Red Rag Blues (2 page)

“Thank you,” Luis said. “Jolly good sport. How much do I owe you?”

Barnes opened a notebook. “Seven hundred and three dollars. Please forget it. I've already forgotten it.” Luis was writing. “It's of no importance,” Barnes said. “I've been flat broke, often. It's a temporary inconvenience, nothing more.”

“You're very kind. This is a charge on my bank in Caracas.”

Barnes took the check. It was signed
Count de Zamora y Ciudad-Rodrigo.
“I hope you won't be offended.” He struck a match and set fire to a corner. “Here in the US it's a criminal offense to bounce a check.” They watched it burn in an ashtray. “Tell me one thing, and then we'll go our separate ways and I'll sleep easy tonight. What plans have you got? In America?”

“I plan to join the Secret Service.”

“Uh-huh.” Barnes stirred the gray flakes with a pencil. “I expect their number's in the phone book.”

Mrs. Barnes came in. “Our bags are ashore, John.”

“Okay. Mr. Cabrillo tells me he plans to join the US Secret Service. What d'you think of that?”

“Not in those shoes,” she said firmly.

“Why not?” Luis said. “Most comfortable shoes I've ever had.”

“Fine in Venezuela. Okay on this ship. But take it from an American, you won't get anywhere here in suede.”

“What happened to the land of the free?”

“It's available in every style and color,” Barnes said, “except suede.”

*

The arrival hall on Hoboken dockside was unlovely when it was new, and that was long ago. Black ironwork was gaunt and skylights were grimy. Immigration officials sat at a row of metal desks. One of them studied Luis Cabrillo's passport. “Is that a British name?” he said.

“From the Norman French. An ancestor was the bastard son of William the Conqueror. The family …” Luis stopped. The man was flicking through the pages of a thick ledger. He failed to find a Cabrillo. The book flopped shut. “What's the purpose of your visit to the United States?”

“I wish to play backgammon.”

The man waved away a fly that was trying to sneak through immigration. “You mean tourism?”

“Do I? Jolly good. We'll make it tourism, then.”

The man thought about that. He handed Luis a printed sheet of paper. “Read this. Tell me if you answer yes to any question.” He sat as motionless as a sack of coal.

Luis read, and smiled. “Surely only a lunatic would answer yes.”

“Sign at the bottom.”

“With pleasure.” Luis had a flamboyant signature. “Now, if I try to overthrow the government by force, you can charge me with perjury, and serve me right.”

The immigration official's expression had never changed. “I don't like you, Mr. Cabrillo,” he said. “If it was up to me, I'd refuse you entry to this country. You're a smart-ass. That's un-American. I hope you get your smart-ass well and truly kicked. Now beat it.” He stamped the passport.

Nearly all the baggage had been claimed. Luis quickly found his suitcases, and a porter. “Got anything to declare?” a customs officer asked. “Nothing,” Luis said. “Thank Christ for that,” the man said. “Now I can go eat.” He chalked the bags, and Luis walked out of the echoing gloom and into the sunlight. He paused to look around, and a bum with a tin cup immediately stepped forward and said, “Spare a dime, buddy?” Luis searched all his pockets, and found a coin. “This is all I have.” He dropped it in the cup.

“Jeez,” the bum said. “I think you need it more than I do.” He fished it out, gave it back, and shuffled away. Luis looked at the porter. “This is America,” the porter said. “Even the bums got standards.”

A blood-red Pontiac pulled up to the curb. “What kept you?” Julie Conroy said. “We've been here for hours.”

“I wonder if you could take care of the porter,” Luis said. “My small change seems to be unacceptable.”

“Sammy, pay the porter,” she said.

“Sure, sure.” The bags went into the trunk. The porter was amazed to get five dollars. By now Luis was sitting in the car.

Sammy got in, checked his mirrors and used his indicators, and eased into the traffic. “What d'you think of America, Mr. Cabrillo?” he asked.

“I think somebody could make a fortune filling in the potholes,” Luis said.

“Land of opportunity,” Sammy said. “Everyone says so.”

