Winter's Bullet by William Osborne

holster.
    â€˜Please, Commander, don’t be alarmed,’ said Krüger, ‘they are here to protect us. It has all been arranged. It is not often an American bomber lands on neutral territory.’
    The soldiers fanned out around the plane, taking up picket duty. From the Hispano emerged a small, very distinguished-looking man dressed in the robes of a Catholic priest. He had a large silver cross on a chain around his neck and he was wearing a biretta, a stiff, square-shaped silk hat with trim and tuft. It was purple,the colour for a bishop – Tygo knew that. He walked with a silver-topped cane.
    â€˜Welcome to Barcelona,’ he said in German. His skin was the colour of caramel, his voice like butter. ‘The señorita is expecting you.’

CHAPTER 12
    I t was going to be a long night of firsts for Tygo. First time on a plane, and now first time inside such a ludicrously luxurious motor car. The interior was lined with the softest calf leather, the doors fitted with rose-wood panels, and dark-blue Wilton carpet lay on the floor. There was a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket and two crystal goblets. A polished silver voice trumpet connected the passengers in the rear seat to the driver up front.
    The chauffeur started the engine and they pulled away. The car was whisper-quiet and super-fast. They whistled out of the airport and along the deserted streets of the city. The metal box sat between the two men on the rearseats, Tygo facing them on a fold-down seat behind the driver’s partition.
    The two men talked occasionally in mutters, with a lot of nodding on Krüger’s part, and Tygo was content to stare out at the houses, so different from those of his home town. How wonderful it was to be in a city at peace. No death, no destruction, just like it used to be back home, he thought.
    He didn’t even notice how long it was before the car pulled to a halt outside a grand-looking French-style building of ten or more storeys. The bishop picked up the speech trumpet and spoke to the driver, and the car moved off again, turning the corner and making a series of further turns until it pulled into the alley behind the hotel.
    â€˜A little more discreet, don’t you think?’ the bishop said to Krüger. ‘We don’t want any prying eyes to report your arrival, do we?’
    â€˜British?’
    â€˜British, American, French, Russian, they’re all here. The place is crawling with spies.’
    The chauffeur opened the door and they climbed out.
    Tygo had been in quite a few fancy hotel rooms in his time. His father was sometimes called out – before the war, of course – when a rich guest lost the key to their strongbox or couldn’t remember the combination to their safe. But Tygo had never seen such a hotel room as the one they were ushered into now by the chauffeur. It wasn’t a room at all, but a series of rooms: lounges filled with exquisite furnishings, huge crystal chandeliers and thick, rich carpet. It was like being inside a royal palace.
    The bishop had left them both standing in the firstroom and disappeared through one of the interconnecting doors. Tygo was still looking round in amazement when another door on the opposite side opened and a woman in a dazzling gown appeared.
    She looked around forty and held a cigarette in a long ebony holder. Her blonde hair was tied back, and for some reason she was wearing dark glasses, even though it was the middle of the night. Tygo noticed the four strands of diamonds she was wearing round her neck. Perhaps that was the reason she was wearing the dark glasses, to shield her from the dazzle when the stones hit the light. Tygo felt drawn to her presence; she exuded some sort of power, like a film star. Yes, that was what she was like.
    Krüger clicked his heels and bowed formally. The woman offered him her hand, and he leant down and kissed the top of it.
    â€˜A great honour,’ he said in Spanish.