A Dangerous Place (19 page)

“Yes—is Raoul waiting?”

Vallejo nodded. “You've made some friends, I see.”

“They're nurses. And they need a driver to take them out to a village south of Jarama, along the Tajo River, tomorrow. Can you spare Raoul? Or in any case, perhaps you can help me find a driver to take us?”

“You're going with them?”

“Why not? I have a day to spare before Raoul takes me back to Gibraltar, so I thought I could lend a hand. I'm rather out of practice when it comes to nursing, but I am assured it's like riding a bike. You never forget where the pedals are or how to steer.”

They approached the black motor car. Raoul smiled at Maisie and opened the passenger door.

“Raoul, tomorrow you will be at the disposal of Miss Dobbs and her friends. It's just for one day. Then you will take her back to Gibraltar the following day.”

Raoul nodded, then in his halting English said, “Just say me the time.” He went to the driver's side of the motor car, took his seat, and started the engine. Vallejo sat next to Maisie in the back of the vehicle.

She had prepared herself for the journey to University City, to the front lines of the battle for Madrid being waged by the Nationalist armies of Franco and the Republican armies supported by International Brigades. But she realized, minutes into the journey, that nothing could have prepared her for the scenes of devastation as the motor
car crawled along the streets. Yet still people went about their business. She could see women walking into a hairdressing salon. A bakery was open, and there were workers en route to offices and shops. The Telefonica building was standing and in operation, and though it crossed her mind that she could walk from the hotel along the Gran Via and send a wire to her father and to Priscilla, she also knew they would be horrified to learn that she was in Spain.

Raoul charted his route as if weaving a thread through cloth, around potholes, down narrow alleys just wide enough for a vehicle, and back and forth through streets to avoid devastation wrought by air raids. Soon they reached a point where men gathered in clusters, where sporadic gunfire peppered the air, though at the time no battle was raging. Maisie saw a low building in front of them, and held on to the leather strap above the door as the motor car swung into a courtyard and came to a halt outside a wooden door. The building was not old, in Maisie's estimation, but it seemed to mirror the fortunes of Madrid. University City had been constructed in 1927 to bring together the institutes of higher learning in Madrid, forming a center for intellectual inquiry, but because it was an ideal location for Nationalists to move across its flat terrain, march up Gran Via, and take the city, it was now the locus of battle. Here Spaniard fought Spaniard, and men—and women—from the nations of Europe took up arms against their own countryfolk in a battle between the forces of fascism and socialism. Maisie shivered when she reflected upon the scenes of devastation she had seen since crossing the border. Yet here, close to the front, she felt strangely safe.

She remembered, then, the feelings that assailed her while working in the casualty clearing station as a young woman. How old had she been then? Eighteen? Nineteen? At night, in their tent, as she talked with Iris in the darkness, it was as if they were in a private world, as
if the fabric of the tent was made of wood and concrete, not canvas. Anyone passing could have heard them, yet they thought every word was oh so private. Then the following morning they walked out into the business of war, of men dying and wounds that bled more blood than she had ever seen in her life. Was there something about looking death in the eye every day that numbed the senses?

Vallejo led her into the building, then down a flight of stairs into a series of cellars. They must have been intended as storerooms, but now they were places of safe havens where Republican fighters rested, or took time to eat. A cluster of ten men passed, bandoliers across their chests and guns grasped in both hands, on their way back into the fight.

“This way, Maisie,” said Vallejo.

They walked along a corridor, then stood outside another door. Vallejo knocked, and they walked in.

The man with gray hair was standing behind a desk, looking down at a sheaf of papers. To the side, against the wall, were wooden cases, open to reveal their contents: guns and ammunition.

“Comrade,” said Vallejo.

The man looked up and smiled. It was a broad smile, without guile. He stepped from behind the desk and approached Maisie.

“Miss Dobbs, we meet at last.” He reached out his hand.

“You know who I am, sir, so I think you might introduce yourself in return.”

