Winter in Madrid

Chapter Thirty-Five

THE SNOW HAD LAIN THICK in the Tierra Muerta for nearly a month. It had come early and stayed; the guards said people in Cuenca were calling it the hardest winter for years. Clear icy days alternated with heavy snow, the wind always from the north-east. Sometimes at night the little deer from the hills, smelling food, came and stood at a little distance from the camp. If they came too close the guards in the watchtowers shot them and there was venison in their mess.

Now, early in December, there was a well-worn path through the drifts between the camp and the quarry. Each morning the work detail shuffled into the hills where the endless white vista was broken only by the thin bare branches of the mountain oaks.

Bernie was lonely. He missed Vicente and none of the Communists would speak to him now. In the evenings he lay on his pallet in silence. Even at Rookwood there had always been someone to talk to. He thought of Harry Brett; Vicente had reminded him of Harry sometimes, good-natured and principled, if hopelessly middle-class.

The prisoners were finding the hard weather difficult. Everyone had colds or coughs; already there had been deaths, more processions to the unmarked graveyard. Bernie found his old arm wound troubling him; by mid-afternoon wielding his pick in the quarry was agonizingly painful. His leg injury from the Jarama, which had healed quickly and never really troubled him again, had started to ache too.

He hadn’t managed to move huts as Establo had ordered. He had made a request weeks ago, but nothing had happened. Then one evening when he returned from the quarry, he was told Aranda wanted to see him.

Bernie stood before the comandante in his warm hut. Aranda sat in his leather chair, his riding crop propped against the side. To Bernie’s surprise he smiled and invited him to sit. He picked up a folder and glanced through it.

‘I have Dr Lorenzo’s report,’ he said jovially. ‘He says you are an antisocial psychopath. For him, all educated leftists suffer from a form of inborn antisocial madness.’

‘Yes, comandante?’

‘Myself, I think it is bullshit. In the war your side fought for your interests and we fought for ours. We hold Spain now by right of conquest.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘What do you say, eh?’

‘I agree with you, comandante.’

‘Good. We are de acuerdo.’ Aranda took a cigarette from a silver box and lit it. ‘Would you like one of these?’ Bernie hesitated. Aranda waved the box at him. ‘Go on, take one. I order you.’

Bernie lifted out a cigarette and Aranda held up a gold lighter. The comandante leaned back in his chair, the leather squeaking.

‘Now, what is this about your wishing a change of hut?’

‘Since my friend died last month I have found it hard to be there.’

‘Also I hear you have fallen out with your Communist friends. With Establo Cabo specifically. He is a strong man, I admire him in a way.’ He smiled. ‘Do not look so surprised, Piper. I have my ears among the prisoners.’

Bernie was silent. He knew there were informers in most huts. In his own they had been suspicious of a little Basque, a Catholic who attended the services. He had died from pneumonia two weeks before.

‘It is not easy to be a prisoner and unpopular with the men as well. Your Communist friends have abandoned you, why not have some revenge?’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘You could have as many cigarettes as you wanted, and other privileges. I could take you off the quarry detail. It must be cold up there, I feel frozen even going out in the yard these mornings. If you were to become one of my friends among the prisoners I would not ask for much, just some information now and again. Whether anyone is breaking any rules, that sort of thing. Having friends in the enemy camp makes life much easier.’

Bernie bit his lip. He guessed if he refused there would be trouble. He replied quietly, making his voice as respectful as possible.

‘It would not work, comandante. Establo already believes I am disloyal. He watches me.’

Aranda considered. ‘Yes, I can see that, but perhaps your trouble with the Communists would be a good excuse for you to seek other friends. You could find out things that way.’

Bernie hesitated. ‘Comandante, you spoke of the battle between our two sides earlier—’

‘You are going to tell me you cannot change your loyalties,’ Aranda said. He was still smiling but his eyes narrowed.

Bernie was silent.

‘I thought you might say that, Piper. You ideologues, you do make trouble for yourselves.’ He shook his head. ‘All right, you can go, I am busy now.’

Bernie got up. He was surprised to get off so lightly. But sometimes Aranda waited and got you later. His cigarette had burned down and he leaned across to stub it out in the ashtray. He half expected the comandante to lift his riding crop and slash it across his face, but he didn’t move. He smiled cynically, enjoying Bernie’s fear, then raised his arm in the Fascist salute. ‘¡Arriba Espanã!’

‘¡Grieve Espanã!’ Bernie left the hut and closed the door. His legs were shaking.

ESTABLO WAS ILL. His scabies was worse than ever and now he had developed a stomach illness; he had diarrhoea most days. He was wasting away, he was skin and bone now and had to walk with a stick, yet the weaker his body grew the more brutally authoritarian he became.

Pablo had taken Vicente’s bunk but was under orders to ignore Bernie. He turned his head away as Bernie came in from seeing Aranda and flopped down on his pallet. Establo had been talking with the other Communists at the bottom of the hut but now he approached Bernie out of the candlelit gloom, his stick tapping on the wooden floor. He stood at the foot of the bed.

‘What did Aranda want with you? His voice was a throaty wheeze. Bernie looked up at the yellow scabbed face.

‘It was about my request to move huts. He said no.’

Establo looked at him suspiciously. ‘He treats you very lightly. As he does all informers.’ He spoke loudly and some of the other men turned to stare at them.

Bernie raised his voice. ‘He asked me to inform, Establo. He said he would move me if I did. Did you guess he might do that, now you’ve got me isolated? I told him a Communist does not inform.’

‘You are no Communist,’ Establo wheezed. ‘Be careful, Piper, we are watching you.’ He limped off to his bed.

NEXT DAY Bernie was working with a group clearing the area where the cave had stood. A huge charge of dynamite had been detonated inside, completely demolishing it and leaving a gigantic pile of rubble. The group was ordered to sort them into chunks of different sizes, breaking up those that were too big to handle. A lorry would be coming that evening to take them away: to Franco’s monument, it was still rumoured.

Pablo was working next to Bernie. Suddenly he put his pick aside and picked something up. ‘Ay, look here!’ he exclaimed.

Bernie turned, wondering what could have made Pablo break the prohibition on speaking to him. Glancing at the nearest guard to make sure he was unobserved, he bent to where Pablo held a flat piece of stone in his chapped hands. Its surface was dark red; the head of a black mammoth was painted on it, confronted by two of the stick-like men who held spears poised to strike.

‘See,’ Pablo whispered. ‘Something has survived.’

Bernie ran his finger lightly over the surface. It felt just like ordinary stone, the paint baked hard thousands of years before. ‘It’s beautiful,’ he whispered.

Pablo nodded. He slipped the stone into the pocket of the old oilskin poncho he wore. ‘I shall keep it hidden. One day I will show people what they destroyed here.’

‘Be careful,’ Bernie whispered. ‘They’ll be angry if they find out.’ Prison life, Bernie knew, was made more bearable by tiny victories against their captors, but such victories could be costly.

AT LEAST in winter the days at the quarry were short. The whistle blew at half past four, as dusk began to fall. It had been another clear cold day. A big red sun that gave no heat was sinking to the horizon, casting a pink glow over the distant mountains. The pile of rubble was almost gone, leaving a jagged gap in the hillside. As the lorry sent to fetch the load of stone lurched away down a mountain road, the men handed in their tools and began the weary trudge back to camp.

You couldn’t see Cuenca today; there was too much haze. They had been able to see it most mornings recently. Bernie wondered if the guards stopped the column to rest there deliberately, to torment the men with a glimpse of freedom. Sometimes he thought about the hanging houses. What must it be like to live in one of them, have a view across the gorge from your window? Did it give you a sense of vertigo? With so few people to talk to his mind seemed to turn more and more to fantasy these days. Even the non-Communists were avoiding him; Bernie guessed Establo had told them he was an informer.

In the yard the men stepped wearily into line for roll-call. The sun was almost touching the horizon, casting a red glow over the yard, the huts and watchtowers. Aranda stepped on to the dais and began calling names.

Halfway through Bernie heard a sudden ‘chink’ from the row in front of him, as something hit the ground. He saw Pablo clap a hand to his trousers and look down. The piece of stone had worked through the frayed old material and lay on the earth. One of the guards walked swiftly over to him. Aranda, on his dais, looked up sharply.

‘What’s happening there?’

The guard bent and picked up the stone. He looked at it, stared at Pablo, then marched up to the dais. He and Aranda bent their heads over the stone. Pablo watched them, his face white.

At a nod from Aranda the guard jumped down. He and another guard pulled Pablo out of line, jerking his arms behind his back. Aranda held up the stone.

‘We have a souvenir collector amongst us!’ he shouted. ‘This man has found a fragment from those blasphemous paintings at the quarry and brought it back. Has anyone else brought any nice little paintings for their hut?’ He looked out across the silent rows of prisoners. ‘No?’ Well, you will all be searched tonight, as will the huts.’ He shook his head sorrowfully. ‘Why will you not learn to do as we tell you? I shall have to make an example of this man. Put him in solitary confinement for tonight. You’ll all see him again tomorrow.’

The guards frogmarched Pablo away. ‘That means the cross,’ someone muttered.

Aranda went back to the roll, calling out the names in his clear harsh voice.

THAT EVENING in the hut, after the search, Establo came up to Bernie’s bed. He was flanked by four of the other Communists. He sat on Pablo’s empty pallet. Establo crossed his hands on the top of his cane. You could see the tendons working over the bones beneath the dry skin.

‘I’m told you were talking to Pablo at the quarry today. Did you tell the guards he had that piece of stone? ¿Eh, hombre?’

Bernie sat up, looked Establo in the eye. ‘You know I didn’t, Establo. Everyone saw what happened – it fell out of his pocket.’

‘What were you saying to him? He is forbidden to talk to you.’

‘He showed me the piece of stone he’d found. I told him to be careful. Ask him yourself.’

‘I think you informed on him.’

‘It fell from his pocket,’ Miguel the old tramworker said. ‘Come, compadre, we all saw.’

Establo gave Miguel an evil look. Bernie laughed. ‘See, people are coming to see you for what you are, hijo de puta. A man who would make capital out of what is to be done to Pablo.’

‘Leave him, Establo,’ Miguel said. The old man turned and walked away. Hesitantly, the other three followed. Bernie smiled at Establo.

‘As your body withers, Establo, your heart shows through.’

Establo rose painfully to his feet, clutching his stick. ‘I will finish you, cabrón,’ he whispered.

‘If you don’t die first,’ Bernie called after him as he limped away.

NEXT MORNING after roll-call the prisoners were ordered to remain standing in their rows. Bernie noticed Agustín was back on duty. He looked cold standing there – this would be a change after Sevilla. The man met his eyes for a moment and looked away; he seemed to be studying him. Bernie wondered again if he was after his arse, if that was why he had helped him, that morning on the hill. ‘Better times,’ Agustín had said. Bernie almost laughed aloud.

Two guards brought Pablo from the solitary hut and manhandled him over to the cross that stood beside the mess hut. Bernie saw Agustín sigh, as though with weariness. They stood Pablo beside the thing, their breath making a fog in the air. Aranda marched towards them, tapping his riding crop against his thigh. Father Jaime and Father Eduardo were with him, huddled inside their heavy black cloaks. They had stood with Aranda on the dais during roll-call: Father Jaime cold and grim, Father Eduardo with bowed head. They stopped in front of Pablo. Aranda turned and addressed the prisoners.

‘Your comrade Pablo Jimenez is to have a day on the cross as punishment for his piece of smuggling. First, though, you should see this.’ The comandante took the piece of painted stone from his pocket and laid it on the ground. Father Jaime stepped forward. He took a little hammer from his pocket, bent down and smashed it on the piece of stone. It shattered, chips flying in all directions. Father Jaime nodded to Father Eduardo and he picked up the pieces. Father Jaime pocketed the hammer and looked over the men, satisfaction on his grim face.

‘This is how the Church Militant has dealt with paganism since its earliest days,’ he called out. ‘With hammer blows! Remember that – if anything can penetrate your thick irreligious skulls.’ He marched off, Father Eduardo following with the pieces of stone cupped in his hands.

The guards took Pablo’s arms and tied them to the crosspiece with ropes. They tied him so only the tips of his feet touched the ground, then stepped back. Pablo sagged for a second then lifted himself up by his toes. The torture of the cross depended on a man’s inability to breathe with his arms stretched out above him unless he could lift himself up. After a few hours in that position every movement was an agony, but it was the only way to breathe: pulling agonizingly up and down, up and down.

Aranda studied Pablo’s position and nodded with satisfaction. He smiled grimly at the prisoners, then called ‘Dismiss’ and marched back to his hut. The guards ordered the men into their labour gangs. Agustín was on Bernie’s detail. As they marched through the gate he stepped close.

‘I want to talk to you,’ he whispered. ‘It is important. Leave your hut tonight after supper, as though you were going to piss. I will be waiting at the back.’

‘What do you want?’ Bernie whispered fiercely. From the anxious expression on his face it didn’t look like the man wanted to fuck him.

‘Later. I have something to tell you.’ Agustín stepped away.

IN THE LATE afternoon it began to snow heavily and the guards ordered the men to stop work early. On the walk back Agustín stayed at the other end of the crocodile, avoiding Bernie’s eye. Back at the camp Pablo was still tied to the cross, snow whirling round his head. ‘Mierda,’ the man next to Bernie muttered. ‘He’s still there.’ Pablo was pale and still and for a moment Bernie thought he was dead but then he lifted himself up, his toes pressing into the ground. He took a deep breath and expelled it with a long rattling moan. The guards locked the gates and walked away, leaving the prisoners to make their way to their huts. Bernie and some of the others went over to Pablo.

‘Water,’ he croaked. ‘Water, please.’

The men bent and started gathering handfuls of snow, holding it up to him to drink. It was a slow process. Then the door of Aranda’s hut opened, yellow light stabbing through the thick snowflakes. The men tensed, expecting the comandante to come and order them away, but it was Father Eduardo who emerged. He saw the crowd round the cross, hesitated a moment, then walked towards them. The prisoners stood aside to let him pass. ‘I thought it was the Romans who crucified innocents,’ someone said loudly. Father Eduardo paused for a second, then moved on and lifted his head to Pablo.

‘I have spoken to the comandante,’ he said. ‘You will be taken down soon.’ Pablo’s only answer was another rattling breath as he heaved himself agonizingly up once more. The priest bit his lip and turned away.

Bernie stepped into his path. Father Eduardo looked at him, blinking, his glasses covered with a film of melting snow.

‘Is this what you mean, cura, by Christians sharing Christ’s sufferings on the Cross?’

Father Eduardo turned and walked slowly away, head bowed. As he struggled through the snow that swirled round him, someone called out, ‘¡Hijo de puta!’

A slap on the back made Bernie jump. He turned to see Miguel.

‘Well done, Bernardo,’ he said. ‘I think you shamed the bastard.’ But as he watched Father Eduardo’s retreating back, Bernie felt shame too. He would never have dared to insult Father Jaime like that, none of them would. He had picked on their weakest representative, the one he could hurt most easily, and where was the courage in that?

BERNIE LEFT the hut after supper, saying he needed to piss and his bucket was full. They were allowed to do that until lights out. Agustín made him uneasy but he needed to know what he wanted. He left Pablo lying on the next pallet, covered in a thick pile of blankets donated by the other men, for he was frozen, his shoulders an agony. Bernie had laid his blanket on the pile. Pablo’s face was white. Miguel whispered to Bernie, ‘He is young and strong, with luck he will come through.’ Evidently he had chosen to ignore Establo’s orders to snub him; perhaps others would follow.

Outside the snow had stopped. Bernie went round to the back of the hut, where the moonlight cast a long shadow. Within the shadow Bernie saw the red glow of a cigarette butt. He walked up to Agustín. The guard trampled his cigarette underfoot.

‘What the hell do you want?’ Bernie asked bluntly. ‘You’ve been giving me shifty looks for ages.’

Agustín stared back at him. ‘I have a brother in Madrid, who was a guard, do you remember? A tall thin man like me, Luis?’

Bernie frowned. ‘He left months ago, didn’t he? What’s he got to do with me?’

‘He went to Madrid to seek work; there is none in Sevilla. There he met an English journalist who knows a friend of yours.’ Agustín hesitated, looking at Bernie, then went on. ‘They have been planning an escape for you.’

‘What?’ Bernie stared at him. ‘Who is this friend?’

‘An Englishwoman. Senõra Forsyth.’

Bernie shook his head. ‘Who? I don’t know a Senõra Forsyth. I knew a boy at school called Forsyth, but he wasn’t a friend.’

Agustín raised his hand. ‘Quietly, senõr, for the love of God. This woman has married the man from your school. You knew her in Madrid during the war. Her name then was Barbara Clare.’

Bernie’s mouth fell open. ‘Barbara’s still in Spain? She’s married Sandy Forsyth?’

‘Sí. He is a businessman in Madrid. He knows nothing, she has kept it from him. She is paying us. Senõr, my own term is nearly up, I do not want to have to sign up again. I hate this place. The cold and the isolation.’

‘Christ.’ Bernie stared at Agustín. ‘How long have you been planning this?’

‘For many weeks. It has not been easy. Senõr, I have been watching you since I returned. You should take care, you have been making enemies. Winter is not a good time in the camp, everyone is cold and stuck indoors and their minds turn to mischief.’

Bernie ran his hand over his scrappy beard. ‘Barbara. Oh God, Barbara.’ He felt suddenly faint, he leaned against the wall of the hut. ‘Barbara.’ He spoke the name softly. His eyes were wet with tears. Then he took a deep breath and stepped close to Agustín, who flinched slightly away. ‘Is this true? Is this really true?’

