Chapter IX: Part 9

"My family and my good friends are afraid that I am dying," Tabio said, smiling as if at some secret joke he wanted to share with Hall. "I am an old dog. An old prison dog. Tell them, _viejo_, tell them that our breed doesn't die so easily, no?"

Hall could only nod and pat the sick man's hand.

"Do I sound like a dying man?"

Hall swallowed hard, managed to grin. "You? What nonsense, Don Anibal! I was at the Congress the other day. I watched you and listened to you speak. It was a great speech, Anibal."

"It was not a great speech. But it was good because I spoke the truth. And do you know, Mateo, that the truth is better than any great speech?" Tabio was breathing with increased difficulty. He slumped back against the pillows, but out of the corner of his eye he saw the doctors quicken, and he turned to them and winked. "Not yet," he smiled. Meekly, he allowed one of the doctors to hold a tumbler of colored liquid under his mouth. He sipped some of it through a bent glass tube, then turned to Hall again.

"Where were you sitting?" he asked.

"In the diplomatic box with Duarte and the Mexican Ambassador. Don't try to talk to me, Anibal. Save your strength. I'll be here for a long time, and when you're out of bed and on your feet again, perhaps we can have a real visit and sit up all night talking as we used to talk."

"Mateo! You talk like a child. I will never be on my feet again. But just the same," and he winked impishly at his wife, "I'm a long way from dying."

"Of course you are," Hall insisted.

"There, you see?" Tabio said to everyone in the room. "Mateo can tell you. He knows how tough our breed is. Tell me, Mateo, is it true that the American Ambassador considers me to be the most violent Bolshevik outside of Russia?"

Lavandero laughed, and Hall laughed, and when Tabio, laughing, turned to his wife and son, they laughed too.

"He is such a pompous fool, that Ambassador. Oh, I am being terribly undiplomatic, _viejo_, but to think of an old-fashioned bourgeois reformer like me being compared to Lenin and Stalin! It is the height of confusion. But if you ever meet him you can tell him that I admire Stalin and the Russian people. Your Ambassador and I were together at a State dinner the day the Nazis invaded Russia and he said that the Soviets would be crushed in a month and that he was glad. I told him then that the Red Army would destroy the Nazi war machine and I told him that before the war was over the United States would be fighting on the side of Russia and that therefore it was dangerous of him to say he was glad so many Red Army soldiers were being killed. And you can tell him that some day when I speak to Mr. Roosevelt again I will tell him what the American Ambassador to our country said openly in June of 1941."

"Please, Don Anibal," one of the doctors begged, "you must save your strength."

"For the speech," Lavandero added, quickly, motioning to Hall that it was time for everyone but the doctors to leave the room.

Hall stood up, again patted the blue-veined hand of the President. He watched Tabio, pausing to gain strength, mutely protesting with glazed eyes the obvious stage directions of the doctors who ended this visit.

"I must go now, Don Anibal," Hall said, softly. "If you wish, I will be back tomorrow or the next day."

"Matthew," Tabio said, and he began to address Hall in English, "you were in Spain. You saw. Tell them it does not matter if one man lives or dies. I have no fears for truth. I have come a long way on truth. Tell them, _viejo_, tell them what a miracle truth is in the hands of the people. You have but"--the words were coming with great difficulty--"you have but to make this truth known...."

Tabio's jaw sagged open. He fell forward against his knees. The doctors took him by the shoulders and moved him into a prone position. His eyes, still open, stared at everything and nothing, glass now.

"_Carino mio!_" his wife sobbed, but at an unspoken order from one of the doctors Simon led his mother to a chair in the corner and kept her still. Lavandero, Gonzales and Hall left the chamber for the library.

"What happened to Anibal?" Lavandero asked Gonzales.

The doctor shook his head. "It is the end," he said. "Don Anibal will never speak again."

"You lie!"

"No, Esteban." He turned to Hall. "His last words were to you, _companero_."

"Christ Almighty!"

"For God's sake, tell me what happened to Anibal!"

"He fell into a coma. I think it is a stroke." Gonzales sat heavily in one of the leather chairs, began to fumble in his pocket for another adrenalin vial. His fingers began to become frantic in their impotence. "I--I ..."

Hall caught his head as he started to collapse. He reached into the doctor's pocket, found the adrenalin and used it.

"It is a stupid way to live," Gonzales said. "To have your life depend always on your being a vegetable with a bottle. Thank you, _companero_. Just let me rest here for a few minutes."

Throughout all of this, Lavandero stood over Tabio's table, staring down at the jar of pencils with a dark, ugly face. He clenched opened clenched opened clenched his fists, his fingers working to no definite rhythm, and then he looked at his fists opening and closing and for a few minutes it seemed as if he looked upon his own hands with loathing. Then, straightening up, he put his hands in the pockets of his blue jacket and turned to Hall and Gonzales. "This is no time to plan personal violence," he said. "It would be exactly what the fascists wanted."

"I am at your orders," Hall said. "I think you know that."

"I am counting on you."

"What do I do now?"

"Keep out of sight for a few hours. I think you should go to Gonzales' house. I'll get you an official car and a chauffeur."

"I'm not alone," Hall said. He told Lavandero about Jerry and the death of Androtten.

"_Madre de Dios_, take her with you! And keep her hidden." The sweat pouring down his face betrayed Lavandero's excitement; his voice was calm and steady. "I'll send an armed guard with you."

