The Guardian of Secrets: And Her Deathly Pact (59 page)

Chapter 58

P
edro’s integration into the republican army had been easier than expected. On the night he left his own rebel unit, he’d felt neither remorse nor shame. He knew he was doing the right thing; he had the calling for the other side in his gut and had even felt a sense of liberation. He had joined the small militia band attached now to the republican army on the outskirts of Toledo in the small hours of the morning. He had given the name Peter Merrill, saying that he was a farm worker from Kent but had spent years in Valencia as a child with his widowed mother, who had been an English tutor. No one really cared who he was, he had noted, for men arrived every day and night, and they were coming from all over Europe. Pedro also noticed that they all had their own personal reasons for being there: to join the fight, to exact revenge, out of curiosity, and some simply to hold a gun and get the chance of firing it at something other than wild boars or foxes.

The republican side was still disjointed, and there was no discipline or chain of command that didn’t involve three or four different bands or units. The camps also held a variety of ethnic and political persuasions such as communists, socialists, and union cardholders, and there were only small pockets of republican soldiers attempting to oversee the chaotic organisation. By day, women arrived in trucks with picnic baskets and cooked over open fires, and at night they made love to men drunk on wine in the crudely erected tents or behind bushes. As a professional soldier, Pedro been taught to analyse and calculate possibilities, and in those first days, he’d calculated that the republicans would lose everything within months if they didn’t join as one coherent fighting force.

After the republican defeat at Toledo and eventual fall of the town, Pedro went to the town of Albacete to join new units arriving from overseas. The newly formed units were to be called the International Brigades. The decision to go to Albacete had been easy. It brought him closer to Valencia, and he would have a purpose other than killing men. He drafted himself into these overseas units with ease as a liaison/training officer, and he was the perfect choice for the job because of his immaculate command of both the Spanish and English languages. His new task was to ensure that the Brigades had an understanding in weaponry and basic training as well as an elementary knowledge of Spanish military commands.

Many of the men were out of work, others were adventurers, but the majority knew exactly why they had come: to fight the fascists. Among them were victims of the German and Italian regimes, whose fascist ideologies had destroyed their lives, and they were grateful for the opportunity to fight back against an enemy that they already knew only too well.

Shortly after their arrival at the training camp in Albacete, Pedro listened to their stories and heard their reasons for joining up to fight a war that they didn’t have to be in. He found out that most had come through Paris at some time in their journey, where organisers, usually Russians and members of the French communist party, had marshalled them onto trains and boats, whilst others walked over the Pyrenees from Perpignan. He noted that for them it was all so clear. Their decision had been so easy to make, and the hazardous journey to, and through, Spain was made out of a fear that if the republic were to be defeated, the rest of Europe would be in terrible danger of suffering the same fate. There was no promise of pay or insurance for any of them. They were not fighting for profit but for their ideologies and consciences, out of hatred and revenge, because of their political affiliations and a desire for some to return home free men.

One night, after a particularly gruelling day, Pedro got into a discussion with a German in the group. He was one of the few Germans who spoke English, and Pedro had taken an instant liking to him. His name was Hans Becker, a political dissident from Berlin. They discussed at length the reasons they were both becoming involved in something that had absolutely nothing to do with them. Pedro told Hans that he was from Kent in England, that he was a communist and had served in the military. It wasn’t entirely true, he admitted to himself later, but bending the truth stopped any awkward questions being asked about his aristocratic and slightly unreliable background. When it was Pedro’s turn to ask Hans why he was there, a flicker of pain and disgust crossed the German’s face.

“What do I have to lose?” he answered with a shrug of his shoulders. “Nothing apart from an exile I never asked for or wanted. I am here because I want to return to my country with my head held high, not as some animal being hunted down and hiding in basements because of my beliefs. Isn’t that why you are fighting, Englishman?”

“Yes,” Pedro told him. “But I’m also fighting because I believe the republican cause to be the right one. If the fascists are not stopped here, they will take over Europe, and then people like you will never be able to go home.”

“I like you, Englishman. I like you a lot,” Hans said with a hint of a smile.

Chapter 59

J
oseph Dobbs bathed his tired, blistered feet and cursed the day he’d hatched the plan to come to Spain. He had been welcomed with open arms in Paris by Russians who’d promised him freedom and an adventure of a lifetime. He had gone along with the jolliness, the intrigue, the obsessions of men, and the enthusiasm that had left him cold and bewildered. He had joined a band of like-minded thinkers that he secretly despised and ridiculed, but he had met his objectives and was now on the threshold of achieving his life’s ambition.

He sat in a corner alone, watching the pathetic men that met his eyes. He drank from the small bottle of whisky, purchased from an Englishman in exchange for decent cigarettes, and looked around him at the sea of faces. He wondered if he was the only one there to notice that the conditions in the Albacete base were disgusting and crude. They were even worse than the dirtiest, smelliest streets of Paris. Streets, he remembered, where his only friends had been the rats and cockroaches that fed on the filth strewn on the pavements. He’d been told that the barracks had once been a base belonging to a group called the Guardía Civil and that it had been taken from them after the uprising. A party of German communists had asked him to help with the cleaning, and he’d told them where to stick their brushes and mops. Who did they think they were? Did they know who he was? They didn’t ask again. He flicked a cockroach off his foot. Christ Almighty! he thought. A disease would probably kill him before the enemy did… whoever they were.