‘It is.’

‘She married Forsyth?’ He laughed unbelievingly. ‘Does he know about this?’

‘No, only her.’

He took a deep breath. ‘How is it to be done? What’s the plan?’

Agustín leaned closer. ‘I will tell you.’

Chapter Thirty-Six

SINCE EARLY DECEMBER it had been bitterly cold in Madrid, and on the sixth Harry woke to find the city covered in a thick mantle of snow. It was strange seeing snow here. It buried some of the ugliness and the scars of war but as he walked to the embassy, watching the pinched red faces of the passers-by, he wondered how the half-starved populace would cope if this went on.

The snowfall had been so heavy the trams weren’t running; Harry walked through a strangely quiet city, every sound muffled, under a slate-grey sky that promised more snow. Crossing the Castellana he saw a gasogene stuck in the middle of the road, belching out clouds of thick smoke as the driver tried frantically to get it going. An old man walked slowly past, leading a donkey laden with cans of olive oil. The old man’s cracked ancient boots were soaking.

‘Hace mal tiempo,’ Harry said.

‘Sí, muy mal.’

He was due to see Hillgarth at ten; he hadn’t been looking forward to the meeting and now he was going to be late. During the fortnight since the dinner party had been interrupted by Sofia’s call, Harry had continued with his ‘watching brief’ on Sandy, met him twice in the cafe and been round to the house again for dinner, but he had learned nothing more. Sandy hadn’t mentioned the gold mine again and when Harry asked him how things were going there he said ‘difficult’ and changed the subject. He seemed preoccupied, keeping up his customary bonhomie only with an effort. At their most recent meeting in the cafe he had asked Harry how things were in England, how big the black market was and what sort of money the spivs were making. Harry had asked him if he was thinking of coming home after all, but he only shrugged. Harry wished it were all over, he was sick of the deception and lies. The thought that Gomez had probably been murdered was never far from his thoughts.

Barbara still seemed troubled too, and distant with him. But as she showed him out after his visit earlier that week she had asked how Sofia was. Sofia had said she would like to see Barbara again and Harry had suggested that the three of them meet for lunch. Barbara had seemed to hesitate, but then agreed.

THE SPIES had not been pleased to learn about Sofia. Tolhurst had quizzed him about her telephone call to the embassy; Harry guessed any calls concerning him were reported to Tolhurst automatically.

‘You should have told us if you’ve found a Spanish floozy,’ he said. ‘How did you meet?’

Harry told him the tale of rescuing her brother from the dogs, missing out who Enrique was.

‘She could be a spy,’ Tolhurst said. ‘You can’t be too careful with women here. You said you weren’t being followed any more. Still, if you met by chance—’

‘Completely by chance. And Sofia hates the regime.’

‘Yes, Carabanchel was a Red district. But they’re no friends of ours down there. Be careful, Harry, that’s all I’m saying.’

‘I’ve told her I’m a translator. She doesn’t ask about my work.’

‘Is she pretty? Got her between the sheets yet?’

‘Oh bloody hell, Tolly, she’s not one of your tarts,’ Harry said with sudden exasperation.

A hurt offended look came over Tolhurst’s face. He brushed a lick of hair back from his face and adjusted his Eton tie. ‘Steady on, old man.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘Don’t get too involved.’

THE SNOW had been cleared from the front of the embassy. There was no wind and the Union Jack hung lifeless from its pole. Harry passed the two civiles outside, huddled in their capes. The meeting was in Tolhurst’s office again. Hillgarth was already there, in naval uniform today, sitting behind the desk smoking Players. Tolhurst stood studying papers. From the wall, the King’s thin sombre face looked down from his portrait.

‘Morning, Harry,’ Tolhurst said.

‘Morning. Sorry I’m late, the trams aren’t running with this snow.’

‘OK.’ Hillgarth said. ‘I want to review the position with Forsyth. I’ve been looking at the reports of your recent meetings. He’s not saying any more about the gold mine, but you say he seems worried.’

‘Yes, sir, he does.’

Hillgarth drummed his fingers on the desk. ‘We can’t get any information out of Maestre on the mine. We know he’s on that oversight committee now, but he won’t say anything. No matter what we offer him.’ Hillgarth raised his eyebrows at Harry. ‘There’s still no sign of his man Gomez. For which he blames us. Particularly you, Harry.’ Hillgarth lit a fresh cigarette, exhaling in a rush of breath. ‘You’d better steer clear of him from now on.’

‘I saw him in the Rastro a couple of weeks ago. He wasn’t very friendly.’

‘I imagine not.’ Hillgarth thought a moment. ‘Tell me, d’you think Forsyth is someone who could get actively involved in foul play?’

‘I think he could,’ Harry said slowly. ‘If he felt his interests were threatened.’

Hillgarth nodded. ‘We need to know about that mine, what gold resources the regime’s banking on. The only avenue we’ve got left now is Forsyth.’ Hillgarth looked at him speculatively. ‘I’d like to give you a chance to redeem yourself. We’re thinking of trying to recruit him. Since Maestre won’t be bribed. Tell him, Tolly.’

Tolhurst looked at him with owlish seriousness. ‘This is classified information, Harry. You remember you asked about the Knights of St George.’

Harry nodded.

‘Our government has set aside large sums to bribe people here in Spain. High-up Monarchists in the regime and anyone else who has a voice with the government and can argue for Spain staying out of the war.’

‘Most embassies have funds for bribery,’ Hillgarth went on. ‘But this is on a different scale. It’s not just dislike of the Fascists that makes Maestre feed us information. Him and a good few other senior figures. If Forsyth were to come over to us we could make funds available to him. And diplomatic protection if necessary. I’ve decided it’s the only way to find out about the gold. The shares in that company of his are falling fast. I guess Maestre and his committee are putting the squeeze on him. They want to wrest control of the gold from the Falange.’

‘That would fit, sir.’

‘London wants to know if there is gold, and how much. They’re putting pressure on Sam but he can’t even get an appointment with Franco at the moment. He’s going out of his way to treat us with disdain to please the Germans. And what we’ve learned about Forsyth’s personality makes me think he’d be willing to jump into our ship if his project’s in trouble.’ He leaned forward. ‘What d’you think, Harry?’

Harry thought a moment. ‘If he’s in trouble my guess would be he’d do it.’ He had come to despise Sandy, but found that the prospect of Hillgarth throwing him a lifeline made him feel relieved.

‘If he needs an escape route he’d be happy with less money,’ Tolhurst added. ‘We don’t want to strain the budget.’

Harry looked at Hillgarth seriously. ‘I don’t know how far you could trust Sandy though. He always plays his own game.’

Hillgarth smiled. ‘Oh, I can see that. Actually, I think Forsyth could make a very good spy. Someone who likes having secrets, perhaps enjoys the frisson of danger. Does that sound about right?’

‘I’d say so long as the danger doesn’t come too close. I think perhaps he’s scared now.’ Harry added, looking Hillgarth in the eye, ‘You could be taking on someone who’s been involved in murder.’

He inclined his head. ‘He wouldn’t be the first, we can’t be choosy.’

There was silence for a moment. Tolhurst broke it. ‘Has Forsyth any politics?’

‘I think he’d support any system that allowed him free rein to make money. That’s why he likes Franco. He hates the Communists of course.’ Harry paused. ‘But he’s no loyalty to Britain, none at all.’

‘Father’s a bishop, isn’t he?’ Hillgarth asked. ‘Clergy’s sons often go wonky.’

‘Sandy thinks the church and all the old traditions are out to stifle people like him.’

‘He’s got a point.’ Hillgarth nodded, then steepled his hands in front of him. ‘OK, this is what we’ll do. See Forsyth again. Just tell him there’s someone at the embassy who’s got a proposition for him. Don’t give too much away, just encourage him to come. You can say you’ve got contacts on the intelligence side if you think that’d be useful. If you can pull this off you can wipe the slate clean, go home with a bit of a feather in your cap.’

Harry nodded. ‘I’ll do what I can. I’m meeting Barbara for lunch today. I can try to arrange something then.’ Thank God it’s the last thing they want, he thought.

‘Good. How is Forsyth’s wife?’

‘I don’t think they’re very happy.’

‘She still doesn’t know anything about his business?’

‘No. I’m pretty sure he tells her nothing.’

‘We were worried you might be forming an attachment there till you hooked up with this dairymaid,’ Hillgarth said. He gave Harry a sudden and unwelcome wink.

AS HARRY WALKED to the town centre at lunchtime he thought about his interview. Hillgarth’s casual dismissal of Gomez and what Sandy might have done chilled him. Didn’t they know what it was like for a normal person, having to do this work? Little gangs of men were out, desultorily sweeping the snow from the pavements with brooms and spades. Harry looked out for Enrique among them but did not see him.

Barbara had suggested meeting him and Sofia at the Café Gijón. Harry thought it a strange choice; he knew Barbara used to go there with Bernie during the Civil War. She had still hardly mentioned his name. Poor Bernie, he thought, at least he never saw what Spain had turned into.

The bar was full of wealthy Madrilenõs taking coffee and complaining about the snow. There was a wet oily smell. Harry took a café con leche to an empty corner. He realized he was very early.

Sandy and the spies would suit each other, he thought. Well, he would leave them to it and go home. But, he thought, home to what? Back to Cambridge, alone. He looked at his face in the mirrors. He had lost weight since coming here, it suited him. Could he get Sofia out? he wondered. Was there any way? He would have to take Paco, too; she would never leave him. To be able to get them away, get them to England. And what if it didn’t work out? Part of his mind said, too, that he was mad, he’d only met her six weeks ago.

The barman had put his change in the saucer. One of the new five-peseta coins with Franco’s head on. He thought again of Hillgarth talking calmly of recruiting someone who might be a murderer, telling him how they bribed the Monarchists. Hoare had said he’d sweated blood trying to convince the Monarchists he and they spoke a common language. He’s sweated gold, too, Harry thought. People like Maestre talking about Spanish honour, the traditions they were protecting, and all the time taking bribes from a potential enemy. And Britain was interested in Spain only for its strategic value – even if they won the war Spain would probably be left to Franco, forgotten again.

He hunched over his cup. He thought, perhaps it would be better if Hitler did invade Spain. Even Sandy said the regime was weak; perhaps the people would rise up against the Germans as they had against Napoleon. But then Gibraltar would go and Britain would be weakened even further. He remembered the picture he had seen on his first day, the German and Spanish soldiers greeting each other at the border. The Führer and the Caudillo in eternal friendship, victorious in Europe. It was a horrible thought. He looked at his set face in the mirror. He would do this last thing: he would try to recruit Sandy for them.

He jumped at a hand on his shoulder. Sofia was standing there, wrapped in her old black coat. Her face was flushed; with the pleasure of seeing him, he realized with a warm glow. She smiled. ‘What were you thinking about?’

‘Nothing. Just some problems at work. Here, sit down.’

‘Is Barbara not here yet?’

‘No.’ He looked at his watch, surprised to see it was nearly one o’clock. ‘She’s late. Let me get you a coffee.’

She hesitated for a second. ‘OK.’

There had been arguments about Harry paying for everything and buying her presents as well. He had said, ‘I’ve got money, maybe I don’t deserve it, but I have. Why shouldn’t I spend some of it on you?’

‘People will say I am a kept woman,’ she had replied, blushing.

Harry had realized Sofia wasn’t as free of what she called ‘bourgeois

sensibilities’ as she liked to think.

‘You know it’s not true, that’s what matters.’

But she wouldn’t let him give the family money; she said they could manage. Harry wished she would let him do more at the same time as he loved her pride. He fetched her coffee.

‘How’s Paco?’

‘Very quiet. Enrique is with him today; it is his day off too.’ With Elena dead and Sofia and Enrique both working, the little boy had to be left alone in the flat most days now. He refused to go out unless one of the adults came with him.

“He liked the crayons you brought him. He wants to know when the red-haired lady will come again. She made an impression on him. He calls her “the kind lady”.’

‘We could ask her if she’d like to visit.’

‘That would be good.’ Sofia frowned. ‘I am afraid one day Paco will let Senõra Avila in. I know she comes knocking. I have told him not to answer. The knocking scares him, it reminds him of when his parents were taken. But I am frightened one day he will open the door and she will take him because he is on his own.’

‘He won’t open the door if he’s scared of her.’

‘We cannot carry on like this for ever, just leaving him at home on his own.’

‘No.’ Harry agreed.

‘I will not lose him.’ Sofia sighed. ‘Do you think we are silly, burdening ourselves like this? Enrique thinks so sometimes, I know, but he has also come to love Paco.’

He thought, she’s lost her mother, now she’s frightened of losing the boy, and if they send me back home she’ll lose me. He frowned.

‘What is it, Harry?’

‘Nothing.’ He looked up to see Barbara approaching, her headscarf and glasses dotted with snowflakes, and waved her over.

‘Sorry I’m late. It’s started up again outside.’

‘I have never seen anything like it,’ Sofia said. ‘The drought in the summer and now this.’

Harry got up and took Barbara’s coat. ‘Shall we get the lunch menu?’

She raised a hand. ‘No, listen. I’m awfully sorry, but I can’t stay. I’ve an appointment on the other side of town at two and the trams aren’t running, I’ll have to walk. Just get me a coffee, could you?’

‘All right.’ Harry studied Barbara. There was something serious, determined in her manner. He fetched another coffee. When he returned Barbara and Sofia were talking earnestly.

‘Barbara says Paco needs to see a doctor,’ Sofia told him.

‘Well, a doctor might have some ideas how to help. I could help pay—’ He bit his lip as Sofia frowned. He shouldn’t have spoken about giving her money in front of Barbara.

‘If it could help the poor little scrap,’ Barbara said. ‘But I realize it’s difficult.’

‘Have you started at the veterans’ hospital?’ Harry asked her, changing the subject.

‘Yes, it’s better than that orphanage at least. But war wounds, awful injuries. All the things the Red Cross tried to prevent.’ She sighed. ‘Oh well, it’s too late to think like that now.’ She looked at Harry. ‘I may be going home for Christmas after all.’

‘To England?’

‘Yes, you remember, Sandy suggested it, and I thought, why not? At least I’ll get to see how things really are there.’

‘Will they let you back into Spain?’ Sofia asked. ‘I suppose so, as your husband is working here.’

Barbara hesitated. ‘I should think so.’

But Sandy’s not her husband, Harry thought. Something occurred to him. ‘It’s the same the other way round, isn’t it? I mean, if an Englishman had, say, a Spanish fiancée, he might have problems taking her into England. But if you’re married they’ll let you both in.’

‘Yes,’ Barbara said. ‘At least that’s how it was before the war. I remember all those rules from the Red Cross. Getting refugees from one country to another.’ She looked blank for a moment. ‘Less than five years ago. It seems a lifetime.’

Sofia lowered her voice. ‘There is still the risk Franco could declare war.’

Barbara took off her glasses, which had steamed up, and cleaned them on her handkerchief. Without them, her face looked more attractive but vulnerable as well. She stirred her coffee carefully, then looked up at them.

‘I probably won’t come back,’ she said flatly. ‘I don’t think Sandy and I can go on.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Harry said. ‘I could see you weren’t happy.’

Barbara drew on her cigarette. ‘I owe him a lot. He put me back together again after – after Bernie. But I don’t think I like the shape he put me back into any more.’ She laughed awkwardly. ‘Sorry to blurt all this out. Only I’ve had no one to talk to, you see. Does it make sense?’

‘There comes a time when you have to face things,’ Harry said. ‘Take the blinkers off.’ He shook his head. He looked at Sofia. ‘Spain’s done that for me. Made me see the world’s more complicated than I realized.’

Barbara looked at him, stared at him in that odd, keen way. ‘It certainly is.’

There was silence for a few moments. ‘Have you told him that you will not be coming back?’ Sofia asked Barbara.

‘No. He doesn’t care any more anyway. I’ve got a – a bit of business to see to, then I’ll go over for Christmas. I hope.’

‘I think Sandy might have business problems,’ Harry ventured.

‘Do you know something?’ Barbara asked.

Harry hesitated. ‘He was going to get me involved in – in one of his companies. But it fell through.’

‘What company?’

‘I don’t know. I know very little.’

Barbara nodded. ‘I’m sorry if I seem disloyal,’ she said, ‘but I’ve watched you with him. You don’t really like him now, do you? You just keep up with him because of the old school thing?’

‘Well – something like that.’

‘It’s strange, he wants your approval.’ She turned to Sofia. ‘The bonds between men who went to these English public schools, there’s nothing like it in Spain.’ She laughed a little hysterically. Sofia looked embarrassed. Harry thought, she’s close to the edge.

Barbara bit her lip. ‘You will both keep this quiet, won’t you? I’m sorry.’

‘Of course.’

Sofia smiled. ‘Paco keeps asking after you. Perhaps you could come and see him again, before you go back to England.’

Barbara smiled too. ‘I’d like to. Thanks. Maybe we could take him out somewhere. A treat.’

Harry took a deep breath. ‘I do need to talk to Sandy about something. To do with that business deal. Do you know if he’s in his office today?’

‘He should be.’ Barbara glanced at her watch. ‘Oh God, I must go. I’m sorry, I’ve kept you from your lunch, telling you all my woes. I am sorry.’

‘It’s all right. Listen, ring me, we’ll arrange for you to come and see Paco.’

‘I will. Good to see you both.’ She leaned across and kissed Sofia’s cheek in the Spanish way, then got up and walked to the door, pausing to tie on her headscarf. Harry watched her, but he was thinking, marriage. Could he dare take that leap? And would Sofia have him? He could find out more at the embassy, but first he must try to recruit Sandy; get Hillgarth’s feather in his cap.

