Midnight in Europe Read Online Free
who everyone is.” Castillo gave in.
Victorious, she unsnapped a slim gold clasp on her purse, drew out an envelope, and handed it over. The unsealed envelope had the printed name and Sixth Arrondissement address of the Hôtel Lutetia in the upper-left corner. Castillo put the envelope in the inside pocket of his jacket, then asked the woman if she would care for a glass of wine. “Next time,” she said. Then, using her wicked smile to say goodby, she stood abruptly and left the bistro.
When Castillo returned to his office, he looked to see what was in the envelope—he would not have been surprised to discover that the woman was mad as a hatter and had brought him a sheaf of senseless newspaper clippings. But this was not the case. What he found, typed on three sheets of hotel stationery, was a list: German names and ranks grouped under the headings Pilots, Flight Crew, Ground Crew , and Administration . He had in his hand the identities of at least some of the personnel who served with the CondorLegion—German fighters and bombers sent to Spain by Hitler, a ready-made air force for Franco’s fascists.
Ten minutes later he was in Molina’s office at the embassy. The diplomat had a corner office with two windows. The second secretary was a professional, seasoned diplomat with the pince-nez and trimmed Vandyke beard to prove it. Technically second-in-command, Molina in fact ran the embassy—the ambassador was remote and unapproachable, a classic bureaucrat who made sure that nobody knew what he thought about anything. Instructions to the staff were communicated through Molina, or Molina issued them himself and left the staff to assume they came from the ambassador.
Castillo told Molina about the woman in the bistro, then handed over the envelope. Molina adjusted his pince-nez in the fussy way he had and read for a time. Finally he said, “This looks real enough.”
Castillo was relieved. He trusted Molina and was almost his friend and didn’t want to appear naive in his eyes. “What’s to be done with it?”
“It should go to the army general staff in Valencia,” Molina said. As Franco’s siege of Madrid intensified, the government of the Republic had fled en masse to the city on the Mediterranean coast. “There are people there who will make use of it, if they can. And maybe this information should come from me, because if they find out you’re involved they’ll put pressure on you for more, and that will be the sort of pressure you won’t like. Or, if this turns out to be some sort of poison … a game, you know, then you’ll come under suspicion and you’ll like that even less.” Molina was for a moment reflective, then said, “But perhaps you wish to have the credit.”
“I don’t,” Castillo said emphatically.
“For the best, I think. Castillo, please don’t tell her anything, because we don’t know who she is and …” Molina paused, then said, “Because this may be some kind of bait, an attempt to acquire secrets from us. Do you see?”
Castillo nodded. He did see, and fervently wished he didn’t. This horrid war would be the end of him. He was a museum curator, not an arms buyer, and surely not a spymaster. In the center of his chest he felt anxiety squeezing him with its nasty, powerful little fingers, so took the first of what he knew would be a future of deep breaths. He chatted with Molina for a time, then returned to the Oficina Técnica.
In time, he found her. He’d begun to think it was hopeless, but then, after six days in Madrid, he found her. Her plea for rescue had come to him written on a bar napkin with a thick pencil, brought by an American foreign correspondent who’d come to Paris from Madrid. “She’s in trouble,” he told Castillo. “I hope you can help her.”
“Where is she?”
The correspondent’s mouth tightened as he shook his head slowly— who knows? “On the move when I last saw her, but if she hasn’t found a hiding place by now, I’m
Victorious, she unsnapped a slim gold clasp on her purse, drew out an envelope, and handed it over. The unsealed envelope had the printed name and Sixth Arrondissement address of the Hôtel Lutetia in the upper-left corner. Castillo put the envelope in the inside pocket of his jacket, then asked the woman if she would care for a glass of wine. “Next time,” she said. Then, using her wicked smile to say goodby, she stood abruptly and left the bistro.
When Castillo returned to his office, he looked to see what was in the envelope—he would not have been surprised to discover that the woman was mad as a hatter and had brought him a sheaf of senseless newspaper clippings. But this was not the case. What he found, typed on three sheets of hotel stationery, was a list: German names and ranks grouped under the headings Pilots, Flight Crew, Ground Crew , and Administration . He had in his hand the identities of at least some of the personnel who served with the CondorLegion—German fighters and bombers sent to Spain by Hitler, a ready-made air force for Franco’s fascists.
Ten minutes later he was in Molina’s office at the embassy. The diplomat had a corner office with two windows. The second secretary was a professional, seasoned diplomat with the pince-nez and trimmed Vandyke beard to prove it. Technically second-in-command, Molina in fact ran the embassy—the ambassador was remote and unapproachable, a classic bureaucrat who made sure that nobody knew what he thought about anything. Instructions to the staff were communicated through Molina, or Molina issued them himself and left the staff to assume they came from the ambassador.
Castillo told Molina about the woman in the bistro, then handed over the envelope. Molina adjusted his pince-nez in the fussy way he had and read for a time. Finally he said, “This looks real enough.”
Castillo was relieved. He trusted Molina and was almost his friend and didn’t want to appear naive in his eyes. “What’s to be done with it?”
“It should go to the army general staff in Valencia,” Molina said. As Franco’s siege of Madrid intensified, the government of the Republic had fled en masse to the city on the Mediterranean coast. “There are people there who will make use of it, if they can. And maybe this information should come from me, because if they find out you’re involved they’ll put pressure on you for more, and that will be the sort of pressure you won’t like. Or, if this turns out to be some sort of poison … a game, you know, then you’ll come under suspicion and you’ll like that even less.” Molina was for a moment reflective, then said, “But perhaps you wish to have the credit.”
“I don’t,” Castillo said emphatically.
“For the best, I think. Castillo, please don’t tell her anything, because we don’t know who she is and …” Molina paused, then said, “Because this may be some kind of bait, an attempt to acquire secrets from us. Do you see?”
Castillo nodded. He did see, and fervently wished he didn’t. This horrid war would be the end of him. He was a museum curator, not an arms buyer, and surely not a spymaster. In the center of his chest he felt anxiety squeezing him with its nasty, powerful little fingers, so took the first of what he knew would be a future of deep breaths. He chatted with Molina for a time, then returned to the Oficina Técnica.
In time, he found her. He’d begun to think it was hopeless, but then, after six days in Madrid, he found her. Her plea for rescue had come to him written on a bar napkin with a thick pencil, brought by an American foreign correspondent who’d come to Paris from Madrid. “She’s in trouble,” he told Castillo. “I hope you can help her.”
“Where is she?”
The correspondent’s mouth tightened as he shook his head slowly— who knows? “On the move when I last saw her, but if she hasn’t found a hiding place by now, I’m
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