Drumnadrochit, he thought. What a name!
He looked up and saw Julie standing in the doorway of her office, looking fairly bleak. He stopped chewing his pencil. 'You realise this is all a waste of time,' she said, holding up the report she was typing. Her voice had a harsh edge that he had not heard before. 'I mean, it doesn't mean anything. It's just marks on paper. You're just playing silly games.'
'Madrid believes in it.'
'So they're just playing silly games too. None of this makes any difference to anything.'
'It makes money.'
'Sure. But that doesn't mean anything either. That's just different marks on different pieces of paper. Bank shit. Eldorado shit. What's the difference?'
He looked down, determined not to give in and fight. His cheek twitched with suppressed rage. The door slammed.
Luis picked up his sheet of paper. Bitch, bitch, bitch, he thought. He wanted to smash something, but he knew that it would give her pleasure so he sat hunched over his optimistic report. After a while he tore it up. 'Kinlochleven,' he scribbled, 'is a disaster area. Drought, sabotage and managerial incompetence have dragged down aluminium output to a pathetic 23% of last year's figure. Attempts to rush construction of new plants have met with catastrophe. Last week, sixteen Polish tunnelling engineers died in explosions.' Rain lashed against the windows and briefly drowned the sound of typing next door. Luis crossed out 'sixteen' and wrote 'twenty-five'. He began to feel better.
'All right, who's wrong?' Brigadier Christian asked.
Dr Hartmann and Otto Krafft sat at each of a large sofa and said nothing.
Christian was on the prowl around the room, rapping the wall with his knuckles as he went. Now that he had moved into Captain Mullen's office, he had greater scope for prowling. 'Look. I didn't get where I am by sending contradictory reports to Berlin,' he said. 'They don't buy guesses, they don't pay us to spin a coin, they want facts. You know what you've brought me? A salesman's catalogue. If I don't like it in blue you'll sell me something else in red. Choice! I don't want choice, I want the real thing!' He crashed the flat of his hand down on the nearest piece of furniture. 'It may be worth remembering, sir,' said Otto, cautiously, 'that Berlin had had Eagle's report for over a week now, and nobody there has queried it.' Not out load, maybe.'
Dr Hartmann cleared his throat. 'Eldorado's team does have a remarkably good record, sir,' he observed. 'None of his sub-agents has ever let us down, Garlic least of all.' Christian grunted. 'As far as we know, you mean. The fact remains that one or other of your geniuses has been spitting in his soup. The British light alloy industry cannot be going up and down at the same time, for God's sake. Eagle tells us it's booming, Garlic says it's going bust. Who's right?' On the face of it, sir,' Otto suggested, 'Eagle is better qualified to judge. He's an industrialist, whereas Garlic--' I know, I know. Don't you think I've considered all that?' Christian paused at a mirror, breathed heavily on his reflection. and prowled away. 'The point is, what do we do now?' Get a third opinion?' said Dr Hartmann. I don't want any more bloody opinions. I want the truth.' Christian reached the sofa and leaned on the back, making it rock. 'They'll have to fight it out between them, that's all. send them both an order.' He prodded Otto on the shoulder and made him start. 'Make sure they know it's an order. Tell them to meet as soon as possible. How soon can they meet?' Otto began: 'I really don't think . . .' Five days from now should be reasonable,' Hartmann said, 'allowing a day for delays.' Five days from now, then. Where?'
'"Well, Manchester's midway between London and Glasgow,' Hartmann said. 'That's fair to both.' It may be fair, sir, but it's just not practical,' Otto protested. 'Eagle stressed when he joined us: no personal contact. It's the only way he can protect himself.'
'That's no damn good to me. Until I get an answer from both of them, how can I trust either? Tell Eagle that if he doesn't keep that rendezvous, he's fired. Tell Garlic the same. They rendezvous, they fight it out, they report back: who's right, who's wrong, and why. Got it?'
'Sir,' Otto said.
'Do it now. Sort out the details between you. Go.' He pointed to the door.
Three days after he had posted Garlic's light-alloys report, Luis walked down to the bank to pick up his mail.
There was an unspoken agreement between him and Julie that he always went to the bank alone. It gave them a welcome break from each other, and he enjoyed the brisk walk down to the Rua do Comercio in the cool winter air.
