‘They’re not short on arrogance.’
‘So now that I have said all that, you have a choice. You can either let me speculate in print – in short, tell the American public what I suspect is going on – or you can tell me the story and ask me to sit on it.’
‘How do I know you would be satisfied with that?’
‘You don’t, and it won’t be friendship that decides, it will be what I consider best for the papers that pay my wages and are waiting for an explanation of what is going on in this benighted part of the globe. So it’s half a story now, cobbled together out of speculation and observation, or the full shebang later on.’
Cal stood up and rubbed his chin. ‘I need to change for dinner too.’
Alverson’s look was salacious enough to explain his reply. ‘Don’t you go getting distracted up there in that bedroom, my stomach is already rumbling.’
* * *
As he scraped his chin, in a mirror steamed up by his bathwater, listening to Florencia singing softly in the bedroom as she dressed, Cal was aware that he had to open up to Alverson. Whether, come the endgame – always supposing there was one – he would tell all, was another matter. What he needed now was secrecy – any hint that an international gunrunner was seeking weapons would be fatal.
He trusted the American would not use his actual name, but nor would he just settle for the nebulous story so far. He would be on his tail, asking questions at every stage of any deal, and if he was, he would be hard to fool. There was a moment, when he dipped his face to wash off the last of the shaving foam, when he wondered whether to pack the whole thing in, but Florencia had reached a high note in her song and he knew he was committed, and why.
With Florencia a late riser, Cal met Tyler Alverson over breakfast, taking a table as far away as possible from any other journalists, the first bit of the tale his trip to Monaco and what had transpired.
‘So old Zaharoff is on the way out?’
‘Sadly, yes.’
‘Not many would share that sentiment.’
‘Because people like you have demonised him.’
‘Hey, buddy, hold on. Zaharoff is not only a crook, he admits he’s one and takes pride in telling the world of his scams.’
‘You don’t know the gunrunning business, Tyler; it’s full of crooks, and when it comes to governments it is a case of dealing with charlatans.’
‘I’ll leave it to you to tell me which one of those you are, Cal.’ That was responded to with a jaundiced look, as Alverson added, ‘But if you don’t mind I will alert the rag. Zaharoff is news and they will want someone there when he pops his clogs.’
‘Can’t see it makes any difference.’
‘So how can he help you if he is so ill?’
The name Drouhin was kept back and Alverson did not push for it, though Cal knew he might at a later stage. He explained the arrangement, as well as the reasons, glad that the American was not taking notes. As he suspected, the reporter was not satisfied with just that.
‘For me to get this right, I need to know where you’re going, when you are there and who you are dealing with.’
‘You can’t use names, Tyler, especially not mine.’
‘I can use hints, brother. I will give you a cable address in the States. I will be like you, moving around, but Scripps Howard always know where I am and you can use that to tell me where you are, then I can keep in touch.’
‘Why don’t you just wait till it’s all done and dusted?’
‘Because, Cal, I am not a dummy. If I wait, you will have all the information and the decision to give or withhold it. This way you don’t.’
‘I will not put myself in danger to keep you posted, that you have to know.’
‘I can live with that.’
‘I wouldn’t live without it – I’d end up face down in a river, if I’m lucky.’
‘Now, how would you come to a fate like that, friend?’
Concentrating, neither had seen Hemingway approach and both were obliged to look up at him, the first thing to notice the fact that he looked pretty bleary in the eye. There was also a more gravelly quality to the voice, which indicated a heavy night.
‘You look well, Ernie.’
‘Tyler, I feel like shit,’ he croaked. ‘I woke up on a table in Chicote’s Bar. Is there any coffee in that pot?’
‘Sure.’ Alverson pushed his empty cup across the table and Hemingway filled it and drank deeply, just before sitting down. ‘Do join us.’
‘You goin’ to introduce me, Tyler?’
‘Why not? Ernie Hemingway, meet Callum Thomas.’
Cal just held out his hand, not in the least fazed by the false name, paying no attention to the way that the American squeezed it far too hard, just as he ignored the look in those reddened eyes that went with it. As he had observed before, this was a man who liked to dominate.
‘So, Mr Thomas, how does someone like you end up face down in a river?’
‘Drinking too much, maybe,’ Cal replied, holding the stare.
‘I’d take that as a warning, Ernie.’
‘Was it meant as that, Mr Thomas?’
Cal smiled, but there was no humour in his voice. ‘It has been my practice in life, Mr Hemingway, never to warn people.’
The decision that he was dealing with a possible bully was quickly arrived at and there was only one way to counter that: make it known right away that you are up for a scrap. The mutual stare, still in place, lasted only a few more seconds. Then Hemingway laughed, a booming sound that filled the room and turned heads.
‘Maybe, Mr Thomas, we’ll have a drink sometime.’
‘If you wish.’
‘Hey there,’ Alverson cried, looking towards the door to the lobby. ‘Here comes the lovely Florencia, and at a run.’
Cal could see her hair was still tousled from sleep and what clothes she was wearing had been flung on; whatever it was she was coming to say had to be important and he stood to go and meet her halfway, only to be given the news with a shout.
‘The Nationalist pigs will attack Madrid in two days.’
That got Alverson and Hemingway to their feet as well, but it was Tyler who spoke. ‘How do you know?’
‘Some comrades have found the plans in an Italian tank,’ she answered, breathlessly, grabbing a roll from the bowl on the table. ‘I must go to the front.’
‘You can’t print that, Tyler, it will tell Franco his plans are no longer secret.’
The American looked at the other occupants, all of whom were staring at Florencia, now munching away. ‘Can’t see why not, brother, it’s not much of a secret.’
That was when it became easy to tell the journalists from the rest of the hotel guests: they were the ones running off to the phones, and it had to be said that Hemingway, hung-over as he was, led the pack and showed that elbows made good weapons.
In the end, it was not a scoop, it was common knowledge; Largo Caballero came on the radio to announce to the world the impending attack, and worse, as far as Cal Jardine was concerned, he told the enemy just how and where they were going to be repulsed, naming by number and strength the newly formed brigades that had been cobbled together in an attempt to impose some order on the militias who still constituted the majority of fighters.
Trying to calm an excited Florencia, he knew he had to go back to Barcelona, first to arrange to see if any package had arrived for Mr Maxim, and suggested she come with him, an offer that she would not accept, but she was not about to say goodbye to Callum Jardine without a proper parting, albeit a very quick one; the situation did not allow for languorous carnality.
They found Tyler Alverson in the hotel lobby, camera over his shoulder and dressed in the kind of garments that suggested, despite his protestations, he was going to look for a story where the bullets flew. The look he gave Cal when he said he had to make a quick trip to Barcelona, while Florencia was staying in Madrid, was one designed to take the rise out of him.