"I'll get the nurse," Gonzales said.

"No. Don't get up. Tell us where she is."

Lavandero had taken over. Later, Hall knew, the man would allow himself to fly into a wild rage, but he would do it alone, where no one could hear or see him. And Hall knew, also, that soon Lavandero would be engaged in a battle with Gamburdo and the fascists for control of the nation.

_Chapter fourteen_

The black Packard roared out of the subterranean garage of the Presidencia, shot out to the Avenida de la Liberacion. Hall and Jerry, in the back seat, looked behind them at the second Packard which carried their convoy of guards. "They have enough tommy guns back there to blow up anyone who makes a pass at us," he said. "And the two boys in the front seat can throw plenty of lead."

"It's like a gangster movie," Jerry said.

"That shooting in your room this morning was no movie. I've never seen a deader Nazi than the late Wilhelm Androtten, alias X."

"What's going to happen to us now, Matt?"

"Don't worry."

"I am worried. I want to know."

The two cars pulled up at the doctor's house. Maria Luisa, Gonzales' fourteen-year-old daughter, met them at the door. "I am preparing some sandwiches," she said. "Father said you were famished."

They waited in the living room while the girl worked in the kitchen. "You're too hot in San Hermano," Hall said.

"Not yet. They don't know what happened to Androtten. I can just go on being Ansaldo's nurse until ..."

"Forget it," he snapped. "This isn't for amateurs any longer. And you're still an amateur, baby."

"Then what do you suggest I do?"

"You're going back to the States with a bodyguard on the next plane out of here. You're waiting for me in Miami. I'll give you a letter to one of the chiefs of Military Intelligence there. You'll be safe."

"How about you?"

"I'll meet you in two weeks. Three weeks at the outside."

"I won't do it, Matt. I'm staying here with you."

"But I won't be here all the time."

"Then I'll wait here for you."

"Baby, listen." He took out a package of American cigarettes, put one in her mouth, lit it. "Ladies don't smoke in San Hermano. You can smoke until you hear anyone coming. Then hand it to me. Now, sit down like a good girl, and for God's sake, listen carefully. There's a job I've got to do. It's my job alone. I've got to do it alone. I had an idea that before I was through here I'd have to do it. But Tabio's last words were spoken in English and they were to me, and baby, as soon as he stopped talking I knew what I had to do."

Hall quoted the President's words about the power of Truth. "And he was right," he said. "I remember what happened when I got out of the can in Spain. I went back to Paris to get some rest. Tabio was in Geneva, packing his things to go home. I found out he was still there and I went to see him before he left. He was going home to run for President so that this country shouldn't become a second Spain.

"I remember telling him that the thing which kept me alive in Franco's prison was my feeling that a miracle would happen--that the little guys in England and France would force the appeasers to sell guns to the Republic, or that Russia would be able to fly some heavy bombers across France for Madrid, or that Roosevelt would open his eyes and lift the damned embargo, or anything. Any good miracle like these, even a tiny one, would have saved the day. And I went to sleep every day sure that each morning I'd wake up closer to the day this miracle would happen, and that some morning I'd wake up and find that the people somewhere outside of Spain had performed this miracle.

"I remember the way Tabio listened to me speak, and how when I was done he said that the miracle I wanted all that time was that the truth should get to the people. It was that simple. And he was dead right. It's exactly what he did in his own country, and you know how the people love him for it."

Jerry looked puzzled. "But what do you propose to do?"

"Look," he said. "It's a matter of days at most before the whole nation will be mourning Tabio. The Constitution says that within thirty days after the President dies, there must be a general election. I have an idea that the race will be between Gamburdo and someone like Lavandero. Both will claim that they are Tabio's real choice as a successor. If I can get to Havana, I can dig up the truth about Gamburdo and Ansaldo in a matter of days. I'm sure of it. If it's anywhere at all, it's in Havana. Gamburdo is taking public credit for trying to save Tabio's life by bringing Ansaldo to San Hermano. The truth can make this boomerang in his face."

"Can't I help in any way?"

Hall stopped short. "Do you know what you're asking? That scrape in the hotel this morning was nothing compared to the things you're asking for if you stay. Even if Gamburdo is licked, it's only the beginning."

"But you're sticking it out, aren't you?"

"I have to. I've been in it since Madrid. There's no escaping it for me. I'll never know any peace until the crime of Spain is liquidated. Fascism isn't just an ideological enemy for me, baby. It's a cancer burning in my own, my very personal guts. I'd go off my conk if mine weren't two of the billion fists that are smashing and will go on smashing back at fascism until it's deader than Willie Androtten. I've never stopped to think of what my chances are of being alive at the finish. All I know is that if I stopped fighting it I'd die."

"Let me stay," Jerry pleaded. "I'd be a liar if I said that's the way I felt, too. But the war came to me this morning at the end of Androtten's gun, darling. I can't escape it any more than you can now."

* * * * *

They had an early dinner with Gonzales and his daughter, avoiding all serious discussion until Lavandero arrived. The Minister of Education brought grim news: Anibal Tabio had suffered a second stroke and was dying.

"Where is Ansaldo?" Hall asked.

"He is still on the ranch of Gamburdo's brother. He is waiting for an answer to his ultimatum. Don Anibal's condition is still a secret."

"But Esteban," Gonzales said, "we cannot keep it a secret. You will be accused of murdering Don Anibal if Gamburdo finds out."

