What We Become (32 page)

“The conspirators,” Mostaza went on, after the waiters had left, “also needed aircraft. Tactical air support, to transport the Moroccan rebel troops to the peninsula, and for bombing raids. Four days after the uprising, General Franco sent a message to the German High Command via their military attaché to France and Portugal, asking for ten Junker aircraft. Ferriol took care of the Italians.” Mostaza leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table. “Do you see how the different strands come together?”

Max had forced himself to carry on eating normally, but he was
finding it hard. After two mouthfuls, he placed his knife and fork side by side on his plate, at the precise angle of five o'clock. Then he wiped his mouth with his napkin, rested his starched cuffs on the edge of the tablecloth, and looked straight at Mostaza, without saying a word. “The Italian offer,” his interlocutor went on, “went through the Foreign Minister, Count Ciano. Initially in a private conversation he and Ferriol had in Rome, then via an exchange of letters detailing the operation. Italy had twelve Savoia Marchetti aircraft on standby in Sardinia, and Ciano, after consulting with Mussolini, promised they would be in Tetuán at the rebels' disposal by the first week of August, pending receipt of a million pounds sterling. Neither Mola nor Franco had that much money, but Ferriol did. And so he advanced part of the sum and guaranteed the remainder. On July 30, the twelve aircraft took off bound for Morocco. Three went down over the sea, but the others arrived in time to transport the Moroccan troops and legionnaires to the peninsula. Four days later, the Italian merchant vessel
Emilio Morlandi
, which was chartered by Ferriol and had left La Spezia carrying ammunition and fuel for those aircraft, docked in Melilla.

“I told you the Italians wanted a million pounds for their aircraft, but Ciano is a man with a lavish lifestyle. Extremely lavish. His wife, Edda, is Il Duce's daughter, and while that brings many advantages, it also incurs a great deal of expense. Do you follow?”

“Perfectly.”

“Good, because now we get to the part where you come in.”

A waiter came to remove Max's plate, almost untouched. He sat motionless, his hands resting on the edge of the table, staring at Mostaza.

“And what makes you think I have anything to do with this?”

The other man did not reply at once. He was gazing at the bottle of wine laying in its raffia basket.

“What are you drinking, if you don't mind me asking?”

“Chambertin,” Max replied impassively.

“Which year?”

“Nineteen eleven.”

“And the cork held up?”

“Yes it did.”

“Splendid . . . I'd like to try some, if I may.”

Max signaled to the waiter, who brought over another glass and filled it. Mostaza set his pipe down on the table and studied the wine in the light, admiring the intense red of the burgundy. Then he raised the glass to his lips, savoring the wine with visible pleasure.

“I've been tailing you for some time,” he blurted, as though suddenly remembering Max's question. “Those two Italian fellows . . .”

He broke off, leaving it up to Max to imagine exactly when one trail had led to another.

“Then I found out as much as I could about you.”

Mostaza resumed his narrative. Hitler and his government detested Ciano. For his part, Ciano, who was no fool, had always favored Italy keeping its distance from some of Berlin's ambitions. And he was still of that opinion. Which is why, being a cautious man, he kept several secret safe-deposit boxes in suitable locations. For political reasons, a large account he held at an English bank had to be moved, and his money was currently in continental banks, mainly Swiss.

“Ciano demanded four percent commission for the Savoia Marchetti deal. Forty thousand pounds. Almost a million pesetas, guaranteed by Ferriol at the Société Suisse in Zurich until it was paid with gold confiscated from the Banco de España in Palma de Mallorca. What do you say to that?”

“It's a lot of money.”

“More importantly,” Mostaza said after taking another sip of wine, “it's a major political scandal.”

Despite his composure, Max was no longer bothering to conceal his interest.

“I see,” he said. “Once the information is made public, you mean.”

“Precisely.” Mostaza placed his finger on the stem of his glass to prevent a drop of wine from running down onto the tablecloth. “The people who told me about you, Mr. Costa, said you were a good-looking, clever fellow. I couldn't care less about your looks. I am, on the whole, a man of conventional tastes. But your intelligence speaks for itself.”

