Artillery of Lies by Derek Robinson Page A

paint factory. Dr. Hartmanndisliked him on sight and when he saw the fingernails—too long and not clean enough—he despised him. But then he overheard Laszlo speak a few words of English to the barman: “That’s OK. And keep the change.” Later Hartmann introduced himself and invited Laszlo to play. They tied after five games: two wins each, one stalemate. So the fellow was not stupid. Whether or not he was foolish was something else. His use of English suggested he might be vain. And perhaps lonely, if he had to go around impressing barmen with his superiority.
    â€œPlease forgive me if I intrude,” Hartmann said (they were speaking Spanish), “but yours is a name I have not often encountered in Spain before.”
    â€œMy family is not originally Spanish,” Martini said. “The full name is Martini-Hoffman-de-Seversky-Danacek.”
    â€œWith your permission I shall confine myself to Martini.” Hartmann cranked up a small, respectful smile. “Does it relate perhaps to the great Italian house of Vermouth?”
    â€œOn my mother’s side, alas. I shall never inherit.” He shrugged one shoulder: what was a lost fortune to a man like Martini? “And you, señor, unless I mistake myself, you are not a native of this country?”
    Hartmann explained that he was a commercial attaché at the German embassy.
    Martini leaned back and looked at him with sudden interest. “Deutschland,” he said. It came out like an incantation.
    â€œThat’s the place,” Hartmann agreed. “
Uber alles,
as the saying goes.”
    â€œYou know, Herr Doktor, we have more in common than chess,” Martini said, and took in a deep breath as if to brace himself for a major statement. “I volunteered for the Blue Division,” he said. “I wanted to march against the Comintern, to fight with the last drop of my blood to stop the Red menace crushing western Christian civilization.” Hartmann stared: either the words or the clothes were wrong; they did not fit each other. “One of the greatest tragedies of my life,” Martini went on. “At the medical examination they discovered that I am color-blind. Their standards are high. I was rejected.” He made a small gesture of helplessness and looked away: for him, the war was over.
    Hartmann said carefully, “No doubt you would still like to stand alongside the German soldier and help him to victory?” Martini nodded. “Perhaps I can arrange something,” Hartmann said.“Not the Blues versus the Reds, what with your eyesight, but maybe something in the gray area.” He gave Martini his card. “Come and see me in the morning. Shall we say ten o’clock?”
    Laszlo Martini arrived at ten to ten, dressed as soberly as a banker. By eleven his English had been tested (and found to be American) and he had agreed to become an interpreter and translator; by twelve they were talking about his willingness to travel and work alone; before lunch he was a full-time trainee intelligence agent, keen to be parachuted into England. Dr. Hartmann was slightly alarmed by the speed of his recruitment. “You do realize, don’t you, that this work is really quite dangerous?” he asked.
    Martini almost smiled. “I am ready to live and die for the cause,” he said.
    â€œOh, you mustn’t die,” Hartmann said. “That would be no good to anybody.”
    The other controllers were impressed by his find. “How did you do it?” Richard Fischer wanted to know. Otto Krafft and Franz Werth stopped what they were doing and waited for the answer.
    â€œIt’s not easy to explain,” Hartmann said. “All I can tell you is new agents don’t walk in off the street. You’ve got to go out and search.”
    â€œBut where?” Krafft asked.
    â€œYes,” Hartmann said contentedly. “It’s difficult, isn’t it?”
    Fischer