Liquidate Paris (25 page)

Barcelona tilted back his chair, swung his legs on to the desk, clasped his hands across his chest and stared up, trancelike, at the ceiling.

'Comrades, the time for speech has come and gone! Now the time has come for action! Action, comrades, for the common good! That is why I am here--to advise you, to encourage you, to give you whatever help you need, whatever help I can... Be secure in the knowledge that we are behind you, now and for always!'

There was a silence. Peter began twitching rather nervously. Heinrich was staring at him with wonderment in his eyes. Barcelona suddenly swung his legs to the ground and laughed.

'That was the biggest con trick of all time, wasn't it? Or did you have a sudden genuine change of heart?' He looked across at the rest of us. 'After pushing us all into a position of no-return the bugger suddenly upped and left us... the very same day! Didn't even have the grace to carry on the pretence for another twenty-four hours! And where did he go?' Barcelona glared at the twitching Peter. 'Where did you go, eh? I'll tell you, in case you've forgotten that as well! You went off all smug and safe on board a ship with a load of other Commie bastards! And just to add insult to injury you spent the whole night boozing and whoring and gorging yourself sick with the sort of food the rest of us hadn't seen for years! What was the name of that Russian general? The one who laid it all on, as a reward for being good little cat's-paws and inciting other people to fight the Party's battles for them? What was his name? Malinovsky? Was that it? Or do you prefer Manolito? I think that's what you used to call him in those days, wasn't it? Or can't you even remember that?'

Peter suddenly pulled off his hat, wiped an arm across his brow and fell limply into the nearest chair.

'Yes, yes,' he said, rather wearily. 'I remember... I thought I recognized you when you first came in, only I wasn't quite sure.'

'But now you are?'

Peter nodded.

'I suppose so.' He looked up at Barcelona and a smile flickered uncertainly across his lips. 'Yes, I remember now. You were a crack shot, weren't you? Are you still just as handy with a revolver?'

Barcelona did not return the hopeful smile. Porta stood like a statue at Peter's elbow and Little John still guarded the exit. The rest of us pricked up our ears and looked with new interest upon this member of the Gestapo who had been a member of the Communist Party in Spain. There was a rare phenomenon indeed!

'I'm reckoned to be just as handy as ever I was,' said Barcelona, slowly. 'Some might even say more handy... I've put in quite a lot of practice since last we met, Comrade! It's a pity I can't give you a demonstration, but I think our General upstairs might not like it too much.'

'Don't worry,' said Peter, hastily. 'I'll believe you without a demonstration.'

'You'd better!'

'And as for that business in Spain'--he shrugged his shoulders, carelessly--'surely that's long since dead and buried? I'd already done my share of the fighting when I met up with you. I was more vulnerable than you realized. You know what would have happened to me if the Phalange had ever got their hands on me?'

'Twelve bullets in the back of the neck,' said Barcelona, simply. 'And I can still think of many other people who'd be only too willing to give you the same treatment... including myself!'

Peter leaped to his feet in a panic. He was promptly pushed back into his chair and held there by Porta. Barcelona waved a hand.

'Forget it for the moment. I may return to it later. But before then, there's a question I want to put to you. Was it you who killed Conchita? We found her lying in the gutter in an alleyway behind the Ronda de San Pedro. Her throat was cut... Paco nearly went out of his mind. He always swore it was you who'd done it.'

Peter bit his lip.

'She was a whore. She deserved to have her throat cut.'

'Simply for being a whore?'

'She was a double agent. She'd been working for us for several months and we suddenly discovered that she'd been playing the same game for the other side.'

'So you cut her throat?' Barcelona walked across the room and stood looking down at the white-faced Peter. 'Just like that?'

'She was a double agent, I tell you--'

'So you say! I've no one else's word for it. And even if she was, she should have been brought before the tribunal of the Calle Layetana, not slung into a gutter with her head hacked off.'

We stared in amazement at Barcelona. He was usually a sentimentalist on the subject of Spain; even on the subject of the Civil War. It was land of sunshine and orange groves and perpetual siestas, and the Civil War had been an episode of youthful romanticism, a time of valour and idealism. We had never before seen Barcelona so grim and bitter.

