The Time in Between A Novel

Chapter Thirty-Nine

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We ate alone in a wing of the American embassy that we reached by going down still more corridors and staircases. On the way Hillgarth explained to me that the building was the result of a number of extensions to an old main house; that explained why it lacked uniformity. The room we arrived in wasn’t exactly a dining room; it was more like a little drawing room with few furnishings and lots of paintings of old battles in golden frames. The windows, firmly closed despite the beautiful day, looked out over a courtyard. In the middle of the room someone had set out a platter of veal for two. A waiter with a military crew cut served us some rare-cooked meat accompanied by roast potatoes and salad. On a side table he left two plates of cut-up fruit and a coffee service. As soon as he’d finished filling our glasses with wine and water, he disappeared, closing the door behind him without a sound. The conversation resumed its former course.

“When you arrive in Madrid you’ll be staying at the Palace for a week; we’ve made a reservation in your name—I mean, in your new name. Once you’re there, you’re to go in and out all the time, get yourself seen. Go to shops, walk over to your new residence to familiarize yourself with it. Go for walks, go to the cinema; in short, move about as you like. With just two restrictions.”

“Which are?”

“The first is that you stay within the bounds of the smarter parts of Madrid. Don’t make any contact with people from outside that world.”

“You’re telling me not to set foot in my old neighborhood or see my old friends or acquaintances, right?”

“Precisely. No one should be able to link you to your past. You’re a new arrival in the capital: you don’t know anybody, and no one knows you. In the event that you run into anyone who happens to recognize you, do whatever you can to deny it. Be rude if you have to, do anything you need to, just don’t let anyone discover that you aren’t who you claim to be.”

“I’ll bear that in mind, don’t worry. And the second restriction?”

“Absolutely no contact with anyone of British nationality.”

“You mean I can’t see Rosalinda Fox?” I said, unable to hide my disappointment. Even though I knew our relationship couldn’t be public, I’d been counting on being able to have her support in private; being able to rely on her experience and her instincts whenever I found myself in trouble.

Hillgarth wiped his mouth with his napkin and took a sip of water before replying.

“I’m afraid that’s the way it has to be. I’m sorry. Not her, nor anyone else who’s English, except for me and then only in absolutely unavoidable situations. Mrs. Fox knows all about this: if by any chance you find yourselves in the same place, she knows she’s not to approach you. And as much as possible avoid contact with North Americans as well. They’re our friends—you can see how well they treat us,” he said, opening his hands as though taking in the whole room with them. “Regrettably they are not equally good friends of Spain and the Axis countries, so try to keep your distance from them, too.”

“Very well,” I agreed. I didn’t like the restriction that prevented me from seeing Rosalinda, but I knew I had no choice but to observe the rule.

“And talking about public places, there are a few where I’d advise you to allow yourself to be seen,” he continued.

“Go on.”

“Your hotel, the Palace. It’s full of Germans, so keep going there regularly with any excuse even when you’re no longer staying there. Eating at the grill there, that’s very fashionable right now. Go for a drink, or to meet up with a client. Of course, in the New Spain it doesn’t look good for women to go out on their own, smoke or drink or dress showily. But remember that you’re not a Spaniard anymore, but a foreigner from a country that’s a bit exotic, newly arrived in the capital, so you can behave accordingly. Go by the Ritz often, too, that’s another nest of Nazis. And especially to Embassy, the tearoom on the Paseo de la Castellana—do you know it?”

“Of course,” I said. I refrained from telling him about the times in my childhood when I’d pressed my nose against the glass, my mouth watering at the sweets on display. Cream tarts garnished with strawberries, butter pastries, charlotte russes. In those days I never even dreamed that crossing that threshold would one day be within my reach, let alone the range of my pocketbook. In one of life’s little ironies, I was now, years later, being asked to go there as often as possible.