Vallejo spoke. “My apologies; I should have introduced you. In fact, I am remiss in not doing so earlier, but it would have compromised our security. So . . . Miss Maisie Dobbs.” He paused, indicating the other man. “I would like to present Mr. Thomas Wright.”

Wright gave a short bow, as if they were being introduced at a London supper party, not a battlefront. “My pleasure, Miss Dobbs.”

Maisie nodded.

Vallejo pulled up two chairs in front of the desk, and Wright sat down to face them.

“Let me provide the missing pieces in your understanding of what I am doing, though I should add, Miss Dobbs, that you are not to divulge any of this. From the way in which you have immersed yourself in the minutiae of Sebastian Babayoff's death, it appeared I would have to take one of two measures—I would either have to ensure your lips were sealed by rather extreme means, or I would have to take you into our confidence. That would mean I'd have to trust you, and I do not extend my trust easily.”

Maisie noticed that although the man spoke English without an accent, there was something almost too proper about it. He could have come from an aristocratic family, but she thought not. This was a man who could speak English perfectly because it was not his first language, though she was sure that if he were in England, people would guess his land of origin; his accent was too correct. But something about the way he held himself reminded her of Maurice—a man at home with whatever language he was speaking, but who seemed so very deliberate in his movements as each word was spoken.

“Do you have any idea what trouble you could have caused by putting your nose into matters that do not concern you?”

Maisie raised her eyebrows. “I think finding a man dead on a path makes it a matter of some concern to me.”

“You could have left it to the police.”

She shook her head. “No. I couldn't. They were too busy dealing with the number of people who had crossed the border and the problems caused by the human flood to pay attention to one man who had been killed by a refugee looking for money or something to sell.”

“And if there was no killer to be found, why did you keep on searching?”

“Because there was something so very deliberate about it. And frankly, I didn't believe the story.”

“What do you believe?”

Maisie allowed a moment to pass. She was being asked to extend her trust.

“I am missing many pieces in this puzzle, and I certainly don't know who you are, but I suspect you are moving between different factions, if I am to be honest. You speak good English—much better than an Englishman—but you are not from those shores. I believe you are Bavarian—I make the distinction because Germany is still a young country, and something in your bearing suggests a man at odds with his country but at the same time with great loyalty to his place of birth. Don't ask how I know that; I just have a feeling.” She turned to Vallejo. “And you have tried to pull the wool over my eyes in a very strange way, Professor. You took me into your confidence, yet you bring me here, and I am told I should not have asked questions. Which leads me to one conclusion.” She shifted her chair to face both men. “You want me here so you can tell me something. The fact that I came upon a man whose life had just been taken was an accident, but perhaps a fortuitous accident for you. You realized I was being followed by the British Secret Service. I assure you, any investigation into my presence in Gibraltar is purely personal; my family wanted to know of my whereabouts, and they have connections. But your curiosity was piqued, wasn't it, Professor Vallejo? Perhaps by Arturo Kenyon—and as for him, I suspect he was brought into your sphere of influence by Miriam Babayoff, though she is not in love with him, is she?”

“Well, you have been doing some thinking, Miss Dobbs.”

“I've had time.” She sat back in her chair, tired already, though it was barely half past ten. “Look, I think you're a very brave man—you're both brave. You, sir, are—I believe—working on both sides of the war.”

Wright laughed. “More than two, Miss Dobbs.”

“Yes, more than two. At first I thought you were a German spy, but that would have been too simple. The fact that you are here tells me that you are working against fascism, and if that means infiltrating the Russians and the Germans at the same time, so be it. And the British and French. Because everyone gets something out of this war, don't they? And you, I believe—because I am still here and not yet dead—want the people to get something for which they are fighting to the death.” She turned to Vallejo. “And so do you.”

“Thank you for believing me so gracious with my loyalties, Miss Dobbs,” said Wright.

Maisie shook her head. “Gracious? It doesn't mean you would not kill to protect what you're doing here.” She nodded toward the guns. “Are those the guns that came from Gibraltar? From the cave?”