The three-piece-suit saw him come in and was ready for him. There was only one letter, in the familiar square, brown envelope which Madrid Abwehr used. Luis signed for it. 'Your friend from the Spanish Embassy would have collected it for you. Senhor Cabrillo,' the three-piece-suit said, 'but unfortunately he arrived too soon.'
'Ah,' Luis said. He blotted his signature to give himself time to think. 'That was when?'
'Oh, half an hour ago. The mail had not yet been sorted. You were not inconvenienced, I hope.'
'Not at all.' Luis slit open the envelope. He had an extraordinary sensation of deja vu, of living a script that he had written. 'I'd like a word with him. Will he return, do you think?'
'I think so. He had to go back to the embassy to collect your written authorisation.'
'I see.' Luis was looking at the letter but not reading the words. 'He forgot that, did he? Silly fellow.'
The three-piece-suit gave a tiny, tolerant shrug. Excuse me a moment,' Luis said.
He found a quiet spot and made himself read his letter. It was bad news; the worst possible news. Christian ordered Garlic rendezvous with Eagle at Manchester (Main Road) railway station on platform one, under the clock, at 3 p.m. by that clock, each man to carry a fountain pen in the left hand and have one shoelace undone . . . Luis skimmed through rest, and then rested his head against the cold marble wall Something had gone wrong. Evidently Garlic had some sort of blunder and now he was to be investigated by this terrible man Eagle. It was all going horribly wrong. Luis forced himself back to the present. There were four days before the Manchester rendezvous; four days in which to divert disaster. Meanwhile a man was wandering around Lisbon pretending to be from the Spanish Embassy so that he could get his hands on Luis's mail. That looked frighteningly as if someone had penetrated his cover. But if this weird someone knew all about Luis's set-up, he must also know that the Spanish Embassy cover was mythical, was bogus. So why was he behaving as if it were real? And why did he want this particular letter?
There was only one way to find out. Luis got an envelope from a cashier, put the letter inside it and addressed the envelope to himself, exactly as Madrid Abwehr had done, then he handed it to the three-piece-suit.
Please give this to my friend from the Spanish Embassy when he comes back,' he said, 'and don't worry if he hasn't found my authorisation. He's a terrible fellow for losing things.' Certainly, Senhor Cabrillo.'
'He even left his hat in my office,' Luis held up the big black hat. 'I had hoped to meet him here, so that. . .' Luis spun the hat on his forefinger, and smiled ruefully. 'Would you like me to give it to him?' the three-piece-suit asked.
Luis blinked, and widened his smile. 'Would you mind?' he said, handing it over.
He strolled up and down the street, watching the bank entrance. The longer he waited, the more he worried. Suppose the man never came back. Suppose he came back and refused to take the hat. Or he might accept the hat and then leave it inside the bank. Luis felt panic nibbling at his guts. He was enormously tempted to go back inside and keep watch, but common sense insisted that that would be fatal: the three-piece-suit would notice him and, when the time came, would point him out. Luis stamped his feet and tried to decide how he would behave in the same situation. Would he realise that the hat was just a badge, a label? Would he think that it concealed a message? Would he, God forbid, fold it up and hide it in his pocket?
Luis suddenly stopped worrying. A man had come out of the bank and was examining the hat. He tried it on, and looked at himself in a shop window. Too big: far too big. He took it off, turned it inside-out, searched the lining, found nothing. He stood and thought. Finally he flattened the hat, rolled it up and shoved it into a briefcase. He began walking. Luis followed.
They turned south and crossed Black Horse Square. The traffic was busy-- it was getting on for lunchtime-- and they had to wait for a gap. Luis hung back, thought briefly about telephoning Julie, and abandoned the idea. His man seemed to be heading for the ferry terminal. The crowds were thick around here: Portuguese soldiers going on leave, people buying fruit from stallholders, lottery-ticket sellers, bootblacks, gypsies, police. A party of nuns got in the way. Luis lost him for a moment and had to hurry. He found him again, beyond the ferry, walking along the waterfront. As they passed below the Alfama, Luis heard a distant burst of accordion music. It sounded strange on such a grey and dreary day, with the wide Tagus slopping little black waves and the sky dirty with coming rain. They went across a small square, dodging taxis all the way, and into Santa Apolonia station. Luis hid behind a pillar while his man studied the departure board. He liked what he saw. Half a minute later he was on a train.