*

The
San Felipe
was not an important ship, and Hoboken didn't rate highly, so the FBI sent a new agent, Fisk, fresh from the
Bureau's Academy, to check the passenger manifest. He found little of interest, just a French film director with a Russian name, and a wheelchair case who had been acquitted on fraud charges involving a Canadian copper mine with no copper in it. That was long ago. But Fisk was young and keen. He chose a good viewpoint and used binoculars to watch the other arrivals go through customs and immigration. Luis Cabrillo's body-English interested Fisk. Most arrivals were in a hurry to get their passports stamped and go. Cabrillo talked and talked. Gestured. Wore his blazer like a cape, loose over the shoulders. Fruity shoes, too.

When Cabrillo was at last admitted, Fisk went over to the immigration officer. The man showed him the name. “Smartass,” he said. “Comes into this country like he's going to the Roxy. Like it's a costume party. I hate a smart-ass.”

Fisk drove back to the FBI office on East 58th Street and reported to his supervisor, Prendergast.

“French film director,” Prendergast said. “No. It's always raining in black-and-white on some pathetic chain-smoker. And forget the wheelchair. Two strokes and a kidney stone as big as the Ritz. That leaves this Cabrillo. No doubt about who met him?”

“I was only twenty feet away. Sammy Fantoni, with girl friend. I checked the plates on his Pontiac.”

“No uncle?”

Fisk shrugged. “Wouldn't know him if I saw him. Isn't he a recluse?”

“Sort of. Since his wife died, he don't get around much any more … All right. Open a file on Cabrillo. Anything else?”

Fisk hesitated. “What's the Bureau's stance on Cuba? Dr. John Barnes, American citizen, just back from visiting there. He's a psychiatrist.”

“Mr. Hoover approves of Cuba. It's stable, pro-American, good cigars. But psychiatrists, Mr. Hoover disapproves of. They're unstable, secretive, possibly anarchic, probably un-American. Don't open a file on Barnes. I'm sure we have one.”

*

Sammy took the Holland tunnel into Manhattan, then Third Avenue uptown. Luis was in the back seat. He said little. Too much to see. At one point Sammy broke the silence. “My uncle's dentist used to live down that street,” he said. They looked. It
was just a street. “He moved to Denver,” Sammy said. “Nobody ever figured out why.” He swung into 84th Street.

He carried the bags into the apartment. It seemed crowded when three people were standing in it, trying not to look at each other. “I forgot to introduce you,” she said. “Luis, this is Sammy Fantoni.” They shook hands. “I don't have a car,” she explained. “Sammy offered.”

“Awfully decent of you,” Luis said.

“My day off,” Sammy said.

“Yes? What business are you in?”

“Sammy's in recreational equipment,” she said. “I could use a beer. There's a deli on the corner.”

“I'll go,” Luis offered. “That is, if they'll let me charge it to your account.”

“My account. Now there's two words I never thought to hear together … Sammy, you go. Get us some sandwiches too. Swiss cheese and ham on wholemeal for me. Luis wants a BLT on white toast. No pickle.” Sammy saluted and went out.

“I've never even heard of a BLT,” Luis said.

“Trust me. I know your taste. You've put on a pound or two. Suits you. You were kind of gaunt in those days.”

“It was that frightful wartime food the English gave us. Fish pie. Toad-in-the-hole. Porridge. Spam. You're looking awfully well yourself. That's a jolly pretty outfit.”

“Used to be my interview suit.”

There was a pause while they took a long look at each other and assessed the differences that eight years had made. “Spiffing,” he said. “Utterly delightful. Now why don't you show me the rest of the apartment?”

“This is it, pal. Bathroom's through that door. One walk-in closet. Bed. Convertible couch.”

“Dear me.” He strode slowly from end to end, counting the paces. “In Caracas, my bathroom alone was bigger than this.”

“So why leave?”

“All my money was spent.”

“All?
Not even you could do that. Don't lie to me. Not now.”

“I must admit, there were other reasons. But crucially it was a question of cash.” He bounced gently on the couch, testing the springs. “And in my hour of need, you were the only person I could think to turn to.”

“Well, think again. I'm broke. Worse than broke. I'm unemployable.” He raised an eyebrow. “You don't want to
know,” she said.

