Read Online Tapestry of Spies by Stephen Hunter - Free Book Online
Authors: Stephen Hunter
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I, a big revolver with a short octagonal barrel.
“God, you’re not joking about all this, are you?” Florry said.
“Put it away, Florry. Somebody could come along.”
But Florry continued to look at it, fascinated. He experienced the weapon’s heft and weight and perfect easy feel. He’d carried much the same thing in Burma, though in a slightly later model. With a dexterity from memory that surprised him, he hit the latch to break the action andthe barrel obediently dropped to expose the cylinder. Six gleaming brass circles peeped out, like six coins on a pewter plate.
“Loaded,” he said.
“The bloody things are useless without bullets. That’s a shoulder holster, by the way. It’ll hold the weapon neatly out of sight under a coat or cardigan. And as you know, the four-five-five will knock down anything on two feet at close range. Now put it away, Florry. Someone could come.”
Julian? What would a monster like a Webley do to vivid, charming, cruel Julian? It would blow his guts in quarts across the landscape.
He shook his head, quickly replaced the pistol in the holster, wrapped it in the cloth, and put it back in the briefcase. Mr. Sterne and Mr. Webley were to be his companions in Spain.
“I suppose that’s it, then?” he said. “A revolver and a code book. It
is
a game, isn’t it?”
“It’s not a game, Mr. Florry. Never think of it as a game. Think of it as life and death.”
“I wonder if I could ever do the final thing.”
“You’ll do what’s necessary. You’ll see your duty.”
“I suppose you’re right. And that is what frightens me.”
Florry turned and issued the major a look that was either stupidity or shock. The major had seen it before, but not since 1916. It was the look of men in the trenches, about to go over the top, who didn’t believe their moment of destiny had finally arrived. Florry got up and walked away gloomily.
The major peeled another peanut and turned it over to the hungry pigeons. Soon Mr. Vane joined him.
“I trust it went well, sir?”
“It went as well as could be expected, Vane. Given the circumstances.”
“Did you think he’s up to it?”
“Not yet. That’s Sampson’s job.”
“Yessir.”
“We’ll have to play Mr. Florry very carefully, won’t we, Vane?”
“Yessir.”
“Levitsky can make a traitor of anyone. Can I make a murderer so easily?”
They watched as Florry, now a small figure, disappeared in the traffic.
5
BARCELONA
M OST NIGHTS, IN OBEDIENCE TO HIS INSTRUCTIONS, Comrade Captain Bolodin of the SIM went out with his men and made arrests. The instructions were perfect: the addresses were always right, the criminal always available. Comrade Captain Bolodin and his men were always on time; they never had any trouble. Nothing worked well in Republican Spain except the NKVD and nothing worked better in the NKVD than Comrade Captain Bolodin.
Sometimes the criminals were imprisoned, sometimes merely liquidated. A libertarian lawyer, for example, author of a wickedly scatological anti-Russian poem for his four-page party newspaper, paid for this crime with a bullet in the neck; a Polish trade unionist also died, as did a French intellectual who wrote scathing editorials, and a German Social Democrat who had published an unkind article in a Norwegian socialist newspaper. A Cuban, however, was simply reeducated in the political realities of Barcelona by an administration of Comrade Captain Bolodin’s fists for an excruciatingly long evening.
But under this political drama another one was running.Certain of the arrestees of a peculiar age and range of experience were spared the more furious applications of Koba’s justice and—although this was quite unknown to Koba’s official representatives, particularly the aggressively moral Glasanov—were escorted into an obscure cell for a private interview with Comrade Captain Bolodin. The subjects were always the same.
The first was a certain shipment of gold, said to have
“God, you’re not joking about all this, are you?” Florry said.
“Put it away, Florry. Somebody could come along.”
But Florry continued to look at it, fascinated. He experienced the weapon’s heft and weight and perfect easy feel. He’d carried much the same thing in Burma, though in a slightly later model. With a dexterity from memory that surprised him, he hit the latch to break the action andthe barrel obediently dropped to expose the cylinder. Six gleaming brass circles peeped out, like six coins on a pewter plate.
“Loaded,” he said.
“The bloody things are useless without bullets. That’s a shoulder holster, by the way. It’ll hold the weapon neatly out of sight under a coat or cardigan. And as you know, the four-five-five will knock down anything on two feet at close range. Now put it away, Florry. Someone could come.”
Julian? What would a monster like a Webley do to vivid, charming, cruel Julian? It would blow his guts in quarts across the landscape.
He shook his head, quickly replaced the pistol in the holster, wrapped it in the cloth, and put it back in the briefcase. Mr. Sterne and Mr. Webley were to be his companions in Spain.
“I suppose that’s it, then?” he said. “A revolver and a code book. It
is
a game, isn’t it?”
“It’s not a game, Mr. Florry. Never think of it as a game. Think of it as life and death.”
“I wonder if I could ever do the final thing.”
“You’ll do what’s necessary. You’ll see your duty.”
“I suppose you’re right. And that is what frightens me.”
Florry turned and issued the major a look that was either stupidity or shock. The major had seen it before, but not since 1916. It was the look of men in the trenches, about to go over the top, who didn’t believe their moment of destiny had finally arrived. Florry got up and walked away gloomily.
The major peeled another peanut and turned it over to the hungry pigeons. Soon Mr. Vane joined him.
“I trust it went well, sir?”
“It went as well as could be expected, Vane. Given the circumstances.”
“Did you think he’s up to it?”
“Not yet. That’s Sampson’s job.”
“Yessir.”
“We’ll have to play Mr. Florry very carefully, won’t we, Vane?”
“Yessir.”
“Levitsky can make a traitor of anyone. Can I make a murderer so easily?”
They watched as Florry, now a small figure, disappeared in the traffic.
5
BARCELONA
M OST NIGHTS, IN OBEDIENCE TO HIS INSTRUCTIONS, Comrade Captain Bolodin of the SIM went out with his men and made arrests. The instructions were perfect: the addresses were always right, the criminal always available. Comrade Captain Bolodin and his men were always on time; they never had any trouble. Nothing worked well in Republican Spain except the NKVD and nothing worked better in the NKVD than Comrade Captain Bolodin.
Sometimes the criminals were imprisoned, sometimes merely liquidated. A libertarian lawyer, for example, author of a wickedly scatological anti-Russian poem for his four-page party newspaper, paid for this crime with a bullet in the neck; a Polish trade unionist also died, as did a French intellectual who wrote scathing editorials, and a German Social Democrat who had published an unkind article in a Norwegian socialist newspaper. A Cuban, however, was simply reeducated in the political realities of Barcelona by an administration of Comrade Captain Bolodin’s fists for an excruciatingly long evening.
But under this political drama another one was running.Certain of the arrestees of a peculiar age and range of experience were spared the more furious applications of Koba’s justice and—although this was quite unknown to Koba’s official representatives, particularly the aggressively moral Glasanov—were escorted into an obscure cell for a private interview with Comrade Captain Bolodin. The subjects were always the same.
The first was a certain shipment of gold, said to have
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