"I know. I've asked Segador to come. I wanted to bring Simon Tabio, but he refuses to leave the room while his father still breathes. What do you think, _Companero_ Hall? What is the first thing we have to do? By the way, does the senorita speak Spanish?"

"No. I will tell her what she should know later."

"Is she reliable?"

"I hope to marry her--if I am alive in three weeks."

Jerry looked at Hall's face and blushed. "I'll bet you just told him about us," she said.

"My felicitations," Lavandero said, in English. He gave her his hand. "But with your permission, we must speak in Spanish."

Hall told Lavandero and Gonzales his plan about Havana. "I was going to do it in any event if Duarte didn't hear from his friends in Mexico."

"But why Havana?"

"Because Havana was the base headquarters in the Western Hemisphere for all Falangist work. The boys in the Casa de la Cultura and on the staff of _Ahora_ worked with the Batista government to break it up. They arrested the key leaders, but even though they had to let them go back to Spain, they took their confidential files away from them."

"And you think that Ansaldo will turn up in these files?"

"It is something we must not overlook."

"There is someone at the door," Gonzales said. "Wait." He slipped the safety of the automatic in his pocket, and went to the door with his hand on the gun.

"Be tranquil," Gonzales announced. "It is Diego."

The Major Diego Segador who walked into the room was quite a different creature from the mournful-visaged officer in the neat uniform Hall had met at the barracks. He wore a gray civilian suit, whose jacket was at least four sizes too small for his broad frame, yellow box-toe shoes and an incongruous striped silk shirt. The discolored flat straw hat he carried in his tremendous square hands completed the picture which immediately came to Hall's mind: a vision of Diego Segador as a tough steel-worker on a holiday in Youngstown, Ohio, during the twenties.

"You look," said Gonzales, "like a Gallego grocer on his way to High Mass."

"That's enough," Lavandero said sharply, "Don Anibal is dying."

The blood rose to Segador's head. "No!" he shouted.

"Sit down, Diego."

Gonzales opened a cabinet and took out a bottle of brandy. He shouted to the kitchen for his daughter to bring glasses.

"Major," Hall said, "this is Miss Olmstead."

"Hello," Segador said, in English. "You have close shave, no?"

All the men had brandy. Jerry merely looked at the bottle with great longing.

"Well then, Diego," Lavandero said, "minutes count now. Hall has a plan. It is a good one." He described it for the Major. "If he comes back with pictures of Ansaldo in the uniform of the Falange, we will have to flood the country with them. They will not look nice next to the pictures of Ansaldo embracing Gamburdo, no?"

"They will look very nice--for us. But how is Hall going to get to Havana?"

"By plane. Why?"

"Why? Because you are a marked man, Hall."

"Get me to the border, then. I'll get to Havana from across the border."

"Not on your passport," Segador said. "It is too risky. Tomas, you have a passport, no? Never mind. All right, then, Hall. You go on a passport made out to Vicente, but with your picture on it. I'll drive you north by car. You board a plane in San Martin Province--there's one that meets the Clipper for Miami. The mining men use it. You travel to Havana as one of our nationals, one Emilio Vicente. Then the officials of your own government in San Juan won't ..." He stopped suddenly, filled his glass with brandy, and drank it in one short gulp.

"Out with it, Major," Hall said. "What are you hiding?"

"Hiding?"

"About me and my government?"

"Nothing. It's just that you are too well known as Matthew Hall. You are known by face in San Juan. Perhaps, when you land there to refuel, someone will recognize you. And then there will be trouble about your Vicente passport. Perhaps--one cannot be too careful."

Hall knew that the Major was concealing something from him, something that had to do with himself. He thought of his low standing at the American Embassy, and of some of the fascists in high places he had offended in San Juan. "Yes," he said, "I think you are right." This, he decided, was not the time to start new trouble.

"No," Lavandero said, "it is no good. We shall need another passport for _Companero_ Hall."

"How can we get it?" Segador asked. "There is no time."

"There is time," Lavandero said, evenly. "Duarte is preparing a passport and papers for Hall. Diplomatic. He will travel as Victor Ortiz Tinoco, official courier of the Mexican Government."

"When did he start on the papers?" Hall asked.

"A few hours ago. He thought you might want to make the trip."

"Why didn't you tell me before this?"

Lavandero's face softened. "My dear friend," he said, "what you are undertaking is no minor task. The complications are enormous. If you are caught, you face much legal trouble at the very least; death by violence, if the fascists catch you first. You are under no obligations to this Republic. I had to hear it from your lips first."

"When can I start?"

"In two hours. You will have to give me your passport, so that I may have the picture copied for the Ortiz Tinoco papers. Segador's idea is the right one. He will drive you to the San Martin airport tonight. The Mexican Embassy is ordering the tickets. I will leave you with Gonzales and Segador to work out the rest of the details."

"Good. Here is my passport."

"The Republic will always be grateful to you, _Companero_ Hall." Lavandero stood up and started for the door. Hall accompanied him.

"Well," Hall said, "I'll try to get back within the week--if I'm lucky." He held out his hand to the Minister.

"Thank you, _companero_." Lavandero raised his arms to Hall's shoulders and embraced him. "You were worthy of his trust."

