Midnight in Europe Read Online Free Page B

thank you enough … you didn’t have to …”
    “It needed to be done, Dalia, so I did it.”
    “You put yourself in danger.”
    “Well, that’s over now, all I have to do tonight is get back to the Florida.” He left the attic a few minutes later and took a shortcut through an alley to get to the hotel.
    In the sub-basement of the Palace Hotel, Castillo waited at the end of a long line of men and women, shadowy forms in the light of two candles at either end of a table. Seated at the table was a man in civilian clothing and eyeglasses, who the sentry had called the officer . The line had moved slowly, but now it sped up—the officersent the next few men away after a glance at their papers. He’d evidently been doing this kind of work for some time and had thus become good at it, thoroughly efficient. Castillo was now next in line for interrogation. Standing at the table, a handsome young man was explaining something at length, leaning over and speaking confidentially, so Castillo could not hear the words. But the tone, the high pitch of the voice, imploring, whining—that he could hear. Then the officer signaled—raised his hand—that he’d heard enough, and the young man cut himself off in mid-sentence and stood straight and silent, as though to receive a judgment.
    On the table was a bell, an inverted silver cup with a silver button on top, the sort of bell one saw on the front desk of a hotel, used to summon a porter to take baggage up to a room. The officer extended one hand, hesitated, then tapped on the bell, a single, hollow clink . It was apparently an old bell. Or perhaps not so old, maybe just worn out. At the sound of the bell, a giant of a man with a huge beard and small, crafty eyes brushed past Castillo on his way to the table. As he went by, Castillo smelled rotten onions. The giant took the young man by the crook of the elbow, whispered something in his ear, then led him away. He had, Castillo now saw, a large revolver thrust into the waistband of his trousers.
    As Castillo waited for the officer’s permission to approach the table—this was done palm up, with a come here motion of the index finger—the sentry appeared and placed the Cruz passport and permits on the table. The officer was in no hurry, held the passport near one of the candles so he could read the typed print. From somewhere above the sub-basement, perhaps just outside the service entry, came the sound of a single pistol shot. The officer seemed not to notice. When he finished reading, he put the documents aside and looked up at Castillo. “Comrade Cruz?” he said.
    “Yes.” Castillo had caught himself just in time—he’d almost added sir to the yes . The officer was younger than Castillo had realized, perhaps in his late twenties. His suit was made of cheap material, his eyeglasses had steel frames.
    “You are well dressed, aren’t you,” the officer said. Then, “Where are you staying in Madrid?”
    “At the Hotel Florida.”
    “And your business here?”
    “My mother is ill and cannot get the medicine she needs here in Madrid, so I brought it up from Valencia.”
    “Would your mother not be better off in Valencia too?”
    “She will not leave. She has lived all her life in Madrid and she is passionate for La Causa. She cannot fight on the battle lines but, by staying here, she fights.”
    “And you? Are you also passionate for La Causa?”
    “I am, but to earn money I must live in Valencia.”
    The officer slid a wooden box in front of him. The box might once have been used by a library—a yellowed card in the brass case on the front of the box said RIV–STO —but it now held three-by-five index cards. The officer flipped through the cards until he found the C names, then said, “You’re not Alberto Cruz, are you?”
    “No, I am Carlos.”
    “Very well, Comrade Carlos, give me your overcoat, then put everything in your pockets on the table.”
    Castillo did as he was told. When his things were laid