Part 27 (1/2)

”Here's to h.e.l.l, sir. Where all the b.l.o.o.d.y-f.o.o.kin' traitors belong so as to roast on a spit into eternity. We sent him there, by d.a.m.n, and by d.a.m.n I'm proud to be a b.l.o.o.d.y-f.o.o.kin' part of it. And here's to Major Jim Holly-Browning, best b.l.o.o.d.y-f.o.o.kin' spy-catcher there ever was.” He laughed abrasively.

”Do you know, Vane, I believe I'll drink to that,” said Major Holly-Browning.

Levitsky, he thought.

It started in the Lubyanka in 1923. Now on Broadway in 1937, I've finished it.

Levitsky: I've won.

25.

BEHIND THE LINES.

THERE,” SAID PORTELA. ”DO YOU SEE IT?”

Florry lay on the pine-needled floor of the forest and studied the Fascist lines across the valley in the fading light. With his German binoculars, he conjured up from the blur a distinct view of the trench running in the low hills, the odd outpost or breastwork. But the terrain was generally bleak and scorched; it had the look of wasted, untilled land, its farmers fled as if from plague.

”It's quiet here,” said Portela, ”with all the fighting up around Huesca or down near Madrid. This is where I cross. Zaragossa is not far. My people wait in the hills beyond. You'll see, comrades.”

”Good show,” said Julian, theatrically chipper. He stood in the trees like one of Our Gallant Lads at the Front in a 1915 West End melodrama. He had been in such a mood since they left, hearty, solicitous, irrepressibly British. He was almost hysterical with charm.

”Time to go, comrade?” he called to Portela cheerfully. ”My ”My bags are all packed.” bags are all packed.”

”Comrade Julian, you are like a hungry dog. I've never seen a man so eager. But we must wait until the night.”

”Blast!” said Julian. ”Stink and I want to get cracking here, eh, Stink? Have at the beggars, over the top, that sort of thing.” said Julian. ”Stink and I want to get cracking here, eh, Stink? Have at the beggars, over the top, that sort of thing.”

Carrying on like a child. Performing antically for anyone who would pay him the faintest attention. Being Brilliant Julian on the center of a stage designed for him and him alone.

Florry issued a deeply insincere smile, as if he, too, were richly amused with Brilliant Julian, but he was so poor an actor he could find no words to speak, out of fear of speaking them transparently. Instead, he turned his back, using his pack as a sort of pillow. He could see through the pine needles above a patch of sweet, crisp blue sky. He hunkered against his pack, thinking how odd it was to be wearing a peasant's rough garb and boots and be sleeping on a pack that contained a Burberry, a blue suit, and a pair of black brogues. Soon he had fallen asleep.

”Robert?”

Florry started. Julian loomed over him, staring intensely.

”Yes, old man?”

”Look, I want to say something.”

”Yes?”

”Portela's sleeping. That man can sleep anywhere. Look, old boy, I've got an awfully queasy feeling that my luck's run its string. I don't think I'm going to make it back.”

You swine, thought Florry. You deserve an award for your performance rather than the four-five-five I'm going to put in your head.

”You'll make it. The bullet hasn't been made that could bring down the brilliant Julian.”

”No, no. And my feelings are never wrong about these things. You will. I won't. Somehow this little gimcrack”-he held out his father's wedding ring on its chain-”has lost its charm. I can feel it. I know know it. 'Pons' shall go forever unfinished.” it. 'Pons' shall go forever unfinished.”

He smiled. His teeth were white and beautiful, his face grave and handsome. He had such high, fine cheekbones and glittery blue eyes. Julian, we mere mortals peep about your b.l.o.o.d.y ankles.

”I wanted to tell you about Sylvia. I want it straight between us. Do you understand there's nothing between us? She's yours. I'd never touch her, is that understood? The two of you: it's so right.” right.”

”Yes, Julian. Yes, I do understand.”

And Florry did. For he knew that Julian could not betray him for love. But as for politics, that was something else. For Florry, over the long day's drive, had finally reached the final implication of Julian's treachery. The bridge attack would fail. And that meant Florry would die. Julian would kill him. Even now as he addresses me, he addresses me as the executioner talking to the victim, a.s.suring him that the drop of the gallows trap is nothing personal, but purely in the best interests of the Party.

”Good, chum,” said Julian. ”And when I'm gone, you remember that.”

”I will, Julian,” said Florry, ”I will.”

You b.a.s.t.a.r.d, he thought, surprised himself at the cold loathing he felt. You betrayed me at school. You betrayed me with Sylvia. Now you will betray me at the bridge. The difference is that I know it this time and I will stop you.

”Sylvia deserves somebody dogged and solid with virtue. And that's you and it's grand. Be good to her.”

”I'm sure in twenty years we'll all get together at the Savoy over c.o.c.ktails and laugh about this conversation.”

”I'm sure we won't won't, ” said Julian.

They crouched in the forest. It was time. Florry found himself breathing heavily.

”Comrades,” said Portela, who had blacked his face out under his black beret. He carried an American Thompson gun. ”For you,” he said. ”Salud.” He got a flask out from under his cape and handed it over. ”From Comrade Steinbach. For the English dynamiters.”

He handed it to Julian, who sniffed at the snout voluptuously. ”G.o.d, lovely. Whiskey. Wonderful English whiskey. Bushmill's, I believe. To the b.l.o.o.d.y future,” he toasted, taking a bolt, ”that ugly wh.o.r.e.” He handed the flask to Florry.

Florry threw down a swallow. It was like the brown smoke from a thousand English hearths.

”Shall we go then, lads?” said Julian, and they were off.

Portela led them down the slope and out into no-man's-land. A mist had risen, and the three men seemed to wade through it. Oddly, up above, the stars were clear and sharp, shreds and flecks of far-off, remote light. Florry was last in the file. He had the Webley in his hand, and a four-five-five in each chamber. He was just behind Julian.

Wait till you get beyond the lines. Wait till Portela leaves you. Wait till you get to the truck. Wait till you've changed into your fine English suit. Wait till you're in the truck and setting off to Pamplona. Then lift and fire. Clean. Into the back of the head. It'll be much easier than the boy in the trench.

Then what? he wondered.

Then you go on. To the bridge.

That's absurd.

They waded through the mist. The silence fell upon them heavily. The mist nipped and bobbed at his knees. Portela halted suddenly, turning, and waved them down.

Florry knelt, sinking into the mist. For a second, all was silent and still. Then there came the low slush of boots pus.h.i.+ng their way through the wet, high gra.s.s, and Florry made out the shape of a soldier-no, another, three, four!-advancing toward them in the fog. They were Fascists on patrol, somber men in great coats with German helmets and long Mausers with bayonets. Florry tried to sink lower into the earth, but the men continued their advance, gripping their rifles tightly, their eyes peering about. Florry thought of Julian: had he somehow alerted the NKVD who had in turn alerted the Fascists?

If they find us, Julian, I'll kill you here, he thought, his hand tightening on the bulky revolver.