking; she stilled them by holding tightly to her clutch bag tucked under her arm.
Keef and Phoebe had kept saying that it would be a pretty safe operation. Spain was a neutral country where warring countries could mix and watch one another.
Of course, if the new right-wing government were to enter the war, it would be on Germany’s side. But it wasn’t likely, as the last thing this country needed after its own devastating civil conflict was another drain on its resources. And the people? Franco’s government might support the fascist side, but what sort of army could Spain recruit? Concentration camps were full of men and women who had fought to hang on to their republic. Many had fled the country or been killed in a bloodbath of cleansing the new state of opposition. Thousands just kept their heads down but would be loose cannon in this war between Britain and Germany.
Spain wasn’t going to war with anybody.
As Switzerland had proved in the last war, neutrality had value which Spain needed for its restoration. This was how it was possible for Eve to be able to enter the country and travel in it – provided she had good credentials. She had Southern Irish papers; Eire was no friend of the British. Her documents were false – but perfectly false. Who would question that she was not Eve Anders, the young woman who had been born in Eire and brought up in England but had returned home at the start of the war? Eire was in much the same state as Spain: its own civil war had left it spinning. Eve Anders, whose photograph was fixed and certified on her passport, would bring welcome currency to Spain. Pounds, punts, dollars – she could pay in any of them. Even so, she was apprehensive.
True, her appearance was changed, but Janet had advised keeping her name.
True, she would be moving in high society, mixing with those who had been in exile during the war.
True, most of the Spanish people she had met on a regular basis never knew her name – often she’d been called the American Girl – but throughout the war there had been what General Franco had named his ‘fifth column’, meaning those who were loyally awaiting the overturning of the Republic. If they were discovered, they ‘disappeared’. In the new Spain, tables were turned, old scores were being settled.
There was always the chance that some small thing might give her away. It was the risk she must take. Peter Follis had said that the better the actor the worse were the butterflies in their stomach, sometimes retching right up to the time when they stepped into the spotlight. She hoped he was right, but it didn’t feel like it at the moment.
‘You are comfortable, Miss Anders?’
‘Thank you, Mendoza, yes. But I would like to have the top down.’
‘It will be windy.’
‘I know.’
It was windy, but with a scarf round her head, Eve luxuriated in the extravagant motorcar.
‘It is a long drive. I will stop at suitable places for you to have refreshment and walk a little.’
This he did. From the way he was greeted, Eve guessed that he knew the inns very well. Always polite, always the servant, he left her at small tables to be attended by the owner, and conducted to the primitive ‘facilities’ by the wife or daughter.
It was a long journey but Mendoza was adamant that he was not fatigued. ‘You must not concern yourself, madam.’ The only time that either of them relaxed role was when he said, ‘When we reach the border, I will deal with the guards.’
Eve was following their route on a map and knew that they were nearing the border with Spain. She began to feel almost sick with apprehension. Perhaps he sensed that.
He pulled into the side of the road and got out. ‘I have café au lait in a vacuum flask. I think you would like some?’
It was here for a few minutes that their roles reversed. Removing his peaked cap, Mendoza poured two beakers of coffee. If he had looked forty in his cap, now, with very black hair receding on both sides of his head, he appeared to be nearer fifty. ‘The border is no more than three kilometres ahead, Miss Anders. There should be no problems, but this is how we will do it. I shall open your door for you, you do not get out. The guards ask for the papers, I shall interpret for you. You do not get out, you hand me your papers and I shall give them to the guards.’
‘OK.’
‘Border guards have boring work, and they sometimes like to make their work appear important. However, they will find a beautiful woman more interesting than her papers; these are perfectly good, but if they ask too many questions, you may get out of the motor to walk around a little. Their eyes will follow you. You understand?’
‘A bit of silk stocking?’ she smiled. He did not. It had worked for Mata Hari, the famous seductress / spy of the last war, but she had gone a great deal further than a bit of silk stocking; in bed with the enemy, she was supposed to have beguiled secrets from them.
‘Never address your chauffeur as “mister” or “señor”. We are a little at ease here for a few minutes, but we are not social equals, ever. Assistance from a chauffeur is taken for granted, at the most a nod of acceptance, no more than that.’
‘Thank you.’
