She picked up Jasper H. Stembridge. 'Which are the juicy bits?' she asked.
'Try chapter nine: "The Busy Midlands",' Luis said. 'A veritable goldmine.'
'Read this,' said Meredith. 'Then you'll know as much as I do.'
While Squadron Leader Blake read it, Meredith poured tea for them both. He chose a digestive biscuit and dunked it in his tea. 'Frightful habit,' he murmured.
Blake looked at the back of the paper, which was blank. 'Not much to go on, is there, sir? Just the name, when you boil it all down.'
'Eldorado. Mean anything?'
'Only ice-cream. Stop-me-and-buy-one, the Eldorado man on a tricycle. Haven't we got an agent code-named Tricycle?'
'Yes.'
'No connection, though, I shouldn't think.'
'No.'
They sipped their tea. 'Perhaps London's asking us because it's Spanish, sir,' Blake suggested. 'Eldorado: something to do with gold, isn't it?'
'Mmm. Means "the gilded one" or "the golden one". That could signify anything from bullion-smuggling to blondes.'
'London seem sure it was an Abwehr signal they intercepted. I suppose that's something. On the other hand the transmitter was in Hamburg, sir. Miles from here.'
Meredith glanced at the decoded message again. 'Context suggests Eldorado involves high-grade operation,' he read. "That means London is worried and guessing furiously. I bet this signal's gone to every office from Stockholm to Kabul. Still. . . Keep your ears open, Teddy. Chat up the neutral embassies, you never know your luck. Madrid's a very chatty place.'
'Yes sir. Of course, if Eldorado's a German agent, he won't actually be in Madrid, will he? He'll be in England.'
'Perhaps that's what's worrying London.'
'Perhaps.' Blake stared at the dregs of his tea, and sighed. 'It really was awfully good ice-cream,' he said.
Julie read the last page of the report and handed it back. 'Impressive,' she said.
'I chose the north part of Wales because of the mountains.' Luis opened Jasper H. Stembridge at chapter seven and showed her a photograph 'of Mount Snowdon. 'Stembridge says: "Here and there ranges and peaks, rising above the surrounding uplands, add more rugged charm to the wild wind-swept moors". Doesn't that sound to you like ideal country for training British Commandos?'
'Oh, perfectly spiffing,' she said.
'And if you check it against the section for north Wales in the GWR Holiday Haunts ..." He thumbed through that book. 'Yes: "a scattered rural population . . . towns are neither numerous nor large . . . happy hunting ground for those in search of perfect peace and seclusion", and so on. I bet it's stiff with Commandos.'
'No question. I liked that bit about using live ammunition and the casualty rate.'
'Yes. You see, it works two ways at once. The Germans are impressed by the toughness of Commando training, but they're also pleased to know that so many British soldiers get hurt by it. You don't think I went too far with the casualty statistics? Four point seven three per cent: maybe it sounds too precise.'
'Well, you got it straight from that medical corporal you met in the bar at wherever-it-was.'
'The Royal Victoria Hotel, Llanberis.' Luis opened the 1923 Michelin Guide at a page marked with a ribbon. 'Five miles north of Snowdon. Lunch three shillings and sixpence, dinner five shillings, parking for forty cars. I don't think he was staying at the hotel, not on his pay. He just popped in for a drink.'
'The angry chicken-farmer was good too.'
'It's just a matter of identification. I said to myself, "Imagine you live in a remote and tranquil area. Suddenly troops arrive and begin firing sten guns and bren guns and shooting off mortars and throwing grenades, at all hours of the day and night. What is the effect?" Obvious: the farmers complain. They say the noise alarms their chickens, which stop laying, and they demand compensation.'
'And you actually saw all this training.'
'It's not a prohibited area. I make that clear in paragraph one.'
'So what are they training for?'
Luis shrugged. 'Not even they know that. But as I point out, those Welsh mountains are very steep, like cliffs.'
'Uh-huh. More Commando raids on the coast of Europe.'
'I leave that for the Abwehr's experts to decide.'
'The human touch. Neat.'
'Well . . .' Luis stretched enormously. 'Now you've seen for yourself. That's how it's done.' He put the books back on the shelf.
'No, I don't think so,'Julie said.
'Come with me to the post office, if you like.'
'Oh, I'm sure you'll mail it. This stuff is too good to waste.'