"And you of his love," Hall answered. He was sorry for Lavandero, sorry for him as a friend, as a man, as a leader so intent on answering his responsibilities to his moment in history that he had to allow his own personal rages to simmer unattended within him until there again came a time when a man could walk off alone and be his own master.

"I will see you in a week, _companero_."

Hall walked back to the living room. Segador was trying to convey to Jerry his impressions of Atlantic City in 1919. "Womans _bonitas_," he was shouting, "whisky bad. Much bad. I have young years, much money. Well, well. So."

"We'll listen to your memoirs when I get back," Hall said.

"When we get back," Segador said.

"You're coming with me?"

"I'm meeting you on your way back. We'll meet in Caracas. Listen to me, _companero_. The chief of our Air Force is loyal. He will give me one of our American bombers. From the San Martin airport, a bomber can make Caracas in fifteen hours. Give me ten hours' notice, and I will meet you in time. I already have a loyal flying crew standing by for my orders."

"Where can we meet in Caracas?"

"At the airport. I can meet your plane."

"Won't you be followed?"

"Of course. By three or four of my picked men. Don't worry about that."

Gonzales interrupted to say that there would be time for them to have dinner at the house before starting on the drive north.

"Oh, while we're at it," Hall said, "I am going to ask you to be good enough to keep my _novia_ here until I return. That is, if Segador thinks it is safe."

"It is safe," the Major grunted. "We will make it safe."

"Then it is the privilege of my daughter and myself to make this house the senorita's for a century." Gonzales called his daughter in from the kitchen. "It will be very good for her, _amigos_. Maria Luisa is studying English in high school. It will help her greatly."

"Let her teach Jerry Spanish in a week," Hall said.

The girl seemed pleased when her father told her about Jerry. "Oh, nice," she said, trying out her English immediately. "You are very welcome, Aunt. The pleasure it is all of mine."

"You are very kind," Jerry said.

"Please. May I show you the room? There are five rooms upstairs in my father's house. Your room faces the ..." She paused, flustered, turned to Hall. "_Como se dice, por favor, frente con vista al mar?_"

"Tell her that her room _faces the ocean front_, Maria Luisa. And teach her two words of Spanish for every word you learn from her."

"Let's go," Jerry said to the girl. "Vamoose _arriba, si_?"

"Under no circumstances," Segador said when the girls were gone, "must you attempt to come back by regular routes. If anything happens to me, wait at the border. Get to Santiago by plane, and wait in the big hotel for word from us."

"How bad is it for me?"

"Who knows? The fascists are mother-raping bastards, but they are no donkeys. Today they must be looking for you in San Hermano. In a few hours, they will begin to worry. Tomorrow they will become upset because you are gone, and by tomorrow night they will turn the whole Cross and Sword gang loose to look for you. But by tomorrow night, if all goes well, and if that madman of a Duarte doesn't try to drive the car himself but brings his driver along, you will be in Havana.

"Of course," Segador said, "we will do everything we can to end the hunt. But we can only do the usual things. Perhaps we will identify the body of some poor Hermanito who gets killed by a car as Matthew Hall. Give me some papers, by the way; we'll need them if we can get the right body."

"Lavandero has my American passport. And here's my wallet. That's good enough." Hall took the three photos out of the wallet. "The pictures are for her--if I don't come back."

"And the money?"

Hall flipped his fingers through the eight hundred-odd dollars worth of travelers' checks. "I'd better sign these, just in case," he said. "I want you to split it between Pepe Delgado and Emilio Vicente."

"I understand," Segador said. "Duarte is bringing some money for you to travel on."

"I'll repay him when I return. Is there anything else I should know? I have to write a letter. Have you any paper, doctor?"

"In a moment."

"Just a few things," Segador said. "A simple code for sending messages to us." He explained the code system in a few minutes. "And one other thing. I have the pictures we took of that Nazi Vicente shot; pictures of his face and his fingerprints. We will seal them in the pouch you are carrying. Perhaps you can identify it in Havana somehow."

"I will try. Ah, thanks for the paper. This will take me only a few minutes." Hall propped the writing pad on his lap and wrote a short note to his attorney in New York.

"Well, this is it," he wrote, "and I'll be more surprised than you are if you ever receive this letter. I'm about to leave this country on what might turn out to be a one-way trip to the grave. If I don't come back, this letter is to be sent to you. It's about my will. I still want the dough to go to the Spanish refugees and the veterans of the International Brigades, but I want to lop off about a quarter of the total in the bank and due me from Bird and leave it for Miss Geraldine Olmstead. She is an American citizen and, if you hadn't received this note, would by now be Mrs. H. When you meet her, introduce her to my friends and take her around to the Committee; she wants to help the Spanish Republicans. If I really thought this was my last trip, I guess I'd close this letter with some appropriate and high-sounding last lines--you know, the kind of crap a guy would write as the lead for his own obit. But we'll skip the farewell address. This letter is being witnessed by two good friends, one a doctor and the other a major in this country. I guess that makes it legal."

Hall signed the letter, told Gonzales and Segador what he wanted done with it, and handed them the pen. "How much time do we have?" he asked.

"You will have to leave in less than two hours," Segador said. "Duarte will be here long before then."

"Good." Hall looked at his watch. "I would like to see the girl alone in her room for a while. There is much that I must tell her before I go."

"I understand," Segador said.

"Are you making the trip to San Martin with me?"

"No. I will only ride the first twenty miles with you. I have a car waiting for me at Marao."