“The owner, Margaret Taylor, is Irish, and she’s a great friend of ours. Right now it’s perfectly possible that Embassy is the most strategically interesting spot in Madrid, because there—a small shop not much larger than seven hundred and fifty square feet—you find us all, members of the Axis and Allies alike, meeting in one place, without any apparent friction. Separately, of course, each with his own. But you’ll often find Baron von Stohrer, the German ambassador, there at the same time as the top brass of the British diplomatic corps as he drinks his lemon tea, or I’ll find myself at the bar shoulder to shoulder with my German counterpart. The German embassy is almost exactly across the street and ours is very close by, too, on the corner of Fernando el Santo and Monte Esquinza. As well as hosting a large number of foreigners, Embassy is the main meeting point for a lot of Spaniards from the noblest families: it would be hard to find more aristocratic titles all together anywhere in Spain than you’ll meet there at aperitif time. Most of these aristocrats are monarchists, and Anglophiles, meaning that on the whole they tend to be on our side, so that in terms of gathering information they’re not very valuable to us. But it would be interesting if you could get some clients from that milieu, because they are the class of women whom the Germans admire and respect. The wives of the high command in the new regime tend to be a different matter entirely: they know little of the world, they’re much more demure, they don’t wear haute couture, they enjoy themselves much less, and they naturally don’t frequent Embassy for champagne cocktails before lunch; you understand what I mean?”

“I’m getting the picture.”

“If we’re unlucky enough that you end up in any serious trouble, or you think you have any information you need to get to me urgently, Embassy at one p.m. is the place you can contact me any day of the week. Let’s say it’s my undercover meeting place for a number of our agents: it’s a place that’s so brazenly exposed that it’s extremely unlikely to arouse the least suspicion. To communicate we’ll use a very simple code: if you need to meet me, come in with your bag on your left arm; if you’ve just come for a drink and to be seen, carry it on your right. Remember: left, problem; right, normal. And if the situation is an absolute emergency, drop the bag as soon as you’ve come in, as though it’s just carelessness or an accident.”

“What would you consider an absolute emergency?” I asked. I sensed that his words, which I didn’t completely understand, hid something extremely unappealing.

“Direct threats. Severe coercion. Physical aggression. Breaking into your home.”

“And what will you do with me then?” I asked, once I’d swallowed the knot that had formed in my throat.

“That depends. We’ll analyze the situation and act, depending on the risk. In the most severe case we would abort the operation, try to put you somewhere safe, and evacuate you as soon as possible. In an intermediate situation, we’d study a variety of ways we could protect you. In any case, rest assured that you can count on us, that we’ll never leave you out on your own.”

“Thank you.”

“You needn’t thank us—that’s our job,” he said as he cut one of the last pieces of meat on his plate. “We’re confident that everything will work out well—the plan we’ve designed is very safe, and the information you’re going to be passing us isn’t high risk, for the moment. Would you like some dessert?”

This time once again he didn’t wait for me to accept his offer or refuse it; he just got up, gathered up the plates, took them over to the side table, and returned with others filled with cut-up fruit. I watched his quick, precise movements, perfect for someone whose absolute priority was efficiency, someone unused to wasting a second of his time or allowing himself to be distracted by trivialities and vagueness. He sat back down, stabbed at a piece of pineapple, and continued with his instructions as though there had been no interruption.

“In case we’re the ones who need to make contact with you, we’ll use two channels. One will be the Bourguignon florist on the Calle Almagro. The owner—a Dutchman—is another good friend of ours. We’ll send you flowers. White, maybe yellow; in any case, they’ll be light colored. The red ones we’ll leave to your admirers.”

“Very thoughtful,” I remarked ironically.

“Look at the bunch of flowers very carefully,” he went on without acknowledging the comment. “There will be a message inside. If it’s something innocent, it’ll be in a simple handwritten card. You should always read it a number of times, try to figure out whether the apparently trivial words might have a double meaning. When it’s something more complex, we’ll use the same code as you, inverted Morse code transcribed on the ribbon tied around the flowers: undo the bow and decode the message in just the way you’d write it yourself—right to left, in other words.”

“Very well. And the second channel?”

“Embassy again—not the place itself, though, but the candies. If you receive a box unexpectedly, you’ll know it’s come from us. We’ll arrange for it to leave the shop with the message inside it, which will also be in code. Take a good look at the cardboard box and the wrapping paper.”

“Such gallantry,” I said with a touch of sarcasm. He didn’t seem to notice it, or if he did he didn’t show it.

“It’s simply how we deal with it: using unlikely mechanisms to transmit confidential information. Coffee?”

