Read Online Winter in Madrid by C. J. Sansom - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: C. J. Sansom
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vehicle, but it struck Harry that none were laughing or calling out, as Madrileños would have done before at such a thing. Again he thought how silent they were, the background buzz of conversation he remembered gone.
They drove into Opera district, catching glimpses of the Royal Palace in the distance. It stood out brightly amid the general shabbiness, the sun reflected from its white walls.
‘Does Franco live there?’ Harry asked.
‘He receives people there but he’s established himself in the Pardo Palace, outside Madrid. He’s terrified of assassination. Drives everywhere in a bullet-proof Mercedes Hitler sent him.’
‘There’s still opposition then?’
‘The
civiles
have security sewn up in the towns. But you never know. After all, Madrid was only taken eighteen months ago. In a way, it’s an occupied city as much as Paris. There’s still resistance in the north, from what we hear, and Republican bands hiding out in the countryside.
Los maquis
, they call them.’
‘God,’ Harry said. ‘What this country’s been through.’
‘It might not be over yet,’ Tolhurst observed grimly.
They drove into a street of large nineteenth-century houses, outside one of which a Union Jack hung from a flagpole, blessedly familiar. Harry remembered coming to the embassy in 1937, to ask for Bernie after he was reported missing. The officials had been unhelpful, disapproving of the International Brigades.
A couple of
civiles
were posted at the door. Cars were drawn up outside the entrance so Tolhurst stopped a little way up the road.
‘Let’s get your bag,’ he said.
Harry looked warily at the
civiles
as he climbed out. Then he felt his leg tugged from behind. He looked round to see a thin boy of ten, dressed in the rags of an army tunic, sitting on a kind of wheeled wooden sled.
‘
Señor
,
por favor, diez pesetas
.’
Harry saw the child had no legs. The boy clung to his turn-ups. ‘
Por el amor de Dios
,’ he pleaded, thrusting out his other hand. One of the
civiles
marched sharply down the street, clapping his hands.
‘¡Vete! ¡Vete!’
At his shout the little boy slapped his hands on the cobbles, rolling his cart backwards into a side street. Tolhurst took Harry’s elbow.
‘You’ll have to be quicker than that, old boy. Beggars don’t usually get as far out as this, but they’re thick as pigeons round the Centro. Not that there are any pigeons left, they’ve eaten them all.’
The
civil
who had chased the boy away escorted them to the embassy door.
‘Gracias por su ayuda,’
Tolhurst said formally. The man nodded, but Harry saw a look of contempt in his eyes.
‘It’s a bit of a shock at first, the children,’ Tolhurst said as he turned the handle of the big wooden door. ‘But you have to get used to it. Now, time to meet your reception committee. The big guns are waiting for you.’ He sounded jealous, Harry thought, as Tolhurst led the way into the hot, gloomy interior.
T HE AMBASSADOR sat behind an enormous desk in an imposing room cooled by quietly whirring fans. There were eighteenth-century prints on the wall, thick rugs on the tiled floor. Another man, in the uniform of a naval captain, sat to one side of the desk. A window looked on to an interior courtyard full of potted plants, where a little group of men in shirtsleeves sat talking on a bench.
Harry recognized Sir Samuel Hoare from the newsreels. He had been a minister under Chamberlain, an appeaser dismissed when Churchill took over. A small man with delicately pointed, severe features and thin white hair, he wore a morning coat with a blue flower in the buttonhole. He stood and leaned across the desk, thrusting out a hand.
‘Welcome, Brett, welcome.’ The handshake was surprisingly strong. Cold, pale blue eyes stared into Harry’s for a moment, then the ambassador waved at the other man. ‘Captain Alan Hillgarth, our naval attaché. He has overall responsibility for Special Services.’ Hoare pronounced the final
They drove into Opera district, catching glimpses of the Royal Palace in the distance. It stood out brightly amid the general shabbiness, the sun reflected from its white walls.
‘Does Franco live there?’ Harry asked.
‘He receives people there but he’s established himself in the Pardo Palace, outside Madrid. He’s terrified of assassination. Drives everywhere in a bullet-proof Mercedes Hitler sent him.’
‘There’s still opposition then?’
‘The
civiles
have security sewn up in the towns. But you never know. After all, Madrid was only taken eighteen months ago. In a way, it’s an occupied city as much as Paris. There’s still resistance in the north, from what we hear, and Republican bands hiding out in the countryside.
Los maquis
, they call them.’
‘God,’ Harry said. ‘What this country’s been through.’
‘It might not be over yet,’ Tolhurst observed grimly.
They drove into a street of large nineteenth-century houses, outside one of which a Union Jack hung from a flagpole, blessedly familiar. Harry remembered coming to the embassy in 1937, to ask for Bernie after he was reported missing. The officials had been unhelpful, disapproving of the International Brigades.
A couple of
civiles
were posted at the door. Cars were drawn up outside the entrance so Tolhurst stopped a little way up the road.
‘Let’s get your bag,’ he said.
Harry looked warily at the
civiles
as he climbed out. Then he felt his leg tugged from behind. He looked round to see a thin boy of ten, dressed in the rags of an army tunic, sitting on a kind of wheeled wooden sled.
‘
Señor
,
por favor, diez pesetas
.’
Harry saw the child had no legs. The boy clung to his turn-ups. ‘
Por el amor de Dios
,’ he pleaded, thrusting out his other hand. One of the
civiles
marched sharply down the street, clapping his hands.
‘¡Vete! ¡Vete!’
At his shout the little boy slapped his hands on the cobbles, rolling his cart backwards into a side street. Tolhurst took Harry’s elbow.
‘You’ll have to be quicker than that, old boy. Beggars don’t usually get as far out as this, but they’re thick as pigeons round the Centro. Not that there are any pigeons left, they’ve eaten them all.’
The
civil
who had chased the boy away escorted them to the embassy door.
‘Gracias por su ayuda,’
Tolhurst said formally. The man nodded, but Harry saw a look of contempt in his eyes.
‘It’s a bit of a shock at first, the children,’ Tolhurst said as he turned the handle of the big wooden door. ‘But you have to get used to it. Now, time to meet your reception committee. The big guns are waiting for you.’ He sounded jealous, Harry thought, as Tolhurst led the way into the hot, gloomy interior.
T HE AMBASSADOR sat behind an enormous desk in an imposing room cooled by quietly whirring fans. There were eighteenth-century prints on the wall, thick rugs on the tiled floor. Another man, in the uniform of a naval captain, sat to one side of the desk. A window looked on to an interior courtyard full of potted plants, where a little group of men in shirtsleeves sat talking on a bench.
Harry recognized Sir Samuel Hoare from the newsreels. He had been a minister under Chamberlain, an appeaser dismissed when Churchill took over. A small man with delicately pointed, severe features and thin white hair, he wore a morning coat with a blue flower in the buttonhole. He stood and leaned across the desk, thrusting out a hand.
‘Welcome, Brett, welcome.’ The handshake was surprisingly strong. Cold, pale blue eyes stared into Harry’s for a moment, then the ambassador waved at the other man. ‘Captain Alan Hillgarth, our naval attaché. He has overall responsibility for Special Services.’ Hoare pronounced the final
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