Hall waited for Gonzales to call his daughter, and then he went up to Jerry's room.

_Chapter fifteen_

Hall had time to buy a paper at the Havana airport before the Panair bus started out for the city. In the half-light of evening, he could read only the headlines, and the front page carried nothing about Tabio's condition. It meant only one thing, that Don Anibal was still alive. His death would have rated a banner headline in every paper published south of the United States borders.

He folded the paper under his sealed attache case, sat wearily back in his seat as the half-empty bus rolled through the flat table lands between the airport and Havana. It was a run of fifteen miles from Rancho Boyeros to the Prado, a stretch long enough to give Hall another opportunity to review in his mind the nature of the tasks that lay ahead of him.

Physically, there were few details which could trap him. Duarte had been very thorough, even to the point of bringing Mexican labels for Jerry to sew into every item of apparel on Hall's body and in his Mexican leather grip. The credentials in his worn Mexican wallet had carried him through the control stations of four governments, including the station in San Juan (although the night in Puerto Rico had been a jittery twelve hours of sulking in his room like a caged animal). He wore a hat and a pair of soft ankle boots which belonged to Duarte, and a pair of broad-framed tortoise-shell reading glasses he had borrowed from Dr. Gonzales. The attache case, protected by the Mexican seal, contained the pictures of Androtten, a letter from Duarte to a man named Figueroa in the Mexican Embassy, and the automatic Segador had given him the day after he was drugged.

It was too late to report to the Mexican Embassy and deliver the letter to Figueroa. But the Casa de la Cultura would be open (there were lectures and meetings of some sort going on every night at the Spanish Republican society), the boys on the staff of _Ahora_ would be at their desks at the paper, and Colonel Lobo could always be reached within a few hours. The idea was to contact all three tonight; if the documentary bomb which would blow up Ansaldo was anywhere in Havana, it would be either at the Casa, the paper, or in the files of the Secret Police.

His heart quickened as the bus reached the narrow streets of Havana, honked its way to the Maceo, and then turned lazily down the Prado. He loved this city as he loved only two others, New York and Madrid. In the course of nearly four decades, Hall had spent a mere four months in Havana, but these were months in which he rarely got more than four hours' sleep a night. He had worked hard in this city, but for a hundred-odd nights he had also known the fantastic pleasures of merely walking the streets of the Cuban capital, talking to friends, stopping off to rest and have a tropical beer or a tall glass of mamey pulp, getting drunk only on the green softness of the Havana moon and the cool pleasures of the Gulf breeze. Here he had found old friends from Spain, and made new and life-long friendships with a host of Cubans. He knew, when he last left Havana, that the city had become one of his spiritual homes, that always he would think of it as a place to which he could return when he wanted the peace which comes to a man from being where he belongs.

As they approached the Panair office, Hall became apprehensive. He was afraid that he might be recognized by one of the clerks. He dug into his wallet for an American two-dollar bill and handed it to the driver. "Take me directly to the Jefferson Hotel, _chico_," he said. "It is only two streets out of your way."

"I won't get shot if I do, _amigo_."

He chose the Jefferson because it was a small, ancient and very unfashionable hotel, without a bar, and completely overlooked by the American colony. It was also very inexpensive, just the kind of a place a new courier, anxious to make a good record, would choose. It was on the Prado, it was clean, and the bills were modest enough to reflect to the credit of the government traveler who submitted them. Not the least of its charms for Hall was that the Jefferson was the one place where he stood not the slightest chance of being known by either the guests or the employees.

He signed the register with a modest flourish, insisted upon and obtained a reduced rate due to his standing as a courier, and then, spotting the large safe in the office behind the counter, he asked for the manager. "I am," he said, flourishing his identity papers, "a courier of the Mexican Government. Since I have arrived too late to present myself to my Embassy tonight, could I ask for the privilege of depositing my case in your safe for the night?"

The manager said he would be honored to oblige. He had, he said, traveled widely in Mexico, and admired the Mexican people, the Mexican Government, and most of all Senor Ortiz Tinoco's Department of Foreign Relations, and did the visitor expect to make frequent stops in Havana? The visitor assured the manager that he did.

The case was handed to the night clerk, who opened the safe, deposited it, and closed the heavy iron door. "It will be as safe," the manager said, "as the gold in the teeth of a Gallego."

"That," said Hall, "is security enough for me."

He got into the rickety elevator and went to his room. It was a large room overlooking the Prado. He opened the shutters, looked out at the star-drenched skies. He was home again. Outside, juke boxes in three different open cafes on one street were playing three records with maximum volume. A baby in the next room was lying alone and cooing at the ceiling. Near by, a light roused a rooster on some rooftop to let out a loud call.

Hall heard the sounds of the city as they blended into the tone pattern peculiarly Havana's own. He took a quick shower, changed into some fresh clothes, and went downstairs to the Prado. He stopped first at a cigar stand a few doors from the hotel, bought a handful of choice cigars, and lit a long and very dark Partagas, being careful to remember that only gringos removed the cigar band before lighting up.

He walked casually down the Prado, toward the Malecon, pausing in the course of the four blocks between the Casa de la Cultura and the Jefferson to study the stills in the lobby of a movie house showing an American film, to sip a leisurely pot of coffee, and to buy a box of wax matches and a lottery ticket from a street vendor. From the street, he could see that the windows of the Casa were well lighted. He walked another block, crossed the street, and then, very casually, he studied the signs on the street entrance to the organization's headquarters. _Tonight: Lecture on History of Music by Professor A. Vasquez. Dance and ball for young people._ And why shouldn't a bachelor courier on the loose in Havana attend a dance for the young _refugiados_? He went through the motions of a visiting blade debating with himself the propriety of attending such a ball.