Barbara opened the door. She turned and gave them a quick wave, then disappeared into the whirling snowflakes.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

BARBARA CURSED HERSELF inwardly as she walked away. She hadn’t meant to spill everything out like that. It had been seeing them sitting together; they looked so domestic, so safe somehow.

She had been afraid for a while, after overhearing that telephone call, that Harry was involved in whatever awful things Sandy was mixed up in. But watching him later, she had realized he couldn’t be; he was being used as some sort of pawn. Thank God the deal was off, whatever it had been. She felt guilty every time she saw Harry because he still thought Bernie was dead. Her appointment was with Luis; today she hoped to discuss the actual plans for Bernie’s escape. Agustín, she knew, was back from his leave. She had suggested meeting Harry in the Café Gijón because now the possibility of seeing Bernie was so close, Barbara wanted to revisit all the places they had been together, places she had avoided for so long. Three years in prison camps, she thought. What will he be like? How will he react to me? She told herself she mustn’t hope for anything, they would both have changed beyond recognition. She must just hope to get him out.

The snow was still coming down heavily, covering cars and the coats of the people moving through the storm like white wraiths. It was melting through her headscarf; she should have brought a hat. The wind blew it against her glasses and she had to wipe them with her gloved hands.

She passed two civiles on guard outside a government office; with their heavy capes and bicorn hats covered in snow they looked like snowmen with grim masks painted on. It was the first time the sight of a civil had made her want to laugh.

She knew she was often close to hysteria these days; it was getting harder to keep everything inside. But it might only be a short time now before she could leave. Ever since the night two weeks ago when she overheard the telephone conversation she had been trying to analyse his words. ‘Those old Moroccan sweats are tough? He still says his name is Gomez?’ She had tried a dozen different interpretations but always came back to the same thing: someone was being tortured. And she had begun to think: if he found out what I’m doing I could be in danger too.

When he had come down from the study after that call she had given him the bag the old Jew had left, but he hadn’t seemed much interested. He put it on the floor by his chair and sat staring into the fire, ignoring Barbara. He looked more worried than she had ever seen him: sweat was glistening on his black moustache. Since that night he had been increasingly withdrawn. He hardly seemed to notice her now; not that she minded. If only she could get through till they had got Bernie out, then escape to England. Perhaps Sandy would never find out what she had done.

Two nights ago he had come home late. Though he drank a lot, Sandy hardly ever got drunk. He had remarkable control. That night, though, he was staggering a little as he entered the salón, looking round blearily as though seeing it for the first time.

‘What you starin’ at?’ he asked Barbara in a thick voice.

Her heart began to pound. ‘Nothing, darling. Are you all right?’ Still the peacemaker, her instinctive gambit. She put down her knitting. She spent most evenings knitting now, the regular movements soothed her.

‘You’re like an old woman, always bloody knitting,’ he said. ‘Where’s Pilar?’

‘It’s her evening off, remember?’ He probably wanted to go to her; that’d be nice for Pilar, having him paw her in this state.

‘Oh, yes, so it is.’ He smiled lubriciously then went to the drinks cabinet and poured himself a whisky. He sat opposite her and took a long swig of his drink. ‘Bloody cold again tonight.’

‘The frost’s killed off a lot of plants in the garden.’

‘Plants,’ he repeated in a mocking tone. ‘Plants. I’ve had a bloody awful day. Something big I had on, it’s up the spout, finished.’ He turned to her and gave his old, wide grin. ‘Fancy being poor, Barbara?’

‘Things aren’t that bad, are they?’

‘Not that bad? Poor Barbara.’ He laughed to himself. ‘Poor Barbara, that’s how I used to think of you when we first met.’

Her smile trembled. If only he would fall asleep. If only he would fall into the fire. He looked at her again, his face serious now. ‘We won’t be poor,’ he said. ‘I won’t allow that to happen. Understand?’

‘All right, Sandy.’

‘I’ll bounce back. I always do. We’ll stay in this house. You and me and Pilar.’ A glint came into his eyes. ‘Come to bed. Come on, I’ll show you what I’m still made of.’

She took a deep breath. She remembered her plan to confront him with the relationship with Pilar to keep him off but she was too frightened.

‘Sandy, you’ve had a lot to drink.’

‘That doesn’t stop me. C’mon.’ He got up, lurched over to her and planted a wet beery kiss on her mouth. She suppressed her instinct to shrink away and allowed him to lift her up, put his arm round her, lead her up the stairs. When they got to the bedroom she hoped he would collapse on the bed but he seemed more in control of himself now. He began undressing, and she took off her dress feeling sick inside. His shirt came off, exposing the heavy muscular body that had excited her once but now made her think of some strong vicious animal. Somehow she managed to control her shrinking as he took her, making strange little grunts of what sounded like desperation. Afterwards he rolled off her and a minute later began to snore. Barbara wondered how she had managed it, managed not to cry out and beat him off. Fear, she supposed. Fear can crush you but it can give you strength and control as well. She padded quietly to the bathroom, closed the door and was violently, heavingly sick.

THE LITTLE CAFE was full of people who had come in to escape the snow; every seat was taken and people stood two deep at the bar. There was a wet musty smell. The old woman ran between the counter and the coffee urn with cups of coffee. The windows were steamed up; even Franco’s portrait had a wet film on it. Barbara’s glasses steamed over at once. She rubbed them on her coat sleeve and looked around for Luis. Their usual table was taken but she could make him out in the far corner where he had squeezed behind a table for two, his coat draped over the other chair. He was sitting staring into his coffee cup, a weary, tired look on his face. He looked up and changed his expression to a smile as Barbara made her way through the crowd to join him. She sat and took off her sopping headscarf, running a hand over her wet hair.

‘This snow is terrible,’ she said.

Luis leaned across the table. ‘Do you mind not having a coffee? There is such a crush at the bar.’

‘Could we go somewhere else? Somewhere quieter?’

‘Everywhere will be the same today.’ There was an unaccustomed sharpness in his manner.

‘What’s wrong?’ she whispered anxiously.

‘Nothing is wrong. All these people make me nervous.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Everything is ready. Have you brought the money?’

‘Yes. Seven hundred pesetas when you tell me when and where. The rest after he’s out.’

He nodded, looking relieved. She took out her cigarettes and offered him a Gold Flake.

‘Thank you. Now, please listen carefully.’ He leaned close to her, his voice a hoarse whisper. ‘I have just come back from Cuenca. I saw Agustín yesterday. He has told your friend about the escape. He has told him it is you that is arranging it.’

‘How did he react?’ Barbara asked eagerly. ‘What did he say?’

Luis nodded seriously. ‘He was very pleased, senõra. Very glad.’

Barbara hesitated. ‘Does he know I’m – I’m with someone else?’

‘Agustín did not say.’

She bit her lip. ‘So what’s the plan?’

‘The escape will take place on December the fourteenth. A Saturday.’

Eight days, Barbara thought, another eight days. ‘Can’t we do it sooner?’

‘That will be a good day. Christmas celebrations will be beginning; things will be getting lax at the camp and in the town. Agustín does not want it to happen too soon after his return, and I agree that might look suspicious. And with luck the snow will be gone by then. A man running would stand out against the snow.’

‘Surely it will be gone by then. Heavy snow’s not usual this early.’

‘We must hope so.’

‘Is it going to be how you said? An escape from a working party?’

‘Yes. Señor Piper will pretend to have diarrhoea, Agustín will go into the bushes with him, he will hit him on the head, hard enough to cause a bruise, and Señor Piper will take Agustín’s keys and free himself. Then he will run downhill towards Cuenca. Your friend will get some distance away, hide in the bushes and trees among the hills until it is quite dark, then make his way to the town.’

‘Won’t they look for him in Cuenca? Won’t they know that’s where he’ll go?’

‘Yes. In fact, it is the only place he can go; in the other direction it is all wilderness and mountains. So yes, they will be looking for him in the town.’ Luis smiled. ‘But we have a place there for him to hide.’

‘Where?’

‘There are some bushes and trees on the road by the gorge, near the bridge, on the other side from the town. He will hide there until you arrive with some clothes for him to change into.

Barbara took a deep breath. ‘All right.’

‘You must drive to Cuenca on the fourteenth, be there by three in the afternoon. It is important you arrive there before it is dark – a woman walking alone in the town might be questioned. There is a place outside the town, a secluded place, where you can leave your car.’ He looked at her seriously. ‘Agustín has spent all his days off tramping the streets in and around Cuenca, to make sure everything is right.’

‘So I wait in the town until it is dark?’

Luis shook his head. ‘No. We have a place where you can wait, a place you can say you have come to visit if anyone asks questions. The cathedral. It is there you should take your friend afterwards. Once he has changed in the bushes, you walk across the bridge, a pair of English tourists who have come to see the cathedral. In there he can shave – he has a beard – and clean himself up.’

‘What if someone is there?’

Luis shook his head. ‘There will be no visitors to the cathedral on a Saturday in winter. And there will be someone there to help you.’

‘Agustín? Will he be there?’

‘No.’ Luis smiled wryly. ‘But he sometimes goes to the services in Cuenca Cathedral on Sundays. It is his excuse for going into town – they think he has become religious. There is a watchman there, employed by the church to keep an eye on things. He has offered to help us.’

‘A church employee?’ Barbara asked sharply. ‘Why would he help?’

‘For money, señora.’ Impatient anger flashed in Luis’s face for a moment. ‘He has a sick old wife and no money to pay for a doctor. So he will help you for the same reason that we are helping. He wants three hundred pesetas.’

She took a deep breath. ‘All right.’

‘So, you drive to Cuenca on the fourteenth, get there by three. Leave the car where I will tell you and go to the cathedral. The old man, Francisco, will be expecting you. Wait there until dark and then go to the hanging houses. You know where they are?’

‘Yes. I’ve been studying a map and guidebook. I could probably find my way around blindfold.’

‘Good. Bring some clothes for your friend, a suit if you can get one.’

‘All right. I’ll get a large size. Bernie’s tall, quite a strong build too.’

Luis shook his head. ‘Not after three years in the camp. A suit for a thin man will do. And shaving materials.’

‘What about a hat? With a wide brim to hide his face and his fair hair?’

‘Yes. That would be good.’

‘I can get the clothes,’ Barbara said. ‘I can pretend I’m doing Christmas shopping. The car might be difficult, my – my husband might be using it.’

Luis frowned tensely. ‘You must deal with that, señora.’

‘Yes, yes, I will. Somehow. What do I do when I get to the hanging houses?’

‘At the foot of the Tierra Muerta is a river gorge. It is very deep, you cannot scale it. On the other side of the gorge is the old town, which leads to the road to Madrid. There is a big iron bridge across the gorge, for pedestrians. On the town side are the hanging houses, and on the opposite side a road. A little way along the road is the clump of trees where your friend will be waiting.’

‘What if they’ve put guards on the bridge? If they know a prisoner’s escaped?’

‘That is possible. The camp will have rung the town. If that happens, wait in the cathedral. Señor Piper will cross the gorge further down and make his way there. Then go back to your car, pretend to be an English couple who have driven out to Cuenca for the day. And remember they will be looking for a prisoner, not a clean-shaven man in a suit. With luck there won’t be roadblocks, they won’t be expecting him to leave in a car.’ Luis looked at Barbara with his deep, hard olive eyes. ‘Your wealth will be your best disguise, señora.’

‘How far is Cuenca from the camp again? Eight kilometres?’

‘Yes.’

‘Will he be fit to walk that far?’ Barbara asked, a tremor in her voice.

‘He should be. With the cold a lot of people are ill in the camp but so far your friend is well. And it is all downhill.’

‘What if they find him on the way down?’

‘Let us just hope they don’t,’ Luis said flatly. He took another cigarette from the packet on the table. ‘We must hope for no snow and no moon.’ He lit up and took a deep drag. ‘He will know to move carefully, keep to the shadows.’

Barbara was suddenly overcome with doubt. ‘If he’s caught—’

Luis looked into her eyes. ‘This is what he wants, señora.’

‘Yes.’ She bit her lip. ‘Yes, he’d take the chance, I know. I have to do this for him.’

Luis looked at her curiously. ‘When you have him, what will you do?’

Her face set. ‘I’ll take him to the British Embassy. He’s a British citizen; they’ll have to take him in. They sent all the other International Brigaders home.’

‘And you?’

‘We’ll see.’ She wasn’t going to tell him her plans.

‘I trust you to pay me the rest of the money when you return.’

‘I’ll meet you on the sixteenth,’ Barbara said. ‘Here, at noon.

What if there has to be a change of plan, if Agustín’s rota is changed or Bernie’s ill or something?’

‘Agustín will get a message to me and I will telephone you at home. I will need your number.’

‘That’s risky.’ She thought a moment. ‘If I’m out, say you’re the baker phoning about my cake for Christmas and will ring again. Then I’ll come straight here. All right?’ She wrote the number on the packet of cigarettes and passed it to him. He smiled, always delighted to have the cigarettes, then looked suddenly weary.

‘You have planned this well,’ she said. ‘You and your brother.’

He avoided her eyes. ‘Do not thank us,’ he said. ‘Please do not thank us.’

‘Why not?’

‘We have done this for money. We must have money for Mama.’ That look of weariness again in his face. They were silent a moment.

‘Tell me,’ she asked, ‘do you ever hear from that journalist? Markby?’

Luis shook his head. ‘No. He contacted me through a friend, he was going to do an article on the camps but I heard no more. I think he has returned to England.’

‘I tried to ring him several times but he was always away somewhere.’

‘Journalists. They are rootless people.’ Luis looked round the cafe, then coughed. ‘Señora …’

‘Of course.’ Barbara opened her handbag and passed him a thick envelope under the table. He took it, sat very still for a moment, then nodded. Barbara noticed that the shoulders of his threadbare jacket were wet; she realized he had no coat.

‘Gracias,’ he said. ‘Now, I suggest we meet here next Wednesday, the eleventh, to discuss the final preparations. Just to make sure everything is going smoothly.’

‘All right.’ She felt elated. It was happening, it was going to happen.

Luis stuffed the envelope into his pocket, his eyes flickering round the customers to check he was unobserved. Barbara suddenly felt crowded, pressed in. She wanted to get away. She stood up. ‘Shall we go?’

‘I will stay a while, till the snow stops. Until next week, señora.’ He looked up at her, then added unexpectedly, ‘You are a good woman.’

Barbara laughed. ‘Me? I don’t think so. I just bring trouble.’

Luis shook his head. ‘No. That is not true. Adios, señora.’

‘Hasta luego.’

She fought her way to the door. It was a relief to stand out in the cold air again. The snow was lessening. She lit a cigarette and headed back to the Centro. There were few people around now; everyone who could, had gone indoors. People wouldn’t want to risk their shoes; even if they could find replacements, prices were astronomical.

She passed through the Plaza Mayor. Its palm trees looked strange covered with snow. Beside one of the fountains a newspaper seller stood by his kiosk. A headline scrawled on a billboard caught her eye. ‘Veteran Tortured and Murdered in Alcalá: Red Terror Gang Suspected.’

She bought a copy of Ya, the Catholic newspaper. She went into the doorway of a closed shop and looked at the front page. Below a picture of a thin man in army uniform, standing stiffly to attention, she read:

The body of Lieutenant Alfredo Gomez Romero, aged 59, was found yesterday in a drainage ditch near the village of Paloblanco, outside Santa Maria de Real. Major Gomez, a veteran of the Moroccan wars who took part in the relief of Toledo in 1936, had been horribly tortured, his hands and feet burned and his face disfigured. It is believed one of the gangs of Red bandits active in parts of the sierras was responsible. Major Gomez’s employer and former commanding officer, Junior Trade Minister Colonel Santiago Maestre Miranda, said that Major Gomez had been a friend and comrade for thirty years and he would personally ensure that his killers were hunted down. ‘There is no safety or refuge for the enemies of Spain,’ he said.

Barbara’s knees felt weak and she thought she would faint. She crumpled the newspaper in her hand. A priest passing the doorway gave her a curious look. So now she knew. Sandy had mentioned the name Gomez on the telephone, and she had heard Maestre’s name mentioned as an opponent by Sandy’s Falange friends. He had been involved in torturing and killing this old man. Sandy had said they would have to deal with it and he had meant murder. And this was the man she was deceiving to rescue his boyhood enemy. She gripped the handle of the closed door, taking deep breaths to prevent herself from fainting.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

AFTER SEEING BARBARA and Sofia, Harry returned to the embassy. He telephoned Sandy’s office from the little room where there was a private phone for the spies. The secretary put him through. ‘Sandy? Harry here. Look, I wonder if we could meet. There’s something I’d like to discuss.’

He caught an undertone of impatience in Sandy’s voice. ‘I’m really busy, Harry. What about after the weekend?’

‘It’s rather urgent.’

‘All right. It’s Saturday tomorrow, but I’m coming into the office. I’ll meet you in the cafe.’ Harry caught a quickly suppressed sigh. ‘Three o’clock?’

‘Thanks.’

Next Harry went to the registry, to make enquiries about entry visas for Britain. When he returned to his office Tolhurst was waiting for him, leaning against his desk reading a copy of Ya. He nodded.

‘Hello there, Harry.’ His voice was flat, preoccupied.

‘I’ve phoned Forsyth,’ Harry told him. ‘We’re meeting at the cafe tomorrow.’

‘Good.’ He passed over the paper. ‘You should see this.’

Harry read the article about Gomez. He laid the paper on the desk. ‘So they killed him,’ he said bleakly.