“Oh.” He stretched out on the couch. His feet overlapped the end. “Not what I expected. A desperate situation, isn't it?”

“Cut the bullshit, Luis. Being broke in New York is no joke.”

“Madrid was nothing to laugh about. At least here we're not surrounded by fascists and Nazis.”

“You reckon?” she said. “Stick around.”

*

Madrid was where they first met, in the summer of 1941. Hitler had conquered most of Europe and now he was carving large chunks out of Russia. Britain, he said, would have to wait her turn. The future looked very German. All the more reason to enjoy the present.

They had a few good weeks together, and then suddenly Luis left, went to England, on business. Well, he was Spanish, and Spain was neutral; but Julie felt sure his business was spying for Germany. She traveled to Portugal, hoping to catch a plane to the US, and hey! there was Luis, living in Lisbon. She'd been half-right. He'd been recruited by the Madrid office of the
Abwehr,
which was German military intelligence, and codenamed “Eldorado.” But while the
Abwehr
believed him to be spying in England, he had gone no further than Lisbon. All of the top secret information he sent to Madrid came from his imagination. Luis sat in his room in Lisbon, asked himself what the Germans would like to know, and turned his answers into utterly convincing intelligence reports. He knew they convinced the
Abwehr
because the
Abwehr
kept paying him. They paid him a lot.

Julie canceled her flight home. She moved into his apartment and became his business manager. They made a hell of a good team. His output was phenomenal—far more than one spy in England could have produced. But Luis had invented a network of sub-agents, fearless and prolific and reporting to him; and naturally Madrid
Abwehr
paid him for their efforts. The Eldorado Network was a spymaster's dream. Then the British found out.

Their Secret Service, MI6, persuaded Luis to become a genuine double agent. He and Julie went to England and worked for the Allies until the end of the war. He was part of the Double-Cross System, which “turned” enemy agents and created a steady flow of false information, lightly speckled with fragments of truth. The Allies' best deception plans were reinforced by Luis's lies. MI6
still called him Eldorado, although Madrid had changed his codename to “Arabel.” Whatever the label, the product never failed to please. Luis sent the
Abwehr
radio bulletins by the hundred, written reports by the thousand, all priceless intelligence, which was rapidly transmitted to the High Command in Berlin. To the very end, the Germans trusted him. They never stopped paying.

There was a price for illusion. Julie paid it. The strain of living with a professional liar was great. Sometimes Luis behaved as if his phantom sub-agents were real. When the
Abwehr
wasn't sufficiently grateful for their reports, he became moody, sour, resentful. When the
Abwehr
sent warm congratulations, Luis became smug. He was more comfortable in his fake world than in the real world.

He and Julie were still in love, but it was a prickly, arms-length kind of love. And when the war ended, and suddenly nobody needed double agents any more, his brilliant bullshit had no market value. Thanks to the
Abwehr,
he had a fortune tucked away. On a gray and gloomy day, he and Julie took a long, sad look at each other and agreed they were incompatible. He caught a plane to South America. Big mistake. She still had a husband somewhere, left over from pre-war, a footloose newspaperman called Harry whom she hadn't seen in four years. She went looking for him. Not a happy idea, either.

*

“Look, this is important, so don't give me any of your bullshit,” Julie said. “Have you any funds? Investments? Property?”

“When did I ever give you any bullshit?” Luis asked.

“Eight years ago. You gave everyone bullshit, remember? You were in the bullshit business. You couldn't tell the truth if it took its clothes off and sang
Rule Britannia.”

“Dear me,” he said. “You Americans can be awfully Prussian. Sometimes I wonder whether you might have been happier fighting on the German side.”

“You wonder. All you ever did was wonder. That's how you ended up working for both sides at once.”

“Well, if I did, then so did you.”

Sammy Fantoni had gone, and they were strolling in the park next to Gracie Mansion, the mayor's official residence. Dogs chased squirrels, contrary to city bylaws, and challenged His
Honor to come out and stop them. The East River surged past, keeping Queens and Brooklyn at a decent distance from Manhattan. An old man was feeding gulls, tossing up bits of bread as the birds swooped and flailed and grabbed. “Look. He thinks they are his friends,” Luis said. “He is a fool.”