Doctor Who_ History 101 - Mags L. Halliday [74]
In the foyer, a wild cross section were hanging about. Some stood and talked, others sat with papers in front of them. A man she recognised as an English journalist was talking loudly and slowly into one of the phones by the desk, clearly dictating his copy back to London. She avoided him: they’d met in a bar a few weeks ago where he had made numerous ‘dusky maiden’ remarks at the Doctor, talked to her very slowly in pidgin English and then looked surprised when she told him where to go in a perfect cut-glass accent.
A huge giant whose appearance practically screamed ‘Russian spy’ was making his way around the room, pausing with each group to drop a few words. Anji remembered that Joaquín had told her that the man worked for a Soviet organisation and then introduced them back in March. She sat on a free sofa, making it apparent that she was killing time, and flicked through a copy of Solidaridad Obrera someone had left behind. The fighting on the front was, of course, going well. The Communists in the Generalidad were in league with each other and plotting to oust Companys. The May Day celebrations had been cancelled to prevent tension. Same old, same old.
‘Hola, señorita.’
The sofa creaked as the Soviet bear sat next to her. She turned and gave a polite smile. ‘Hola, comrade.’
‘Ah, Anglesa. I think we have met before, I’m sure I remember. You know Roberts?’ He gestured to the man on the phone.
‘Know him? I threw a drink over him three weeks ago.’
‘A shame.’
Anji shrugged. ‘It wasn’t very good wine.’
Nikolai laughed, attracting the odd look from the people closest to them. He indicated the paper. ‘You are anarchist?’
Anji shrugged. ‘I like to see all sides of an argument.’
‘Shall I tell you what is really going on?’
Anji cocked an eyebrow at him. Clearly spin-doctoring was not yet refined and this was the subtle version of the obvious rants published in the press. She had known the Hotel Continental had always had something of a Westminster tearoom air, with preferred versions circulated as if personal insights, but the whispering campaigns had intensified since her last visit. She leaned in. ‘Can I ask you something first?’
‘Of course, comrade.’
She’d known it. Nikolai was the incorrigible gossip type, puffed up on imparting privileged information, as well as from meals the poor could only dream of. Close up, Anji was still surprised at the lack of difference between career communists and career capitalists.
‘Eric Blair. Ever seen him?’
‘Ah, our mysterious Blair. His wife has made quite an impression.’
‘That wasn’t my question,’ she smiled at him.
‘Well, obviously, I would prefer it if you didn’t mention it to anyone else, but did you know that she and McNair...’ he left it hanging. ‘All hours, he shows up.’
‘Really?’
‘Oh yes. No wonder Blair left.’
‘He left? A few months back?’
Nikolai leaned in, touched one pudgy hand to her arm. ‘Yesterday, m’dear. A friend of a friend saw him up in Plaça de Catalunya, heading off to the Exchange. Thinks he came back and found his wife “busy” shall we say?’
‘Really? Yesterday? By the ’phone Exchange?’ Anji managed to slide her arm out from under the Russian’s paw without making it too obvious.
‘So he tells me. Probably going to get her phone tapped. They’re all at it up there. Why, last week one of those anarchists running it interrupted a phone call between Azaña and Companys. Suggested that the phones were needed for more important things than two presidents discussing the war against fascism. Can you believe it?’
‘No.’ Anji looked suitably appalled. The paw was back on her arm. She half-listened as the man carried on with his spin, making