I hadn’t yet finished my fruit but I accepted. He filled the cups, having first unscrewed the top part of a metallic receptacle. Miraculously the liquid came out hot. I had no idea what it was, this machine that could pour out the coffee that had been there for at least an hour as though it had just been prepared.

“A thermos, a great invention,” he said, noticing my curiosity. He took out several pale slim folders from his briefcase and placed them in a pile in front of him. “Next I’m going to show you the characters we’re most interested in having you watch for us. Our interest in these women might increase or decrease with time. Or indeed disappear entirely, though I doubt that. Most likely we’ll be adding new names; we’ll be asking you to concentrate your attentions on one of them in particular or to try to track down certain specific pieces of information. For now, though, these are the people whose agendas we want to learn about right away.”

He opened the first folder and took out a few typewritten sheets. In the top corner there was a photograph affixed with a metal clip.

“Baroness de Petrino—of Romanian origins. Maiden name, Elena Borkowska. Married to Josef Hans Lazar, head of press and propaganda for the German embassy. Her husband is one of our top targets for acquiring information: he’s an influential man with immense power. He’s very capable and extremely well connected in the Spanish regime, in particular with the most powerful of the Falangists. On top of that he’s extremely gifted in public relations: he organizes wonderful parties at his Castellana mansion and invites dozens of journalists and businessmen whose support he buys by regaling them with food and drink that he brings over directly from Germany. His lifestyle is scandalous in a Spain that’s suffering so much right now; he’s a sybarite and a lover of antiques—he’s probably been able to get hold of the most valued pieces, paid for by other people’s hunger. Ironically it would appear that he’s Jewish and of Turkish origin, something he’s careful to hide. His wife is completely a part of his hectic social life and is just as showy as he is in her incessant public appearances, so we have no doubt that she’ll be one of your first clients. We’re hoping that she’s one of the ones who’ll bring you the most work, both in sewing and when it comes to passing us information about her activities.”

He didn’t give me time to see the photograph, because he immediately closed the folder and pushed it across the tablecloth toward me. I was about to open it but he stopped me.

“Leave that for later. You can take all these files away with you today. You’ll have to memorize the information and destroy the papers and photographs as soon as you’re able to retain them in your head. Burn everything. It’s absolutely critical that these dossiers do not travel to Madrid and that nobody but you should know what’s in them, is that clear?”

Before I’d had the chance to say yes, he’d opened the next folder and continued.

“Gloria von Fürstenberg. Of Mexican origin in spite of her name. Be very careful what you say in front of her because she’ll be able to understand everything. She’s an incredible beauty, really elegant, the widow of a German aristocrat. She has two children and somewhat catastrophic economic circumstances, which is why she’s constantly on the hunt for a new rich husband or, in the absence of one of them, any gullible man with a fortune who might offer her enough support to maintain her grand lifestyle. Which is why she’s always attached to powerful men; she’s linked to various lovers, including the Egyptian ambassador and Juan March, the millionaire. Her social activity never stops, always within the Nazi community. She’ll give you a lot of work, too, you can count on that, though she might also take some time to pay her bills.”

He closed the folder back up and passed it to me; I put it on top of the previous one without opening it. He went on to the third.

“Elsa Bruckmann, born the Princess of Cantacuzène. A millionaire, passionate admirer of Hitler though much older than him. They say she was the person who introduced him to Berlin’s lavish social scene. She’s given an absolute fortune to the Nazi cause. Lately she’s been living in Madrid, in the ambassador’s residence, we don’t know why. That notwithstanding, she seems to be very comfortable here, and she’s another who never misses a social event. She’s known to be a bit eccentric and quite indiscreet, so she may be an open book when it comes to divulging relevant information. Another cup of coffee?”

“Yes, but I can serve myself. Please go on, I’m listening.”

“Very well—thank you. The last of the German ladies: the Countess Mechthild Podewils, tall, beautiful, about thirty, separated, a good friend of Arnold, one of the top spies active in Madrid and high up in the SS; his surname is Wolf—she calls him Wölfchen, the diminutive, Little Wolf. She is extremely well connected with both Germans and Spaniards, the latter belonging to the aristocratic and governmental circles, including Miguel Primo de Rivera y Sáenz de Heredia, brother to José Antonio, who founded the Falange. She’s a fully fledged Nazi agent, though she may not know it herself; they say she doesn’t understand a word of politics or espionage, but they pay her fifteen thousand pesetas a month to tell them everything she sees and hears, and in Spain today that’s an absolute fortune.”

