'Schnapps!' Luis said croakily. He had never drunk schnapps but this seemed like a good time to start scoring points. His shirt was open and there was a small bruise in the middle of his chest. He thought hard and said nothing.
Otto gave him a glass of clear liquid. It smelled like nail-polish-remover and tasted like hot nothing. He drank it and buttoned his shirt. The schnapps trickled south and slowly burned itself out. He got to his feet and knotted his tie and smoothed his clothes. 'I see you searched me,' he said.
'How can you tell?' Franz asked.
'Handkerchiefs in the wrong pocket.'
'Ah.' Franz looked gratified. 'We wondered if you would notice, Mr Cabrillo.'
'You're doing very well,' Otto said. 'Very well indeed.'
Luis put his handkerchief in the right pocket, and gave Otto a grim, sideways glance. 'I don't like the sound of that,' he said.
They laughed politely, and led him upstairs.
Colonel Christian's office was on the third floor, and as an office it made an elegant drawing-room: embossed lime-green wallpaper, pale lemon-yellow sofas and chairs, a light grey rug, and a white baby grand piano tucked away in a corner. Cream-coloured Venetian blinds sifted the afternoon sunlight and admitted a few select rays of gentle birth and good manners. It was all very civilised and soothing and it was completely wrong for the man.
Christian was about fifty, tall, craggy-featured, with shoulders that might have been happier heaving barrels off a brewer's dray. His face was so hard and square that the moustache and eyebrows seemed unnaturally bushy, like clumps of grass rooted in a rockface. Because he was incapable of keeping still for more than a minute, his well-cut brown suit was as rumpled as an old parcel. But his voice was quiet and quick, and he shook Luis's hand without crushing it. Then he set off on an endless tour of the room. 'So Mr Cabrillo is not in the employment of the British government,' he said.
'No, sir,' said Krafft.
'That's good.' Colonel Christian waved Luis to a seat. 'I don't need you,' he told Franz. 'Go and organise some coffee .'. . And you want to spy for us. What is your opinion of spying?'
'It's a job,' Luis said.
'Very boring job. I was a spy, you know. In the Great War. Dreadful hours, but it wasn't the hours, it was the hanging around, waiting, waiting . . . How do you know if a troop train has gone through Paris? Or if a squadron has left Boulogne?'
'Wait and see,' Luis said.
'Boring hours. And you meet such boring people. Soldiers don't want to talk about war. So you have to talk about football. Hours and days and weeks of football, just to pick up some gossip about a new rifle.'
'I know football,' Luis said. 'Centre-forward, goalkeeper, offside, corner kick.'
'Sailors are even more boring. Sailors talk sex. Endlessly.'
-'I don't know sex,' Luis said. 'But I'm willing to learn.'
'And the paperwork. It's like being a travelling salesman.' Colonel Christian prowled over to the baby grand, sat, played the opening chords of the funeral march, got up, resumed his tour. 'But perhaps you enjoy paperwork?' he asked.
'No, it bores me,' Luis said.
'Rotten food, out in all weathers, and the surroundings are drab as drab can be. Garrison towns. Factory towns. Seaports. Dockyards. All grim.'
'It's a job,' Luis said.
'Rotten job.'
'Perhaps that is what makes the money so good,' Luis suggested.
Colonel Christian paused by the fireplace. 'Are you interested in money, Mr Cabrillo?' .
'I'm interested in a lot of money.'
Franz came in with the coffee. 'Thank you,' said Christian, 'and goodbye. What sort of information will you give us for our money, Mr Cabrillo?'
Luis was almost trapped into a foolish answer. He was thinking saying something impressive, like new aircraft performance figures or locations of ammunition dumps. 'I'll give you what you ask for,' he said. 'You know what you need, I don't.'
Otto poured the coffee. 'How will you get to England?' he asked.
'If that means you don't want to make the arrangements,' Luis said, 'then I would travel as a neutral businessman. Presumably England and Spain are still allowed to trade?'
'We might want,you to recruit another agent once you get established in England,' Christian said. He took a cup of coffee in passing. 'Maybe even two.'
'Provided the money is available to pay them, I see no difficulty.'
'I do,' said Otto Krafft. 'I see the British secret service. They will be looking for people like you. What will you do if they start to suspect?'
