Free Operation Garbo by Juan Pujol Garcia Page A

not budge.
    But I too can be stubborn. I went to the Spanish embassy and asked to see the ambassador, Nicolás Franco, whose brother, General Francisco Franco, was dictator of Spain. I was dealt with by the ambassador’s secretary, who, if my memory serves me right, was the Marquis of Merry del Val. I asked him if he would make my passport valid for a visit to Britain, as at the moment it could only be used for Portugal, but the interview turned sour. Several times I explained why I wanted to go to Britain and kept insisting on the right of any Spaniard to be provided by his embassy with the necessary documents in the country where he happened to be residing. But he claimed that there was nothing he could do to resolve this matter, only the consulate at the General Police headquarters in Madrid could do so. The more I talked, the more excited I got, until I threatened to destroy my present passport so that they would have to issue me with a new one, which they would then be empowered to extend.
    Angrily, I pointed out that I was a Spaniard away from home, unloved and helpless, standing in my own embassy, which international law had established was territorially a piece of my own country, so why should I have to return to Spain for a visa? As my fury increased, my voice rose higher and higheruntil the ambassador himself appeared to ask what on earth was going on. Immediately, I reeled off all my arguments again. The ambassador assured me that he would try to solve my problem and courteously asked his secretary to take down my particulars; then he suggested that I leave.
    I returned to my hotel a little happier, although my problems were by no means over, but I placed great hopes on the ambassador’s assurances. But days went by and I heard nothing, which was very worrying for it was becoming increasingly urgent that I return to Madrid to renew my contact with my German friend Federico. Just as I was getting desperate, I met someone who influenced me to take an entirely different course of action.
    The owner of the hotel where I was staying was a Galician who’d been living in Lisbon for some time and done very well for himself; he now introduced me to another Galician staying in the hotel, who showed me with great pride what he claimed was his special diplomatic visa. This was a sheet of paper headed Ministry of Foreign Affairs and embossed with the arms of Spain, underneath which was a typewritten text asking that every assistance be extended to Señor Jaime Souza, who wished to travel to Argentina; below the text was the ministry’s rubber stamp and an indecipherable signature. This document was produced by the owner with a great flourish, for he thought himself very important because of it. He told me that he was waiting for a seat on the Pan American hydroplane to South America, but that there was such a demand for places that he did not know for sure when he would be leaving.
    I resolved to become better acquainted with the owner of such a magnificent document and spent many evenings cultivating his friendship, visiting local amusement parks, night clubs and cabarets with him. He was older than I, a paunchy fellow who dressed well and gave the impression of a man of means, for he was always waving away my attempt to pay for tickets and meals. Being a Galician, his command of Portuguese was better than mine and he would translate jokes and reparteesfor my benefit, particularly when we went to some light review where the plot turned on a country yokel’s visit to town. Jaime always had an excellent grasp of the intricacies and subtleties of the story and would make sure that I understood what was being said.
    We spent many warm nights at terrace cinemas where we could sit drinking while we watched the film; other nights we would frequent cafés where
fados
were sung, those sorrowful Portuguese laments full of inconsolable woe which are not unlike Seville’s
saetas
with their poetry, their love and their melancholic