He paused, savoring another mouthful of burgundy.

“Tomás Ferriol is a sly fox,” he went on, “and he wanted everything in writing. There were time pressures, this was a safe deal, and Ciano's commissions are no secret in Rome. His father-in-law knows about them, and raises no objections providing things are done discreetly, as they have been up until now. And so Ferriol contrived to generate written evidence of the aircraft deal, which included three letters where Ciano, in his own handwriting, mentions the four percent commission. You can imagine the rest.”

“Why do they want those letters back now?”

Mostaza contemplated his nearly empty glass with a satisfied expression.

“There could be numerous reasons. Tensions within the Italian government, where Ciano's position is currently contested by other fascist families. Perhaps Ciano is simply being cautious about the future, now that a rebel victory in Spain isn't unthinkable. Or he wants to divest Ferriol of evidence that he could use as diplomatic leverage. The fact is, Ciano wants those letters, and you have been hired to get them.”

It was all so glaringly obvious that Max set aside his original misgivings.

“I still have a question, which I may also have posed to others. Why me? Surely Italy has spies of its own.”

“The way I see it is simple.” Mostaza had picked up his pipe, and, after taking out an oilcloth pouch, he proceeded to fill the bowl, tamping the tobacco down with his thumb. “We are in
France. The international situation is delicate. You are a man with no political affiliation. Stateless, in a sense.”

“I have a Venezuelan passport.”

“Not meaning to boast, but I can buy a dozen of those things. Moreover, you have a criminal record, proven or not, in several European and South American countries. . . . If something went wrong, you would be arrested. In which case they could deny everything.”

“And whose side are you on in all this?”

Mostaza, who had fished out a box of matches and lit his pipe, looked at Max, almost with astonishment, through the first puffs of smoke.

“Well. I thought you would have guessed that by now. I work for the Spanish Republic. I am one of the good guys. Assuming there are any in a situation of this kind.”

A casual reader (on ocean liners, trains, and in hotels) of serialized fiction published in illustrated magazines, Max associated the word
spy
with sophisticated international adventuresses and sinister men skulking around under cover of darkness. Hence his surprise at the easy way Fito Mostaza offered to accompany him back to his hotel, enjoying an agreeable (Mostaza's choice of adjective) stroll along the Promenade. Max raised no objection, and for part of the way they chatted like two acquaintances about nothing in particular, just like all the other people coming and going at that time of day between the hotels on one side and the beach on the other. And so, puffing calmly on his pipe, Mostaza finished explaining the details of the affair, while answering the questions occasionally posed by Max (who despite the apparently relaxed situation, did not lower his guard).

“In brief: we will pay you more than the fascists. Not to mention the Republic's debt of gratitude.”

“For what that's worth,” Max allowed himself to comment, ironically.

Mostaza gave a soft, almost good-natured laugh, jaw clenched. The scar below his chin gave his laughter an ambiguous quality.

“There is no need to be spiteful, Mr. Costa. After all, I represent the legitimate Spanish government. You know, democracy versus fascism.”

Swinging his cane, the former ballroom dancer cast a sidelong glance at Mostaza. The man looked even smaller and more delicate when he was moving on his feet, and if it weren't for his spectacles, he would seem like a jockey in civvies. However, in Max's profession one automatic reflex was to classify men and women by what they didn't say. In his shadowy world, a conventional word or gesture was as valueless, in terms of useful information, as the expression on the face of an experienced cardsharp who knows his adversary's hand. These were the codes Max had learned over the years. And the three quarters of an hour he had spent in Fito Mostaza's company were enough to tell him that the man's friendly tone, his likable openness when he claimed to be one of the good guys, could be more deceptive than the surliness of the two Italian agents. Whom, as a matter of fact, Max was surprised not to have seen skulking behind a newspaper on a bench along the Promenade, tailing them only to discover, with understandable annoyance, that Fito Mostaza was upsetting their plans.

“Why not steal the letters yourselves?”

