Artillery of Lies by Derek Robinson Page B

worried at it for the rest of the day and half the night. He went to sleep with the question
Where do you get a good spy in Spain?
chasing itself around his brain. His subconscious did its stuff and he awoke with the answer: ask Belasco.
    Mario Belasco was a major in the Spanish secret police. In the past, he and Fischer had done some favors for each other. During Luis Cabrillo’s training, a fellow-trainee, Freddy Ryan, had had to be killed; Fischer got the job of disposing of the body. He tried to get it cremated, didn’t have the right documents, and was glad when Belasco had them faked for him in a hurry—the corpse was beginning to get ripe. In return Fischer passed Belasco a list of anti-government agitators which the
Abwehr
had acquired while looking for something else; Belasco smoothly scooped them up, them and their dynamite too.
    Fischer found Belasco in his office, being shaved by a little old man who had a head like a dried walnut and spidery hands that never stopped shaking. “My dear friend!” Belasco said. His lips moved; his head did not. “Take a seat. Have a coffee. Have a shave.”
    Fischer had to look away from the trembling razor. “I’m not brave enough,” he said. “Aren’t you afraid of losing an ear?”
    â€œTerrified.” Belasco was still and silent while the quavering steel tackled his upper lip. “The consolation is that after this, nothing more frightening can happen to me for the rest of the day.” He held his breath as the razor harvested the last few patches of lather. The old man gave him a towel. “Thank you, God,” he said, looking at the ceiling. “I’ll do something for You one day. Now what can I do for you, Richard?”
    Fischer described his needs.
    â€œEasy,” Belasco said. He finished drying his ears and neck and tossed the towel to the old man. He unlocked a desk drawer and took out a folder. “How about a couple of Egyptians? They’re freelancing around the city and I know their rates are very reasonable.”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œFluent English.”
    â€œI can’t send Egyptians to England, Mario.”
    â€œNo, I suppose not. What about a Czech?”
    â€œIf you mean the fat drunk with the glass eye, we sacked him last year. Dreadful man. Never washes.”
    â€œTrue,” Belasco said. “Let’s see …” He worked down his list. “He’s dead … He’s working for the Americans … They’re in prison … She’s got no English … He’s got no brains … He’s in prison … He’s got the pox … Ah, here’s someone: a Dutchman. Fair English, lots of brains, no pox and quite handsome.” He held up a photograph.
    Fischer looked at it. “Don’t I know that face?” he said.
    â€œHe had a career in films until the war came along.”
    â€œIf I recognized him, so will half of England.”
    â€œCould be useful. Nobody suspects someone famous. And he could grow a mustache.”
    â€œHe can grow asparagus, I’m still not risking him.”
    â€œMmm.” Belasco turned a page. “It’s not so easy, after all. Your best prospects are all in jail.”
    The little old man said, in a voice full of dry rot, “Then get one out.” He finished packing up his shaving gear and left.
    â€œI suppose we could always get one out,” Belasco said.
    â€œWhat are they in for?” Fischer asked.
    â€œFraud. Nearly always fraud and deception.”
    â€œYes. It would be, wouldn’t it?”
    They went through Belasco’s list and picked out a thirty-four-year-old Hungarian called Ferenc Tekeli. He had sold military secrets to Russia, France and Spain. Now he was serving five years for fraud and ten years for impersonating a policeman. Fischer visited him in a Madrid prison that afternoon. It took less than five minutes to do a deal. Fischer thought he had