Tolhurst nodded. ‘Seems so. It’s what we suspected. It doesn’t make any difference to recruiting Forsyth.’ His voice was cool and even. Harry remembered their first meeting, Tolhurst as the friendly fat boy. He was seeing another side now.

‘Even after you know he’s involved in this?’ he asked.

‘Suspected of involvement, Harry, suspected. And we’re not the police.’

‘No.’ Harry put the paper on the desk. ‘It’s all right, Tolly, I’ll still try to get him for you.’

Tolhurst smiled. ‘Good man,’ he said, with a touch of the old friendliness. ‘How’s the ear, by the way?’

‘Fine. I think part of it was psychological, like the panics.’ He hadn’t had another since that night outside the theatre. Being with Sofia seemed to have cured him.

‘Jolly good,’ Tolhurst said. ‘Well, must fly. Good luck.’

After he left Harry sat looking at the article, read the things they had done to Gomez. The poor bastard. Had Sandy been there? No, Harry thought bitterly. He’d leave that to others.

SOFIA LOOKED tired when she arrived at his flat that evening: there were black shadows under her eyes.

‘Are you all right?’ Harry asked as he took her coat.

She smiled, a brave child’s smile. Sometimes she looked so young. ‘I do not want to go back to work tomorrow. I am fed up of cows,’ she said. ‘It is so boring. How I hate the smell of milk.’

‘Sit down, I’ll bring the dinner in. I’ve done a cocido.’

He had the record player on, Vera Lynn singing ‘When the lights go on again all over the world’ in longing tones, but Sofia followed him into the kitchen and leaned against the wall, watching as he mixed the contents of the pans he had been boiling on the stove.

‘You are the first man I have met who can cook.’

‘You learn when you’re on your own. You have to.’

She inclined her head. ‘You look worried. Is there trouble at work?’

He took a deep breath. ‘No. Listen, I’ve something to tell you.’

‘What is it?’ She sounded apprehensive at once. He realized that for a long time, news for her had meant bad news.

‘Wait till we’re sitting down.’

He had bought a good red wine and when they were seated he poured her a glass. The dim electric light cast a glow of light over the table, leaving the rest of the room in shadow.

‘Sofia,’ he said. ‘The embassy want to send me back home.’

She seemed to shrink into herself, her face paled a little. ‘But why? Surely they need you here, nothing has changed, unless—’ She drew in her breath sharply. ‘Unless Franco is about to declare war. Oh God, they are evacuating you all—’

He raised a hand. ‘No, no, it’s not that. It’s me, they – they think I’d be better deployed at home.’

‘Harry,’ she asked softly. ‘Are you in trouble?’

‘No, honestly. It’s just – I’ve been doing other work, not just translating, and it’s nearly finished.’

She frowned. ‘What sort of work?’

He hesitated, then said, ‘Intelligence.’ He bit his lip. ‘Please, I can’t tell you any more. I shouldn’t tell you at all. But it’s nearly finished. I’m pleased, I hate it.’

‘Intelligence against this regime?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good. I am glad.’ She took a deep breath. ‘When will you go?’

‘I’m not sure. Perhaps before the end of the year.’ He looked into her eyes. ‘Sofia, will you come with me? You don’t have to answer now, but listen, I’ve been thinking all afternoon. You remember what Barbara said, about foreigners being allowed into England if they’re married to an Englishman?’

She stared at him with a set face. Her voice trembled. ‘Harry, do not ask. I couldn’t leave Paco. Enrique can look after himself but not Paco too. The beata would get him.’ She reached out and took Harry’s hand. ‘Don’t ask me to make such a choice—’

‘I’ve been thinking about that too. If somehow you could adopt Paco—’

She shook her head wearily. ‘I can’t. The Church is in charge of those things now and they would never allow it.’

‘No, not in Spain, in England. If we say you’ve been looking after him since his parents died and we could get him to England, then we could adopt him. I think there are ways. This job, you see, there’s this last little thing I need to do and if I succeed I’ll be in their good graces, the people at the embassy. They might help us.’

She looked at him steadily. ‘Is what you are doing dangerous?’

‘No, no.’ He laughed. ‘Honestly it isn’t, I swear. It’s just trying to get information out of businessmen. There’s no danger. Forget about that. Sofia, what do you say?’

‘How would Paco find England? A strange language, the bombs. I have to think of Paco.’

He couldn’t help feeling hurt that the boy seemed to be more important than him. ‘We could go to Cambridge,’ he said. ‘There aren’t any bombs there. We could have a good life; you can still get most things in England if you have money. I’ve enough. And Paco would be safe, no more knocks at the door. I’d try and get Enrique out too later but that might be more difficult.’

‘Yes, Paco would have a better chance in England. Unless the Germans come, but they may come here too. They say this is the worst time but Spain will take years, decades, to recover from what Franco has done to it. If it ever can.’ She looked at him with wonder. ‘You would take on Paco, take that responsibility?’

‘Yes. I don’t want to leave him either. I’m sure if he got some proper medical attention that could help him.’

She nodded. ‘There must be many doctors in Cambridge.’

‘Loads. Sofia, if we can bring Paco out, will you – will you marry me? You – you haven’t said what you feel about that. If – if you don’t want to…’

She studied him. ‘You would settle for a life with me and Paco? Knowing how Paco is?’

‘Yes, yes. It’s the only responsibility I want now. Sofia, will you marry me?’

She got up from her seat and came over to him. She knelt down and kissed him, then lifted her mouth from his and smiled.

‘Yes. Yes, I will. Though I wonder if you are mad.’

He laughed aloud with relief and joy.

‘Perhaps I am, a little, but I want to be. I’ve been thinking what to do all day, ever since they told me I’d be going back—’

She leaned over and put a finger to his lips. ‘You will sort something out. I know. Yes, Harry, I will marry you.’

‘I know we’ve only known each other a few weeks. But in these times you have to seize the good things while you can.’

‘The best few weeks of my life.’ She knelt beside him on the floor and he bent over and held her.

‘I had to think of Paco,’ she said. ‘I could not abandon him, you see that.’ Her voice sunk to a whisper. ‘He has been the only thing I have been able to rescue, from all the hopes we once had.’

‘I understand. Sofia, perhaps in England you could study again, be a doctor.’

‘I must learn English first. That will be hard. But anything, if it is with you. And to think we wouldn’t have met but for Enrique.’ She shook her head. ‘Such a strange fragile chance.’

THE PROSTITUTE Harry had once mistaken for a spy was in the Café Rocinante when he arrived next afternoon. Sandy wasn’t there yet. The woman sat at her table at the back of the room; a fat middle-aged businessman was with her, talking Spanish with a strong German accent. He was boasting about how much money he had made since he came to Spain, the deals he had done. The woman smiled and nodded but there was a distant look on her face. She sat at an angle to the table, displaying shapely legs for her age. She had a line painted down the back of them, Harry saw; she was pretending to be wearing the new nylon stockings but you could see from the way the light reflected from her legs that they were bare. She must be frozen, walking through the snow like that.

The German saw Harry staring and raised shaggy eyebrows. Harry took a seat as far away from them as possible. There was a breath of cold air as the door opened and Sandy came in. He wore a heavy black coat and Homburg hat, the hat and his shoulders covered with a dusting of snow for it had started up again. Waiting there, knowing what Sandy had done, Harry had wondered if he might feel fear when he saw him now, but there was only disgust and anger.

Sandy made his way to Harry’s table, pausing to exchange remarks about the weather with an acquaintance. Harry raised an arm to attract the elderly waiter who was standing in a corner, talking to the shoeshine boy. The boy was new; perhaps the last one had gone away or died of cold in a doorway somewhere.

‘Hello, Harry.’ Sandy extended a hand. His fingers were icy.

‘Hello. Coffee?’

‘Chocolate, I think, on a day like today.’ Sandy looked up at the waiter who had hurried over. ‘Un café con leche y un chocolate, Alfredo.’

Harry studied Sandy’s face. He was smiling his broad smile but he had a tired, strained look. He lit a cigarette.

‘How are things?’ Harry asked.

‘They’ve been better. What’s this urgent business? I’m intrigued.’

Harry took a deep breath. ‘Sandy, I mentioned at the embassy that I had an English friend who’s been having some business problems. There are a couple of people there who’d like to talk to you. You might be able to do some work with them.’

Sandy looked at him, a long hard look. You could almost hear the cogs turning. He took out his cigarette case and lit up. ‘That sounds like intelligence work,’ he said crisply.

God, he was quick. Harry didn’t reply. Sandy’s eyes narrowed.

‘Are they spies?’ He stopped and gave a little gasp of surprise. ‘Are you a spy, Harry?’ he asked softly. He hesitated a moment. ‘By God. You are, aren’t you? Translating’s a good cover, I suppose. Have you been rifling through Franco’s wastebaskets?’ He laughed incredulously, looked at Harry, then laughed again.

‘I can’t say any more now, Sandy, I’m sorry. It’s just – I’ve seen things haven’t been going well for you, I’d like to help.’ How easily the lies were coming. ‘Just an exploratory meeting with a couple of people at the embassy, no strings.’

‘I suppose they want to recruit me?’ Sandy went on in the same quiet tone. The waiter reappeared and Sandy took the tray from him. ‘Ah. Alfredo, muy bien. Sugar, Harry?’ He made a fuss of organizing the drinks; giving himself time to think. He leaned back and blew out a cloud of smoke, then kicked Harry’s shin playfully. ‘Sure you can’t tell me any more, old chap?’

‘I’m sorry.’

A spasm, a stricken look, suddenly crossed Sandy’s face. He looked at Harry with wide eyes. ‘Jesus, this wouldn’t have anything to do with the gold, would it?’

For the first time Harry did feel a twitch of fear. ‘I can’t say any more.’

Sandy leaned back in his chair. He made his face expressionless but he still had the stricken look in his eyes.

‘They say the British Embassy’s full of spies,’ he said. ‘More spies there than any other embassy except the Germans. Not that I’ve been to the German embassy, though I know people who have. I hear Hoare’s furious because Franco keeps saying he’s too busy to see him while von Stohrer’s in and out of El Pardo.’

Harry didn’t reply. Sandy took a long deep breath.

‘Oh well, it seems to be a time of change. My brother’s dead, you know.’

Harry looked up. ‘Is he? I’m sorry.’

‘Had a letter a week ago. He was in Egypt, an Italian shell hit his tent.’ He smiled wryly. ‘Probably aiming for Wavell – it’d be like the wops to get the padre by mistake.’

‘I’m sorry, Sandy. That’s bad news.’

He shrugged again. ‘I hadn’t seen him for years. Never got on with Peter, you know that.’

‘Did your father write?’

‘No, an old acquaintance in London saw it in the paper and sent me a letter. The dear old pater wouldn’t write even if he knew where I was. He’s written me off, I’m destined for the flames. Peter’ll be in heaven though, safe in the arms of Jesus.’ He laughed harshly. ‘You look uncomfortable, Harry. You don’t believe all that religious stuff, do you?’

‘No. Even less after what I’ve seen here.’

Sandy sat back, drawing reflectively on his cigarette, then laughed, a harsh bitter sound. ‘Sometimes it all just seems so funny.’

‘What?’

‘Life. Death. The whole bloody thing. Look at that tart over there with her pencilled nylons. Thousands of years of evolution and it’s led to that. I often think the dinosaurs were more impressive. A hundred and sixty million years they lasted.’ He drained his chocolate. ‘You were spying on me, Harry, all the time, weren’t you?’

‘I told you, I can’t say any more now.’

Sandy shook his head. ‘I wanted your approval, you know. I did at Rookwood too. I don’t know why. It felt so strange when you came back. So strange…’ Sandy looked into the middle distance for a moment, then turned his gaze back to Harry, his eyes hard. ‘I wanted to help you make some money, you know that. My old friend Harry. More fool me, eh?’

Harry didn’t reply; there was nothing to say. Sandy nodded.

‘I’ll come and see your intelligence people. Got a number?’ He shoved his cigarette packet towards Harry. He wrote down the number that would take him through to Tolhurst. Sandy put it in his pocket, then gave an odd half-smile, the corners of his mouth twisting. ‘Might have some information that would surprise them.’

‘What?’

Sandy inclined his head. ‘Wait and see. By the way, I haven’t told Barbara about my brother. Don’t want her getting all weepy. Don’t say anything if you see her.’

‘I won’t.’

‘Does she know you’re a spy?’

‘No. She doesn’t know anything, Sandy.’

He nodded. ‘I wondered for a moment there if that might be what’s up with her.’ He smiled that strange half-smile again. ‘Funny, when I was a little boy I wanted to be good. But I could never seem to manage it somehow. And if you’re not good, the good people will throw you to the wolves. So you might as well just be bad.’ He looked into his empty cup for a moment, then reached for his coat.

‘All right. Let’s go.’

They headed for the door. Sandy waved the cigarette boy aside. They stood in the doorway – the snow was still falling; drifts were banked high against the buildings. Across the street people were leaving a church service, huddling into their coats as they descended the steps, the priest shaking hands in the doorway.

Sandy put on his hat. ‘Oh well, out into it all again.’

‘Yes.’

‘Don’t get found nosing in those wastepaper baskets. See you, Harry.’ Sandy turned abruptly away, hunching down into his coat. Harry took a deep breath then headed out into the snow, to tell Tolhurst he had landed his quarry.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

THE TAXI WOUND ITS WAY slowly through Carabanchel. There had been a power cut and the streets were pitch-black except for faint glows of candlelight at the windows of the tall blocks. The taxi lurched over the uneven, snow-covered streets. A cart parked by the kerb appeared in the twin globes of the headlights and the driver skidded as he swerved to avoid it. ‘Mierda!’ he muttered. ‘This is like a drive to hell, señor.’

When Harry hailed him in the Puerta del Sol the driver hadn’t wanted to drive him out to Carabanchel, not in the middle of a power cut. The snow had stopped as darkness fell and the moon had come out; with the power off, no streetlights and only feeble glows of candlelight from the windows, it was like driving through a crumbling dead city that had been abandoned to the elements.

THAT MORNING Harry had been called round to Tolhurst’s office. The power cut had affected the central heating and Tolhurst’s chubby form was again wreathed in thick pullovers.

‘Forsyth’s rung already,’ he said. ‘He must be keen.’

‘Good.’ It’s done, Harry thought, that’s that.

‘We’d like you present when we interview him.’

‘What?’ Harry frowned. ‘Is that necessary?’

‘We think it would help. In fact, we’d like to have the meeting at your flat.’

‘I thought this was the end of it so far as I was concerned.’

‘It will be. This is the last thing. I know you’re keen to be off.’ Tolhurst’s tone became disapproving, almost hurt. ‘The captain says you can go home after this, there should be a place for you on the plane taking people home for Christmas. But he thinks Forsyth might be more amenable on your territory. These little things can make a difference, you know. And if he denies he told you something, you’ll be there to contradict him.’

Harry felt angry, his stomach clenched into a tight knot. ‘It’ll be humiliating. For him and me. At least do it in the office, don’t rub our noses in it.’

Tolhurst shook his head. ‘Captain’s orders, I’m afraid.’

Harry was silent. Tolhurst looked at him sadly. ‘I’m sorry it hasn’t worked out as well as we’d hoped. That’s the trouble with this line of work; one word out of place and you’re sunk.’

‘I know.’ Harry studied him. ‘Listen, Tolly, you know I’ve been seeing this girl?’

‘Yes.’

‘I want to marry her. Take her back to England.’

Tolhurst raised his eyebrows. ‘The little dairymaid?’

Anger welled up in Harry. But he had to try and get Tolhurst on his side. He made his voice calm. ‘She’s agreed to marry me.’

Tolhurst frowned. ‘I say, are you sure about this? If you take her to England you’ll be stuck with her for good.’ He rubbed his chin. ‘You haven’t got her into trouble, have you?’

‘No. Though there is a child she and her brother have been looking after, a war orphan. We’d like to take him as well.’

Tolhurst eyed Harry owlishly. ‘Look, I know things haven’t been easy for you, is it the right time to be taking decisions like that? If you don’t mind me saying?’

‘Look, Tolly, it’s what I want. Can you help? With the immigration people?’

‘I don’t know. I’d have to speak to the captain.’

‘Would you? Please, Simon, I know it would be a big responsibility but it’s what I want, you see.’

Tolhurst stroked his chin. ‘Have the girl or her brother any political affiliations?’

‘No. They’re anti-regime but that’s hardly unusual.’

‘Not for that class of people, no.’ Tolhurst tapped his fingers on the desk.

‘If you could do what you can, Tolly, I’d be really in your debt.’

He looked pleased. ‘All right. I’ll try.’

HARRY AND SOFIA had agreed he would come over to Carabanchel for dinner and they would tell Enrique and Paco their plans. When at last the taxi dropped him at Sofia’s block, Harry opened the door with the key she had given him. He made his way carefully up the dark staircase; he couldn’t see his hand in front of his face and had to light a match. That had been one of Tolhurst’s tips, always carry matches in case of power cuts.

He knocked and Sofia answered, pale light spilling out on to the landing as she opened the door. She wore the dress she had the night they went to the play. Behind her the room was full of candles; their soft light hid the damp on the walls, the battered scruffiness of the furniture. Her mother’s bed still stood against the wall. He leaned forward and kissed her. She looked tired.

‘Hola,’ she said softly.

‘Where are Enrique and Paco?’

‘They have gone out to get some coffee. They should be back soon.’

‘Do they know something’s up?’

‘Paco’s guessed there’s something. Come on, take your coat off.’