‘If you wish, maybe you should call me by my given name. It will serve the purpose in all circumstances. My name is—’ The pronunciation he gave was ‘Heysoos’.
Eve repeated it. ‘Isn’t that Jesus?’
‘It is.’
‘I have never known anyone with that name, except in the Bible. Isn’t it a responsibility… I mean a kind of burden?’
‘No, Miss Anders, it isn’t so unusual in my culture. The Christchild wasn’t the first Jesus, and there are many, many Marias.’
‘Actually, I like the name as you say it – Heysoos.’
He stood up, replaced his cap and his seniority dropped away.
They entered Spain without incident.
In the sun, the Ritz’s terracotta fagade was impressive. Domed and balustraded, the hotel glowed in pale blue neon. Mendoza brought the motorcar to a halt, opened the door for Eve, then a uniformed doorman conducted her inside. Mendoza, with a porter on board, drove off to where the expensive luggage could be off-loaded.
Eve was surprised at how quickly the hotel had recovered from its wartime experiences, ready to welcome the return of patrons who had not ventured into the country until the General was safely installed.
Mendoza and the car disappeared and suddenly Eve was on her own, floating free. Her anxiety disappeared. The rush of adrenalin was something she recognised and welcomed. It made her alert and quick-thinking, and gave her the stimulus she loved. Eager, and in love with life. She was determined to work as much as she was able without the car, without Mendoza around. Peter had been right: her butterflies disappeared, but she remained tense and alert.
The well-turned-out manager appeared, expressing his pleasure. ‘Allow me to attend to you myself.’ He beckoned the reception clerk, who dealt quickly with Eve’s papers.
‘I shall conduct you to your suite, madame.’ He led the way. ‘As you requested, we have provided for you a personal maid, Nati, who has very good English. In the past, she was a tutor in department of languages.’
‘Why would she leave a good post like that?’
‘Since our recent difficulties, there are some things no longer quite as before.’
Eve said, ‘Oh, really?’ with convincing disinterest. Then, giving him a coy look: ‘Gracias.’
‘Ah, you speak our language?’
With a touch of silly affectation she gave him a smile. ‘I have a few words, and I have a dear little dictionary in my bag.’
With urbane graciousness, he asked, ‘May I ask what is the second word madame has learned?’
‘Por favor.’ She pronounced it ‘favour’. ‘Is that right?’
‘Almost, almost, madame – ff-vor.’
She repeated the word.
‘That is very good, madame. Perhaps you will like for the maid to help you learn a little more.’
‘Well, gracias, senior,’ She made a show of being pleased with herself. ‘What is your name?’
‘Ah, madame, my name is my burden. It is Quixote.’
A little pause. ‘Why is Ke-hotay a burden?’
‘Quixote is the hero of a book, who, with his servant Sancho Panza—’
‘Oh, you mean The Man of La Mancha! I just loved that book as a child. I always thought he was called ‘Quicksote’.’
He was all affability. ‘You see, madame, now you learned a little more of our language.’
A mental image flared in her mind of the blue fields of La Mancha, and the smell of lavender. In a second she had doused that little flame of memory.
The manager opened the door with a flourish appropriate to Eve Anders’ accommodation. ‘Your suite, madame.’
‘It’s delightful.’ She went to the balcony where there were loungers, and a small table under a deep awning. In direct line of sight was another hotel, equally splendid and restored. She gave it no more than a passing glance although she knew from her briefing that it was likely to be a source of great interest to her. The Hotel Royale was the preferred hotel of German officials.
Within the sitting room, Quixote was giving orders which were acknowledged in a woman’s voice: ‘Si, señor’, ‘Lo comprendo, señor,’ ‘Si, señor.’ The voice was quiet and cultured, and had what Eve thought were the accents of a Catalan. When she withdrew from the balcony, Quixote was standing waiting with a woman who could have been any age. Her face had the exhausted look that Eve herself had had when she’d first arrived in Australia, and there were a few grey streaks in her hair, but her chin and neck were still firm, indicating she was probably no more than thirty. She wore the neat uniform of a maid and held a folded towel over her arm.
‘Madame, this is Nati.’
Nati gave a little bob of acknowledgement. There must be thousands of such women, Eve thought, now being knocked into a post-war humble shape.
