Page 18 of The Number of Love
Thoroton waved that off, his mustache twitching in amusement. “I’ve been meaning to ask you—more as a curiosity, not because I doubt you’ve seen to it. How do you keep your grandfather from writing to her of your presence here?”
Drake hid a snort behind his glass. “Oh, that hardly requires any planning. Abuelo’s letters are solely responses toourletters to him, which he expects every fortnight. They offer advice and reply to whatever we share, but he never volunteers anything at all from what is going on inhislife.”
Lazily trailing a finger through the condensation on his glass, Thoroton lifted a brow. “And if he slips?”
“Then Dot would think I’d merely popped in for a visit on a leave.” Coming here was the only way he’d ever see Abuelo. There was never any question of where Dot came by her homebody tendencies—their grandfather never left the house but to go to Mass once a week. Dot had only once met the man she was so like. “Speaking of peculiar people ... any luck on my opposite number?”
He kept his voice even and light as he asked. Speaking Englishas they were, it was unlikely that any of the other patrons at the nearby tables would pay any attention, especially if there were no changes in their tones. A trick Thoroton had first taught him.
Obviously he followed suit. “Mm-hmm. I’ve a few photographs for you to look over. My best guesses.” He drew a book out of his satchel next. Poems by Robert Browning. “Here you are.”
“Many thanks.” As if just so eager to read it, he flipped the cover and a few of the pages until he found the snapshots nestled within. The first bloke he’d never seen before, so he turned another page to where another photo was lodged, and then another before he lifted his brows. “There we are. ‘The Pied Piper of Hamelin.’”
Thoroton grunted. “Not my favorite option. Mind yourself.”
Drake flipped the photo over and found a name inked onto the back.Maxim Jaeger. He committed it to memory and closed the book, handing it back to Thoroton. “I do. Haven’t had any exchanges lately.” Not since the warehouse, and he was grateful for it.
Well, there’d been an incident on a Sunday when he’d spotted the bloke, but he’d done the spotting first and managed to hide himself before the agent—Jaeger, apparently—could spothim.
“Any new poetry you’d recommend, old chap?” Thoroton asked casually.
“As a matter of fact, I’ve made you a list.” After an unhurried swig of lemonade, Drake reached into the pocket opposite the one he’d put Dot’s letters in and pulled out a little slip of paper with what he’d discovered in the weeks since he’d found the warehouse with the wolfram. Though not encoded per se, it was written in a shorthand that no one else would likely understand. Thoroton tucked it into the Browning and slid it back into his satchel. No doubt he’d read it as soon as he had some privacy, then burn it.
But the necessary information would make its way to Hall. He’d know about the money that had changed hands between the Germans and a few Spaniards who were more interested in silver than in politics. He’d know about the creaky old ship, theErri Barro, that was due into the harbor soon and had been commissioned to carry the wolfram back out of port with it.
Of course, that meant he’d also know how long it was likely to be before anything came of it. Before they could use the decrepit ship, they first had to repair it.
Thoroton leaned out of the way with a smile when the waiter reappeared with two plates heaping with spiced sausage and rice. “I’ve been on the hunt for a collection of Victor Hugo’s poetry in the original French. Do you think that little shop you frequent may have one?”
Which was to say, there was new information waiting for Drake in one of their usual drop locations—a used and foreign bookshop whose proprietor was sympathetic to the Allies. They never liked to risk handing over too much information at one time. If anyone were to waylay one or the other of them, that would mean too much could be compromised.
Drake thanked the waiter and picked up his fork, nodding as if in thought. “It’s quite possible. I’ll run in and check for you before they close this evening, shall I? Are you staying in Bilbao tonight?”
“I’m afraid not. I’ll be catching the evening train to San Sebastián.” Thoroton scooped up a bite of his food and tasted it, grinning in appreciation. “Ah, perfect. An excellent recommendation.”
While they ate, they talked in a mixture of Spanish and English about the war and mutual acquaintances, like every other patron here. Nothing that wasn’t already in the newspapers, nothing Drake had to take particular note of.
There was no lingering after they’d finished their meal. In different circumstances, Drake would have considered Charles the Bold a friend—but when they met, it was for a specific purpose. Now that said purpose had been fulfilled, Thoroton dashed off to catch his train, and Drake ambled along to the bookshop.
The bell jangled over the door when he entered, and the smell of paper and ink and must greeted him, along with a grunt of acknowledgment from the proprietor, who didn’t even look up from the copy ofLa Chartreuse de Parmein his hands. He just held up a finger that said,Let me finish my paragraph,without any need for words.
“No hurry, Mateo.” Drake smiled and turned into an aisle of bookcases. He would leave with more than just the Hugo that would behidden behind a dusty tome written in Icelandic—not exactly a book in high demand, which made it a perfect cover. First he’d find a few books in similar taste.
He turned first to the English section, as he always did. An eclectic selection filled one bookcase, never failing to make him smile. Old Mateo shelved a battered copy ofThe Adventures of Huckleberry Finnnext toWealth of Nations, withMiddlemarchflanking the economic treatise on the other side. Rhyme or reason there was not, not in the foreign sections of the shop. But that was half the fun of browsing these shelves.
After a few minutes, he pulled out a dog-eared copy of Conrad’sHeart of Darkness. One of these days, he fancied a trip to Africa, and he’d heard quite a bit about Conrad’s literary journey up the Congo, inspired by his own travels. Might as well see what portrait he painted of the continent.
He moved next to the French section, which was twice the size of the English. Best to find some poetry, so that the volume of Hugo would have a friend. He looked through shelf after shelf, dismissing the few anthologies he found at first because he already had them. After ten minutes, he spottedLes Heures Clairesby Émile Verhaeren. He didn’t much care for the man’s work during his dark period, but this one, he believed, had been written directly after his marriage and reflected his newfound joy. Drake slid it out and added it to his growing stack.
Next stop, that one little corner of Icelandic. He didn’t look over his shoulder, didn’t do anything other than what he’d been doing all along—sliding out books, looking into them, sliding them back in. Except this time, he slid out one, and then the other, hidden behind it, and replaced only the first.
Hugo he put between Verhaeren and Conrad.
One more. Or maybe two. He moved into the largest partition of the shop, where used books in Spanish took up most of the space. A beautifully bound edition ofDon Quixotefound a place in his stack, even though he knew his grandfather would roll his eyes at him for it—he already had four different editions of what had been hisfavorite book as a lad, and a duplicate of his favorite. After another twenty minutes of browsing and debate, he selected a slightly worn copy ofLas ilusiones del doctor Faustinoas well. It wasn’t his usual fare, but it was considered a monumental work in Spanish literature, so he really ought to read it at some point.
Mateo hadn’t stirred from his stool behind his ancient cash register, but when Drake set his stack of books down with a louder-than-necessarythunk, the old man looked up and grinned. “Ah, Dragón. Find everything?”
“Sí, gracias.” He fished out his wallet while Mateo rung up the sale.
