“Bullfight fans. Tourists. The opposition. Liberal Democrats. How should I know? That’s partly what we’re gathered here so happily to discover.”
There was also some bottled water on the coffee table in front of her. She made sure the cap was still factory-sealed, then opened it and poured some into a glass.
“Can I interest you in a whiskey?” he asked. “It’s already on your room-service bill, so I might as well offer you a drink.”
“Maybe later,” she said. “Maybe I’ll need a drink after I hear what you have to say.”
McKinnon laughed. “Spain is a funny place,” he mused. “The present is all caught up with the past, and the past is something most people don’t want to talk about. Yet it keeps repeating itself, doesn’t it? When I was a young case officer in Madrid back in the 1980s, Reagan visited. Are you old enough to remember him?”
She was, of course. “No, Mark,” she said, “but I studied him in history class. Same as Washington, Lincoln, and Elvis Presley.”
But McKinnon was on verbal cruise control. All accelerator and no brakes.
“Reagan visited,” he continued, “and after a bourbon or two, got away from his script. The president made an uncalled for remark about how it was too bad that the Americans who fought in the International Brigades had fought for the ‘wrong side.’ They fought against Franco, in other words, instead of being on the side of Franco, Hitler, Mussolini, and the long and wonderful tradition of fascism and anti-Semitism in this hot, unwashed country. Well, you can imagine how that went over. The Spanish Left organized a ceremony of desagravío. Do you know what that is, LaDuca?”
“It means ‘atonement’ in English,” she said. “Except I also know from my time here before that there’s a strange Spanish ceremony called a desagravío that can be made on behalf of someone else who may not feel apologetic at all.”
“Exactly,” McKinnon said, punctuating the air with a finger. “You got it. In this case, the unrepentant one was President Reagan. The so-called atonement ceremony took place in the Plaza Colón. You know, that square where they got a statue of Columbus?”
“Hence the name of the square,” she said. But if McKinnon got the dig, he wasn’t letting it show.
“Remember, this was 1986,” he said. “There were still a number of broken-down old brigadistas alive, people who had fought against Franco in the 1930s. I was sent to keep an eye on the event. The Plaza Colón was hung with the old flag of the Spanish Republicans, a genuinely ugly, meaningless old rag with vertical purple, white, and red stripes. It looked like a cheap beach towel from a gas station giveaway. Anyway, the old anthem was played, one of those surprisingly bouncy ‘workers’ paradise jingles’ from the early days of Bolshevism, before the whole cause of Communism was thoroughly discredited. The main speaker was a man named Enríque Líster. Fifty years earlier as a young Communist, Lister had been one of the more effective self-taught generals of the Republican Army that fought against Franco. If I remember correctly, and there’s a chance I don’t because my brain has begun its voyage into the sunset, the ceremony took place in an auditorium under the plaza. I was in this highly uncomfortable seat, admiring the beauty of all the Spanish wives. Anyway, it wasn’t an important event, really. Nothing happened except a bunch of decrepit old lefties blew off some steam about Reagan and America. But I had a real sense of history, you know what I mean? A feeling that I was watching a final curtain call from a long-passed age. And yet, know what? All those old polarized elements from Spanish society? There’re still around today.”
“Quite correct. I’ve seen a bit of that recently,” Alex said, thinking of Colonel Pendraza.
McKinnon poured himself another whiskey. “You’ll see a lot more before you’re safely out of here,” he said. “Count on that!”
The bottle was down about four fingers. Chang didn’t have a glass going. McKinnon sipped some water also. Alex was about to interrupt, but McKinnon appeared as if he were about to add something. She rarely interrupted men when they were drinking because they frequently said too much, later to their displeasure.
“I had the same feeling around the same era here in Spain when I attended a lecture at a Catholic school by a man named Serrano Súñer,” McKinnon continued. “Ever heard of Súñer?”
Alex shook her head. “No,” she said. “Don’t know the name.”
“That’s because you’re too young. What are you now, Alex? Mid thirties?”
“Same as last time you saw me which was two months ago,” she said. “Plus you know I’m twenty-nine if you just read my c.v.”
“Peter?” he asked, looking to the other guest, almost surprising him. “Súñer? Name set off any alarms for you?”
For the first time, Chang spoke. “Súñer was Franco’s brother-in-law, wasn’t he?” Chang answered.
“Exactly,” McKinnon answered. “Bright fellow, you are. And you’re the same age as Alex, I’d guess.”
“I’m forty-one,” Chang said.
“That proves my point,” McKinnon said. “Anyway, in the 1930s, during the Civil War, Súñer represented Spain in talks with Hitler. Hitler wanted Spain to get into the big war in Europe. Súñer suggested the creation of a national ‘movement’ out of the Falange and the Carlists to match the fascists in Italy and Nazis in Germany. Then they’d all go to war together and keep the Americans and Brits busy on the western front while Hitler could go at it with the Ruskies in the east. Well, Franco wasn’t buying into that one. He was determined to keep Spain out of World War II to make sure he had some soldiers left in case Uncle Joe Stalin marched his Red Bastard soldiers right up to the Pyrenees. And he did stay out of it. But the dispute ended in a falling out between the two men. Not really important anymore,” McKinnon said.
“Then why mention it?” Alex asked.
“What?” It was obvious he wasn’t quite in the bag, but well on his way.
“Why mention it?”
“Well, it was a curious feeling,” McKinnon said. “To speak with a man who had personally conversed with Hitler.”
A moment passed. McKinnon rubbed his eyes and looked at his watch. “God!” he said. “We’ve been here since 10:00 a.m. Let me hit the boy’s room, then we’ll talk more, okay?”
“Okay,” Alex said.
Chang gave her a shrug. McKinnon rose with effort and wandered off to the washroom, leaving Alex and Peter Chang to stare at each other.
“Thanks,” Alex finally said, “for saving my life.”
“No big deal,” Chang said.
“Actually, to me it was.”
THIRTY-FIVE
MADRID, SEPTEMBER 10, EARLY AFTERNOON
For Maria Elena Gómez, the new week was not going well.
José Luis, her new partner this week in Pedro’s absence, was an even bigger pain to work with than she had imagined. On their first day together, he had been as aggravating as any man she had ever had to work with. He was slow and inattentive to detail. His attention would wander, he would want to sneak off for cigarettes, and he had a machísmo attitude that she found unbearable, an attitude best exemplified by her doing all the work and him supervising. Or so it seemed.
She had had more than enough of him as they inspected the electrical junctions at the Sevilla station in the old city. While Maria was busy noting a frayed cable that could short circuit if any rain swept down into the station, she looked up to find him not taking the notes as she suggested, but rather watching a gaggle of American girls in shorts and minis, as they waited for a train.