'Then what more do you want?' Luis slapped a carbon copy into a file and slammed the file cabinet shut. 'Short of getting Colonel Christian on the telephone and--'
'Hell, no, I'm sure he loves your stuff too. So he should. It's all true.'
'You just saw me--'
'I just saw you do another snow job. You were in north Wales last week, or whenever, and you personally saw all that Commando training, which is why it sounds so convincing. Nice try, Luis. A little too nice, maybe. About four point seven three per cent too nice.'
He sat on his desk and rubbed his eyes. When he took his hands away, his fingers were trembling slightly.
'Incidentally, Angela sends her love,' she said.
'Angela?' He sounded flat and tired.
'You wouldn't remember Angela. You wouldn't even remember Freddy. And Freddy wouldn't remember you, that's for sure.'
Luis gave her a long, speculative look. She stared back, unblinking. He looked away.
'I don't blame you,' she said. 'I wouldn't want to talk about it either. Not even for a snow job.'
He stood up. 'It's time for lunch.'
'Just give me an aspirin. This wrist hurts.'
'Aspirin. I see. There is a farmdcia around the corner.' He frowned. 'What is that in English?' •
'Who the hell cares?' she said. Her anger had the raw edge of bitterness. They went downstairs in silence. At the farmacia Luis bought aspirin and asked for a glass of water. While she was swallowing the tablets he asked: 'Will you come with me to the bank, later?' She nodded. If she had shaken her head she might have choked.
They ate a silent lunch in a noisy restaurant overlooking the Rossio, and walked down to the Rua do Comercio. It was hot again, and the streets were quiet. The Banco Espirito Santo received them into its cool and spacious gloom, and when Luis tapped the bell on the Secfao Estrangetra counter, the same sombre three-piece-suit came forward.
'Boa tarde, senhor Cabrillo.' He registered Julie's presence with a minimal flicker of the eyes.
'Good afternoon,' Luis said, a fraction more clearly than was necessary; and Julie knew he was speaking English for her benefit. 'Are there any letters for rife?'
'I shall see.'
He came back with a stiff brown envelope, heavily sealed. Luis had to sign for it. He showed her the form: it carried a longish column of his signatures, at least ten of them. 'Three or four times each week I come here,' he said.
'Or someone with your signature.'
The three-piece-suit pretended not to hear that.
'What days did I come in last week?'
'Monday, Wednesday and Friday, senhor. As usual.'
'Yes. I'd like to see a statement of my account, please.'
'Of course, senhor.'
Julie studied it. There were regular weekly credits during the previous month. The sums increased towards the end. There were a few extra credits, each rounded off to the nearest thousand escudos. Luis pointed at those. 'Bonus payments,' he said. She looked at the last figure and did a quick conversion in her head. Luis had something over twelve hundred dollars in the bank. 'So they pay you,' she said. 'So what?'
Luis returned the statement and they went out into the street.
'I don't exactly know what to do now,' he said. 'I hoped you would believe the man in the bank.'
'Bankers are finks. We're all finks, according to you. The Germans are idiots, because they buy your junk, I'm an idiot, because I don't buy your junk. You probably think the British are idiots, too. And the Russians.'
'Well, the British are idiots,' Luis said, remembering his visit to the embassy in Madrid. 'Sometimes.'
'And you're the lonely genius who's making a killing out of this war. Terrific.'
'I wish--'
'You wish you could pack me off to America with a pat on the head, so that you could get back to Britain and make your pile before peace breaks out and spoils everything.'
'I have never been to Britain,' Luis insisted. 'I have no wish to go to Britain. Why should I?'
'No reason at all. Who wants to live with an idiot?'
'This is becoming silly. Look: I can show you my passport, it hasn't a single--'
'Oh, passports, passports, I can show you a guy here in Lisbon who sells 'em by the yard, he gets them off dead British seamen. Want to see what those guys look like? Not like their passport pictures, I can tell you. Give yourself a break, Luis, take the afternoon off, go browse through the British seamen's morgue. After all, who deserves it more? You helped put the poor bastards there.'
'You are determined to hate me.'
'I hate what you're doing.'
Luis sucked his teeth. They were walking slowly, and he was stepping between the cracks in the pavingstones.
'What's in that?' she demanded, pointing at the stiff brown envelope. 'Is it from them?'
'Yes. Probably a new briefing.'
'Show me.'
The letter contained two sheets of typewritten instructions. She scanned them quickly. 'Are you going to answer this?'
'In due course.'