'If Paco ever catches up with you,' he informed Peter, 'it'll be a knife in the back before you know where you are.'

'The woman was a double agent,' protested Peter, for the third time. 'And anyway, I was acting on orders.'

'Crap! You killed Conchita for one reason and one reason alone: because she preferred Paco to you. Because she refused to sleep with you.'

Peter held out both hands in a helpless gesture.

'That's enough, Blom! Let's call it a day, can't we? Why rake up the past like this? We've all done things we'd rather forget about--including you, my friend! I could think of one or two little incidents you'd probably rather I didn't mention. And although you've an excellent memory, it's not always wise to recall too much from the past. We're both on the same side now, so let's bury the hatchet.'

Barcelona raised a sceptical eyebrow. Peter stood up and laid a hand on his arm.

'Listen, Blom. I'm a good friend of Obergruppenfuhrer Bergers and I've had a bit of success one way or another. There were things that happened in Poland and the Ukraine... only that's top secret, I can't tell you any more. You'll just have to take my word for it----'

'What's all this soft soap leading up to?' asked Barcelona.

'I was thinking that a leather coat would possibly suit you as well as it does me. How about it?'

'You mean, join your lot?'

'You could do worse.'

Barcelona shook his head and laughed.

'No,thank you! I took your advice back in 1938 and I've been regretting it ever since. I don't get caught the same way twice...' and besides, I never did care for leather.'

There was a sudden movement from Little John at the door.

'Look sharp, someone's coming! '

We sprang smartly to attention as the door opened and a captain from an engineering regiment came into the room. He was very small, very dapper; his uniform fitted like a second skin, his boots gleamed and winked like precious stones. More genuine authority emanated from that man than from a dozen generals. Even the Gestapo were visibly impressed.

His glance, swept coldly round the guard room. His face, although young, was hard and lined, with high cheekbones and a strong jaw. He commanded your rather reluctant respect before even he opened his mouth. But he was a type--a type spawned by the war. Hard as a diamond, brilliant, precise, and flawlessly efficient. You didn't have to know the man to know what he was like.

'Sir!' Barcelona saluted with such verve that his arm looked as though it were on a spring. 'Feldwebel Blom, sir. On guard duty at the Hotel Meurice with three N.C.O.s and twelve men.' He paused. 'There are two civilians in the guard-room for interrogation,' he added.

From the corner of my eye I saw Peter's adam's apple working itself into a frenzy, but neither he nor Heinrich made any comment. The officer nodded.

'Anything to report?'

'No, sir.'

We waited for the order to stand at ease, but it didn't come. He kept us at attention while his ice-chip eyes roamed about the room, taking in every detail.

'Have the two civilians been interrogated?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Any charge to bring against them?'

'None, sir. They're free to go.'

'Then what the devil are they hanging about for? Get out, before someone thinks up a complaint against you!'

He turned ferociously on Heinrich and Peter, who left: the room so fast you could almost see the dust clouds rising behind them. I noted, with satisfaction, that there was no question of their attempting to stand on their Gestapo rights when they met up with someone of this man's calibre. He now turned his frozen gaze upon Barcelona.

'What's happened to your uniform, Feldwebel?'

Barcelona glanced down at himself and hastily did up the two top buttons of his tunic. The Captain nodded.

'Never let me see you in that state again. Carelessness in dress leads to carelessness in other things. Kindly announce my arrival.' .

'Yes, sir. What name shall I say, sir?'

'Captain Ebersbach. I am expected.'

Barcelona disappeared. We continued to stand to attention during his absence, until at last he returned with a young lieutenant galloping anxiously behind him.

'Captain Ebersbach, sir! The General is waiting for you. If you'd care to come this way----'

He did care, thank God, and the moment he had gone we fell into postures of exaggerated relaxation. Seconds later, there was another interruption. It was Peter and Heinrich again. They looked cautiously round the door.

'Psst! Has old chisel features gone? We've brought you a present. Just been down to the kitchen and found it in a cupboard. We thought you might like it.'