Squaring his shoulders, the Mexican courier put the cigar in his mouth and started to climb the stairs to the headquarters of the Casa. He climbed slowly, afraid of receiving too enthusiastic a greeting when he reached the first-floor landing.

There was a light in the small meeting room at the end of the corridor. Hall stood near the door for a few minutes, listening for a familiar voice through the opened transom. Then, carefully, he knocked, and turned the handle of the door. It was open.

He stepped into a meeting of a small committee. Eight men were sitting around a long table. They were talking about the problems of getting help to the Spaniards in the French concentration camps in North Africa. All discussion stopped the moment the confreres saw Hall.

"I am looking," he said, "for Santiago Iglesias."

A tawny-haired Spaniard at the table looked up. "_Viejo!_" he shouted, springing from his chair and rushing over to confront Hall.

The right hand which rose to take the cigar from Hall's mouth also lingered long enough to hold an admonishing finger to his lips. "Hello, Rafael," he said. "I didn't know you were in Cuba."

Rafael was grinning like a Cheshire cat. "Neither did Franco," he laughed. "Last week I found out for the first time that the fascists had jailed you and that you got out after the war. I thought you were dead, M..."

The look in Hall's eyes stopped him from pronouncing the rest of the American's name.

"Let's go outside," Hall said, softly. "I do not have much time."

They stepped into the corridor. "Where can we talk?" Hall asked. "Is anyone using Santiago's office?"

"No. We can sit there."

They found the office unoccupied. "Don't turn the light on," Hall said. "The window faces the street."

Rafael locked the door, pulled two seats close to the big desk in the corner. "We can sit here and talk quietly," he said.

"It's wonderful to see you, Rafael. I'd heard you were captured in a hospital during the Ebro retreat."

"_Mierda!_ That's what the fascists boasted. No. I came out of the retreat in good order. I started with thirty men, but, instead of taking to the roads like the Lincolns, I started to cross the mountains. I went up with thirty men, and I came down on the other side with a battalion. Most of them got through alive after that."

"Good boy! Where have you been since then?"

"In hell!" Rafael spat, angrily. "Rotting in a French concentration camp, mostly. I organized an escape. We killed six guards, and more than twenty prisoners got away. I got to Casablanca through the underground, and they put me on a Chilean ship. Two weeks ago we reached Havana. I'm to eat and rest for a month. Then I go back to Spain for more fighting. With the guerrillas. When did you get here?"

"An hour ago. Listen, I want to talk to you. But it is important that we find Santiago. Is he in town?"

"Yes. He is supposed to be at our meeting. He'll be here."

"Can you go back and leave word for him to join you in here the minute he comes? It's very important."

Rafael jumped from his chair, struck an absurd caricature of military posture, and made a limp French salute, his hand resting languidly against his ear. "_Mais oui, mon general_," he said. "_Mais oui, oui, oui._" He marched stiffly out of the room, posing at the door to make an obscene gesture meant for the men of Vichy.

He glided noiselessly back to the dark office in a few minutes, waved Hall's proffered cigar away. "I can't smoke any more. We had nothing to smoke the last year in Spain, and Monsieur Daladier and Company never sent us any tobacco. Now I just can't stand it. I walk around Havana and everyone offers me cigars, but I've lost my taste for it."

"It will come back, Rafael."

"Why are you in Havana, Mateo?"

"It is a long story, _chico_. I'd rather tell you in front of Santiago. It's about Anibal Tabio. I left San Hermano two nights ago. Things are serious, there. Falange."

"Is Tabio really so ill?"

"He is dying, _chico_. He may be dead by now. I think he was killed by the Falange. I came here for the proof. Santiago knows. We've exchanged letters."

"_Hola!_" Santiago Iglesias was at the door. "Then you got my letters?" He was ten years older than Rafael, tall and powerfully built. He crossed the room in long, athlete's strides, his head thrown back as if to announce to the world that the white hairs which outnumbered the black of his head were merely an accident of the war.

"I knew you would understand," Hall said.

"What happens?"

"Don Anibal is dying. I think Ansaldo did it."

"He is a fascist, Mateo. You were absolutely right."

"How do you know? I need the proof immediately."

"There is a man in town who was trapped behind Franco's lines for two years. He knew Ansaldo well."

"That is good--for you and me. But it is not enough. There is too much at stake."

"I guessed as much, Mateo. General Mogrado sent a message from Mexico City a few days ago. He wanted the information also. I took this man in Havana and we went to a lawyer and he made a long affidavit about Ansaldo. Mogrado has the affidavit by this time."

"Who is this man? Is he well known?"

"No, Mateo. He was a minor official of the Ministry of Commerce. I have a copy of his affidavit, and you can meet him tomorrow if you wish. He is staying with relatives in Marianao."

"Let us try to see him tomorrow. But I need much more than his affidavit. I need more than anything else a picture of Ansaldo in Falange uniform, a picture that shows him with officers of Germany and Italy. I was in Burgos when the picture was taken--and I have a feeling that the picture is right here in Havana."

"Here? In Havana?"