Luis ran back to the departure board. It was a fast train on the northern route, stopping at Santarem, Coimbra, Aveiro and Oporto. It was due to leave in ten minutes. He used up five of those minutes on finding the ticket office, Handing in line, and buying a second-class one-way ticket to Oporto, which took nearly all his money. Hurrying to the train he saw an empty phone booth. He dialled the office. The number rang, then stopped. He shoved a coin into the dot but it refused to go: another coin was jammed inside. He hammered with his fist, bashed the side of the coin-box, punched the coin-release button again and again. Nothing happened. One minute left; somehow the time had raced away. He flung down the phone in disgust and ran to the' terrier. They were slamming doors as he got aboard. Before he had caught his breath, the train was moving.
It turned out to be a long, tedious, anxious journey. His man was travelling first-class. Luis, as he swayed through the first-class carriage, recognised him at once: thoughtful, clean-shaven, medium height, stocky build, about thirty-five. Dark blue suit. Belted raincoat«neatly folded beside loin. Briefcase. There were a million like him, but Luis knew this one immediately. He was staring at the rain which had begun to streak the window, and Luis knew what he was thinking. He was wondering why the hell anyone would want to give him a black hat.
The train was half-empty. Luis took a seat in the nearest second-class carriage. As they rattled northwards, the rain smearing the view, he chased one inadequate explanation after another around his brain. The probability was chat some intelligence agency or counter-intelligence agency was involved, but the British had already told him they weren't interested, and why should the Germans want steal their own letter? Moreover, this man behaved extremely clumsily. It was baffling. Luis gave up and began worrying about what he was going to do when the man got off. Any expert secret agent would have been trained to handle this kind of emergency. Madrid Abwehr had not included it in the curriculum. A pity.
At Santarem Luis was waiting and watching, but his man didn't move. After that there was a long haul of over a hundred kilometres to Coimbra. Luis sat and listened to his pleading stomach. Finally he gave in and spent almost all his remaining change on a cheese roll. He ate it slowly, taking very small bites.
The wooden slats of the second-class seats had numbed his backside long before the train clattered and jinked into Coimbra station. Again Luis watched his man stay put. As the train heaved its way back out into the worsening weather, his spirits sank. He was being carried steadily further from his base, he had no money, no coat, it was pouring with rain. Outside it would soon be dark, cold and miserable. He asked himself why on earth he was behaving in this crass, reckless, cock-eyed way? Just because the idiot in first class did stupid things, was that a reason why he should chase him to the black, wet ends of Portugal?'
Aveiro station was dank and gloomy. Luis got up, kept watch, sat down again. Now he knew the worst. His man was going to Oporto.
The last leg of journey was also the slowest. The train kept finding reasons to squeal to a halt, usually in the middle of a stretch of wintry scrub. When it moved on, its pace was pessimistic. Luis was hunched in helpless boredom by the time it trundled unhurriedly onto the long bridge that spanned the Douro. He looked down at the broad, black waters, reflecting flickers of light from the city on the opposite bank, and wondered what Julie was thinking. He felt stiff, weary and depressed.
A minute later the train had grudgingly found its way into Campanha station. Luis stood and stretched until he saw his man walk by on the platform, and then he followed. The station seemed to be all boom and bustle after his cramped, dull journey, and the air on his face felt much colder than Lisbon's. Oporto sounded and smelt different: brisker, busier. His man stepped out confidently. Luis tracked him to the street outside and saw with dismay that he was getting into a taxi. You might have guessed that, you bloody fool, he told himself. At once the taxi moved off, its lights probing the gloom. Luis started to run. He had no plan, he only knew that he hadn't come all this way to lose everything so easily. He ran after the tail-lights of the taxi, pounding down the road, releasing all the stored-up frustration of the afternoon. He saw the taxi reach a corner and stop, and he put on a spurt. A vague shape loomed in front of him. He dodged but it turned across his path. Something heavy and woollen collided with his face, his knee struck metal, numbingly hard, and then he was diving, arms flung up to protect himself. There was a scraping crash as he landed hard on someone big and bony. One of Luis's hands skidded hotly across a wet cobblestone, the other banged against a greasy head. They lay for an instant, sprawled and stunned. A bicycle bell tinkled.