Midnight in Europe Read Online Free Page A

afraid …”
    “She could be anywhere,” Castillo said, an edge of despair in his voice.
    “She gave me the name of a contact, a Frenchman called Tarbot. He’s head of a labor union in Lyons, works with the Spanish unions in Madrid—basically they’re buying ambulances in Europe and trying to get them across the French border, then to Madrid. They are very passionate about La Causa—the battle against fascism—in Lyons.”
    “Yes, I’ve seen that in the newspapers.”
    “The hobos of Lyons, dozens of them, tried to enlist as a unit in the International Brigade. But the Brigade wouldn’t take them on.”
    “How would one find this … Tarbot, you said?”
    “Where you find any of the foreigners, war tourists, journalists, whatever they are. At Chicote’s and Molinero’s, the great bars on the Gran Vía. That’s where you’ll find Tarbot. Just ask the barmen.”
    Which was exactly what Castillo did when he reached Madrid. They knew right away who he was looking for.
    “Oh yes, Tarbot, a big guy with scars on his face, missing a couple of fingers, that’s Tarbot. He should be in later.”
    “He stopped by yesterday, but only for a few minutes.”
    “Somebody said they saw him in Barcelona.”
    “Isn’t he here? I swear I saw him. No, maybe not.”
    “Rumor is he was hit by a sniper.” Secret Franco supporters hiding in Madrid liked to fire a shot or two out the window when they thought they could get away with it and killed a few people every day.
    And then, one afternoon as Castillo read a newspaper at the bar, a man came up behind him and said, in poor Spanish, “I hear you are looking for me.”
    Castillo told Tarbot about the correspondent, used the name Dalia, described her. Tarbot asked him questions, Castillo tried to tell him as little as possible, said Dalia was an old friend, from Paris. He really didn’t know what had brought her to Madrid.
    “Oh they come here,” Tarbot said, then shrugged. Who knows why . “Anyhow, I’ll give you an address. She was there but you know the way it is, people move around.”
    But she was exactly where Tarbot said she was. Living in the attic of a badly bombed building, once a mansion, half its facade gone, a place where nobody could live. When Castillo saw her he flinched. The Dalia he knew was fashionable, perfectly dressed and groomed, poised, and sure of herself. The Dalia hiding in the attic was filthy, and obviously had not bathed for a long time. She had cut her hand badly and bandaged the wound with a dainty handkerchief.
    Castillo waited until dark, then returned to the Hotel Florida and, using a razor blade, cut the lining of his overcoat and removed a set of false documents produced by his Parisian cobbler. Then he bought a dinner—lentils with garlic and a little oil and a small chunk of bread, which was what there was to eat in Madrid—wrapped it in a sheet of newspaper, and returned to the bombed mansion. Dalia ate like a wolf. When she was done Castillo said, “Here are your new papers. You’ll have to transfer your passport photograph, do you know how to do this?”
    “Did you bring glue?”
    “Yes. A brand that was suggested by the man who forged your papers.”
    “Then I can do it.”
    “And here is a train ticket, from Barcelona to Perpignan—you’ll have to find a way to get from Madrid to Barcelona.”
    “There are taxi drivers who will do it—for a price.”
    Castillo reached in his pocket and handed Dalia a thick wad of banknotes, pesetas and francs. “I believe this is enough for the driver—also for the train up to Paris.”
    “More than enough,” Dalia said. “There’s a safe apartment I can use to clean up a little—now that I can afford to pay for it.”
    “Better for travel,” Castillo said.
    She nodded and said, “Are you coming with me?”
    “No, I have a flight from Barcelona to Toulouse on Wednesday—tomorrow night I will find a ride to Barcelona.”
    She met his eyes and said, “I can never