After a night alone in Monte Carlo, where he ate well and visited the casino, he was glad of two things. First, that he did not lose much at baccarat; second, that he managed to avoid the looks of the women who sought to catch his eye, not one of whom was younger than fifty years and a good many of whom, even under pancake make-up, were a good deal older. Anyway, there were enough glossily attired and barbered young men around to drool over them and their money.
The next morning, the mere delivery of his newspaper was enough to galvanise him; he was done here in any case but there would be no leisurely return to Barcelona. The screaming headline in Le Temps told the whole of France that one of the Spanish Nationalist columns had reached and actually breached the outskirts of the capital. Franco was about to launch an all-out assault on Madrid.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
There was no time to wait for a smuggler’s boat – the arrangement had been a loose one and might mean waiting several days or even a week. Cal sent a cable to Florencia at CNT headquarters, bought a car in Marseilles and made straight for the main eastern crossing of the Franco-Spanish border at Le Perthus, where he found a town in some ways like those Wild West frontier settlements so beloved of American film-makers, the only thing missing being ten-gallon hats and shoot-outs.
Thanks to the war, the place was booming, bursting at the seams with those seeking to profit from Spain’s misery, the road to the border post lined with endless overstocked shops, and where there was a gap traders had set up stalls overcharging for everything, especially gasoline. Somewhere among them he knew there would be those tasked to get fighters over the border, if necessary by taking them through the surrounding high Pyrenees on foot.
He had less trouble than he suspected; international communists and Republican sympathisers did not, it seemed, arrive on four wheels, but on foot, though the car was searched to ensure it was not carrying contraband. Besides, he had a British passport and was assumed to be just one of those mad Englishmen so beloved of European caricaturists; if he wanted to go into a war zone and get himself killed, why should a French customs officer stop him?
What news he had garnered from the newspapers indicated that the battles to the west and south of Madrid were bloody and favoured the Nationalists, with the Republicans launching furious counter-attacks only to have them broken up by air and artillery attacks. The French press reported aerial battles as well as those on the ground, and high casualties on both sides.
This did raise the question of the wisdom of his actions – might it not be better to wait until he saw which way the battle went? But then there was Florencia – if the city was lost he would take her out of the country, regardless of any protests; if Madrid fell so would the Republic, and someone like her, taken by the Nationalists, would suffer more than just a summary execution.
When he got to Barcelona, it was to find a woman even more fired up than she had been when he departed, sure that Madrid would hold and even more determined that the political fight should be carried to the communists; there was even talk of the anarchists, pressed by their more pragmatic syndicalist allies, joining the National government on the grounds that they suffered from being outside a leadership in which the communists were exercising influence.
The first thing to do was get travel papers from the Catalan government and that took an age, given there was a long queue at the Generalitat of people needing the same thing. The time taken, nearly a whole day, had to be accepted – it was going to be too dangerous to travel anywhere in Spain without documentation; there were too many armed men out in the country just itching to shoot anyone they suspected of not being for the Republic.
The next morning Cal, dressed once more for fighting, was back on the road, Florencia by his side, speeding towards Madrid, where Andreu Nin had gone to seek allies and to plead with the government for the funds Cal Jardine might need. Juan Luis Laporta had gone back to the Saragossa Front.
There was no doubt many were fleeing the city, already subjected to air attack, and it was not surprising to find that in the streaming refugee column there were poor people from the provinces to the west pushing carts or leading donkeys carrying everything they possessed, fighting for road space with those wealthy enough to afford motor transport, as well as armaments and truck convoys seeking to go in the opposite direction. Progress was slow and a night spent sleeping in the car was necessary.
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.