Books Burn Badly - Manuel Rivas [218]
He looked at Ren and the station chief. They were lost in thought. He was doing the job of remembering for them.
‘There’s a historical matter that won’t have escaped your attention, my scientific friend. The Third Reich supported the cause of nationalist Spain. It wasn’t just a few crumbs. A large number of weapons arrived by sea. Came in through these ports. Aeroplanes even, in pieces. Did you know the main radio station, Spanish National Radio, was here, in Coruña, on Mount Santa Margarida? It was a special, highly important present from the Führer to the Caudillo. Later, during the Second World War, as you can imagine, it was time to repay the favour. Some very special services were offered here.’
‘We all know about the wolfram,’ said Santos. ‘And the radio station.’
‘But the station wasn’t just for transmitting radio programmes. The intricate Galician coast was used as a base for the control of sea and air traffic between continents. Also for shelter and repairs, especially to submarines attacking Allied convoys in the Atlantic.’
‘I could imagine.’
‘Not just shelter and repairs. Fundamental things like supplies. Minor things such as entertainment. The men, the officers, had to have a bit of fun . . .’
‘That’s enough of the history lesson, Mancorvo,’ Ren intervened. ‘What else is there?’
‘Well, there came a time,’ said Mancorvo, ‘when every boat, every submarine, seemed to carry an invisible target. They were always being located, however well camouflaged.’
‘Judith.’
‘Yes, intercepted messages talked of Judith. But that’s not all. Where there’s collaboration, there are common business interests. 1942, for example, was a particularly good year . . .’
Ren started growling again.
‘Well, these people also seemed to be located. Other things. There were escapes and arrivals we couldn’t explain. People who slipped through our fingers. Imagine a complete security cordon. There was too much information.’
‘But a single Judith couldn’t be responsible for so much,’ observed Santos. ‘However skilful and active she was, this Chelo couldn’t be everywhere at once. As far as I know, she was at home, painting.’
‘There are nodes. Lots of scattered information converging on a node, like the astral orbits of a celestial sphere. The node has to be somewhere impossible. Judith was a node, the sphere.’
‘You mean she only had to be here? Sit tight and wait.’
‘Something like that.’
‘Thank you, Mancorvo,’ said the station chief. ‘Now we know where we are in history. We’re no longer dealing with ghosts.’
He’d been silent almost all the time. Santos thought he was a subordinate character in the presence of Ren. But now he was invested with authority. His tone was that of someone taking the initiative.
‘We have to find Chelo Vidal,’ he said. ‘Right away.’
He surveyed the others in slow motion, ‘All our heads are on the block.’
He stood up and went over to the window. He was in shirtsleeves and hooked his thumbs behind his braces. These days in the summer of 1963, when Franco delayed his holidays for no apparent reason, everyone looking out of the window seemed to be trying to glimpse the arrival of the Azor, the Head of State’s yacht.
‘This is a delicate situation,’ murmured the station chief, with his back to them. He turned around and the verdict was more pronounced, ‘Extremely delicate. It can’t appear to be a political case. It can’t appear in any shape or form. None of this can come out. Absolutely nothing. No leaks. I talked to the censor’s office about dealing with the media. There’ll be nothing about the incident on the 18th of July. The celebration was, as always, a success, a demonstration of popular support. That’s what the newspapers will say. But the censors can’t muzzle every single mouth.’
‘Rumours are like the flow of a river,’ said Santos. ‘There’s no stopping them.’
Ren growled intriguingly, ‘Yes,