“I’m sure it is.”

“Now we’re onto the Spaniards. Piedad Iturbe von Scholtz, Piedita to her friends. The Marchioness of Belvís de las Navas, married to Prince Max of Hohenlohe-Langenburg, a rich Austrian landowner, a legitimate member of European royalty, though he’s spent half his life in Spain. In principle he does support the German cause because that’s his country, but he’s in regular contact with us and with the Americans because we’re important to his business interests. Both are extremely cosmopolitan and they don’t seem to like the Führer’s ravings one bit. The truth is, they’re a charming couple and very well regarded in Spain, but they’re still on the fence, if I might put it like that. We want to keep an eye on them to learn whether they’re leaning more toward the German side than to ours, you understand?” he said, closing the relevant file.

“I understand.”

“And the last of the highest-valued targets, Sonsoles de Icaza, Marchioness of Llanzol. She’s the only one we’re not interested in for her consort, who’s a soldier and aristocrat thirty years older than her. Our target here is her lover: Ramón Serrano Suñer, minister of governance and secretary-general of the movement. The minister of the Axis, we call him.”

“Franco’s brother-in-law?” I asked, surprised.

“The very same. Their relationship is quite brazen, on her part especially—she boasts publicly and without the slightest hesitation about her affair with the second most powerful man in Spain. This woman is as elegant as she’s arrogant, and very tough, so be careful. She’ll be of very considerable value to us, however, for all the information we’ll be able to get from her about those movements and contacts of Serrano Suñer’s that aren’t public knowledge.”

I hid my surprise at this comment. I knew that Serrano was a gallant man—he’d shown me that himself when he retrieved the powder compact that I’d dropped on the floor at his feet—but at the time he’d also seemed to me to be a discreet, restrained man; it was hard to imagine him participating in a scandalous extramarital affair with a stunning lady of the noblest birth.

“We have one more folder left, with information about a number of people,” Hillgarth went on. “According to the data we have, the wives of those mentioned here are less likely to have an urgent need to visit an elegant fashion house the moment it opens, but just in case they do it wouldn’t do you any harm to memorize their names. And in particular you should learn their husbands’ names well, as they’re our real targets. It’s also quite possible that they’ll be mentioned in your other clients’ conversations, so you should keep alert. Let me make a start; I’ll go through these ones quickly, and you’ll have plenty of time to go over them yourself more calmly. Paul Winzer, the Gestapo’s strongman in Madrid. Very dangerous; he’s feared and hated even by many of his compatriots. He’s Himmler’s henchman in Spain—Himmler’s the head of the German secret services. He’s barely forty, but already he’s an old dog—round glasses, a distracted gaze. He has dozens of collaborators right across Madrid, so beware. Next: Walter Junghanns, one of our most particular nightmares. He’s the main saboteur of cargoes of Spanish fruit headed for Great Britain: he plants bombs that have already killed a number of workers. Next: Karl Ernst von Merck, a distinguished member of the Gestapo, highly influential within the Nazi party. Next: Johannes Franz Bernhardt, businessman . . .”

“I know him.”

“Excuse me?”

“I know him from Tetouan.”

“How well do you know him?” he asked slowly.

“Little. Very little. I’ve never spoken to him, but we were at the same reception from time to time when Beigbeder was commissioner there.”

“And does he know you? Would he be able to recognize you in a public place?”

“I doubt it. We’ve never exchanged a single word, and I don’t imagine he’d remember those meetings.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Women can tell perfectly when a man looks at us with interest, or when he looks at us as you might examine a piece of furniture.”

He remained silent a few moments, as though considering what he’d heard.

“I suppose that’s feminine psychology,” he said at last, skeptical.

“Exactly.”

“And his wife?”

“I made her a jacket once. You’re right, she’d never be one of the especially sophisticated ones. She’s not the kind of woman who’d mind at all about wearing last season’s wardrobe.”