Eve nodded her acceptance of Nati through Quixote. ‘She can begin with my trunks straightaway and pressing any creased garments.’
Nati nodded and disappeared.
‘She understood that OK.’
‘You will find her very useful, madame.’
At last left alone, Eve poured a glass of fresh, chilled citrus juice and carried it to the balcony. The sun was well up but the awning shed a restful light. A radio that had been broadcasting classical guitar music now turned to news items, mostly concerning Spain’s internal affairs, but there was an item concerning France which, it was said, would capitulate to Germany at any time. She would have liked to order her car to be sent for so that she could talk to Mendoza, but having just arrived she couldn’t do that. ‘Nati.’ Nati appeared, ‘Señorita?’
Eve was glad not to be addressed as ‘madame’. ‘Run me a cool bath and lay out some cream linen slacks and a short-sleeved jacket which you will find in my trunk.’
‘Si, señorita. Do you like bath salts?’
‘Thank you – gracias, Nati.’
‘Undergarments, señorita?’
‘Anything you like.’
‘The temperature is rising very much. Cotton would be best for you. Your country is cold?’
‘Not in summer, but there are summer rains.’ Nati nodded and disappeared, and Eve heard water thundering into the deep bath and smelled the evocative scent of oil of lavender. Having soaked for half an hour or so, she put on a cotton wrap and dark glasses and went back to sit in the shade of the green awning. At once her attention was caught by a flurry of activity outside the Hotel Royale. Three black, highly waxed long-bonneted limousines drew up and were immediately attended by the equivalent of Quixote and the rest of the other hotel’s special guest entourage.
Her weeks of training held her in her relaxed pose; she might have been asleep for all the movement she made. But her eyes were open and her brain was active and memorising the men and the order in which they emerged from the motorcars. The first three were in formal but lightweight suits, the cloth of which, Eve guessed, contained a high proportion of silk. At this distance she could not see detail, but the high old-fashioned collars of the shirts were those favoured by well-off Germans – as were the motorcars.
The passengers of motors two and three were splendid in uniforms of dark blue and of grey. Flash illustrations of German military insignia memorised at Ryde told her that one was a general, one a navy commander, and four of lesser rank whose insignia were too far away to be certain.
She thought that this was something worth reporting to Electra, added to which she wanted to test her line of communication with ‘Aunt Maureen’. She called the hotel exchange to book a line. When one became available she stood back in the darkened interior of her sitting room and watched the Hotel Royale whilst she told Electra that she had arrived safely and that the hotel was very satisfactory.
‘I’m just sitting around on my balcony wearing only the smell of soap and Chanel, watching the world go by… Of course I’m wearing a bathrobe, you are funny… No, nothing of interest, just the odd cat and dog, and some very posh soldiers… How should I know what rank?… Very high, I should say – lovely military caps, grey and very shiny peaks… I’m not out here to find a husband, I’m here to do my book. Actually, I was more interested in the lovely cars…’
That banal conversation should have satisfied any eavesdropper of her bona fides. She hooked the earpiece on its holder and went back to her chair on the balcony.
Dressed for the part with flat shoes and carrying a camera, Eve spent the latter, and cooler, part of her first day exploring the area surrounding the hotel. It was so strange being here again, seeing the city from a new perspective, walking the streets instead of manoeuvring a big truck through them. Inside the hotel there was an atmosphere of quiet luxury – easy to be seduced into the life.
At dinner Eve chose a table where she could watch who came and went in the dining room, without being easily seen herself. As far as she could tell, the guests were mostly Spanish, a few Portuguese and an aristocratic-looking Frenchman. If there were SIS agents here, she couldn’t pick them out. David had said that it wasn’t likely that there would be. But how would David know? The regular secret services, being suspicious of The Bureau and its radical methods, weren’t likely to jeopardise their own operations because of some mistake made by a raw recruit to the maverick branch. That Winston Churchill had seen the success of irregular agents used by the Boers did nothing to recommend The Bureau and its special operatives to MI5 and MI6.
Eve spent an hour in the lounge, reading a novel and sipping a brandy with ice, a mix which made the waiter assume that she was American, then went to bed feeling tired, but did not sleep well – her mind working on dreams of being suddenly naked in a well-dressed crowd.
