The city, when they reached it, had a strange air — sandbags in the streets, signs for air raid shelters posted over the entrances to the metro, armed men, rifles slung barrel down, on street corners, who, to Cal’s mind, would have been more use at the front — yet still a bustle that went with its station as the nation’s main metropolis, though many an eye was cast skywards, this being the first European capital city to face aerial bombing.
It was still the seat of government, with the ministries working flat-out, full of the functionaries necessary to support the work of those and the parliament, diplomats who had yet to abandon the capital and, of course, those men from the worldwide press covering the front line.
Many hotels had been taken over by workers’ organisations as well as the extra official bodies needed to fight a war, and even with wealthy clients scarce, getting accommodation was difficult. Luckily they got a room in the Hotel Florida, set aside for the foreign press; with its Edwardian luxury, it seemed to be something that might be taking place on another planet.
After lunch, Florencia wanted to sleep; not being Spanish, Cal went to the bar, which was quite busy and noisier than the numbers would indicate, making for a quiet corner well away from the hubbub of the raucous conversation of the journalists, which ebbed and flowed as they came and went.
‘You know, they say there is no such thing as a bad penny, but looking at you, Callum Jardine, well, I ain’t so sure that’s true.’
Alverson’s deep, slow, West Coast drawl was instantly recognisable, so smiling, Cal put down his whisky and turned to face him. Dressed in a slightly crumpled pale linen suit, his panama hat in his hand and a small camera over his shoulder, Cal’s first thought was that he had not changed, but then why should he, it being only months since they had last parted?
‘Hey, Tyler, you drinking?’ a basso profundo American voice called from the other end of the bar, a big fellow with thick black hair and a heavy moustache.
‘I just met an old friend, Ernie, be with you later.’
The American’s eyes turned back to Cal and looked over his clothing, his now slightly battered leather blouson, scuffed twill trousers and sturdy boots, which was of the kind that, prior to the present conflict, would have got him stopped at the front door of a place like the Florida Hotel. They then dropped to the belt at Cal’s waist and the very obvious holster.
‘Since I see you’re packing a gun, I can guess your presence in Madrid is not purely social.’
‘I know yours won’t be.’
‘I’m a reporter, Cal, it’s my job to be where the trouble is.’
‘Right now I’m told that’s on the other side of the river.’
‘I’ll leave the front line to those crazy photographers.’
Cal indicated the knot of his fellow reporters at the other end of the bar. ‘Same go for them?’
‘Some, not all.’
‘Drink?’
‘Bourbon.’
Cal signalled to the barman and ordered that and another whisky for himself, while Tyler Alverson’s head rotated slightly to acknowledge their surroundings, all dark wood, leather and comfort, with a white-coated barman fronting gleaming glasses and bottles.
‘You staying here, Cal?’
‘The fellow at reception was happy to see us, not too many people are checking in right now.’
‘Us?’
‘Florencia.’ Cal grinned. ‘My Spanish interpreter.’
That got a raised and amused eyebrow. ‘Interprets dreams, does she, brother?’
‘Disrupts them, more like. Right now she’s having her siesta but I’m sure she’ll be down in a bit and that will cause you to have dreams, Tyler.’
‘A looker is she?’
‘And some!’ Cal nodded to a set of leather banquettes. ‘Let’s sit, shall we?’
Comfortably accommodated, though slightly too close to the loud journalistic banter, Alverson examined his companion with a languid eye. That and the habitual half smile, if anything, made Cal more guarded, he being well aware that the American possessed a razor-sharp mind and a manner that invited unwitting disclosure.
‘So, brother, are you goin’ to fill me in on what you’ve been up to since our last little adventure?’
‘You first, Tyler.’
There was calculation in that; given his reasons for being in Madrid, he was not sure whether to be open or keep matters to himself. Tyler Alverson was close to a friend — they had shared much danger in each other’s company — but he was a newspaperman first and foremost, and there was no knowing where disclosure would lead. Thankfully, he seemed happy to oblige.
‘What’s to tell? When we parted company in Aden I went back home, told my Abyssinian stories in great depth and waited for the nation to rise up in disgust at the horror of Italian atrocities there. Sad to say, I’m still waiting.’
‘London’s no better. My people seem more interested in keeping Mussolini happy than the gassing of the African natives.’
‘Then this little brouhaha blew up and the agency asked me to cover it.’
Cal Jardine had first met the American in Somaliland when in the process of seeking to smuggle guns into Ethiopia. Keen to get to a battle zone barred to journalists, Alverson had hitched a ride with him and over the weeks that followed there had grown a degree of mutual respect. Only months past, it seemed like years, but Cal was happy to indulge in a bit of reminiscence about dodging not only Italian bullets, but also clouds of air-delivered poison gas, until inevitably the conversation moved on to where they were now.
‘So, come clean, are you involved in this war too, Cal?’
‘Might be.’
The pistol holster got another meaningful look. ‘I’m not sure you’ll like it much here.’
‘Why not?’
‘I know you and the way you like to do things, but you’ll find yourself dealing with a bunch of military misfits as well as a whole heap of Russian so-called advisors.’
The look Cal gave was meant to imply this was news to him. ‘So-called?’
‘From what I can see they are running the show, with the Spanish commanders acting as nothing but a fig leaf. Not that it’s admitted, of course, but a guy I spoke to a bit lower down the command structure says the locals can’t get a tank or a plane to move without Ivan’s say-so.’
‘That doesn’t sound good,’ Cal replied, his face decidedly bland.
Right then the other American, who had called to Tyler, raised his voice to finish off a particularly noisy anecdote to do with the price of a whore, which gave Cal an excuse to seek to change the subject.
‘Seems quite a character, your friend.’
‘That’s Ernie Hemingway.’
‘The Hemingway?’
‘Yep, and he’s not a friend, but a rival, reporting for the New York Times and a total pain in the ass, but he does love to be where the bullets fly. Never mind Ernie, are you goin’ to tell me how you come to be in Spain?’
‘Maybe I love the climate and the food.’ Alverson’s eyes were not languid now, they had a distinct glint; with his hound’s nose he was beginning to smell something. ‘I was in Barcelona the day the balloon went up and sort of stayed. Helping hand, you know.’
‘See much?’
‘More than I bargained for, Tyler, like the fight for the Parque Barracks and the main telephone exchange.’
‘Care to tell me the story?’
‘It’s old hat, months ago now.’
Alverson eased out a notebook, though Cal noticed he took care to keep it on his lap, hidden from the knot of fellow reporters. ‘Never turn down a first-hand account from a trusted source. You have no idea how much bullshit we hacks get fed in our honest endeavours.’