Free Tapestry of Spies by Stephen Hunter Page A

that.”
    “Ach. No matter. He vas bastard, anyhow. Hah!”
    Florry nodded sweetly, seeming to pay attention, and then said, “Come on, now, old fellow. The true reason. Don’t let’s play games.”
    Gruenwald professed indignation and shock at the accusation.
    “Hah. Gruenwald tell truth.
Ja, Ich—”
    “Now, now, don’t get excited. Perhaps you are. On the other hand, I can’t imagine the owners of this wonderful oceangoing paradise would be too pleased to have it inspected terribly closely, would they? Unless my nose deceives me—and I’ve got a very good nose—I think I make out the undertang of tobacco amid the general welter of odors available below decks. Tobacco’s contraband, I believe, in Spain. That, I believe, is the reason for our delay. So that we can sneak in under cover of darkness. Damned interesting.” Florry gave the old man a sly look.
    Gruenwald was gravely offended. “Herr Florry, you must zay nothing of zis! You keep your nose clean.
Ja?
You are at risk if you go about—”
    “Don’t worry, old fellow. I personally don’t care what’s done with the stuff, just so it doesn’t inconvenience me unduly. All right?”
    “Herr Florry, you be careful. Barcelona is very dangerous.”
    “Why, there’s no fighting there anymore.”
    “You listen
gut
, Herr Florry, I like Englisch peoples, even if they kill my brother in 1917. Hah! You be careful. The man who own zis boat, he is very powerful. He would not like young Englisch gentleman go around town talk about tobacco.
Ja!
Bad trouble for someone who do this. There are many ways to die in Barcelona.”
    “Well, that’s a fair warning given, and I shall take it to heart. Thank you, Herr Gruenwald.”
    “Ja
, Gruenwald not zo zmart these days. I vas vunce real zmart. But in here, now, ist—how you say?”—he tappedhis head and leaned close to Florry, his pepperminty breath flooding all over the Englishman—
“luftmensch
. Ah—”
    “Crazy, we would say.”
    “Ja! Ja!
Crazy, I got blown up by the Frenchies in the great war. In here metal
ist
. A big plate. Like as you would
haben die zup
—eat your dinner off.
Ja
, metal in the head,
ja
!”
    “Good heavens,” said Florry.
    “In the war. The war was very bad.”
    “Yes, I know.”
    “How would you know, Herr Florry? You are too young for zuch things.”
    “Yes, I suppose I am,” said Florry.
    The old man took another swig on his flask and then another. His eyes seemed dead.
    “Mr. Florry, where on earth have you
been?”
she asked, as he at last returned.
    “I
am
sorry,” he said.
    She lounged on a chaise in the pale sun. Count Witte, his jacket off and folded, a pair of circular sunglasses perched comically across his face, lay beside her. He was reading a book in Polish.
    Florry quickly explained. “And so we sit,” he concluded. “I suppose if you choose a vessel that asks you no questions, then you must not ask questions of
it.”
    “A good principle, Mr. Florry,” called Count Witte. “It’s as true of political parties as well. And also”—he added with another wink—“of women.”
    “Count Witte, you are such an old charmer,” said Sylvia.
    “Miss Lilliford, you make me wish I were a
young
charmer.”
    “Well,” said Sylvia, “at least it will give me a chanceto get all this read by landfall.” She meant her pile of magazines. “At least then I shall have some understanding of things.”
    “It is exactly when one thinks one understands a revolution,” said the count, “that the revolution changes into something that cannot be understood.”
    “I certainly understand the basic principles,” boasted Florry. “They are threefold. It there’s shooting you duck and if there’s yelling you listen and if there’s singing you pretend you know the words.”
    “Exactly,” said the count. “Mr. Florry, we shall make an international correspondent of you yet.”
    The girl laughed. Florry pretended not to notice, as he’d been pretending not to