Luis sipped his coffee, 'That depends. It is best to carry on normally, if possible; otherwise a change in one's pattern of behaviour simply confirms their suspicions.'
'Things get worse,' Christian said. One-handed, he turned a chair upside down and examined its legs. 'They're on to you.'
'Then it's all over. I get out.'
'How?'
'That's my problem.'
Christian reversed the chair and put it back. 'You are an independent soul, Mr Cabrillo.'
'I'm an independent businessman, colonel.'
Otto suddenly clapped his hands. 'I have a wonderful idea!' he cried. 'We make Mr Cabrillo a captain in the German army! Then his pay can safely accumulate here, and if he has to return prematurely he will still be employed.' He spread his arms, eagerly.
'Why not a major?' Christian asked. 'Major Cabrillo. Yes?1
'No', Luis said. 'I don't want a salary. You pay me by results. And you pay on delivery.'
'Let's get one thing straight, Mr Cabrillo,' Otto said coldly. 'Colonel Christian has no shortage of volunteers. Many men would be willing to pay for the honour and privilege of serving Germany.'
Luis said nothing, but he helped himself to more coffee and loaded it with sugar to pacify his hunger. There was a perpetual trembling under his heart, and from time to time a pulse in the side of his head throbbed so powerfully that he was afraid the others might notice it. Yet his hands were steady, his voice was even. He wished Christian would stop bloody well tramping around the room. And he wished he knew exactly what, if anything, they had done to him downstairs. If he had been drugged, the drug seemed to be doing him a power of good; if not, he was tougher than he thought . . . The silence persisted. He glanced up and saw that they were watching him. He watched them back. That was something he could do without strain. Otto had a mole on his neck. Christian's ears were lightly freckled.
Otto grunted. He sounded a little weary. 'I see,' he said. 'Devotion to duty, patriotism, sacrifice -- all these things mean nothing to you.' He turned away. Christian still stared, his eyebrows occasionally working.
'I am not going to argue about it,' Luis said. 'If you think your splendid volunteers can do a better job than I, and also pay you for the privilege, then why waste your time on me?' Oh, oh, that's a bit reckless, he thought as the words left his mouth.
Christian stretched a long arm and pointed a slightly crooked finger. 'Why do you waste your time on us? We have already won. We control Europe. Go and spy for the British. They are desperate for help.' '
'Desperate men make bad employers. And you have not quite won, colonel, have you? There is still Britain.'
'A matter of time.'
Christian let the finger go slack, the arm fall. He began bouncing on the balls of his feet, like a long-distance runner loosening up. Otto's back was still turned. He seemed to be slumped in gloom: head down, shoulders bowed. Luis watched curiously, and received the surrealist impression that Christian's jogging was meant to revive Otto. It was a sort of psychic pump-action. At any moment, Otto's shoulders would straighten, his head would rise, and Christian would have to ease off before Otto began snapping his fingers and tap-dancing onto the furniture.
No such luck. Otto remained slumped, and Christian slowed to a bored halt.
Luis stood. The over-sweetened coffee had left a tacky after-taste. He wondered where he had gone wrong. He wondered whether or not there was any point in trying the Italian Embassy. Or the Japanese Embassy. Or the Abyssinian Consulate. Or anywhere. 'If you'll excuse me, then,' he said, as if he had somewhere to go.
'Before you leave ..." Christian took a deep, important breath. 'Think of this. If you were to accept a commission, you could end up a hero of the German nation, one of the most decorated men in Europe. You could be a powerful force for good once you had helped us to total victory. Now that is worth something.'
'I could also end up dead long before that,' Luis said. 'Which is why I want to be paid on delivery. You may keep the medals until later,' he added.
Colonel Christian paced over to the fireplace, nodding sombrely. 'You're making a great mistake,' he said. 'Money is a poor reward.' Luis shrugged. 'How much do you want?' Christian asked.
Luis felt the fluttering below his heart subside. He had a sudden, craven impulse to say something grateful, like Pay me what you think I'm worth; but he suppressed it. He nodded at Otto. 'Has he passed away in his sleep?'
Otto turned. He was filing his nails.