The next two days went well. She settled into the routine of the hotel, the food and wine were good, the waiters attentive. If she would be remembered by anyone, it would more likely to be by kitchen and domestic staff.
The third day was hot well before noon, so she bathed and sat on the balcony wearing a headscarf and beach-wrap and a pair of dark sunglasses. She had had another bad night when she had even more vivid dreams of being seated at dinner and the whole restaurant erupting in laughter at her nakedness except for custard dripping from her face. She had called Electra, who wasn’t much comfort. ‘Egg on your face, Eve. Don’t let it worry you, I never do.’
What happened while she was sitting there was a bit unnerving. A sporty motorcar was driven slowly past the two hotels a couple of times, and was then parked a hundred yards or so past the entrance to the Hotel Royale. A woman wearing very dark sunglasses and in a dark dress, with a kerchief tied loosely around her head and neck, got out of the driver’s seat and leaned against the bonnet. After a minute she lit up a cigarette. After another minute, propped against the wheel-guard, smoking her cigarette, the woman reached into the glove-compartment, brought out a large hand-held camera, and took several shots of the Ritz, including where Eve was seated basking in the sun. Eve remained in her dozing position until the woman drove off. It was easy to misread situations. Perhaps the woman was a journalist? Tourist?
Eve dismissed the incident from her mind until late that evening when Nati brought up a large envelope on which was written ‘By Hand. Miss Anders, Ritz Hotel’.
What the envelope contained was quite chilling: an enlargement of a section of photograph obviously taken by the woman in the sports car. It might have been a photo of anyone. But not anywhere. In one corner was a small portion of the distinctive entrance to the Madrid Ritz. Eve turned the picture over. ‘There is a little-known but delightful English tearoom (it is no longer known by its old name) in Montefiore Square, close to a very photogenic little church. 16.00 hrs is a good time to be there. Perhaps tomorrow? Un-English street tables in shade.’ There was not even an initial, and the handwriting was not familiar. Eve ordered Mendoza to bring the car round early in the morning.
Oddly enough, that night she slept soundly.
Mendoza examined the photo and the message.
‘Were you aware that this was being taken?’
‘Yes, by a woman. I had a moment of wondering if it was me she was photographing, but then I thought I was being paranoid.’
They had driven well out of the city and had stopped where it was quiet. He had brought iced limonada, which Eve drank gratefully as the sun was already up and drying. ‘There is little between suspicion and paranoia, Miss Anders,’ Mendoza smiled. ‘One doesn’t need to look under the bed at night, but it is reassuring to know that there is no one there.’ He smiled.
‘I’ll remember that.’
Tapping the photo he asked, ‘What did she look like?’
‘About my height, quite elegant in her movements – no, not elegant, I’d say languid. What I mean is that she wasn’t surreptitious. Dark frock – probably green. She lit one cigarette from another. A large wristwatch on her right hand – could be a man’s watch. The headscarf she wore was tied loosely under the chin as an English woman walking her dogs would; probably not American, they usually tie at the back of the neck… certainly not tightly under the chin as Spanish women do. I think the car was an Espanol Suissa. I couldn’t see the registration number. I think the car was wine-coloured.’
‘Not green, and you are not colour-blind?’
‘No, I’m not. But I was wearing dark glasses. And I could hardly take them off once she started taking photos.’
He nodded. ‘So I am to take you to Montefiore Square.’
‘Yes.’ Not what he said, but his tone made Eve feel tetchy. ‘That’s all right with you, isn’t it?’
‘This is your operation,’ he smiled. ‘I go with you for the ride.’
‘I’m going to take Nati. So please turn round and tell them to send her down.’
‘Why?’
She was feeling edgy and uncertain; couldn’t interpret Mendoza’s mood. Perhaps because she had spent too little time with him. He shouldn’t have asked her ‘Why?’ This was her operation.
‘She could be very useful. She speaks good English and I am supposed not to understand Spanish, so I want to take her about with me as my interpreter. How honestly she interprets will show how far I can trust her. If you take her round to the kitchens or whatever servants are supposed to do whilst they are waiting around, it will give you a chance to talk to her, see if she tells you the same as she has told me.’
‘Which is what?’
‘Nothing much.’
‘You don’t trust her?’
