"Who is he, Santiago?"
"Just a second. That's better." He turned on the small desk light. "Let's go to the files."
The Spaniard took a set of keys from his pocket, opened a heavy door behind the desk and snapped on the light in a small store room. He stepped in front of a row of steel filing cabinets, opened one with another key. "He used another name in Spain—and in Paris. I know it's the same man. Called himself Marcelino Gassau in 1937. Wait. Here it is."
"It's the maricón!" Hall cried when he saw the picture Santiago drew from the file.
"I knew it."
Hall glanced at his watch. "Just a second. I'm going to call Lobo back. It's time. Let's bring the whole file on the bastard out to the desk."
The man at police headquarters had no news of Lobo. "I'll call you back," Hall said. "Keep trying him."
"So Gassau is your Marina," Santiago laughed. "We knew him well, the cabrón. He was working in Portugal and Berlin as a liaison between Sanjurjo and von Faupel in 1935 and 1936. Then, when the war started, he went to Paris, the coward, spying on the German anti-fascists who were on their way to fight with the Thaelmanns in Spain. He posed as a contact man for the U.G.T., and then he'd lead the Germans straight to the French police and notify the German Embassy. Then the Nazis would start to complain that they were criminals who escaped from German prisons and claim them back. Not one of the poor devils ever got to Spain, but some of them were ultimately turned over to the German Government and killed. It's all in this file."
"What else can I find here?"
"Not too much. He made a trip to Barcelona in 1937. The authorities arrested him, but his friends got the British consulate to make a special plea for his release, and the damned fools gave in and let him go. After that he went to Argentina, but he returned to Madrid in May of 1939."