“Do you think she’d remember you, that she’d recognize you if you ran into each other somewhere?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so, but I can’t guarantee it. In any case, if she did, I don’t think it’d be too problematic. My life in Tetouan isn’t in contradiction with anything I’m going to be doing from now on.”

“Don’t be so sure. Out there you were a friend of Mrs. Fox, and by extension eventually of Colonel Beigbeder, too. In Madrid nobody can know anything about that.”

“But I was barely with them at public events, and as for our private meetings Bernhardt and his wife have no way of knowing anything about them. Don’t worry, I don’t think there should be any problems.”

“I hope you’re right. In any case, Bernhardt is more or less on the fringes of intelligence matters: his world is that of business. He’s the front man of the Nazi government in a hugely complex web of German corporations operating in Spain: transport, banking, insurance . . .”

“Does he have anything to do with HISMA?”

“HISMA, the Spanish-Moroccan Transportation Corporation, became a small business when they made the move back to the Peninsula. Now they operate under the auspices of another more powerful firm, SOFINDUS. But tell me, how come you’ve heard about HISMA?”

“I heard it mentioned in Tetouan during the war,” I replied vaguely. This wasn’t the moment to go into detail about the negotiation between Bernhardt and Serrano Suñer; that was something we’d left far behind.

“Bernhardt,” he went on, “has a bunch of political informers on his payroll, but what he’s really always after is information of commercial value. We’re assuming you’re never going to meet him—in fact he doesn’t even live in Madrid but on the eastern coast. They say that Serrano Suñer himself paid for the house by way of thanks for services rendered; we don’t know if the truth is quite that extreme or not. One more very important thing about him, though.”

“Tell me.”

“Wolfram.”

“What?”

“Wolfram,” he repeated. “A mineral of vital importance for the manufacturing of components for artillery projectiles for the war. We think Bernhardt’s in negotiations with the Spanish government to sell him mining concessions in Galicia and Extremadura in order to get hold of small sites so that he can buy directly from their owners. I don’t imagine people will be talking about these things in your workshop, but if you happen to hear anything about this, you’re to let us know at once. Remember: wolfram. Sometimes they call it tungsten. It’s written down here, in the section on Bernhardt,” he said, pointing at the document.

“I’ll bear it in mind.”

We each lit another cigarette.

“Well then, let’s go on to some things you should avoid. Are you tired?”

“Not in the least. Please, go on.”

“As to clients, there’s one small group you should avoid at all costs: the employees of the Nazi administration. It’s easy to recognize these women: they’re extremely showy and arrogant, they go around with a lot of makeup on, heavily perfumed and showily dressed. The truth is that they have no social pedigree at all and relatively modest professional qualifications, but their salaries are astronomical by current Spanish standards and they spend them ostentatiously. The wives of the powerful Nazis despise them, and they themselves—in spite of their apparent conceit—hardly dare to cough in front of their superiors. If they show up at your workshop, get rid of them without a second thought: you don’t want them there, they’ll drive away the more desirable clientele.”

“I’ll do as you say, don’t worry about it.”

“As for public establishments, we advise against your presence at places like Chicote, Riscal, Casablanca, or Pasapoga. They’re full of nouveaux riches, black marketeers, parvenus from the regime, and theater people. Company that isn’t to be recommended in your circumstances. As far as possible, restrict yourself to the hotels I’ve already mentioned to you, to Embassy, to other safe places like the Puerta de Hierro club or the casino. And needless to say, if you manage to get invited to dinners or parties with the German women in private homes, you’re to accept at once.”

“I will,” I said, not adding how much I doubted that I’d ever be invited to any such thing.

He looked at his watch and I did the same. There wasn’t much light left in the room; we were already surrounded by a premonition of nightfall. Around us there wasn’t a sound, just a thick smell from the lack of ventilation. It was past seven in the evening; we’d been together since ten in the morning, Hillgarth spewing information like a hose, and me absorbing it through all my senses to take in the tiniest details, digesting facts, trying to allow every last fiber of my being to become imbued with his words. The coffee had been finished some time ago, and the cigarette butts were overflowing the ashtray.