‘I don’t trust anybody.’
He looked at her briefly as he turned the car, and smiled. ‘That is the first rule of secret work.’
Mendoza knew Montefiore Square.
‘Will you please stop the car right here, bring my photographic equipment and follow me? Nati, you stay where you are.’ As Eve stepped out, the heat rose up from the stones and hit her a blow that was almost physical, only deflected by the shade of an ancient fig tree. When Mendoza reached where she stood looking up into the dark green canopy, she almost snatched one of the bags from him and began to adjust the mechanism without looking in his direction.
He started to say something but she stopped him. ‘Just shut up and listen… please. Now, d’you see that car? That’s the woman’s car or its twin.’
‘It is not a very feminine motor, not at all a lady’s choice.’
‘Really? It could be my choice. Maybe you don’t know modern women, Mendoza.’
‘True, madame.’
Mendoza was beginning to irritate her. She had met the type on too many occasions: put a woman in even a slightly elevated position and they couldn’t deal with it. He might be her superior within The Bureau, but he didn’t like the reality of taking orders from a woman.
There were few people at the outside tables, which wasn’t surprising as it was hardly out of siesta time and shops were only just opening up. So Eve chose a table where no one could come and sit behind her. The buttoned chintz-covered cushions on the rattan chairs were warm and had probably been in use since the days when English tourists frequented Madrid. A waiter, with black hair taken straight back and slick with oil, came and said ‘Señorita, you lake to order tea?’ His attempt at a man’s hairdo made him appear younger than the boy he still was.
‘You speak English.’
‘I am learning, madame. If you will order in English, por favor, it will be bad for me… Sorry, señorita, will be good for me. I am Jose. English is Joe.’
‘All right, Joe, what shall I have?’
‘You lake Earl Gay? We have him, also teacake, also Shelsea bun, also fruity cakes in slices, also small pretty cakes in papers. You understand OK?’
‘Absolutely, I do. Small pretty cakes in English are ‘iced fancies’.’
‘Si, madame, iced fantasies white and…?’
‘Pink?’
‘Si, señorita. Very sweet, weeth…’ He struggled for the words but Eve guessed that there would be glace cherries.
‘Then I would like those and some Earl Grey tea.’
She sat back, enjoying the dappled light that gave the illusion of cool air, and lighted a cigarette. This was very nice. In a past life she had often stopped at some small café like this which the war had seemed not to have touched. It was surprising, though, to find one so close to the city.
‘Señorita? Excuse me. Perhaps you are expecting to meet an English lady?’
Eve’s smile faltered; she shook her head. ‘Not me. Give my driver and maid some refreshment, por favor. You understand, Jose?’
‘I do so, señorita. Very well I understand. Gracias, señorita.’ Joe zipped smartly off, his small bottom tight as he tried to stop himself from running.
From behind her sunglasses Eve watched from the corner of her eye as a woman in a spotted frock and a large shady hat came out from the tearoom. This, Eve guessed, was the one she had come to meet here.
The woman took the seat opposite Eve and looked up from beneath the brim of the straw hat. ‘Hello, Eve. Bet you a G&T you never expected it would be me.’
Eve didn’t need to look at the woman. The voice was memorable, resonant of her entire war experience, of the lorry depot, the driving, the refuge, of Albacete, of Barcelona, of Madrid. Of the rare G&Ts, mugs of dreadful coffee and unexpected English tea, and of rare shared American cigarettes, smoked to their ends which were saved and rolled again. Helan Alexander. Eve’s heart leaped with joy, then again with unease.
As coolly as she could, she smiled and shook hands, then pulled the glasses down her nose. ‘Helan Alexander? Alex! I’m so pleased…’ The woman smiled and helped herself to a cigarette from Eve’s silver case. ‘Were you going to say, “…of all people”? Here, have one. I’ll give you something to do with your hands.’
Eve laughed lightly. ‘I expect I was going to say that. But I suppose I might have guessed seeing the Espanol Suissa.’
‘You noticed?’
‘Bet your darned life I noticed.’
‘I move in exalted circles these days. All the right accoutrements are essential. Here, Jose, put the teapot on my side and then you can go. Just look at you, Eve. You look a million dollars.’
‘Isn’t it amazing what a bucketful of money will do?’