'No.' She folded the pages and stuffed them down the front of her dress. 'You're going to answer it today, right now. They want a report on the new British paratroop school near Oxford, and they want your opinion of the chances of an Allied attack on Norway this year.'
He stopped and stared at her.
'What's the matter: can't you do it?' she asked crisply.
'I worked all bloody yesterday,' he said. 'Then you came and ruined my evening, so I had to work all bloody night. Then I got four hours bad sleep and went back and hammered out all that bloody Commando stuff. And now you want me to do what?'
'Do what you say you can do.'
Luis's shoulders slumped. He squinted wearily into the glare. 'Tomorrow,' he said.
'Piss, or get off the pot,' she told him. 'I'll be waiting for you in the Rossio in ... let's see . . . three hours.'
'I can't work that fast,' he pleaded.
'Tough luck. I'll be knocking on the front door of the British Embassy in three hours and five minutes.'
Luis groaned.
'And while I remember,' she said, 'that's a really lousy moustache.'
She watched him trudge away.
In short, Eldorado continues to live up to his name,' said Richard Fischer. He had just finished his analysis of the latest reports from Knickers, the soft-drinks salesman. Franz had already dealt with the information supplied by Seagull, the Liverpool docker.
It was all good, worthwhile stuff. As Dr Hartmann pointed out, the great thing about Eldorado was that, when he forwarded material from his sub-agents, he distinguished clearly between observed fact, reported fact, and rumour. It made evaluation and deduction so much easier. One always knew where one stood. Everyone nodded except Wolfgang Adler; he sat in the same attitude he had held since the meeting began: legs crossed at the ankle, thumbs hooked into his belt-loops, eyes staring at nothing in particular.
'The last item today,' Colonel Christian announced, 'is also good news. It seems that we may have recruited a second Eldorado.'
Wolfgang's eyes came up at that, but not for long.
'The other day, Otto Krafft came to me and asked permission to follow up a contact initially made through a member of the Swiss Embassy. This has now led to an American businessman of German origin, Mr Francis X. Tanenbaum of Oklahoma.' Christian suddenly frowned, and cocked his head. 'Oklahoma?'
'Arizona,' Otto said. There was a gentle ripple of amusement, except for Wolfgang, who closed his eyes.
'An understandable mistake,' Christian defended blandly, 'both states being populated entirely by cattle and film producers.'
'Which are themselves easily confused,' Franz Werth added.
'Not at all,' Fischer said. 'The ones you see stampeding in a cloud of dust are the producers.'
'Arizona,' Christian went on. 'Otto has established that Tanenbaum regularly trades with and visits Britain and Spain. Now, however, he has indicated his willingness to trade with the Abwehr.'
'If he's any good,' Dr Hartmann said, 'that could be very good.'
'Well, he's certainly fairly shrewd,' Christian remarked, 'because we know that Tanenbaum is not his real name, he doesn't come from Oklahoma or Arizona, and he will do business with only one representative of the Abwehr, and that's the man he first met.' Christian indicated Otto. Otto looked mildly pleased.
'What do we know about him?' Fischer asked.
'He's a successful, middle-aged American businessman, with extreme right-wing and ultra-Catholic beliefs,' Otto said. 'His father and uncle were killed in the last war. On the eastern front,' he added.
'Explains a lot,' Franz commented.
'We need a code-name,' Christian said. 'Any suggestions?'
'How about "Cowboy"?' Fischer suggested, and immediately shook his head. 'Too obvious.'
'Bathtub,' said Franz. They looked at him. 'It just popped into my head,' he explained.
'Eagle?' Dr Hartmann proposed.
'Eagle . . .' Richard Fischer mused.
'Eagle it is,' Christian decided. He peered over his glasses at Otto. 'Open a file, start an account and pay Eagle some money. I have great faith in the boundless greed of businessmen.'
The meeting ended. As they went out, Christian raised a finger in Wolfgang's direction. 'Are you feeling better, Adler?' he asked.
Wolfgang shrugged. 'Somewhat,' he said.
'I'm very happy to hear it.' But Christian didn't look very happy. Wolfgang left.
The air in the Rossio was as warm as fresh milk. The buildings framed an astonishingly amiable sky where a few soft strips of high cloud lay motionless, like rippled sand under clear blue water. Julie Conroy rested on a bench, watching the clouds do nothing, and doing nothing in return. It was a deal she had made with them. A non-aggression pact. So far both sides had honoured it fully.