'We thought we might share it,' added Heinrich, dosing the door behind him.

The present they had 'found' in a cupboard was a bottle of cognac. It was good to know that even the Gestapo could be human on occasion.

'We'll all get five years in Torgau if we're caught boozing in a guard-room," protested Barcelona, avidly wrenching open the bottle and raising it to his lips.

'I'll risk it,' offered Little John.

Needless to say, we all risked it. When there's the immediate and definite prospect of a drink, as opposed ta the mere possibility of a five-year prison sentence, a sensible man really has no choice. The bottle was passed from hand to hand, from mouth to mouth, while one of us kept an ear at the keyhole in case of approaching trouble.

'I'm buggered if I know, why we've been sent to this place,' complained Porta. 'They do nothing but talk of explosives all day long.'

'So what?' demanded Peter, ripping open a packet of Yank chewing gum and doing his best to look like an American. 'Doesn't concern you what they talk about, does it? They've still got to be guarded, haven't they?'

'Explosives aren't our cup of tea,' said Porta. 'If they're planning to blow the bleeding town up I wish, they'd do it without us. Mines give me the willies.'

'They wouldn't blow Paris up,' said Little John. 'Not Paris, they wouldn't.'

'Why not?' asked Peter, challengingly.

He leaned,back in his chair, his leather coat falling open, his thumbs stuck beneath his armpits. Before Little John could put forward any very convincing reason for the preservation of Paris, Porta had bent forward and snatched out one of the revolvers from the two shoulder holsters that Peter was wearing.

'They just wouldn't,' repeated Little John, doubtfully.

'That's all you know!
Why
, when I was in Katya--
--'

Heinrich suddenly screamed.

'Don't keep on talking about when you were in Katya! I can't stand it, you're worse than a belly ache!'

'But they haven't heard about it before----'

'Well, I have!'

'What happened in Kayta?' asked Little John, with annoying obtuseness.

Fortunately, before Peter could launch into a long and probably very boring tale, Porta had caught his attention by waving his revolver beneath his nose.

'Hey, Comrade! Want to swap this for a Glicenti?'

'I might,' said Peter, cautiously. 'Let's have a look at it.'

The Glicenti was produced, examined, considered and finally approved. The exchange solemnly took place. I wondered if Peter realized that although he was now the possessor of one of the finest revolvers in the world, he would have the most extreme difficulty in finding any bullets for it. I was on the verge of pointing this out to him, but reflected just in time that Porta probably wouldn't thank me for interfering.

'I still didn't hear about Katya,' complained Little John.

'Later,' said Heinrich. 'We have to go now.'

'No, we don't,' said Peter.

We were saved once again; this time by the arrival of Julius Heide, who burst into the room in his usual flurry of efficiency, his uniform, as always, correct down to the most insignificant detail, his face consciously alert and scrupulously shaven.

'Who's this gorgeous creature?' demanded Peter, his eyes contemptuously following Heide across the room.

'That's our Living Rule,' explained Barcelona, as if Heide were not actually present in person to speak for himself. 'He's in training for a military sainthood. Every last hair on his body has been taught how to stand to attention.'

Heide glared at Barcelona and treated Peter and Heinrich to one of his most scathing of looks. From their leather coats and their general sinister demeanour he must presumably have guessed their identity, but he gave no signs of being at all impressed. Instead, his eyes flickered away in the direction of the circulating cognac bottle and he turned to Barcelona with a frown of displeasure.

'You know perfectly bloody well it's forbidden to drink when you're on guard duty!'

'Why don't you give your arse a chance?' suggested Barcelona, amiably.

'You'll find yourself in Torgau before you're very much older!' snapped Heide.

'Yeah? Who's going to put me there?'

Heide inflated his chest like a rubber life raft.

'It may interest you to know that the new C.O. is a personal friend of mine. We were in Rotterdam together. You drunken load of imbeciles are probably not aware of the fact that I started my service career as a corporal in a parachute corps. I have many influential acquaintances.'

'Get that!' said Porta, admiringly; and ruined the effect by adding in robust tones: 'What a shit!'