Joseph passed his days in a blur of activity. The parade ground, as it was called, was used by the recruits and was never empty for a minute. After his tired legs could take no more marching, he was forced to listen to long lectures explaining why they were there to fight. This was then followed by long discussions used by the commissars to introduce ideas which were then discussed and voted on. Joseph sat and listened, neither agreeing nor disagreeing with what was being said. He was in Spain for entirely different reasons and couldn’t care less about the political or military agenda of fools.

He had left Paris with a hundred or so men in a convoy of buses that had dropped them off in Marseille. He’d then taken a long boat ride to Valencia, and once there, he had debated about whether to part company with the others and go it alone. He had walked some distance from the boat and the other men with the intention of looking for Celia’s home but had thought better of that idea after a trigger-happy Spaniard shot at him, and from his first observations, Valencia looked to be a huge city. Safety in numbers, he had decided, safety in numbers.

The Spanish military had asked him what he could do for them, and after a long interview about his bad leg and his not-so-fit body in general, it was decided that his war effort would be restricted to the supply division, where he would be employed in looking after food supplies, medicines, and other general stores. He remembered that they said he would only be asked to fight if the situation called for him to do so.

The army would march out of Albacete any day now. He’d deduced this by the frenzied pace they’d had him working at. He’d never worked this hard in his fucking life, apart from his first few months at Merrill Farm, and he was a lot younger then. He brewed himself some coffee. That was the one good thing about looking after the supplies; he could get just about anything he wanted, no questions asked. He would go with the army and be glad to be out of the dump he’d called home for the last few weeks. He’d dress up in their stupid uniform, surplus from the Great War and finished off with boots a size too small. He would keep his head down and wait for the perfect opportunity to begin his own campaign. After all, how difficult could it be to find the four children of an Englishwoman married to some rich git? There would be only so many battlefields.

Chapter 60

D
uring Pedro’s first few days in Madrid There was a general deep confusion over how the defence of the city was to be organised. The rebels were waiting in the suburbs to overrun the capital and take the spoils of war. The streets were full of people who, in utter desperation, went out to meet the enemy on the outskirts of their homes.

Pedro now took up a position on the front lines to the south-west of the city and in earshot of rifles, machine guns, bombs, and mortar explosions. The enemy was getting closer, and he was being drawn closer to it with an almost inexplicable desire for combat to begin. His battalion was panicking and was as frightened as Madrid’s citizens were. This, Pedro thought, was because no one had any idea what their ragtag unit was supposed to be doing alongside hundreds of civilians wielding guns and sticks. Spaniards joined their group every hour, and weapons were shared out quickly, with elementary training given to bakers, butchers, railway workers, and university professors.

Pedro sensed the fear of men who had not witnessed a battle before, and as he gathered his own unit around him, he tried to give them the hope and courage that he had never had during his early days in Africa.

“Sometimes,” he told his men, “the fear of battle is what stops us from embracing the victory to come. Is it not better to fight and be in the thick of things than to wait in the wings and wonder how it’s going to turn out? I say let’s get cracking and kick their fascist arses! I say it’s better to die a hero than to live under Nazi and fascist rule. The Russians are with us, with their tanks and arms. The British communists and socialists are here with a determination to win at any cost. German, Polish, and Italian brothers-in-arms are with us, and they will not bend, hide, or crouch behind a rock but will fight face-to-face with their oppressors until they have no more breath in them. I’m talking about you. All of you here! So how can we fail, brothers? Win or lose, we will, from now on, live on our feet and not on our knees. We might die tomorrow, but if we do, it will be as free men on our own terms, not as men in exile or in prison but as equals. No better and no worse than our enemy! Are you ready to fight? Are you ready?”

Pedro looked around him at the faces shouting the words “We are ready!”

The shouts and cries pierced the noise of the distant guns until only chanting and singing could be heard in the night sky. Pedro sat on the ground and clutched his rifle to his chest. He swallowed hard and prayed silently. He had never felt so scared.

Chapter 61

J
oseph Dobbs, who had been trying to sleep under a supply truck, sat up and cursed the commotion all around him. He had been drinking heavily all night. The barrels of brandy in the truck that he looked after, which were, according to the power-hungry officers, to be used only for medicinal purposes, had been a godsend. Medicinal purposes, my arse, he growled in anger when he couldn’t get his boots back on. His medicinal purpose was more important than anaesthetising some stupid git on the battlefield! He rolled on his belly from under the old relic and eventually pulled on his boots. He’d have a word with whoever was shouting, raving, and ruining the only bloody rest he’d had all day!

Joseph crossed the small distance between him and the group of men now sitting around a small campfire. He watched them from the shadows for a moment before advancing any further. The mood around the fire was one that he could only describe as annoyingly sentimental and gushy. They’re a load of bloody silly women, he thought, disgusted by what he saw. Softly sung songs hanging in the air, arms intertwined, and speeches of glory had left them actually looking forward to the fight that would probably see most of them dead by afternoon.

