María Dueñas - The Time in Between

He didn’t give me time to see the photograph, because he immediately closed the folder and pushed it across the tablecloth toward me. I was about to open it but he stopped me.

“Leave that for later. You can take all these files away with you today. You’ll have to memorize the information and destroy the papers and photographs as soon as you’re able to retain them in your head. Burn everything. It’s absolutely critical that these dossiers do not travel to Madrid and that nobody but you should know what’s in them, is that clear?”

Before I’d had the chance to say yes, he’d opened the next folder and continued.

“Gloria von Fürstenberg. Of Mexican origin in spite of her name. Be very careful what you say in front of her because she’ll be able to understand everything. She’s an incredible beauty, really elegant, the widow of a German aristocrat. She has two children and somewhat catastrophic economic circumstances, which is why she’s constantly on the hunt for a new rich husband or, in the absence of one of them, any gullible man with a fortune who might offer her enough support to maintain her grand lifestyle. Which is why she’s always attached to powerful men; she’s linked to various lovers, including the Egyptian ambassador and Juan March, the millionaire. Her social activity never stops, always within the Nazi community. She’ll give you a lot of work, too, you can count on that, though she might also take some time to pay her bills.”

He closed the folder back up and passed it to me; I put it on top of the previous one without opening it. He went on to the third.

“Elsa Bruckmann, born the Princess of Cantacuzène. A millionaire, passionate admirer of Hitler though much older than him. They say she was the person who introduced him to Berlin’s lavish social scene. She’s given an absolute fortune to the Nazi cause. Lately she’s been living in Madrid, in the ambassador’s residence, we don’t know why. That notwithstanding, she seems to be very comfortable here, and she’s another who never misses a social event. She’s known to be a bit eccentric and quite indiscreet, so she may be an open book when it comes to divulging relevant information. Another cup of coffee?”

“Yes, but I can serve myself. Please go on, I’m listening.”

“Very well—thank you. The last of the German ladies: the Countess Mechthild Podewils, tall, beautiful, about thirty, separated, a good friend of Arnold, one of the top spies active in Madrid and high up in the SS; his surname is Wolf—she calls him Wölfchen, the diminutive, Little Wolf. She is extremely well connected with both Germans and Spaniards, the latter belonging to the aristocratic and governmental circles, including Miguel Primo de Rivera y Sáenz de Heredia, brother to José Antonio, who founded the Falange. She’s a fully fledged Nazi agent, though she may not know it herself; they say she doesn’t understand a word of politics or espionage, but they pay her fifteen thousand pesetas a month to tell them everything she sees and hears, and in Spain today that’s an absolute fortune.”

“I’m sure it is.”

“Now we’re onto the Spaniards. Piedad Iturbe von Scholtz, Piedita to her friends. The Marchioness of Belvís de las Navas, married to Prince Max of Hohenlohe-Langenburg, a rich Austrian landowner, a legitimate member of European royalty, though he’s spent half his life in Spain. In principle he does support the German cause because that’s his country, but he’s in regular contact with us and with the Americans because we’re important to his business interests. Both are extremely cosmopolitan and they don’t seem to like the Führer’s ravings one bit. The truth is, they’re a charming couple and very well regarded in Spain, but they’re still on the fence, if I might put it like that. We want to keep an eye on them to learn whether they’re leaning more toward the German side than to ours, you understand?” he said, closing the relevant file.

“I understand.”

“And the last of the highest-valued targets, Sonsoles de Icaza, Marchioness of Llanzol. She’s the only one we’re not interested in for her consort, who’s a soldier and aristocrat thirty years older than her. Our target here is her lover: Ramón Serrano Suñer, minister of governance and secretary-general of the movement. The minister of the Axis, we call him.”

“Franco’s brother-in-law?” I asked, surprised.

“The very same. Their relationship is quite brazen, on her part especially—she boasts publicly and without the slightest hesitation about her affair with the second most powerful man in Spain. This woman is as elegant as she’s arrogant, and very tough, so be careful. She’ll be of very considerable value to us, however, for all the information we’ll be able to get from her about those movements and contacts of Serrano Suñer’s that aren’t public knowledge.”

I hid my surprise at this comment. I knew that Serrano was a gallant man—he’d shown me that himself when he retrieved the powder compact that I’d dropped on the floor at his feet—but at the time he’d also seemed to me to be a discreet, restrained man; it was hard to imagine him participating in a scandalous extramarital affair with a stunning lady of the noblest birth.

“We have one more folder left, with information about a number of people,” Hillgarth went on. “According to the data we have, the wives of those mentioned here are less likely to have an urgent need to visit an elegant fashion house the moment it opens, but just in case they do it wouldn’t do you any harm to memorize their names. And in particular you should learn their husbands’ names well, as they’re our real targets. It’s also quite possible that they’ll be mentioned in your other clients’ conversations, so you should keep alert. Let me make a start; I’ll go through these ones quickly, and you’ll have plenty of time to go over them yourself more calmly. Paul Winzer, the Gestapo’s strongman in Madrid. Very dangerous; he’s feared and hated even by many of his compatriots. He’s Himmler’s henchman in Spain—Himmler’s the head of the German secret services. He’s barely forty, but already he’s an old dog—round glasses, a distracted gaze. He has dozens of collaborators right across Madrid, so beware. Next: Walter Junghanns, one of our most particular nightmares. He’s the main saboteur of cargoes of Spanish fruit headed for Great Britain: he plants bombs that have already killed a number of workers. Next: Karl Ernst von Merck, a distinguished member of the Gestapo, highly influential within the Nazi party. Next: Johannes Franz Bernhardt, businessman…”

“I know him.”

“Excuse me?”

“I know him from Tetouan.”

“How well do you know him?” he asked slowly.

“Little. Very little. I’ve never spoken to him, but we were at the same reception from time to time when Beigbeder was commissioner there.”

“And does he know you? Would he be able to recognize you in a public place?”

“I doubt it. We’ve never exchanged a single word, and I don’t imagine he’d remember those meetings.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Women can tell perfectly when a man looks at us with interest, or when he looks at us as you might examine a piece of furniture.”

He remained silent a few moments, as though considering what he’d heard.

“I suppose that’s feminine psychology,” he said at last, skeptical.

“Exactly.”

“And his wife?”

“I made her a jacket once. You’re right, she’d never be one of the especially sophisticated ones. She’s not the kind of woman who’d mind at all about wearing last season’s wardrobe.”

“Do you think she’d remember you, that she’d recognize you if you ran into each other somewhere?”