“Well, we’re almost done now,” he announced. “All I have left are a few recommendations. The first of these is a message from Mrs. Fox. She’s asked me to tell you that—both in terms of your own appearance and your sewing work—you should try to be either bold and daring or pure elegance in its utmost simplicity. Either way, she advises you to avoid the conventional, and especially not to be mainstream, because if you do, she thinks there’s a risk that the workshop will fill up with the wives of big shots from the regime looking for modest jacket suits to go to Mass on Sundays with their husbands and children.”

I smiled. Rosalinda, incorrigible and unmistakable, even in messages delivered by someone else.

“Coming from that person, I’ll follow the advice without a second thought,” I said.

“And now, finally, our own suggestions. First: read the papers, keep up to date with the political situation, in Spain and also abroad, though bear in mind that all the information will always be slanted toward the German side. Second: always keep calm. Get yourself into character and convince yourself you are who you are, no one else. Act fearlessly, confidently: we can’t offer you diplomatic immunity, but I guarantee you that whatever happens you’ll always be protected. And our third and final piece of advice: be extremely wary in your personal life. A beautiful, single foreign woman will always attract all manner of playboys and opportunists. You can’t imagine how much confidential information has been revealed irresponsibly by careless agents in moments of passion. Be alert, and please do not share anything with anyone, anything at all of what you’ve heard here today.”

“I won’t, you can count on it.”

“Perfect. We trust you and hope that your mission will be successful.”

He began to gather up his papers and organize his briefcase. The moment had arrived that I’d been fearing all day: he was getting ready to leave and I had to stop myself from asking him to stay, to keep talking and giving me more instructions, not to let me fly free just yet. But he was no longer looking at me, so he probably hadn’t noticed my reaction. He moved at the same pace with which he’d delivered his sentences, one by one, over the course of the previous hours: quick, direct, methodical, reaching the end of every subject without wasting a single second on banalities. While he put away his belongings, he passed on his final recommendations.

“Remember what I’ve told you about the files: study them and then make them disappear immediately. Someone’s going to accompany you now to a side door; there’s a car waiting close by to take you home. Here is the airline ticket and money for your initial expenses.”

He handed me two envelopes. The first, slimmer, contained my documentation to cross the skies to Madrid. The second, thicker, was filled with a big wad of banknotes. He kept talking as he deftly fastened the clasps of the briefcase.

“The money should cover your preliminary expenses. The stay at the Palace and your rent for the new atelier are being taken care of by us; that’s all been arranged already, as has the salary for the girls who’ll be working for you. Income for the work will be all yours. Just the same, if you do need any more cash, let us know right away: we have an open budget line for these operations, so there are no problems as far as financing is concerned.”

I was all ready now, too. I was holding the folders against my chest, sheltered in my arms as though they were the child I’d lost years earlier rather than an assortment of information about a swarm of undesirables. My heart was still in its place, obeying my internal orders not to rise up to my throat and choke me. Finally we got up from that table on which nothing was left but what looked like the innocent remains of a lengthy lunch: plates, empty coffee cups, a full ashtray, and two displaced chairs. As though nothing had happened there but a pleasant conversation between a couple of friends who—chatting away, relaxed, between one cigarette and the next—had been catching up on each other’s lives. Except that Captain Hillgarth and I weren’t friends. And neither of us was remotely interested in the other’s past, or our presents. All we were concerned about, the two of us, was the future.

“One last detail,” he warned.

We were about to leave; he already had his hand on the doorknob. He drew it back and looked at me fixedly from under his thick eyebrows. In spite of the long session we’d had together, he still looked exactly as he had in the morning: not a hair out of place, his tie still impeccably knotted, his shirt cuffs spotless. His face remained impassive, not particularly tense, nor particularly relaxed. The perfect image of a man capable of handling himself with perfect self-control in any situation. He lowered his voice till it was little more than a hoarse murmur.

“You don’t know me, and I don’t know you. We’ve never met before. And as for your enrollment into the British Secret Intelligence Service, from this moment you’re no longer the Spanish citizen Sira Quiroga to us, nor the Moroccan Arish Agoriuq. You’re just the SOE special agent codenamed Sidi, with a base of operations in Spain. The least conventional of the recent conscripts, but just the same, one of our own.”

He held out his hand. Firm, cold, self-confident. The firmest, coldest, most self-confident hand I’d ever shaken in my life.

“Good luck, Agent Sidi. We’ll be in touch.”