“Perhaps some,” said Vallejo. “We tend to make use of arms very quickly.”

“There's more coming from Russia via a direct means now,” said Wright.

“Ah, so not British, from the garrison?” asked Maisie.

Wright shook his head, laughing. “No, the British are straddling their options, trying to keep Herr Hitler happy. Though, as you may have heard, your politicians like to get their hands on our ore and minerals—and at a good price—from Franco. No one is clean in a time of war.”

There was a pause. Each person in the room seemed to be waiting for another volley of questions. Wright and Vallejo did not have to wait long.

“Did you kill Sebastian Babayoff?” Maisie looked at Wright directly as she asked.

He shook his head. “Sebastian was a very enthusiastic supporter
of our cause—as you know.” He looked at Vallejo, as if to confirm the source of his information. “Sebastian was a Communist—as was his father before him—and so, by default, is his sister. They are supporters, and good Jews into the bargain.”

“What did he do? Take too many photographs?” asked Maisie.

“That's exactly what he did. He took photographs of me.” Wright looked at Maisie. His cool blue eyes seemed to threaten, negating the need for words. “I was engaged in very sensitive work at the time, and my means of entry into Gibraltar also rendered me somewhat vulnerable. But Sebastian could not hold back.”

“The German submarine?” offered Maisie.

He ignored the question, instead continuing with his story. “Professor Vallejo has given me a briefing of your suspicions regarding the death of a man on the path by the hotel, and you—I must say—are almost correct in your assumptions. But here's what you do not yet know. Rosanna Grillo has returned to Gibraltar, to her life mending nets. For now. You will never at any point discuss this with her, or the fact that you saw a photograph in which she was presented in a—let's say, in a different light. Is that clear?” Wright did not wait for an answer. “She has been of great service to us, as was her uncle—who died of a heart attack, a loss indeed. And that is the truth. But now she must be left in safety. She will not be returning to any part of this work.”

“What happened to Babayoff?”

“He is dead. He had become a liability, so we brought him from Gibraltar across the border. His enthusiasm—his passion, if you will—for our cause led him to be less than careful. Such passion has to be channeled. But there is something about the photographer, especially in this situation—he thought himself invincible because he looked through a lens, as if everything he observed was happening outside himself and not to himself. Do you understand?”

Maisie thought of the man she'd seen at the hotel—intense, as if he would go to the edge of the fire because he believed himself safe behind the camera. She nodded. “So he was killed while trying to take the best photograph of the civil war here in Spain.”

Wright gave a barely perceptible nod.

“And Miriam?”

“Of course Miriam did not want her brother dead—she adored him. But she has always known his failings. She is more measured, but like Rosanna, it is time for her to become . . . settled.”

“Solomon?”

“Ah, yes, plodding Solomon—always watch the plodders, Miss Dobbs. He was the tortoise to Babayoff's hare. Life will go on for all of them now. They have played a part, and now there are others in the fray. Arms are coming in, and Madrid is holding firm—at the moment, anyway.” Wright paused. “Is there anything else you want to know from me, Miss Dobbs?”

“I am intrigued.” She looked from one man to the other. “I am curious as to why you have indulged me.”

“We have contacts, people known to us and to you, and some you have never encountered. We came to understand that you would never let go until you learned the truth.”

“Contacts? Let me see—Brian Huntley, Robert MacFarlane, and perhaps even Dr. Francesca Thomas.” Her gaze rested on Vallejo.

Vallejo opened his palms and shrugged, his mouth turned down as if to suggest there was no more he could say. The men exchanged smiles.

“And what of the dead man? The man who was not Babayoff, but who was buried with his name?”

Wright answered. “The policeman, Marsh—he was right. There was a refugee looking for someone to attack that evening, though this
one was not as benign as some. He was a Nationalist spy. Gibraltar is an interesting place, Miss Dobbs—a place too valuable to be left unattended by your Secret Service. It is also never passed over by the eyes and ears of other powers. I am afraid it was I who took his life, and who arranged for Babayoff's immediate departure to Spain.”