‘I have a good many bucketsful, as you know, but I can never turn myself out like you.’
‘You said they would allow you to stay on, but I didn’t really believe it. You were supporting the other side.’
Helan Alexander – Alex – had been in charge of a depot that got supplies trucks fixed and out on the road again. It was an unusual job for a woman, until you saw Alex at work. Her husband had been Max Alexander, a coloured man with a Swiss passport, an intellectual revolutionary. Her family, the Poveys, were second only to the German Krupps in the manufacture of armaments. Alex had inherited the majority shareholding and become a wealthy woman by any standards. She had met Max and had caught all his revolutionary fervour, which was how she had come to be supporting the Republic against the invading fascists. Eve had heard all about Alex’s guilty wealth.
And here she still was, large as life, living in this new fascist state.
‘I might have the majority shareholding, but my grandfather, having seen the possibility that one day there might be an “unsuitable” Povey inheriting, saw to it that all decisions relating to the company who made machine guns and other death machines should be made by a board of managers. Nice move: he could rake in the profits and keep his hands clean.’ She paused and drew deeply on her cigarette. ‘And I’m a chip off the old block.’
‘No you’re not. You put money into those refuges.’
‘A drop in the ocean, Eve. You wouldn’t believe how many millions I have.’
‘Even so… you worked openly in support of the Republic.’
‘Just another upper-class rebel. Unity Mitford’s back in the bosom of her family, isn’t she?’
‘Oh yes, she’s back,’ Eve said ruefully. ‘Months ago. “The Storm-Trooper Maiden” who sat and gazed worshipfully at Hitler until he invited her to his table.’
‘Well, that’s it, isn’t it? Lord Redesdale’s wayward daughter, infatuated, misguided, led by the nose to follow a charismatic man. Silly girl. Isn’t that what they say?’
Eve smiled. ‘I suppose they do.’
‘So I am the silly girl who fell in love with a black Communist. Same difference. If you are high-born enough, wealthy enough, you are without doubt a silly girl. When I wanted to buy my land, a couple of officials came to see me. All that was necessary was to eat humble pie and say that I was young and silly, and I was in love with Spain itself. I didn’t really understand any of it, I just wanted a bit of excitement.’
‘They obviously bought your story.’
‘Of course. They hope that my family will open up a new factory in the industrial North. And, as I told them, my role here was just fixing lorries. I wasn’t really involved.’
Eve knew that that wasn’t true. She had been chauffeuse to Alex and the two Russian officers when they had come up from Albacete to Madrid on some inquiry.
‘You don’t have to justify yourself, Alex.’
‘Is that what I’m doing? Yes, I suppose I am. Anyway, they now like me, and I can stay here as long as I like. Just don’t get involved in any more silliness, Miss Povey. So I don’t.’
Eve raised her eyebrows. ‘So we met here quite by accident.’
‘Of course. I come here whenever I am visiting Madrid, and I happened to see you and recognise somebody I once met at a skiing resort in Switzerland. Remember that? I expect I helped you fix your skis, and you sort of remembered me when you saw me today.’
‘But, Alex, I don’t know one end of a ski from another.’
Alex laughed, looked up and held her hands out to the sunlight. ‘I doubt if you’ll be put to the test here.’
‘Do you live in Madrid?’
‘No, much further south, on the coast of the sun, it’s known as the “Jaws of Hell”, or the “Frying Pan of Spain” – I prefer the “Jaws”.’
‘Seville?’
Alex Povey raised her eyebrows. ‘Close. Ten out of ten for geography. Hot as Cairo without the people. I love it. You must visit. Now,’ with mock fierceness, ‘if Joe hasn’t turned to stone, perhaps he will go tell his mother that a young friend from way back has suddenly appeared from nowhere and we want a proper English tea. Comprendes, Jose? Take away the pink cakes and we will have English fruity cake and then figs and cream.’
Jose jerked his attention back from the interesting scene. ‘Si, señora… Alex… madame… señorita… at once.’
‘When did you have figs and cream for tea in England, Alex?’
She smiled. ‘If and when I go home I shall introduce it as a standard at Fullers.’
The serving of the two English ladies was taken over by a middle-aged woman whose lips looked tight and sore from any number of small scars. ‘Carla, this is Miss Anders, who was a schoolgirl when I last saw her and look at her now. Carla is Jose’s mother.’