There was a clean patchwork quilt on the bed that had been her mother’s, a white cloth on the table. The brasero had been on for some time and the room was warm. They sat side by side on the bed. He told her he’d spoken to a colleague about visas.

‘I think he’ll do what he can. It could be before Christmas.’

‘As soon as that?’

He nodded.

She shook her head. ‘It will be hard for Enrique.’

‘We can send him money. Then at least he could keep the flat.’ He took her hand. ‘Are you still sure about this?’

‘Yes.’ She looked at him. ‘What about this work of yours? Is it nearly finished?’

‘Yes. Listen, are you sure we shouldn’t wait until it’s certain we can do this, before we tell them?’

Sofia shook her head decisively. ‘No. We do not want to leave it until we are about to go. They should know what we plan, now.’

‘I am glad.’

Footsteps sounded on the stairs. Enrique came in with Paco. He looked tired but Paco, at his side, had an unaccustomed colour in his cheeks. Enrique shook hands with Harry. ‘Buenas tardes. Madre de Dios, it is colder than ever.’ He turned to Sofia. ‘See, we have found some coffee. This stuff, anyway.’ Paco pulled a bottle of chicory essence from under his coat and held it up like a trophy, with a rare smile.

Sofia prepared the dinner, chickpeas with some small pieces of chorizo. They ate together at the table, Enrique talking about his work snow-clearing, the rich women who still wore high-heeled shoes and kept falling over. When they had eaten Sofia pushed away her plate and took Harry’s hand.

‘We have something to tell you.’

Enrique stared at them, puzzled. Paco, his head only a little above the level of the table, frowned worriedly.

‘I’ve asked Sofia to marry me,’ Harry said. ‘I’m going back to England soon and Sofia has said she’ll come back with me so long as we can take Paco with us.’

Enrique’s face fell. He looked at Sofia. ‘I will be left here alone?’ Then he shrugged and forced a smile. ‘Well, what would I do in England? I can hardly read and write. It was always you who was the clever one.’

Paco had been looking between the three of them. At Enrique’s words his face stiffened. ‘No! No! I won’t leave Enrique, no!’ He threw his arms round him, burying his face in his shoulder, making desperate squealing noises. Enrique lifted him up.

‘I will take him to the kitchen,’ he said. He lifted Paco up and went out. As the kitchen door closed, Sofia sighed. ‘Enrique is being brave. This, so soon after Mama.’

Harry took one of her hands, pulled it away from her face. ‘When we’re settled, we can try to get him over—’

He broke off as a loud knocking sounded at the door. Sofia got up, her face weary. ‘If that is Señora Avila again—’

She marched to the door and threw it open. Barbara stood there. Her face was pale and she had been crying.

‘What is it?’ Harry asked sharply. ‘What’s happened?’

‘Can I come in? Please? I went to your flat and then I thought you might be here. I’m sorry, I’d nowhere else to turn.’ She looked desperate, frightened.

Sofia looked at her for a moment, then took her arm. ‘Come in.’ She led her to a chair. Barbara sat down heavily.

‘Have some wine,’ Harry said. ‘You look frozen.’

‘Thanks. I’m sorry, were you eating?’

‘We’ve finished,’ Sofia said. ‘Paco was upset, Enrique has taken him into the kitchen for a moment.’

Barbara bit her lip. ‘He’d better not hear why I’ve come.’ She pulled a packet of cigarettes from her handbag, offered one to Sofia and lit up. She sighed with relief.

‘It’s good to be with friends. You’ve no idea.’

‘What is it?’ Harry asked. ‘What’s got you into this state?’

She clasped her hands tightly on the table and took a deep breath. ‘You know Sandy and I haven’t been getting on. You know I’ve talked about going home.’

‘Yes.’

She swallowed. ‘A while ago I overheard a telephone conversation he was having in his study. It was an accident, I wasn’t eavesdropping, but what he was saying was so strange. He was talking to someone about your investments, then he asked about what the person on the other end had done to some man – ’ she shivered – ‘saying he was tough. It kept going round in my mind. They mentioned a name. Gomez.’

Harry’s eyes widened as Barbara pulled the copy of Ya from her handbag. ‘Then the evening before last I saw this.’

Sofia leaned forward to read the article. Harry sat back, staring at Barbara, his mind whirling.

Sofia looked up. ‘You are saying there is a connection?’ she asked urgently.

The kitchen door opened and Enrique looked out enquiringly. Sofia rose and went into the kitchen with him. Barbara remained slumped in her chair. Harry looked at her. Sofia came back.

‘I have asked them to stay in the kitchen.’ She sat down again. ‘Señora Barbara, are you sure of this? You are – forgive me – overwrought.’

Barbara shook her head vigorously. ‘It all fits.’ Her voice rose. ‘Sandy’s been involved in torturing and murdering a man. After I read the paper I didn’t want to go home. I made myself. I told him I’d a bad headache and had to go to bed. Now I can hardly bear to talk to him.’ Her whole body shook for a moment. ‘I heard him laughing in the hall with the maid, he’s having an affair with her. I felt so scared, lying there in bed, I’ve never felt so afraid. Then today I went out early, to the veterans’ hospital. Afterwards I – I just couldn’t go home. I should, I must, but I just couldn’t face it.’

‘Barbara,’ Harry said quietly. He coughed, for a moment he couldn’t find his voice. ‘I know about this.’

‘What?’ She looked at him blankly. Sofia stared at him.

He laid his hands on the table. ‘I’m with intelligence. I’m a spy. It was my fault that man died.’

Barbara’s expression was shocked, aghast.

‘You told me what you did was not dangerous,’ Sofia said, her voice sharp as a whip.

‘I never wanted to do this. Never.’

He told the two women everything: his recruitment in London, his meetings with Sandy, his trip to the mine, his slip that had cost Gomez his life. They listened in horrified silence. From the kitchen they heard occasional sobs from Paco, soothing noises from Enrique.

‘A gold mine?’ Barbara said when he had finished. She looked Harry in the eye. ‘You bastard, Harry.’ She didn’t shout, she spoke in low sorrowful tones. ‘These last two months you’ve been coming to dinner and meeting me for lunch and all the time you were spying on Sandy. On me as well, presumably!’

‘No! No, when I came over to Spain I’d no idea you were with him. I’ve hated deceiving you, I’ve hated the whole bloody business if you want to know. Hated it!’ he said, so loudly and bitterly Sofia looked at him in surprise.

‘And what about the danger I was in?’ Barbara continued. ‘You knew about Gomez and you didn’t warn me!’

‘I didn’t know for certain till Friday. Though I said you should go home.’

‘Oh, thanks, Harry, thanks so bloody much!’ Barbara took off her glasses and ran her hands across her face. ‘Your name was mentioned when I overheard Sandy on the phone. I couldn’t believe you could be involved in murder. And yet you were a spy all the bloody time.’

Harry looked at Sofia. She had turned her face away.

‘It’s over, please believe me. Listen, they’re kicking me out because of Gomez. I’m glad.’ He took a deep breath. ‘They’re trying to recruit Sandy now.’ Looking at the two women’s shocked faces he thought, oh God, what have I done to them?

Sofia turned back to him. ‘That man Gomez was at Toledo. Where the streets ran red with Republican blood and the Moors took heads as trophies. You need not mourn a man like that.’

Barbara turned to her. She looked shocked. Sofia met her eye. ‘You should go back to England, Señora, away from here. You could stay in a hotel till you can get a boat or an aeroplane.’ She gave Harry a firm look. ‘We will help you, won’t we, Harry?’

‘Yes, yes.’ He nodded eagerly, grateful for the ‘we’. ‘Sofia’s right, Barbara, you should go home as soon as you can.’

‘Do you think I don’t know that?’ To his surprise she laughed, a hard bitter laugh. ‘I can’t go home yet. My God. You don’t know the half of it.’

Something in her voice chilled Harry. ‘What do you mean?’

She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders. ‘You don’t know about Bernie. Bernie’s alive. He’s being held in a labour camp near Cuenca and I’m involved in a plan with an ex-guard in Madrid to get him out. To rescue him. On Saturday, in six days’ time.’ She stopped, looked at him. ‘There, it’s your turn to be shocked, isn’t it?’

Harry’s mouth had fallen open. Barbara laughed again; shrilly, with that hysterical edge he’d heard before. Harry had a mental picture of Bernie, laughing as they walked down a Madrid street, green eyes full of excitement and mischief.

Sofia looked puzzled. ‘Who is Bernie? You mean your friend who came to fight here?’

‘Yes.’ Harry looked into Barbara’s eyes. ‘God, this is true, isn’t it?’

‘Oh, yes.’

Sofia was looking at him, her large dark eyes shining with emotion. Hell, Harry thought, I’ve ruined everything. She won’t forgive me for the way I’ve treated Barbara.

‘So that’s it,’ Barbara concluded. ‘I have to stay here till this Saturday.’

‘You could still leave that man,’ Sofia said.

‘No. He’d come after me, he wouldn’t just let me go. There’d be a terrible hue and cry. He mustn’t know.’ Her mouth set hard. ‘If he found out he might get his friends to do something to Bernie out of spite.’

‘You could get someone else to go to Cuenca.’ Sofia gave Harry a searching look. ‘Us, perhaps?’

Barbara looked at her in surprise. ‘Why should you put yourself in danger?’

‘Because it would be helping someone who fought for us. And something against these bastards who rule us now.’ She looked at Harry. ‘I keep my loyalties. They are important.’

‘It wouldn’t work,’ Barbara said. ‘If a stranger turned up to meet Luis, the ex-guard, he’d run off, he’s nervous enough already.’ She told them of her plan, from the first meeting with the journalist in October. They listened in silence. At the end she said quietly, ‘No, I’ll have to go back to Sandy. I’ll pretend I’m ill, say I’ve got the flu and ask for a separate room. He won’t mind, he’ll probably take that girl into our bed.’

‘It’ll be a bloody hard week,’ Harry said. ‘Pretending to Sandy all the time.’

‘Well, you’d know!’ she replied angrily. ‘I can almost feel sorry for him knowing how you’ve treated him.’ She sighed and put her head in her hands. ‘No, that’s wrong,’ she said more quietly. ‘He let himself in for all this.’ She looked up. ‘I think I can do it, if it means getting Bernie out.’ She looked at the newspaper again. ‘It was just the shock of finding out about that man, it’s been going round in my head.’

Sofia was looking at the photographs on the wall, her mother and father and her uncle the priest. ‘You should not go to Cuenca by yourself,’ she said. ‘As a foreign woman on your own you will stand out. It is a remote town.’

‘You know it?’

‘I visited it often as a child. We come from Tarancón, which is the other side of the province, but I had an uncle there. You should not go alone,’ she repeated.

Barbara sighed. ‘I haven’t even got a car to go in unless I can take Sandy’s. That’s the other problem.’

‘I could help there,’ Harry said. ‘I could take out an embassy car and let you have it.’

‘Wouldn’t that be against the rules?’

Harry shrugged. He didn’t care. If Bernie was alive—

Sofia leaned forward. ‘We could take you, me and Harry. Yes, it would work. Harry could be a diplomat taking two friends on a day out. A car with diplomatic plates.’

Sofia looked at him. Harry’s heart pounded. He thought, this was mad, if they were caught it would be the end of Sofia’s chances of getting out of Spain. He and Barbara might be expelled but Sofia— He looked at her. He sensed she wanted him to say yes, to redeem himself. And if Bernie was alive, if they could get him out— He turned to Barbara. ‘Are you sure this Luis knows what he’s doing?’

‘Of course I am,’ she answered impatiently. ‘Do you think I haven’t questioned everything, these last weeks? Luis is no fool, he and his brother have thought this out carefully.’

‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’ll come with you. But not you, Sofia, you’ve got too much to lose.’

Barbara looked surprised. ‘What if the embassy found out? You could get into trouble, couldn’t you, especially with – what you’ve been doing?’

He took a deep breath. ‘To hell with them. You’re right, Sofia, about loyalty. You’ve helped me lose a lot of my old loyalties, did you know that?’

Anger flashed in her eyes. ‘You should lose them.’

‘I suppose my loyalty to Bernie’s the oldest of all.’ He shook his head. ‘I’ve heard rumours about these secret camps.’

Barbara was frowning with concentration. ‘We could bring Bernie back in the car and leave him at a phone box near the embassy. They’d send someone to fetch him, wouldn’t they?’

Harry thought a moment. ‘Yes. Yes, they would.’

‘He could say he’d hitched a lift from Cuenca, no one need ever know you were involved in the rescue.’

‘Yes. Yes, that could work.’ He sighed. He faced losing everything over this, but he had to do it. For Sofia. And for Bernie. Bernie, alive—

‘I will come too,’ Sofia said determinedly. ‘I will guide you.’

‘No,’ Harry said. He laid a hand on her arm. ‘No, you mustn’t come.’

‘Listen, Harry. It will be far less risky for all of us together. I tell you, I know the town. We can go directly where we need to, without looking at maps and attracting attention.’

‘Sofia, think—’

She sat up. Her voice was quiet but there was a light in her eyes now. ‘I have felt so guilty, at the thought of running away from my country. I did not tell you but I have. But now I have a chance to do something. Something against them.’

Chapter Forty

FROM TIME TO TIME the men were dragooned into spending an evening in the church watching propaganda films. Last year they had watched Franco’s victory parade, a hundred thousand men marching past the Caudillo as the German Condor Legion flew overhead. There had been films about the rebirth of Spain, battalions of Falange Youth helping in the fields, a bishop blessing the reopening of factories in Barcelona. More recently, they had seen film from the Hendaye meeting, Franco walking past a guard of honour with Hitler, his face aglow.

The freezing weather had continued unabated. The deer, desperate for food, continued to be drawn to the camp by the smell of cooking. The guards had more venison than they needed; they shot the deer now just to relieve their boredom.

The prisoners shuffled into the church hall, glad at least of the warmth from the stove. They sat on the hard wooden chairs, shuffling and coughing as a pair of guards manhandled the ancient projector into position. A screen had been set up against the wall and Aranda stood before it, his uniform immaculately pressed, twirling a swagger stick in his hands as he looked impatiently at the projectionist.

Bernie sat huddled in his coat, massaging his shoulder. It was the ninth of December now; five days until the escape. He was careful not to look at Agustín, who was on duty by the door.

At a nod from the projectionist, Aranda stepped forward, smiling. ‘Many of you foreign prisoners will be keen for a glimpse of the outside world. Our own Noticiario Español is therefore proud to present a film about events in Europe.’ He waved his stick at the screen. ‘I give you – Germany Victorious.’ He’s an actor, Bernie thought, all the things he does, from this to torturing people, it’s all about him being centre stage. He was careful not to catch Aranda’s eye, as he had been ever since his refusal to become an informer.

The film began with newsreel of German troops marching into Warsaw, shifted to tanks smashing through the French countryside, then Hitler looking out over Paris. Bernie had never seen any of it before; the scale of what had happened was terrifying. Then a bombed and smoking London appeared on the screen. ‘Only Britain has not surrendered. She ran away from the field of battle in France and now Churchill sulks in London, refusing either to give battle or surrender honourably, believing he is safe because Britain is an island. But revenge comes from the skies, destroying Britain’s cities. If only Churchill had followed the example of Stalin and made a peace that would benefit both him and Germany.’

The images shifted from a burning London to a room where Soviet Foreign Minister Molotov sat at a desk signing a paper, while Ribbentrop stood laughing as Stalin patted him on the back. Seeing it was a shock to Bernie. So often he had wondered why Stalin had made his pact with Hitler last year instead of joining the Allies, it had seemed crazy. The Communists said that only Stalin knew the concrete realities, you had to trust his judgement, but seeing him celebrating with Ribbentrop sent a shiver down Bernie’s spine.

‘Through its pact with Germany, Russia now not only occupies half of Poland but has a booming trade with Germany, receiving foreign exchange in return for its raw materials.’

There was a shot of a huge goods train being checked at a border, German soldiers in coal-scuttle helmets looking through manifests with greatcoated Russians. The film went on to laud German achievements in the occupied countries; Bernie’s attention drifted away as Vidkun Quisling welcomed a German opera company to Oslo.

At the quarry that afternoon, he had complained to Agustín of diarrhoea. It was a trial run to establish Bernie had a problem. ‘You’d better go behind the bushes then,’ Agustín said loudly. He shackled Bernie’s feet and led him round the side of the hill. From there the land sloped downhill, there was a vista of white rolling hills. It was a cloudy day; the light starting to fade.

Bernie looked at Agustín. His narrow face was set in its customary gloomy, worried expression but his eyes scanned the landscape with keen intelligence. ‘Go to that fold in the hills first,’ Agustín said quietly, pointing. ‘There’s a path, you can just make it out through the snow. I have been down there on my days off. There are some trees – hide among them until it’s dark. Then just keep going straight downhill, follow the shepherds’ tracks. Eventually you come to the road alongside the gorge.’

Bernie looked across the unbroken expanse of snow. ‘They’ll see my footprints.’

‘Perhaps the snow will have gone. But even if it hasn’t, if you go late in the afternoon they will not be able to start a proper search before dark. Your tracks will be harder to follow then. The guards will send someone down to the camp to raise the alarm but by the time Aranda has sent a search party out you should be almost in Cuenca.’

Bernie bit his lip. He had a vision of running downhill, the sound of a shot, crashing down to the earth. The end of everything. ‘Let’s see how the weather is on Saturday.’

Agustín shrugged. ‘You may only have this one chance.’ He looked at his watch, then glanced round nervously. ‘We should go back. Study the landscape, Piper. If we come back here a second time before the day someone may think it odd.’ He hitched his rifle over his shoulder, giving Bernie an uneasy, unhappy look. Bernie gave a wicked grin.