"Listen, _companeros_. I saw the _Arriba_ man take that picture. I was standing a hundred feet away. It was in the spring or summer of 1938," Hall said. "I know you have the complete file of _Arriba_ here."

"No, Mateo. We do not."

The blood left Hall's head. "You don't?" he said. "But when I was here we ..."

"It is the complete file of _Arriba_ of Madrid since April of 1939, Mateo. Since Franco entered Madrid, _amigo_."

"And before that?"

"There are some, but not a complete file. They have many fascist papers at _Ahora_, and at the University there is Dr. Nazario with his personal collection of fascist publications. It is very large, and it goes back to 1935 in some cases, but it has many empty places."

"And the Secret Police? What has Colonel Lobo got?"

"Dossiers and documents. But papers--who knows?"

"I'll be back in Madrid in a month," Rafael said. "I can go back sooner if it will help the cause, Mateo. There is surely a complete file there."

"No, thank you, Rafael, but I need the picture in a few hours." He told them why the pictures were needed, and how they would be used if he could find them.

"Don't worry," Santiago said. "There are three collections to examine, and in the meanwhile we might get some further clues from de Sola. He is a very intelligent fellow. I'll put him to work on Dr. Nazario's collection in the morning. Rafael, tonight you go to _Ahora_. Go through their Spanish collection, and then examine their files of _Arriba_ of Havana. The local _Arriba_ used more pictures than an American magazine, and most of them came from Franco Spain. You'd better go right now."

"I'll be there in ten minutes. Shall I tell them what it's about, Mateo?"

"No, I'll tell them myself. I'm here on false papers. Just warn them that if they see me on the street I'm not to be recognized. But I'll see them before I leave."

"I'm going to call Lobo," Hall said. "At the very least his dossiers are more official than de Sola's affidavit."

Santiago shoved the phone toward Hall. "I was going to suggest it myself. Do you remember the number?"

"Of course."

There was no answer at Lobo's house. Hall called the headquarters of the National Police. "I want to reach Colonel Lobo," he said to the man who answered his call.

"We no longer have a Colonel Lobo."

"What?"

"We have a General Lobo, senor."

"Where is he?"

"Who is this speaking?"

"Who am I?" Hall hesitated. "If he's there, just tell him it's Johnny Verde Luna. He'll know who it is." Lobo called all Americans Johnny; Verde Luna was a horse he and Hall had played for three straight weeks at the Hipodromo until it romped home in front at the longest odds in ten years.

"I will, Mr. Johnny Green Moon," the other man said, in English. "When I see him tomorrow."

"I don't understand you, senor. I ..."

"He is not here, senor."

"I know. Don't tell me where he is. But do you know?"

"That depends."

"Listen to me, my friend," Hall said, his voice rising angrily, "I have no time to play games. If you know where he is, find him and give him my message. I'll call you every fifteen minutes until you get word from him."

"Yes, senor. I will do what I can. Where can I call you?"

"Never mind. I will call you." Hall hung up. "A clown!" he muttered.

"I forgot to tell you that Lobo is now a general."

"When did it happen?"

"Last week. It came as a reward for breaking up the Pinar del Rio Nazi-Falange ring. You know, the one that was in radio contact with the German submarines."

"I remember it well." Hall had worked with Lobo in rooting the spy ring out. "I wonder where the hell he is?"

"Who knows? But listen, Mateo, I know a man who knows all of Lobo's hangouts. Suppose I send him out to look?"

"Excellent. Just tell him to give Lobo this message--that he is the only man who can save the life of Don Anibal Tabio. Eh?"

"We'll try it. Wait here for me. I'll be right back."

Hall started to tell Santiago the whole story of his experiences in San Hermano when the Spaniard returned to the office. As soon as he mentioned the fact that Ansaldo's assistant Marina was a morphine addict, Santiago interrupted him.

"_Hijo de la gran puta!_ I think I know him. Wait, I'll describe him. I know him, all right, Mateo. Wait, I'll close the shutters. Then we can turn on the light. I think I have his picture in this room."

"Who is he, Santiago?"

"Just a second. That's better." He turned on the small desk light. "Let's go to the files."

The Spaniard took a set of keys from his pocket, opened a heavy door behind the desk and snapped on the light in a small store room. He stepped in front of a row of steel filing cabinets, opened one with another key. "He used another name in Spain--and in Paris. I know it's the same man. Called himself Marcelino Gassau in 1937. Wait. Here it is."

"It's the _maricon_!" Hall cried when he saw the picture Santiago drew from the file.

"I knew it."

Hall glanced at his watch. "Just a second. I'm going to call Lobo back. It's time. Let's bring the whole file on the bastard out to the desk."

The man at police headquarters had no news of Lobo. "I'll call you back," Hall said. "Keep trying him."

"So Gassau is your Marina," Santiago laughed. "We knew him well, the _cabron_. He was working in Portugal and Berlin as a liaison between Sanjurjo and von Faupel in 1935 and 1936. Then, when the war started, he went to Paris, the coward, spying on the German anti-fascists who were on their way to fight with the Thaelmanns in Spain. He posed as a contact man for the U.G.T., and then he'd lead the Germans straight to the French police and notify the German Embassy. Then the Nazis would start to complain that they were criminals who escaped from German prisons and claim them back. Not one of the poor devils ever got to Spain, but some of them were ultimately turned over to the German Government and killed. It's all in this file."