Carla smiled with her eyes, holding her painful lips together, nodding acknowledgement as she laid out some delicate china and a whole Dundee cake cut into a fan of slices.
‘Carla is bringing up her boys alone and wants them to learn English and French.’ Carla nodded. ‘So that they will be able to work in the best hotels.’
Carla put her head on one side and shrugged a little as though not counting any chickens.
Eve said, ‘Your son does very well with his English. Has he been learning for very long?’
‘About three months,’ Alex said, momentarily touching the woman’s hand. ‘We are very pleased with him, aren’t we, Carla?’
The woman nodded and brushed Alex’s shoulder briefly, tenderly, and went away indoors as silently as she had come.
‘Is she dumb?’
Alex nodded.
During her service with the International Brigade, Eve had seen any number of silent women, and men, in states of nervous collapse, empty-eyed and often as uncommunicative as Carla; the difference here was that Carla did have expression in her eyes. Alex had spoken only in English and the woman appeared to understand perfectly yet never responded at all, even though they appeared to have some kind of tender friendship.
Alex took over the tea table. People around lost interest. Now she spoke in a much lowered tone and smiled wryly. ‘Are you still a men-only woman?’
Eve laid her dark glasses on the table and looked directly at Alex, who had once made a pass at her. ‘Not even one man at the moment, but I’m still not interested – except as a friend, Alex.’
Alex laughed. ‘I don’t think I was serious at the time, but I was missing Max so much and I didn’t really want to get involved with another man. What happened to the Great Bear?’
‘Dimitri?’
‘You certainly went overboard for each other.’
‘Wartime romance.’
‘They never last, Eve. They’ve either got a wife or they get themselves killed. But I do have a very interesting man in my life again.’
‘Here? I mean, in Madrid?’
‘No, he’s bought the property adjacent to mine, down in the “Jaws of Hell”. We have a lot in common – horses and sex.’ She fanned her mouth and blew. ‘Hot as Hell also. The strong, silent type. Nothing like the Great Bear.’
‘Does he share your love of cracking motors?’
‘Of course, though it’s still horses for me. Now I have the beginnings of a stable. My ambition is to bring some great horses back into this country. Why don’t you come down and visit?’ The cigarette she had been smoking lay in the ashtray, but she absent-mindedly lit another. Eve noticed that her hand trembled slightly as she held the lighter. Alex saw her watching. ‘I know,’ she said, ‘I am going to cut it down,’ and gave a short laugh. Beckoning Jose, she said, ‘How about you, Eve, a nice icy G&T?’
‘I can never fancy it before evening.’ Which of course wasn’t true.
Carla, probably used to the way Alex liked her gin, sent out a tall glass, well filled. ‘Thanks, Jose. Tell your mama she’s a love.’
With a straight uncompromising look, Eve asked, ‘Who told you where to find me?’
‘You really don’t need to know, Eve. Only that it is somebody who has your wellbeing at heart. Who else but me is going to get you into high society?’
‘I don’t like it, Alex. It’s cloak-and-dagger stuff. You appear to know something about why I’m here, or at least how I came to be here, yet you get in touch with me in such an idiotic fashion.’
Alex sipped her drink appreciatively. ‘I thought it was rather good. I thought you would appreciate it.’
The only likely person to have informed Alex was David Hatton. They were old friends.
‘Don’t be like that, Eve. I’m here to help. With me introducing you, it won’t look like infiltration. Madrid’s high society is very tight, which is why they are so pleased with the goose-steppers at the Hotel Royale, new people with plenty of money and the right ideas.’
‘What about your old left ideas?’
‘That’s the past, my dear. If anyone is curious, I was a silly young thing whose head was turned when she fell in love with a dissident.’
Eve remembered how devastated Alex had been when Max was killed and she started drinking too much of the plentiful local wine. ‘Also, they can’t afford to throw you out,’ she suggested.
‘That’s right. They need the Povey guns and bullets. Everybody in the world needs the Poveys.’
Eve remembered that Alex was the only Povey left. How far could she trust her? After all, Alex had stayed on.
A little way off, away from the area of the visitors to the tea-room, of which there were very few, Eve could just see Mendoza and Nati, who appeared to be getting along very well.