‘Perhaps they’ll think we are making a marriage, Agustín.’

Agustín frowned, indicating with a sharp gesture with his rifle for Bernie to walk back to the quarry.

THE FILM DRONED ON, showing German engineers modernizing Polish factories. A damp unwashed smell rose from the prisoners. Some had fallen asleep in the unaccustomed warmth, others sat staring sullenly ahead. It was always like this during propaganda films and church services: miserable, resentful sullenness. Could even Father Eduardo believe those services had any value? They were like the films, just another type of revenge, punishment. Bernie glanced at Pablo, sitting further along the row. Since the crucifixion he had been withdrawn, hollow-eyed, his arms gave him much pain. Sometimes he had the look of one who had given up – Vicente had had an expression like that towards the end. Establo treated Pablo with surprising kindliness. His strength was failing and he got Pablo to help him with things; Bernie suspected to give Pablo something to do, stop him sinking into depression.

Father Eduardo, too, had been affected by the crucifixion. Bernie had seen him watching Pablo as he shuffled uncomfortably across the snowy yard. The priest seemed withdrawn, preoccupied, his face full of pain as his eyes followed Pablo. Bernie avoided Father Eduardo now, he still felt ashamed of his part in tormenting him. But the previous day the priest had come up to him in the yard after roll-call.

‘How is Pablo Jimenez?’ he asked. ‘He is in your hut.’

‘Not good.’

The priest looked Bernie in the face. ‘I am sorry for it.’

‘You should tell him.’

‘I did. Or I tried to, he ignored me. I wanted you to know too.’ Father Eduardo shuffled away, his head sunk between his shoulders like an old man’s.

There was a whirr and a click and the screen went black. A guard lit the oil lamps and Aranda stepped in front of them. He folded his hands behind his back, smiling. He enjoys our humiliation, Bernie thought.

‘Well, gentlemen, did the film impress you?’ he asked. ‘It showed what shivering, frightened cowards the Communists are. They would rather sign a treaty with their enemy Germany than fight. They are not real fighting men, any more than the skulking British.’ He waved the swagger stick. ‘Come on, let me hear what you think, who has something to say?’

Responding to these verbal challenges was a dangerous game. Aranda could label a reply that displeased him as insolence and punish the man who made it. Next to Pablo, though, Establo dragged himself painfully to his feet with the aid of his stick. His face was yellow and jaundiced now, making a terrible contrast with the red streaks of his scabies. But Establo would never give up.

‘Comrade Stalin is wiser than you think, señor comandante.’ His voice was a wheeze; he had to pause for breath. ‘He waits. For the imperialist powers to wear themselves out with their war. Then, when the British Empire and Germany have fought each other into the ground, the workers of both countries will rise, and the Soviet Union will help them.’

Aranda was delighted. He smiled at Establo’s ravaged face. ‘But Britain stands on the verge of defeat, while Germany is mightier than ever. There will be no fighting to a standstill, just a German victory.’ He waved his stick at Bernie. ‘What does our English Communist think?’

Everything depended on keeping out of trouble now. Bernie stood up. ‘I don’t know, comandante.’

‘You saw from the film that Britain will not come out and give Germany a clean fight. Do you not hope they will fight, so that Britain and Germany’s ruling classes can destroy each other as your comrade said?’

Establo stared round at him challengingly. Bernie said nothing. Aranda smiled. Then, to Bernie’s relief he indicated he should sit down again.

‘The British know they will be defeated, that is why they stay at home. But next spring, Chancellor Hitler will invade and then all will be over.’ He smiled round at the prisoners. ‘Then, who knows, he may turn his attention to Russia.’

AFTERWARDS in the hut, Bernie was lying on his bunk, thinking. Thick snow on the ground for weeks now, surely it couldn’t go on for much longer. But only five days left. He heard the tap of a stick and looked up. Establo couldn’t walk unaided now and Pablo was supporting his other arm. He stood at the foot of his pallet and contemplated Bernie, his eyes as alive and intense as ever in the candlelight, the only part of him that wasn’t shrinking, being eaten away.

‘You did not have much to say to the comandante tonight, Piper.’

‘There is no point in arguing with madmen.’

‘Britain still fights on the sea. It remains a formidable foe to Germany.’

‘I hope so.’

‘Because then Britain and Germany can so weaken each other that the workers feel safe to rise, no? You saw how Comrade Stalin fooled the Germans into thinking they are his friends.’

‘If he’d joined Britain and France last year, perhaps Germany might have been beaten.’

‘So you agree with Aranda then, Comrade Stalin is a coward?’

‘I don’t know why he made the pact. No more than you do.’

‘He is right. This is an imperialist war.’

‘It’s a war against fascism. That’s what I fought for in 1936. Go away, Establo, I would not argue with a sick man.’ Bernie glanced at Pablo. His face was drawn with pain, one hand on the bedrail to support himself even as his other hand supported Establo.

‘One day,’ Establo said quietly, ‘when the Soviets have won, you will wish you had kept your faith. I will not be here to denounce you as an enemy of the working class, but others will.’ He jerked his head at Pablo. ‘These people will be my memory.’

‘Yes, comrade.’ Bernie rose from the bed. He had to bring this to a halt. ‘I have to piss, if you will excuse me.’ He walked to the door then went round the side of the hut and relieved himself. He looked through the barbed wire at the white landscape beyond. Let there be no moon that night, he thought. Then he jumped, almost cried out, at a hand on his shoulder. He whirled round. Agustín was standing there.

‘What the fuck are you doing?’ he whispered angrily.

‘I have been waiting an hour, waiting to see if you would come out.’ Agustín took a deep breath. ‘The shifts have been changed. I am being made to take Saturday off. We cannot go.’

Chapter Forty-One

HILLGARTH AND TOLHURST were due at Harry’s flat at seven, Sandy at half past. When Tolhurst told Harry he would be accompanying Hillgarth, his face had flushed with pride. ‘The captain’s asked me to come and help this time as I know all about it,’ he said self-importantly, as though Harry cared.

When Harry got home from the embassy late that afternoon the flat was bitterly cold. It hadn’t snowed again but there was a heavy frost, thick fingers of ice on the window. He lit the brasero and went into the kitchen and he put his keys in the little saucer where he kept them. They had been in his overcoat and the metal was cold. He remembered a line from Richard III – he had helped produce the play at school: Gloucester seeking assurance the Duke of Clarence was dead and being told he was ‘key-cold’.

He went into the salón and straightened one of the watercolours. Waiting was the worst part. There would be a lot of it between now and Saturday when they went to Cuenca.

The room held the faint tang of Sofia’s scent. Strange how scent smelt musky in warm air, tangy in cold. The two of them had sat up most of last night, talking about the rescue. What they were doing was a serious offence. If they were caught there would be diplomatic immunity for him and protection for Barbara, but Sofia was Spanish and it could mean a long prison sentence. Harry had spent half the evening trying to dissuade her from coming, but she was adamant.

‘I faced enough danger during the Siege,’ she said. ‘If I’m going to leave my country at least I can do one good thing, rescue one person.’

‘Bernie’s important to me – I wouldn’t do it otherwise. But you don’t owe him anything.’

‘I owe all the people who came out here to help the Republic. I want to do something before I leave.’ She smiled sadly. ‘Does that sound very romantic and Spanish and stupid?’

‘No, no. It’s something clean.’ He wondered for a moment if she wanted to see if he too was capable of something clean, after the murk he had been involved in, the betrayals. He had told Barbara he would help, partly because his heart had leapt at the news Bernie was alive, partly to make up for his lies, but also to show Sofia he could do something good. Something had changed between them; a slight withdrawing on her part, a tiny hesitation only a lover would have noticed.

She hadn’t hesitated though when Harry told her he had arranged for them to be married at the embassy. It would be a civil ceremony as he wasn’t a Catholic, but the embassy could do that, perform a marriage according to English laws. Tolhurst had had a word in certain quarters, smoothed the wheels.

‘The only thing that worries me,’ he said, ‘is whether Barbara is strong enough for this.’

‘I think she is. She’s brought it this far alone. This Bernie, he must be very special. Most of the Spanish Communists were bad people.’

‘He was my best friend. Bernie would never let you down, he was like a rock.’ Not like me, he thought. ‘And how he stuck to his socialism.’ He laughed softly. ‘It didn’t go down well at Rookwood, I can tell you.’ He smiled wryly. ‘Paco must never go to one of those public schools. Either you rebel, or they send you sleepwalking through life.’

THE DOORBELL rang shrilly, bringing Harry out of his reverie. He took a deep breath and went to open it. Hillgarth and Tolhurst stood together in trilbies and thick overcoats. He invited them in and took their coats and hats. Underneath they wore smart suits. Hillgarth rubbed his hands.

‘God, Brett, it’s cold in here.’

‘It takes a while to warm up. Would you like a drink?’

He poured whisky for Hillgarth, brandy for Tolhurst and himself. He looked at his watch: a quarter to seven. Tolhurst sat down on the sofa, looking nervous. Hillgarth walked round the room, examining the pictures. ‘These from the embassy?’

‘Yes, the walls were bare when I came.’

‘Find any souvenirs of that Communist who had it before?’ He smiled. ‘Any directives from Moscow down the backs of the chairs?’

‘No, nothing at all.’

‘Franco’s people would have picked the place clean. By the way, you’re still not being followed, are you?’

‘No. Not for weeks now.’

‘They must have decided you’re too junior.’

God, Harry thought, the things he was keeping from them; and that was nothing to what he was going to do on Saturday. He mustn’t think about that, he must stay cool. Key-cold.

‘By the way,’ Tolhurst said, ‘your fiancée needs to come for an interview at the embassy tomorrow. Just for political vetting, to make sure she’s not a Franco agent. I can brief you on what she should say.’

‘OK. Thanks.’

‘The little boy should be OK,’ Tolhurst continued, ‘but she’ll need to prove she’s been looking after him.’ He looked at Harry with that serious, owlish expression of his.

‘She collects his rations, has done for a year and a half.’

He nodded. ‘That should do.’

Hillgarth looked between them, nursing his drink. ‘You should be grateful to Tolly, Brett. He was over in immigration half yesterday afternoon.’

The doorbell rang again, a sharp peal. For a second all three stood silent, as though gathering their resources. Then Hillgarth said, ‘Let him in, Brett.’

Sandy was outside, slouching, smiling. ‘Hello, Harry.’ He looked over Harry’s shoulder. ‘They here?’

‘Yes. Come on through.’

He led him into the salón. Sandy nodded at Hillgarth and Tolhurst, then looked round the room. ‘Nice flat. See you’ve got some English pictures.’

Hillgarth stepped forward, extending a hand. ‘Captain Alan Hillgarth. This is Simon Tolhurst.’

‘Pleased to meet you.’

‘Drink, Sandy?’ Harry asked.

‘Whisky, please.’ He looked at the bottle on the sideboard. ‘Oh, you’ve got Glenfiddich. I wonder if your supplier’s the same as mine. Little black-market place behind the Rastro?’

‘Embassy supplies, actually,’ Hillgarth said. ‘Straight from England. Perk of the job.’

‘Home comforts, eh?’ Sandy gave Harry his broad smile as he took his drink. Harry squirmed inwardly.

‘Shall we sit down?’ Hillgarth asked.

‘Of course.’ Sandy took a seat, offering his silver cigarette case to Hillgarth. ‘Smoke?’

‘Thanks.’ Sandy offered one to Tolhurst. ‘I know Harry doesn’t,’ he said, snapping the case shut. He leaned back in his chair. ‘So. What can I do for you?’

‘We’ve been keeping an eye on you, Forsyth,’ Hillgarth said smoothly. ‘We know about your involvement in the mine out beyond Segovia, we know it’s a big project and you’ve been having trouble with Colonel Maestre’s committee. We believe his Monarchist faction want to wrest control of a major resource from the Falangists at the Ministry of Mines.’

Sandy’s face went blank, expressionless. He stared at Hillgarth. Harry thought, Sandy will realize the only way you could know all this is through me. Hillgarth could have warned him they were going to dive straight in like this.

‘The shares in your company, Nuevas Iniciativas,’ Hillgarth went on, looking Sandy in the eye. ‘They’re going down.’

Sandy leaned forward, tapped the ash from his cigarette carefully into the ashtray, then sat back, raised an eyebrow. ‘That’s the stock market for you.’

‘And of course things must be getting very difficult now Lieutenant Gomez’s body has been discovered.’

Sandy’s face remained expressionless. He said nothing. It was only a few seconds but it seemed to stretch out for ever. Then he glanced at Tolhurst before returning his gaze to Hillgarth’s face.

‘You seem very well informed,’ he said quietly. ‘So Harry has been spying on me? Not my old pal?’ He turned slowly and looked at Harry. The large brown eyes were full of sorrow. ‘You’ve been into everything, haven’t you?’

‘The information’s accurate, isn’t it?’ Hillgarth prompted.

Sandy turned back to him. ‘Some of it might be.’

Hillgarth leaned forward. ‘Don’t play games with me, Forsyth. You’re going to need a bolt-hole soon. If the state takes over exploiting the mine you’d be seriously out of pocket. Someone could even decide to prosecute you for Gomez’s murder.’

Sandy inclined his head. ‘Not my fault if some of the people I work with got carried away.’

‘Our information is you set them on to him.’

Sandy didn’t reply, he took a long swig of his whisky. Hillgarth leaned back. All the time Tolhurst stared owlishly at Sandy. If it was meant to make him uneasy, it failed – he didn’t seem to notice.

‘All that’s beyond our jurisdiction,’ Hillgarth went on, waving a hand. ‘We’re not really interested. The point is, if you are in difficulties, you might consider a change of job. Working for us.’

‘What sort of work might that be?’

‘Intelligence. We’d get you back to England. But first you’d have to tell us all about the mine. That’s what we sent Brett to find out about. How big is it, how near to starting production? Will it give Spain the gold reserves to buy food abroad? At the moment they’re dependent on loans from us and the Americans, which gives us a lever.’

Sandy nodded slowly. ‘So, if I tell you everything about the mine, you’d get me out?’

‘Yes. We’d send you to England, and if you like we’ll train you up and get you work somewhere else where your talents might come in useful. Perhaps Latin America. We think it might suit you. It’d be good pay.’ Hillgarth leaned forward a little. ‘If you’re happy to carry on as you are, fine. But if you want to get out, we need to know everything about the mine. Everything.’

‘That’s a promise?’

‘A promise.’

Sandy put his head on one side, swirling the whisky in his glass. Hillgarth went on, his voice steady and slow. ‘It’s up to you. You can come in with us, or go back to your gold mine. But that’s a dangerous game, however profitable it might have looked once.’

To Harry’s astonishment, Sandy threw back his head and laughed.

‘You’ve actually been spying on me and you haven’t realized. Oh, Jesus. You never twigged.’

‘What?’ Harry asked, puzzled.

‘What?’ Sandy mimicked. ‘Still a bit deaf, or was that just a cover story?’

‘No,’ Harry said. ‘But what do you mean? Twigged what?’

‘There isn’t any gold mine,’ Sandy said then, quietly but with withering contempt. ‘There never was.’

Harry jerked upright. ‘But I saw it.’

Sandy looked at Hillgarth, not Harry, as he answered. ‘He saw a stretch of land, some equipment and huts. Oh, the land’s the type that might bear gold deposits, only there aren’t any.’ He laughed again and shook his head. ‘Have any of you heard of salting?’

‘I have,’ Hillgarth said. ‘You take a sample of the right type of soil and put fine grains of gold in it, to make it look like ore.’ His jaw dropped. ‘Jesus Christ, is that what you’ve been doing?’

Sandy nodded. ‘That’s right.’ He took out another cigarette. ‘Christ, it’s almost worth being betrayed by Brett to see your faces.’

‘I’ve worked in mining myself,’ Hillgarth said. ‘Salting’s a difficult job, you’d need to be a skilled geologist.’

‘Quite right. Like my friend Alberto Otero. He worked in South Africa, he told me some of the stunts that have been pulled out there. I suggested it might work in Spain, the government’s desperate for gold and the Ministry of Mines is full of Falangists seeking to increase their influence. He scouted out a suitable spot and we bought the land. I already had some useful contacts in the ministry.’

‘The man de Salas?’ Tolhurst asked.

‘Yes, de Salas. He’s had a difficult time keeping Maestre at bay. He thinks the mine’s real too. He thinks it’s going to help Spain be a great Fascist nation.’ He turned back to Hillgarth with a smile. ‘We use our labs to distribute fine gold dust within the ore, the breccia, then we send it off to the government labs. We’ve been doing it for six months. They keep demanding more samples and we supply them.’

Hillgarth’s eyes narrowed. ‘You’d need a fair bit of gold to do that. The black-market price is fantastic. Any sizeable purchases would get talked about.’

‘Not if you’re on a committee that helps poor benighted Jews escaping from France. They’re only able to bring what they can carry and most bring gold. We relieve them of it in return for visas for Lisbon, then Alberto melts it down, turns it into tiny grains. We have as much gold as we need and nobody’s any the wiser. The Jews were my idea actually.’ He exhaled a cloud of smoke. ‘When I heard that French Jews were turning up in Madrid fleeing from the Nazis, I thought I might help them. Harry might not believe it but I felt sorry for them, people who can never seem to do anything right, always sent wandering. But to get visas for them I needed money and all they had was gold. That set me talking to Otero about how gold is always valuable, always makes men’s eyes light up. That’s where the idea came from.’ He smiled at Hillgarth; still he seemed reluctant to look at Harry.