“Do you need to make this bloody racket?” Joseph shouted at the edge of the group. “Some of us want to get some sleep. We’re not in a fucking fairground, you know!”

Pedro turned around to face the angry voice that stood behind him. “Do you want coffee? Spanish coffee will keep you awake for days if that’s your problem.”

The others laughed with Pedro, and then Hans said, “Come on, sit with us. We’re going to kill fascists tomorrow. This is no time to sleep.” Hans made room for Joseph on the ground beside him.

Joseph sat down between Pedro and Hans and accepted a cup of coffee. He said no more for the moment but instead meticulously studied Pedro’s face with a growing sense of knowingness. He was familiar to him, he thought. His gestures, every turn of his head, every passionate expression that crossed his eyes left Joseph with a nagging sensation. This meeting had been fated. Coming across each other was important for some reason. Who he was he’d not ascertained yet, but he was English, a southerner by his accent. He stood out from the others, from the men he’d come to this godforsaken land with. He had travelled through Spain all the way to Albacete and Madrid, missing his chance in Valencia to get off the violent merry-go-round of a war that didn’t concern him. He had taken a gamble and had gone with his gut feeling in the hopes of finding four people, and now he was glad he did.

He continued to watch Pedro’s good-humoured banter, unable to peel his eyes away from him. No one, English or otherwise, had made him stand up and take notice like the young man who’d just given him the coffee. He shuddered as though someone had just walked over his grave. He looked at Pedro again and froze. Looking at him was like looking in a fucking mirror! The man was just a younger version of himself. The cords on his neck and hair on his arms stood rigid.

“Did you make that speech?” he asked Pedro, hiding his growing excitement.

“Yes. Why? You didn’t like that either?” Pedro asked, good humour sparkling in his eyes.

“No. I mean, yes. It was good… Name’s Harry Miller. Yours?”

“Peter, Peter Merrill,” Pedro said, shaking Joseph’s hand.

Joseph hid behind his poker face, not quite believing this turn of fate. He was at a loss about what to do or say next. On the outside, he was sure that he looked perfectly normal, but his head was pounding with questions, plans, and revenge, all fighting to get out of there and into his mouth. His stomach was churning, and he needed a drink to settle it. Remember, Joseph, he told himself, you’re not a good poker player; you’re a great poker player. Keep yourself steady and don’t give anything away. Fuck, he was sitting next to his own son!

Adrenaline coursed through his body. He attempted to hide the tremor in his voice but ended up speaking in an accelerated shrill-like fashion. “So where are you from, Peter?” he asked him without blinking an eye.

“Goudhurst, Kent.”

“Ah, Kent. I went there once, a few years ago, mind you.”

Pedro nodded. “By your accent, I’d say you’re a northerner. So what are you doing here? You’re a bit old to be fighting, aren’t you?” he asked him.

Joseph hid his annoyance. The boy was a snob, just like his mother.

“I’ve seen a lot older than me here,” he told him. “Anyway, I’m not fighting, not on the front lines. The leg won’t let me hold a rifle and run at the same time, so I’m just making myself useful: cooking, cleaning boots for the officers, washing up after them, loading the trucks, unloading the trucks… a bit of everything. Anything to help.”

“Good, that’s good. We need people like you. Everyone is useful around here.” Pedro slapped him on the back.

“So what does your mother think about you fighting over here? I bet she wasn’t happy about it. Back in England, is she?”

“Yes, she is, and no, she’s not happy, but then, I don’t think anyone’s mother is happy when her son goes to war. What about your family? Married?”

“I was once. Let’s just say it didn’t work out.”

Pedro yawned. “Sorry about that,” he said, standing up. “It was good to meet you, Harry Miller, but if you don’t mind, I think I’ll get some kip. Hans might want to sing all night, but I’m going to shut my eyes for a while. Going to need them tomorrow. I suggest you do the same.”

Joseph watched Pedro leave the group, devouring him with his eyes. He had an easy smile. He seemed popular with the other men. He held himself well, with a confident swagger of the hips and sure-footed stride. He was good-looking too. In fact, he was just like him in every way.

He walked back to his bed underneath the truck, grinning from ear to ear. He’d been unsure about getting off in Valencia when his target was right here in front of his nose, probably had been since that Albacete hole he’d spent weeks in. He hadn’t felt this satisfied since the day they buried old Peter Merrill. But what to do now was the question. He couldn’t very well get his gun out and shoot him in front of all these people. Peter seemed to be well known. But how come Peter got to sleep in a tent when all he had was a rough woollen blanket on the ground underneath a stinking truck? He was twice his age too. As he walked, he passed a couple of Englishmen playing cards; he’d give poker a miss tonight, he decided. He had too much to think about. Peter Merrill was more important to him now than anything else, and the sooner he dealt with him, the sooner he’d get out of this filthy city and on to one of Celia’s other brats. He wouldn’t have another drink tonight; he needed his wits about him. There was so much to think about and not much time to execute whatever plan he came up with.