'I wondered what that noise was,' Luis said. 'I was afraid it might indicate some painful mental process.'
'How much?' Christian asked.
'A thousand pesetas now, five hundred a day expenses, fifteen thousand to get me to England, and thereafter a retainer of five thousand a week,' Luis said.
Christian nodded. 'I see. You want us to pay you a retainer. But you said just now that you wanted to be paid for information supplied, on delivery.'
'My mental processes detect a painful contradiction,' said Otto.
'When I fail to supply the information,' Luis told them, 'you can fail to pay the retainer.'
'Agreed,' Colonel Christian said. 'Now let us turn our attention to the question of your operational efficiency, well-being and survival.'
That was that: Luis was in. It took him a moment to realise, as Otto produced maps and documents, that there would be no handshake, no signature, no welcome-to-the organisation; just this understanding. He had passed their tests; they had accepted his terms.
Starting a few seconds ago,he was a full-time professional German spy, to be paid on results. There must be several hundred British agents whose sole job was to find and kill people like him. How curious; how primitive . . . 'Are you listening?' Christian demanded.
'Yes, yes.'
'No, you're not. Pay attention, for God's sake. I was saying that the Abwehr -- that's us, you understand, German Intelligence -- the Abwehr operates three methods of infiltrating agents: landings from U-boats, parachute drops, and travel via neutrals. The same methods work in reverse, except we can't make the parachutes go up so we have to use light aircraft. You will be trained in all three techniques. Now look at this map . . .'
For twenty minutes Christian described the structure of Abwehr espionage in Britain. He showed Luis which stretches of coast were approachable by submarine and rubber dinghy, and at what state of tide. He indicated the good areas for parachuting. He spent a lot of time on the rail network, and then explained how the distribution of Abwehr agents followed this pattern of railway communications because it was by far the easiest way to travel in time of war. Another map had three transparent overlays on which were plotted all known bases of the British Army, Navy and Air Force. When all the overlays were in position, Christian pointed out those parts of the country which were important to all three Services. Then he went back to the map of Abwehr agents and explained how their location gave the maximum freedom of movement-plus the maximum access to these areas of military importance. Finally he unrolled a map of northern Europe and gave Luis a brief account of the system of radio communications between Abwehr agents and a chain of receiving stations in France, Belgium and Holland.
'All of this is actually operating now?' Luis asked.
'Well, I'm not making it up as I go along,' Christian said irritably. 'I hope you're taking it seriously.'
'Of course.'
'Good. It's your neck, but what's more important, it's our money. Otto will now explain what steps we take to keep you intact if things go wrong.'
'The most important protection you have,' Otto began, 'is that you will never be entirely on your own. For instance, if you have to disappear temporarily, this network of safe houses is available at any time, day or night ..." Another map was unrolled. Luis carefully studied the gold stars sprinkled across the counties of Britain; wherever the Abwehr sent its spies, it seemed, a haven was not far away. Otto went through the various emergency procedures: how certain innocent-sounding phrases were warnings from one agent to another; how to evade telephone-tapping; rendezvous techniques; recognition signals; communicating via classified advertisements in newspapers; and finally how to get a fresh set of false papers and emergency funds if the situation became really desperate. 'That should never happen,' Otto stressed. 'If it does, you've blundered badly, so get out of there. Get back here.' And he outlined the various routes which the Abwehr had prepared and perfected for the extraction of its agents without delay.
'You are very well organised,' Luis said.
Christian rolled up a map and swung it at an imaginary golf ball. He said: 'It suits us that the rest of the world regards all Germans as -- what is the English for "dummkopf"?'
'Fathead?'
'As fatheads. Do you know the English joke about the German spy? A fatheaded German spy goes up to a policeman outside an aircraft factory and says "How many people work in there?" and the policeman replies, "Oh, about half of them".'
Luis waited, half-smiling. 'That is all?' he asked at last.
'I told you it was an English joke.' Colonel Christian scrutinised Luis for a few moments, his craggy face heavy with discontent. 'I'd feel a lot happier if you weren't so revoltingly goodlooking,' he said. 'English women lose all self control when they catch sight of a young Spaniard, they hunt him to exhaustion and rape him behind the nearest cricket pavilion. Brutal lot.'