María Dueñas - The Time in Between

“Of course,” I said. I refrained from telling him about the times in my childhood when I’d pressed my nose against the glass, my mouth watering at the sweets on display. Cream tarts garnished with strawberries, butter pastries, charlotte russes. In those days I never even dreamed that crossing that threshold would one day be within my reach, let alone the range of my pocketbook. In one of life’s little ironies, I was now, years later, being asked to go there as often as possible.

“The owner, Margaret Taylor, is Irish, and she’s a great friend of ours. Right now it’s perfectly possible that Embassy is the most strategically interesting spot in Madrid, because there—a small shop not much larger than seven hundred and fifty square feet—you find us all, members of the Axis and Allies alike, meeting in one place, without any apparent friction. Separately, of course, each with his own. But you’ll often find Baron von Stohrer, the German ambassador, there at the same time as the top brass of the British diplomatic corps as he drinks his lemon tea, or I’ll find myself at the bar shoulder to shoulder with my German counterpart. The German embassy is almost exactly across the street and ours is very close by, too, on the corner of Fernando el Santo and Monte Esquinza. As well as hosting a large number of foreigners, Embassy is the main meeting point for a lot of Spaniards from the noblest families: it would be hard to find more aristocratic titles all together anywhere in Spain than you’ll meet there at aperitif time. Most of these aristocrats are monarchists, and Anglophiles, meaning that on the whole they tend to be on our side, so that in terms of gathering information they’re not very valuable to us. But it would be interesting if you could get some clients from that milieu, because they are the class of women whom the Germans admire and respect. The wives of the high command in the new regime tend to be a different matter entirely: they know little of the world, they’re much more demure, they don’t wear haute couture, they enjoy themselves much less, and they naturally don’t frequent Embassy for champagne cocktails before lunch; you understand what I mean?”

“I’m getting the picture.”

“If we’re unlucky enough that you end up in any serious trouble, or you think you have any information you need to get to me urgently, Embassy at one p.m. is the place you can contact me any day of the week. Let’s say it’s my undercover meeting place for a number of our agents: it’s a place that’s so brazenly exposed that it’s extremely unlikely to arouse the least suspicion. To communicate we’ll use a very simple code: if you need to meet me, come in with your bag on your left arm; if you’ve just come for a drink and to be seen, carry it on your right. Remember: left, problem; right, normal. And if the situation is an absolute emergency, drop the bag as soon as you’ve come in, as though it’s just carelessness or an accident.”

“What would you consider an absolute emergency?” I asked. I sensed that his words, which I didn’t completely understand, hid something extremely unappealing.

“Direct threats. Severe coercion. Physical aggression. Breaking into your home.”

“And what will you do with me then?” I asked, once I’d swallowed the knot that had formed in my throat.

“That depends. We’ll analyze the situation and act, depending on the risk. In the most severe case we would abort the operation, try to put you somewhere safe, and evacuate you as soon as possible. In an intermediate situation, we’d study a variety of ways we could protect you. In any case, rest assured that you can count on us, that we’ll never leave you out on your own.”

“Thank you.”

“You needn’t thank us—that’s our job,” he said as he cut one of the last pieces of meat on his plate. “We’re confident that everything will work out well—the plan we’ve designed is very safe, and the information you’re going to be passing us isn’t high risk, for the moment. Would you like some dessert?”

This time once again he didn’t wait for me to accept his offer or refuse it; he just got up, gathered up the plates, took them over to the side table, and returned with others filled with cut-up fruit. I watched his quick, precise movements, perfect for someone whose absolute priority was efficiency, someone unused to wasting a second of his time or allowing himself to be distracted by trivialities and vagueness. He sat back down, stabbed at a piece of pineapple, and continued with his instructions as though there had been no interruption.

“In case we’re the ones who need to make contact with you, we’ll use two channels. One will be the Bourguignon florist on the Calle Almagro. The owner—a Dutchman—is another good friend of ours. We’ll send you flowers. White, maybe yellow; in any case, they’ll be light colored. The red ones we’ll leave to your admirers.”

“Very thoughtful,” I remarked ironically.

“Look at the bunch of flowers very carefully,” he went on without acknowledging the comment. “There will be a message inside. If it’s something innocent, it’ll be in a simple handwritten card. You should always read it a number of times, try to figure out whether the apparently trivial words might have a double meaning. When it’s something more complex, we’ll use the same code as you, inverted Morse code transcribed on the ribbon tied around the flowers: undo the bow and decode the message in just the way you’d write it yourself—right to left, in other words.”

“Very well. And the second channel?”

“Embassy again—not the place itself, though, but the candies. If you receive a box unexpectedly, you’ll know it’s come from us. We’ll arrange for it to leave the shop with the message inside it, which will also be in code. Take a good look at the cardboard box and the wrapping paper.”

“Such gallantry,” I said with a touch of sarcasm. He didn’t seem to notice it, or if he did he didn’t show it.

“It’s simply how we deal with it: using unlikely mechanisms to transmit confidential information. Coffee?”

I hadn’t yet finished my fruit but I accepted. He filled the cups, having first unscrewed the top part of a metallic receptacle. Miraculously the liquid came out hot. I had no idea what it was, this machine that could pour out the coffee that had been there for at least an hour as though it had just been prepared.

“A thermos, a great invention,” he said, noticing my curiosity. He took out several pale slim folders from his briefcase and placed them in a pile in front of him. “Next I’m going to show you the characters we’re most interested in having you watch for us. Our interest in these women might increase or decrease with time. Or indeed disappear entirely, though I doubt that. Most likely we’ll be adding new names; we’ll be asking you to concentrate your attentions on one of them in particular or to try to track down certain specific pieces of information. For now, though, these are the people whose agendas we want to learn about right away.”

He opened the first folder and took out a few typewritten sheets. In the top corner there was a photograph affixed with a metal clip.

“Baroness de Petrino—of Romanian origins. Maiden name, Elena Borkowska. Married to Josef Hans Lazar, head of press and propaganda for the German embassy. Her husband is one of our top targets for acquiring information: he’s an influential man with immense power. He’s very capable and extremely well connected in the Spanish regime, in particular with the most powerful of the Falangists. On top of that he’s extremely gifted in public relations: he organizes wonderful parties at his Castellana mansion and invites dozens of journalists and businessmen whose support he buys by regaling them with food and drink that he brings over directly from Germany. His lifestyle is scandalous in a Spain that’s suffering so much right now; he’s a sybarite and a lover of antiques—he’s probably been able to get hold of the most valued pieces, paid for by other people’s hunger. Ironically it would appear that he’s Jewish and of Turkish origin, something he’s careful to hide. His wife is completely a part of his hectic social life and is just as showy as he is in her incessant public appearances, so we have no doubt that she’ll be one of your first clients. We’re hoping that she’s one of the ones who’ll bring you the most work, both in sewing and when it comes to passing us information about her activities.”