So it was all a trick, Harry thought. All this, the work and the betrayals and Gomez’s death, it was all for nothing. Smoke and mirrors.

Hillgarth looked at Sandy for a long moment. Then he laughed, a loud guffaw.

‘By Christ, Forsyth, you’ve been bloody clever. You had everyone fooled.’

Sandy inclined his head.

‘What were you going to do, wait till the company shares rose enough, then offload them and disappear?’

‘That was the idea. But someone in the Ministry of Mines has been putting the word about that the company’s likely to be taken over. Their latest tactic to get control. Crafty bunch of bastards.’ He laughed again. ‘Only they don’t know it’ll be control of nothing, just a couple of useless farms. But then Maestre put his spy in down there. He had keys to the offices – if he had anything about him he’d have found out the truth.’

‘So you could find yourself penniless.’ Hillgarth’s eyes were cold as stones. ‘Maybe with a price on your head.’

‘At any moment. Or stabbed down a dark alley. I don’t like having to watch my back all the time.’

‘You’ve been playing a very risky game.’

‘Yes. I thought Harry could be an asset.’ Still he wouldn’t look at him. ‘I knew he had money and if we put more capital in and bought more land it would make us look stronger, harder to buy out. Harry would have made a big profit, too. I’d have seen to that, told him when to sell. Then when we learned about Gomez we were terrified he’d found out the whole thing was a fake, but he can’t have because nothing more happened. Gomez wasn’t very bright. But Maestre’s still scheming to get hold of the gold. It’s time to get out now.’

Then Sandy did turn to look at Harry. His face was expressionless, but his eyes were full of pain and anger. ‘I trusted you, Harry, you were the last person in the world I still trusted.’ He smiled thinly. ‘Never mind, eh? It’s all turned out for the best.’ He sat back for a moment, reflecting. Harry noticed a tiny twitch above his left eye. He felt ashamed, too ashamed to reply despite what Sandy had done. Sandy turned back to Hillgarth. ‘You’re the Alan Hillgarth who used to write adventure novels, aren’t you?’

‘That’s right.’

‘And now you’re doing it for real, eh? I used to read your books at school. Harry didn’t like them but I did. Adventures. You’re like me, you like adventures.’

Hillgarth didn’t reply.

‘Though you romanticized things. Remember that one set in Spanish Morocco? You didn’t show what the colonial wars were really like. The savagery.’

Hillgarth smiled. ‘What it was really like wouldn’t have got past the censor.’

Sandy nodded. ‘I dare say you’re right. There are censors everywhere, aren’t there, making us believe the world’s better and safer than it really is.’

‘Let’s get back to business, Forsyth. I think you could still be useful to us. Someone who could pull off a stunt like that, Jesus. But if we rescue you from this mess, it’ll be on our terms. To start with, you’ll need to tell this to people in London. We’ll escort you back on a plane. Understand?’

Sandy hesitated a moment, then inclined his head. ‘Perfectly.’

‘Right. Come to the embassy at ten tomorrow. You’re living with an Englishwoman, aren’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘How much does she know about the mine?’

He gave a cynical half-smile. ‘Nothing. Nothing at all.’ He looked at Harry again. ‘Barbara’s as innocent as a babe in the woods, isn’t she, Harry?’

Hillgarth grunted. ‘You’ll have to tell her something about why you’re going back to England.’

‘Oh, I think she’ll just be pleased to be going home. Besides, I doubt we’ll be together much longer. She’s not a factor.’

‘Good.’ Hillgarth rose and looked down at Sandy. ‘That’ll do for now. I think you’ve the makings of a good agent, Forsyth.’ He smiled at him. ‘But don’t piss us around.’

Sandy nodded. He stood up, extending a hand to Hillgarth. He shook it.

‘What about your house?’ Tolhurst asked.

‘Rented from one of the ministries. Rent free, actually.’ Sandy extended his hand to Tolhurst, who hesitated a moment, then rose and shook it. Harry got up too. Sandy looked at him for a second, then turned away and walked to the door. Tolhurst followed him out.

Hillgarth stared at Harry. ‘Christ, he’s a cool customer. That mine, Jesus, the work we’ve put into it. I suppose he couldn’t’ve been lying?’

‘I think he was telling the truth,’ Harry said quietly.

‘Yes. If the bloody thing was real it would’ve been a big bargaining counter and he’d have used it. I suppose that’s why he confessed it was all faked straight away. He’d guess it was probably only a matter of time before the truth came out.’ Hillgarth thought a moment.

Tolhurst came back and sat down. ‘Sir Sam will go mad, sir. All these resources, Maestre alienated, all for a mine that never existed. My God.’

‘Yes, I’ll have to pick the right moment to tell him.’ Hillgarth shook his head and laughed. ‘Screwing Franco himself. Well, Forsyth’s got balls, you have to give him that.’ For the first time he looked at Harry sympathetically. ‘Sorry your role had to come out, but there was no alternative if we were to discuss the mine.’

Harry hesitated. Then he said, ‘It’s all right, sir, nothing surprises me any more. I’m not even surprised any more at the Knights of St George, the government going in for mass bribery of the Monarchists.’

‘Harry,’ Tolhurst said uncomfortably. Hillgarth raised his eyebrows. Harry went on, it was all over and he didn’t care any more.

‘Only I wonder why it was necessary to bribe them,’ he added bitterly. ‘They don’t want to go to war against us, they know we don’t mind what they do to the people here.’

Harry expected Hillgarth to lose his temper, part of him wanted him to, but he only gave a little contemptuous smile.

‘Go away, Brett. Get yourself sorted out with your girly, then you can go home. Leave Spain to people who understand what needs to be done.’

Chapter Forty-Two

THAT EVENING BARBARA sat at home, nursing a cold. She really did have one – it had come on the day before, and with her running nose and red eyes it had been easy to exaggerate the symptoms and pretend it was flu. She had suggested sleeping in one of the spare bedrooms to reduce the risk of Sandy catching it and he had agreed. He seemed more preoccupied than ever, he hardly seemed to notice what she said now.

He had told her he wouldn’t be back until late. She had spent the afternoon in her bedroom, keeping up for Pilar the pretence of having flu. She listened to the radio, trying to get the BBC, but reception was bad. Then she sat by the window, looking out over the snowy street. After a while she became conscious of a dripping sound somewhere. She opened the window. The air was distinctly warmer and meltwater was dripping from the trees. Already a green patch had appeared under the elm in the front garden. She felt a surge of relief. If the snow was going, that would make Bernie’s rescue easier.

Tomorrow she was taking Harry and Sofia to her final meeting with Luis. They had agreed she would meet him alone first; Barbara feared if she came in with two other people Luis might take fright and flee. After she had explained matters to Luis, the others would arrive. She didn’t see how he could object. Sofia was right: having her and Harry there could only help their chances. She was grateful to them but still felt betrayed by Harry; what complexities there had turned out to be under that quiet surface.

Her reflections were interrupted by a knock at the bedroom door. She jumped up and closed the window. As she crossed to the door she blew her nose loudly and tried to settle her features into the tired look of an invalid. Pilar stood outside, her face surly, her hair under the little cap frizzier than ever.

‘May I have a word, señora?’

‘All right. Come in.’ Barbara’s tone was curt. The girl could hardly expect otherwise; she and Sandy had hardly bothered to hide what they had been doing. She stood in the centre of the room and faced Pilar.

‘What is it?’

Pilar crossed her hands over her white apron. There was sullen anger in her eyes. People always hate those they’ve injured, Barbara thought. She supposed it kept guilt at bay.

‘I would like to give my notice, señora.’

That was a surprise. ‘Oh, yes?’

‘I would like to leave at the end of next week if that is convenient.’

It wasn’t much time to find someone else but Barbara would be glad to see the back of her. The daily would cope. She wondered what had happened. Had Pilar and Sandy had a row?

‘This is very sudden, Pilar.’

‘Yes, señora. My mother in Zaragoza is ill, I have to go to her.’

It was an obvious lie: Barbara knew her parents came from Madrid. She couldn’t resist a dig.

‘I hope you haven’t become unhappy, working for my husband and me.’

‘No, señora,’ Pilar replied, still looking at her with angry half-closed eyes. ‘My mother in Zaragoza is ill,’ she repeated.

‘Then you must go to her. Go tonight if you like, I’ll pay you till the end of the week.’

Pilar looked relieved. ‘Thank you, señora, that would be good.’

‘You’d better go and pack. I’ll sort your money out.’

‘Thank you.’ Pilar curtsied and walked quickly out of the room. Barbara took the key to the bureau where she kept her money. Good riddance, she thought.

PILAR WAS PACKED and gone within an hour. From her window, Barbara watched her walk away up the path with her heavy battered suitcase, her shoes leaving deep footprints in the fast-melting snow. She wondered where the girl would go to. She went down to the kitchen. It was a mess, dishes piled in the sink and the floor unswept. Barbara supposed she ought to do something about it but she couldn’t be bothered. She sat there, smoking and watching the dusk fall. Then, to pass the time, she made a cocido for dinner.

It was past nine when she heard Sandy’s footsteps. He went into the salón. Barbara walked quietly up the basement steps, hoping to get to her room without him hearing, but he called out from the partially open salón door. ‘Barbara, is that you?’

She paused on the steps. ‘Yes.’

‘Come in a minute.’

He was standing by the unlit fire, smoking, still in his hat and coat. ‘How are you feeling?’ he asked. He sounded a little drunk. There was a dull, sad look in his eyes she had never seen before.

‘Still pretty bunged up.’

‘This room’s cold. Why hasn’t Pilar made up the fire?’

Barbara took a deep breath. ‘Pilar’s gone, Sandy. She came to see me this afternoon and handed in her notice. Her mother’s ill in Zaragoza, so she says.’

Sandy shrugged. ‘Oh well.’ He looked at her. ‘I’ve been with some people from the British Embassy. Then I went for a drink.’

‘What was that about?’ She knew, of course. Harry had said they wanted to recruit him.

‘Sit down,’ Sandy said. She sat on the edge of the sofa. He lit another cigarette. ‘Tell me, when you and Brett met did he ever ask questions about me? About my work?’

Oh God, she thought, he knows about Harry. That’s why he’s calling him Brett. ‘A few times, when he first came. There wasn’t much I could tell him.’

Sandy nodded reflectively, then he said, ‘Harry’s not an interpreter at all, he’s a spy. He’s been spying on my business ventures for the fucking secret service.’

She pretended surprise. ‘What? Are you sure you’ve got this right? Why should they spy on you?’

‘I’ve been involved in a big project.’ He shook his head angrily. ‘That’s done for now. I’m finished here.’

‘What? Why?’

‘It had too many enemies. Brett’s people are offering a lifeline, but – Harry, he took me in. I should have realized,’ he said, more to himself than her. ‘I should have stayed alert. But I trusted him. They probably knew I would.’

‘Who? Who did?’

‘Eh? His bosses, the sneaky little beakies.’ He shook his head again. ‘I should have seen. I should have seen. Never let your guard down,’ he muttered, ‘never trust anybody.’ His eyes were unfocused; she thought she saw tears forming.

‘Are you sure this is right?’ Barbara asked. ‘Why – why would he spy on you?’

‘He told me himself.’ Sandy spoke in a flat unemotional voice. ‘Or rather his bosses did, while he sat there. You could see he didn’t want it to come out. They’ve been interested in my business activities. They want me to work for them now. Back in England.’ He shook his head again. ‘England. The drizzle and the regulations and the sniffling hypocrisy. And the bombs. That’s if they don’t shove me in jail or knock me on the head once I’m back. Under escort.’ He looked at her keenly. ‘You want to go back, don’t you?’

‘Yes.’ She hesitated. ‘What about your business?’

‘I told you, that’s done for.’ His mouth worked for a second. ‘All over. The biggest thing I ever did.’

She had a sudden mad urge to blurt it all out, tell him about Bernie and the rescue. It was the tension, she couldn’t stand the tension another moment. But Sandy said abruptly, ‘I’m going upstairs. I’ve some things to sort out. Then I’m going out for a bit.’

‘At this time of night?’

‘Yes.’ He turned and left the room.

She went to the drinks cabinet and poured herself a stiff whisky, then sat down and lit a cigarette. So Harry had been unmasked. He would have hated that. But perhaps he deserved it.

The telephone rang shrilly in the hall. ‘Hell,’ she breathed, ‘what now?’ She waited for Pilar to answer it then remembered the girl was gone. The ringing went on. Why didn’t Sandy answer it on his extension? She went into the hall and picked up the receiver.

‘Señora Forsyth?’ She recognized Luis’s voice at once, hoarse and breathless. She stared round the hall frantically, terrified Sandy might appear from upstairs and ask who it was.

‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘What is it? Why are you ringing here?’

‘Forgive me, señora, I had to.’ He paused. ‘Is it safe to talk?’

‘Yes. But if you hear a click that’ll be him on the extension, stop speaking.’ She spoke in a frantic whisper. ‘What is it? Be quick.’

‘I have just heard from Agustín. We have an arrangement he can telephone me at a bar I go to in the evenings—’

‘Yes, yes, please be quick.’

‘The staff rota has been changed. Agustín will not be with Piper at the prison quarry on Saturday.’

‘What, oh God—’

‘It will have to be Friday, can you come to Cuenca the day before? The same arrangement, meeting Piper in the bushes by the bridge at seven? Agustín has gone into Cuenca, to see the old man at the cathedral.’

‘Yes, yes, all right, yes.’ She frowned. Would Harry be able to get Friday off from the embassy?

‘I know we are meeting tomorrow, but I wanted to let you know, señora, as soon as possible. In case there were arrangements you had to change.’

‘All right, yes, all right. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

‘Goodbye.’ There was a click and the phone went dead, the whirr of the dialling tone filling her ear. She replaced the receiver. She went back into the salón but she couldn’t settle. She went out again and mounted the stairs. The hallway was dim and she remembered when she was a child going up to bed, her fear of the dark at the top of the stairs. She thought suddenly of Carmela, the woolly donkey she had left in the church.

There was a strip of light under their bedroom door. He had gone in there, he was opening and closing drawers. What was he doing?

She went back into the salón and sat smoking and drinking. After a while she heard his footsteps on the stairs. She tensed, expecting him to come to the salón, but then heard the front door close, followed by the car starting up. It drove away. Barbara ran upstairs to her bedroom. He had taken some clothes, a suit and a shirt. She looked out of the window. A fog had descended, the weak streetlamps showing through as a faint yellow haze. Where was he going? What was he doing? It wasn’t safe weather for driving.

She sat at the window for hours, smoking, alone in the house.

Chapter Forty-Three

IT WAS QUIET in the restaurant by the Royal Palace. Barbara ordered a coffee from the plump little owner; she could tell he remembered her from the day she was here with Harry. Only a few weeks ago, though it seemed like a lifetime.

It was just after two o’clock. Harry and Sofia were not due for another hour, but Barbara had had to get out of the empty house. Sandy had still not returned. The daily had arrived at nine and Barbara set her to clearing the kitchen. Then she walked through the silent rooms, no sound apart from her own footsteps and the ceaseless dripping from outside. The snow was almost gone. She went into Sandy’s study. Everything appeared normal, all the pictures and ornaments still in place. She opened the drawer in his desk where he kept his bank books. It was empty. He’s gone for good, she thought, he’s left me. She felt strangely downcast, discarded. She shrugged off the feeling, telling herself not to be silly, it was what she had wanted. She reflected with a strange detachment that not so long ago Sandy having an affair with the maid, let alone leaving her, would have left her prostrate, all her worst feelings about herself confirmed.

The restaurant was filling up with lunchtime customers by the time Harry and Sofia arrived. They both looked serious.

‘Is everything all right?’ she asked them.

‘Yes.’ Harry sat down. ‘Except Sandy was supposed to turn up for a meeting at the embassy this morning, and he never arrived.’

She sighed. ‘I think he’s gone. Cleared out.’ She told them what had happened the night before. ‘Some of the funny things he said make sense now. I think he’s gone off with Pilar.’

‘But where would they go?’ Sofia asked.

‘Lisbon, perhaps,’ Harry said. ‘He told us last night about some committee to help Jewish emigrants from France; they took gold in return for visas to Portugal.’

‘So that was it,’ Barbara said. ‘So that was why he helped them.’

‘They crushed the heirlooms up to make gold to doctor their samples with.’ Harry told her what he had learned the night before: that the gold mine was a fake.

Barbara sat staring at him for a second, then sighed. ‘Everything was a fake, then,’ she said. ‘Absolutely everything.’

‘I expect Sandy’s gone off with a false passport.’

‘My God.’

‘Hillgarth said he half expected it, he thought Sandy wasn’t someone who’d buckle down and take orders.’

‘No,’ said Barbara, ‘that’s true.’ She sighed. ‘So that’s that. I wonder what he’ll do now.’

Harry shrugged. ‘Set up in business somewhere, I expect. America perhaps. I wonder why he didn’t take the chance to get back to England.’

‘He said something about it stifling him. And he was afraid he’d be locked up.’

‘I don’t think he would have been. They wanted to use his – talents.’ Harry grimaced. ‘And yet – he said it all started off because he really wanted to help the Jews. Oddly enough, I believe him.’

Barbara was silent.

‘What will happen to your house?’ Sofia asked.

‘Sandy got it rent free from one of the ministries. I expect they’ll want it back. I’ll camp out there for the meantime. It won’t be for long.’ The waiter appeared and Harry and Sofia ordered coffees. They still had nearly an hour before she was due to meet Luis; the café was a fifteen-minute walk away. Sofia looked at her closely.