"What else can I find here?"

"Not too much. He made a trip to Barcelona in 1937. The authorities arrested him, but his friends got the British consulate to make a special plea for his release, and the damned fools gave in and let him go. After that he went to Argentina, but he returned to Madrid in May of 1939."

The papers contained a detailed record of the fascist agent's crimes against the Republic, and ended with a clipping from _Informaciones_ of Madrid which revealed that Gassau-Marina was one of ten men to be decorated by the Falangist Government for distinguished service during the three years of the war. A footnote to this list said that Gassau-Marina was one of the three men decorated that day who had previously been awarded the Order of the German Eagle, Second Class, by German Ambassador to Spain, General Wilhelm von Faupel.

"This will help," Hall said. "It's a good start."

"There's my phone. Just a minute." It was Rafael. He was calling from the offices of _Ahora_, and he suggested that Santiago join him there.

"Let's go," Hall said. "Do we use separate cabs?"

"Don't be a child, Mateo. You're in Havana."

"I'd better check with police headquarters on Lobo before we leave."

They found Rafael in a tile-lined office on the second floor of the newspaper building. He was sitting at a large table, three large piles of fascist publications before him, and an opened copy of the Havana _Arriba_ in his hands. "No luck yet," he said. "But Eduardo Sanchez had an idea where the picture can be found."

"Where is he?"

"He's in there," Rafael pointed to a door. "He's digging out some more magazines."

Sanchez walked in with an armload of bright-colored Havana _Arribas_. "It's good to see you again, Mateo," he said. "What passes?"

"Trouble. How are you making out?"

"Who knows? Are you going to stay long?"

"I'm leaving tomorrow if I can get what I need."

"You say the picture would be in _Arriba_ for 1938?"

"If at all, Eduardo."

"That's serious. There is only one place in town where I know definitely there is a complete file of _Arriba_. It might be a little hard to get into."

"Where is it?"

"The third floor of the Spanish Embassy."

"That's bad," Hall said.

"Bad, yes," Santiago said. He put his arms over the shoulders of Rafael and Eduardo. "But not hopeless, eh, _companeros_?"

Eduardo smiled, grimly. Rafael grinned, a sudden glint in his blue eyes.

"What do you think, Rafael?"

"I think we should shoot our way in, _mi coronel_."

"And you, Eduardo?"

"I don't know. If we shoot our way in, we have to shoot our way out again too. Maybe we'll kill a few fascists, but will we be able to get at their files?"

"It would do us good," Rafael said, "to kill ourselves a few fascists. I think we are getting out of practice."

"Sit down," Santiago said. "This takes some planning. Mateo, you had better tell Eduardo what is at stake."

"In a minute. I want some water. And I'd better phone Lobo's headquarters again."

"Use this phone," Eduardo said. "I'll bring you water." He took three sheets of gray copy paper from his desk and fashioned a water cup. "We can't get paper cups since Pearl Harbor."

"Listen to me," Santiago said. "There is a way we can kill two birds with one stone. Eduardo, if Hall gets the picture, it kills Gamburdo and the Falange in San Hermano. That's one bird."

"And the other?"

"The other, _companeros_, is Fernando Rivas."

"Rivas?" Eduardo's dark, good-looking face grew puzzled. "Is he in this too?"

"Wait. I should bring _Companero_ Hall up to date. You don't know Rivas, Mateo. He is a queer bird. He comes from a good Republican family in Madrid. A very good family. Republican since before the First Republic. This Rivas, this Fernando, he was good. Under Alfonso, he got a job in the Foreign Office. They sent him to Havana as an attache in the legation. Even then he was a good Republican. But something happened to the man when the war started. He didn't fight for the fascists, but ..."

"Tell him about his wife," Rafael said.

"That's what I think did it. He had a British wife, and she had high-life aspirations."

"I think I understand," Hall said.

"I don't have to go into the details. There is no time for that, anyway. The point is that he had to go to Spain last year, and he came back filled with loathing for everything he saw. This I know for a fact. First, he started to sit home alone every night and get drunk, and then he began to write a memoir about what he saw. He didn't think anyone would ever see it. He still doesn't know that anyone but himself has ever seen it. I got it from his servant one morning a few weeks ago. She is one of ours. We photographed it and she put it back before he got home that night."

Eduardo passed a box of inexpensive cigars around. "The week before that," he said, "I ran into Rivas at a cafe in Matanzas. He was sobering up after a drinking bout. I tried to avoid him but he followed me out of the place. He was crying. He called himself a son of a whore mother and a traitor to his honor and his people and carried on like a fool. Then he started to tell me about his wife's lover--we've known all about that for months, but Rivas had just found out--and I became filled with disgust for the creature. I shook him off and left him standing in the street crying like a whipped dog. I hate weaklings."

"I get it," Hall said. "But when you saw his diary, you started to change your mind, eh?"

"I still don't trust him. I introduced him to Santiago because Santiago wanted to meet him."

"I wouldn't trust him with Franco's daughter," Rafael said.

Santiago Iglesias sighed heavily. "No one asks you to sleep with him, Rafael," he said. "It isn't that. But you remember what happened in the early days of the war. We had to take any officer who swore loyalty to the Republic. We had no choice in the matter, did we, _chico_?"

"But we also put in commissars to keep an eye on them."

"It's true, _chico_. But some of them proved to be really loyal, eh?"

"A handful."