Mostaza walked on a few steps without replying. Then gave a shrug.

“Do you know what Tomás Ferriol would say? That he isn't interested in buying politicians before they are elected, because it is cheaper to buy them once they are in power.”

He fell silent, puffing vigorously on his pipe and leaving behind him a trail of tobacco smoke.

“We are in a similar situation,” he said at last. “Why organize an expensive, risky operation when we can take advantage of one that is already under way?”

With that, Mostaza continued walking, laughing softly as before. He seemed pleased with the way the conversation was going.

“The Republic doesn't have money to burn, Mr. Costa. The peseta is depreciating fast. There is an almost poetic justice in the fact that Mussolini will be the one paying most of your fee.”

Max was contemplating the Roll-Royces and Cadillacs parked outside the Palais de la Méditerranée's impressive façade, among the line of expensive hotels that seemed to stretch along the gentle sweep of the Bay of Angels into infinity. There was nothing in that part of Nice to challenge the wealthy visitor's comfortable view of the world. There were only hotels, casinos, bars, the magnificent beach, the nearby city center with its cafés and restaurants, and the luxury villas in the surrounding hills. Not a single factory or hospital. The workshops, the humble dwellings of domestic servants and laborers, the prison and the cemetery, even the demonstrators who had begun clashing in the street of late under the watchful eyes of the gendarmes, singing “The Internationale” or “The Marsellaise” and handing out copies of
Le Cri des Travailleurs
, or shouting “death to the Jews,” were a long way from there. In neighborhoods where the majority of those strolling along the Promenade des Anglais would never set foot.

“And what is to stop me from refusing your offer? Or informing the Italians about your proposal?”

“Nothing whatsoever,” admitted Mostaza evenly. “You see how far we are willing to play fairly, within reason. Without resorting to threats or blackmail. It is entirely up to you whether you collaborate or not.”

“What if I don't do as you ask?”

“Ah, that's another matter. If you refuse, you must understand that we will do our best to influence the course of events.”

Max doffed his hat to two familiar faces (a Hungarian couple in the room next door to his at the hotel) who had just walked past.

“If that isn't a threat . . .” he whispered sarcastically.

Mostaza responded with an exaggerated sigh of resignation.

“This is a complicated game, Mr. Costa. We have nothing against you personally, unless your actions put you in the enemy camp. Otherwise, you will enjoy our full support.”

“In the form of more money than the Italians, you said.”

“Of course. Providing the sum isn't astronomical.”

They continued strolling along the Promenade, where a continuous flow of stylish people passed them by: men in midseason tailor-made suits, beautiful, haughty women walking pedigree dogs.

“This is a curious city,” Mostaza remarked, confronted by two smartly dressed ladies with a borzoi on a lead. “Full of women who are inaccessible to most men. You and I are the exception, of course. . . . The difference is that I have to pay, and for you it is the other way around.”

Max glanced about: women, men, it made no difference. These were people for whom, in short, carrying five one-thousand-franc notes around in their wallet was nothing out of the ordinary. The cars with their shiny chrome rolled along the road's surface, in perfect harmony with the glittering landscape of which they were a part. The entire Promenade was one long hum of purring engines and carefree conversations, of blithe, expensive well-being. I worked hard to get where I am, Max thought angrily. To move with ease in these comfortable surroundings, far away from those squalid neighborhoods smelling of rotten food, which in places like this have been banished to the outskirts. And I'll see to it that no one sends me back there.

“But don't imagine that this all boils down to who pays more or less,” Mostaza was saying. “My bosses think, I suppose, that my personal charm plays a part. My job is to persuade you. To convince you that working for thugs like Mussolini, Hitler, and Franco isn't the same as working for the legitimate Spanish government.”

“Skip that bit.”

Mostaza laughed the same way he had before. Softly, jaw clenched.

“Very well. Let's leave ideology out of it and focus instead on my personal charm.”

He had come to a halt and was emptying his pipe, tapping it gently against the handrail between the Promenade and the beach. Afterward he slipped it into his jacket pocket.