Eve understood the old Alex, who had gone against all that her family stood for, a woman who had been on the side of the Republic during the war, had married a black man, a Communist.
‘I’m out of my depth here, Alex.’
‘You don’t have to worry.’
‘I’m not worried. I would just like a few explanations.’
‘I can understand that. I think you should not have had me sprung upon you like this. Maybe somebody wants to see how you handle it.’
‘Handle what?’
‘This situation, an unexpected event. An important one.’
The only explanation to the ‘situation’ was that Alex was working for either The Bureau or MI6. Let it not be MI6.
‘It’s your own situation that concerns me. You seem to be living here quite as easily under the fascists as you did under the Republic.’
‘I have to live somewhere, Eve. I think I’m needed here, both for my plans for horse breeding, and other things – like helping you, as I’ve been asked.’
‘That’s not what I mean.’
Eve attended to refilling their cups, hoping that this intense conversation would not be obvious, though Alex appeared relaxed enough. ‘Why should these people trust you? They were the enemy, for God’s sake.’
‘Money, Eve. That and the fact that my family still trades in the armaments that helped get the fascists back into power is in my favour. Then there are the orphanages – they are still thriving. There aren’t many who are even curious about me. I’m a wealthy woman washed up on the shores, and I’m good value for money… people like me.’
‘Of course, I like you too, Alex. I’ll like you a lot more when I know who asked you to contact me.’
‘You know I’m not going to tell you that. Be patient. What are you doing with yourself all day?’
‘Taking photographs for a special book on flowers.’
Alex gave a derisive snort. ‘Just what the world wants now, a book on flowers. That certainly puts you on the fluffy-headed girl list. Perfect. What we now have to do is to get you into Madrid society. You can meet my new man – he’s not exactly mine but we make a great partnership with our Lipizzaners,’ she lowered her voice, ‘and he’s wonderful in bed. Not only is he amazingly beautiful, but young, young, young.’
Eve smiled. ‘I’m pleased that you’ve got a nice man in your life.’
‘Oh, he’s not nice, Eve. He’s an arrogant bastard who is equipped like his own stallion, and is just as much a thoroughbred. And he’s a better businessman than I ever met.’
‘He sounds like a Swiss army knife.’
‘You can laugh. He had it figured out that there wouldn’t be many decent horses left when the war ended.’
‘So, you and the arrogant bastard have a common aim to replace the ones that went in the pot.’
‘Spaniards love their beautiful horses. My man sees his fortune here.’
‘He’s Spanish?’
‘Don’t ask me. He says he’s Egyptian. He’s some kind of dago, the beautiful kind. He says he’s come here from South America, where he picked up his string of mares and the stallion, Diabolo.’
‘But you don’t believe him?’
‘No. His stallion is a Trakehner. It’s my guess that he smuggled him out of Poland before the Germans laid hands on him. Worth his weight in gold.’
‘I’m not sure whether you’re smitten by the man or the horse.’
‘They are an extension of one another. His hair is longer than the horse’s tail, and he binds it like Diabolo’s. They look down their long noses at the world – you’d think they were posing for an equestrian sculptor. But then I unbind his hair and it all changes. He becomes… oh, not feminine… different. You’d have to sleep with a man with long curling hair to know what I mean. His name is Paulo Fuentes – so he says – but I call the both of them Diabolo – the dark devils.’ Alex smiled, pleased with herself.
Eve found herself thinking of Duke Barney, her own dark devil, who was always there, somewhere in her subconscious. ‘I really think I should get back to my camera, or the light will be gone.’
‘Will you come and visit me?’
‘Of course I will. If only to see Diabolo and his beautiful master.’
‘Hands off. He’s not your type.’
Eve rose to leave, and as Alex bent forward to give her the double cheek kiss, she said quietly, ‘You know that I’ve known David since we were kids. I also know Baz Faludi. It was Baz who told me to contact you.’
‘Oh?’
‘I’m Bureau.’
‘Damn it, Alex, you always did like a bit of drama. Did we have to go through all this rigmarole?’
Alex laughed aloud. ‘Oh yes, the Poveys love a bit of drama.’
‘What happens now?’
‘You will start receiving invitations to parties.’