‘How do you feel, about his leaving?’

Barbara lit a cigarette. ‘I would have left him in a few days anyway. I wonder how long Pilar will last. They must have been cooking this up for a while.’ She blew out a cloud of smoke.

‘It makes things easier for us,’ Sofia said hesitantly.

‘Yes.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Listen, there’s another problem. Luis rang last night. His brother’s rota’s been changed, it’ll have to be brought forward a day. It’s going to have to be Friday.’

Sofia frowned. ‘Why have they changed his shift at the last minute?’

‘They’ve changed rotas at the camp. I didn’t go into that. I was standing in the hall terrified Sandy would come down any minute,’ she added with irritation, ‘We can ask Luis when we meet him.’

Harry stroked his chin. ‘I’ll have to change my car booking. I’ve got one for Saturday – one of the little Fords the junior staff are allowed – said I wanted a run out to the country at the weekend. But it shouldn’t be a problem, I’ll say the arrangements have changed. I’m on duty tomorrow – there’s a Christmas bash for the translators at the Spanish Academy and I don’t want to go, I’ve put my name down to cover the office. But Friday’s free.’

‘And I will go sick at the dairy on Friday instead of Saturday,’ Sofia said.

Barbara looked at her. ‘I’m sorry I snapped just then. I suppose we’re all getting edgy.’

Sofia nodded, then smiled back. ‘It’s all right.’

They were silent for a few moments. Harry smiled and took Sofia’s hand. ‘We’ve got our special licence. We’re getting married on the nineteenth. A week tomorrow. Then we’re off to England by plane on the twenty-third. We’ve got a visa for Paco.’

‘That’s wonderful.’ She smiled. ‘I’m so glad.’

‘Paco has taken our family name on the form,’ Sofia said. ‘It is strange to see it. Francisco Roque Casas.’

‘Thank God one child can be got out of here. How is he?’

‘He does not really understand what going away means.’ A shadow crossed her face. ‘He is still sad Enrique is not coming.’

‘You couldn’t get him over?’

‘No.’ Harry shook his head. ‘We’re going to try again from England. But I think it’ll be impossible while the war lasts. We were lucky to get places on the plane.’

‘I’m so pleased for you.’

‘Have you booked anything?’

‘No. I’ll trust to luck, I’m not planning anything till Bernie’s inside the British Embassy and it’s settled he’s going home. I’m worried there might be problems because he’s a Communist. From what you’ve said about Hoare I wouldn’t put it past him to give Bernie back to the Spaniards.’

Harry shook his head firmly. ‘No, Barbara, the embassy has to take him in. Whatever Hoare might like to do he was a prisoner of war, he was held illegally under international law. And my guess is the Spanish authorities won’t make a fuss. It’d look bad for them. But you must keep out of it.’ He thought a moment. ‘But don’t take him in at the front. If he’s escaped, the civiles on the door might have been told to watch out for him and they could seize him; he won’t be on British soil until he’s actually inside the embassy.’

‘I’ll take him to a phone box in the centre of Madrid. He can phone the embassy from there and get them to fetch him. He can say he stole the clothes and hitched a lift to Madrid, like we agreed. They can’t disprove it.’

Harry laughed. Barbara thought it was the first laugh of genuine pleasure she had heard from him since they met again. ‘It’ll be the talk of the embassy the next day; I can say I knew him at school. Then I can help him get back to England.’ He shook his head in wonderment. ‘He may even come on the same plane as us.’

‘It sounds as neat as clockwork,’ Sofia said. ‘But remember things may go wrong, we may have to improvise.’ She looked at Barbara sharply again. ‘Are you all right? Do you have a cold?’

‘It’s nothing. It’s better today,’ Barbara said. She was surprised at how Sofia seemed to be taking charge now.’

‘I have a gun,’ Sofia said. ‘Just in case.’

Harry leaned forward. ‘A gun? Where did you get it?’

‘It was my father’s, during the Civil War. It has been in the flat since then.’ She shrugged. ‘There are many guns in Madrid, Harry.’

Barbara looked horrified. ‘But why do you want to bring a gun?’

‘In case we have to run. As I said, we may have to improvise.’

Barbara shook her head vehemently. ‘Guns just make things worse, make more danger—’

‘It is only for an emergency. I do not want to use it.’

‘Have you bullets?’ Harry asked hesitantly.

‘Yes, and I know how to fire it. Women were trained to shoot during the war.’

‘Will you let me take it?’ Harry asked. ‘I know how to fire a gun too.’

Sofia hesitated, then said, ‘All right.’ She turned to Barbara. ‘This is not a peaceful thing we are involved with, you know.’

‘All right. All right, I know.’ Barbara ran a hand over her brow.

Bearing arms went against her every instinct but Sofia was right, she was the one who knew life here.

‘I still don’t think you should come,’ Harry told Sofia. ‘There’s more danger for you than for either of us.’

‘It will make things easier,’ she said firmly. ‘Cuenca is an old medieval town; it is not easy to find your way around.’ She turned to Barbara. ‘Should you not go and meet the guard now?’

‘Yes. Give me a quarter of an hour, then follow.’ When she got up her legs were shaking.

THE AFTERNOON was damp and raw, the streets wet with melting slush. There was still a trace of last night’s fog and some shops already had their lights on. The first Christmas displays had appeared in the windows, the three wise men standing round the crib with their gifts. Barbara wondered what sort of Christmas Sandy would give Pilar in Lisbon.

Real Madrid were playing a football match and there was a little crowd round the counter at the cafe, listening to a radio. Luis sat at his usual table. His nervous air irritated her today.

‘You gave me a fright last night,’ she said brusquely as she sat down.

‘I had to let you know.’

‘Why did the shift change?’

He shrugged. ‘It happens. One of the guards was ill and everything had to be adjusted. It will be exactly the same arrangement, only on Friday instead of Saturday.’

‘Friday the thirteenth,’ she said with a brittle laugh. Luis looked at her uncomprehendingly.

‘It’s supposed to be an unlucky day in England.’

‘I had never heard that.’ He ventured a smile. ‘It is Tuesday the thirteenth that is unlucky in Spain, señora, so do not worry about that.’

‘It doesn’t matter. Listen, will the snow be melting in Cuenca too?’

‘I should think so. The radio said the thaw is happening all over the country.’ Luis looked round, then leant forward. ‘The escape will be at four, as we said. Your friend should reach the bridge by seven. If there is heavy snow and he is not there by nine, or in the cathedral if the bridge is guarded, you will know they have decided to call it off because of the weather.’

‘Or he’s been caught.’

‘In either case there is nothing you can do. If he does not come you should drive back to Madrid. Do not stay the night in Cuenca – details of all hotel visitors go to the civiles and an Englishwoman staying alone would be noticed. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, of course I understand.’ She gave him a cigarette and left the packet of Gold Flake on the table.

‘I think you may be lucky. Despite this Friday the thirteenth. The snow will stay on the high mountains but in the lower part of the Tierra Muerta it should be gone.’

‘I’ve been lucky in another way,’ she said, looking him in the eye. ‘There’s an old English friend of Bernie’s here in Madrid, he’s going to get me a car. He’s going to drive me there with his Spanish fiancée. She knows Cuenca.’

‘What?’ Luis looked horrified. ‘Señora, this was supposed to be secret. How many people have you told?’

‘Only them. They can be trusted. I’ve known Harry for years.’

‘Señora, you were going to go alone, that was the agreement. This complicates things.’

‘No it doesn’t,’ Barbara replied calmly. ‘It makes them easier. Three of us on a day out won’t be as noticeable as a woman alone. And anyway, I couldn’t get a car without Harry. What are you so scared of?’

Luis looked utterly disconcerted. Through the window Barbara saw Harry and Sofia crossing the road. ‘There’s no point arguing, they’ll be here in a minute.’

‘¡Mierda!’ Luis gave her a trapped, angry look. ‘You should have told me.’

‘I didn’t tell them until two days ago.’

‘You should have spoken to me first! On your own heads be it, señora.’ He glowered at Harry and Sofia as they entered the cafe. There was a shout from the crowd as someone scored a goal.

Sofia and Harry came over. Luis shook their hands unsmilingly.

‘Luis isn’t very happy,’ Barbara explained. ‘But I’ve told him it’s all settled.’

Luis leaned forward. ‘This is a dangerous venture,’ he said angrily.

‘We know,’ Harry replied, his manner reasonable, authoritative. ‘Why don’t we go over things and see if there being three of us makes matters more difficult in any way. Now, we drive to Cuenca, get there by four, and leave the car somewhere, yes?’

Luis nodded. ‘Agustín spent an afternoon tramping the lanes to look for the best place. There is an abandoned collective farm just outside the town, and there is a field screened from the road by some trees just beyond the sign saying you are about to enter Cuenca. You should leave the car in the field, it will not be seen.’ He leaned forward. ‘It is important you leave the car there, it is the nearest hidden place to the town. Few people have cars in Cuenca; yours could attract attention from the civiles if it’s just left parked in a street.’

Harry nodded. ‘Yes, that makes sense.’

Luis looked at Barbara through narrowed eyes. ‘Agustín put a lot of work into this. And if it fails he could be shot.’

‘We know, Luis,’ Barbara said gently.

‘And then we walk up to the old town, to the cathedral?’ Harry continued.

‘Yes. It will be dark by the time you get there. You wait in the cathedral until seven, then cross the gorge by the bridge, to the stand of trees. There will be few people around, if any, at that time on a winter night. But the old man, Francisco, is expecting only Señora Forsyth.’

‘Then we can explain,’ Harry said. ‘I think I should be the one to fetch Bernie. You two can wait in the cathedral.’

‘No,’ Barbara replied quickly. ‘It should be me, he’ll be expecting me alone.’

Luis threw up his hands. ‘This is what I mean. You cannot agree even on this.’

‘We can sort that out later,’ Harry said. ‘Barbara, you’ve got the clothes?’

‘All packed up. He changes behind the bushes, we cross the bridge to the cathedral, then we all walk back to the car.’

Harry nodded. ‘Like two couples on a day out. It’s very plausible.’

‘Can this old man in the cathedral be trusted?’ Sofia asked.

‘He needs money desperately. He has a sick wife.’

‘The cathedral.’ Sofia hesitated. ‘I expect like most cathedrals in the Republican zone they will have the names of priests killed during the Republic listed there.’

Luis gave her a puzzled look. ‘I expect so. Why?’

‘I had an uncle who was a priest there.’

‘I am sorry, señorita.’ Luis looked at Harry. ‘Why are you in Spain, señor? Are you a businessman like Señora Forsyth’s husband?’

‘Yes, yes I am.’ Harry lied with a straight face. You do it easily, Barbara thought.

‘Your husband still knows nothing?’ Luis asked her.

‘Nothing.’

He looked between them, then shrugged. ‘Well, it is on your heads, as I say. And I will meet you the day after, señora?’

‘Yes. As arranged.’

‘And your brother?’ Harry asked. ‘He will let himself be hit on the head, stick to his story after?’

‘Of course he will! I told you, he could be shot for aiding an escape!’

‘All right.’ Harry nodded. ‘That’s it, then. It’s settled. I don’t see any problems.’

‘And then you and your brother will go back to Sevilla,’ Sofia said.

Luis blew out a cloud of smoke. ‘Yes. Forget the army and the war and danger.’

‘You were conscripted when the Fascists took Sevilla at the beginning of the war?’ she asked.

‘Yes.’ He stared at her. ‘We had no choice. If you refused you were shot.’

‘Then you were on Franco’s march to Madrid in 1936. With the Moors.’

Luis’s voice hardened. ‘I told you, señorita, we had no choice. I was at the Siege that winter, on the other side of the lines to you no doubt. But there is hardly a street in Spain that did not have people on opposite sides.’

‘That’s true, Sofia,’ Harry said. ‘Look at you and your uncle.’

There was a disappointed shout from the crowd. The football match was over; Real Madrid had lost. The men round the bar started drifting over to the tables.

‘If you have no more questions I should go,’ Luis said.

‘I think we’ve covered everything.’ Harry looked enquiringly at the women, who nodded.

Luis got up. ‘Then I wish you good luck.’

‘I do not like that man,’ Sofia said after he had gone.

Harry took her hand. ‘What he said about the war was true. People often had no choice about which side they fought on.’

‘He never pretended to be doing this for any other reason than money,’ Barbara said. ‘If he was tricking me he could have taken the money I’ve given him already – quite a lot – and disappeared.’

‘All right.’

Two men at the next table started talking loudly. ‘That’s Real down again.’

‘Ay, it is bad luck,’ his friend replied. ‘And have you heard, there’s another freeze on the way. It is going to get colder again. Perhaps more snow.’

Barbara bit her lip. She thought, Friday the thirteenth. Even the best plans needed luck in the end.

Chapter Forty-Four

THE NEXT MORNING Harry and Sofia walked down the Castellana, towards the embassy. Harry would have liked to put his arm in hers but there was a pair of civiles nearby.

Overnight the weather had turned colder again; there were patches of black ice on the pavements, frozen slush in the gutters. People going to work were huddled into their coats. But there had been no snow and the morning sky was a clear electric blue.

‘You’ll be all right?’ Harry asked.

‘Yes.’ Sofia smiled at him. ‘It is just a matter of filling in forms and Spaniards are used to that. I got through the political questions yesterday.’ There were some documents to prepare for the marriage ceremony; this morning she had an interview with the embassy lawyer. The man wanted to see her on her own but she would come to Harry’s office afterwards.

‘This time tomorrow we’ll be on our way to Cuenca,’ he said.

‘Are you quite sure the ambassador will send Bernie back to England?’

‘He has to. He can’t act illegally.’

‘They would here. They do it all the time.’

‘England’s different,’ Harry said. ‘It’s not perfect but it is different that way.’

‘I hope so.’

‘Get reception to call me when they’ve finished with you. I’ll show you my office. The hours are going to go pretty slowly today. When are you due at the dairy?’

‘Twelve. I’m on the afternoon shift.’

‘I’ve had a letter from Will. He’s rented a house for us. It’s on the outskirts of Cambridge, it’s got four bedrooms.’

Sofia laughed, shaking her head at the idea of such luxury.

‘We can move in when we like. Then I’ll see about a teaching job and getting a doctor for Paco.’

‘And I will take English lessons.’

He smiled at her. ‘And see you behave yourself. Don’t cheek the teacher.’

‘I will try.’ She looked around her, at the tall buildings of the Castellana, the high blue Madrid sky. ‘It seems so strange, in a couple of weeks we shall be so far away.’

‘You’ll find England odd at first. You’ll have to get used to how formal we are, how we don’t speak our minds.’

‘You do.’

‘I do to you. Well, there’s the embassy. See the flag?’

He signed her in and waited with her till the lawyer appeared. A bluff friendly man, he introduced himself and shook their hands before leading Sofia away. As Harry watched them go another door opened and Weaver appeared.

‘Hello, Brett, not coming to the Spanish Academy do? Better buck up or we’ll be late.’

‘I’m on standby.’

‘Oh yes, I forgot. So many parties this time of year. You’ve got tomorrow off, haven’t you?’

‘Yes. I’ve booked a car, going for a spin in the country.’

‘Bit cold for that, isn’t it? Oh well, have a good time. See you next week.’

TOLHURST WAS at his desk, a pile of files beside him. Sheets of paper were covered in calculations in his neat round hand.

‘Agents’ expenses?’

‘Yes, have to get these all done before Christmas. Are you coming to the American embassy reception tomorrow? Should be a good do.’

‘No, I’ve got the day off. Taking Sofia out for a ride in the country.’ Harry felt a spark of the old affection for him. ‘Listen, Tolly, about the wedding. I’m grateful for your help.’

‘Oh, that’s all right.’

‘I’m sorry things didn’t work out with Forsyth.’

Tolhurst folded his hands over his plump stomach. He was getting fatter.

‘Oh well, at least we know they’ve no gold.’

‘Any more news on that?’ Harry asked diffidently.

‘According to the captain, Sam was thinking of telling Maestre the mine was a fake. He’ll know how far we’ve been involved, but at least he’ll have been given some information he could use. Let the Falangists make fools of themselves.’

‘I see.’ Harry didn’t care any more.

He smiled at Harry. ‘You’re off soon, I hear.’

‘Yes, after the wedding.’

Tolhurst looked at him for a moment. ‘Got a best man?’ he asked.

‘We’re asking Sofia’s brother.’ Harry realized Tolhurst had been hoping to be asked. Tolhurst, his watcher. Harry was grateful for what he had done over the wedding but he hadn’t even considered that.

‘Are you going back to England for Christmas?’ he asked to change the subject.

‘No,’ Tolhurst replied huffily. ‘Staying on duty. Sitting around in case any problems come up with our agents.’ The telephone rang. Tolhurst picked it up and nodded. ‘That’s reception. They’ve finished with your girly. She says everything’s OK and she’s waiting for you downstairs.’

‘I’ll get off then.’

He looked at Harry. ‘By the way, have you seen anything of Miss Clare? Forsyth’s girl?’

‘I met her for coffee yesterday,’ Harry said carefully.

‘Forsyth seems to have cleared out properly. I suppose the woman will go back to England now.’

There was a knock at the door and an elderly, frockcoated secretary came in. He looked anxious. He peered at Harry though gold pince-nez. ‘Are you Brett?’

‘Yes.’

‘The ambassador would like to see you in his office.’

‘What? What about?’

‘If you could just come with me, sir. It is urgent.’

Harry glanced at Tolhurst but he only shrugged, looking puzzled.

Harry turned and followed the secretary down the corridor. He was on the verge of panic. Had they somehow found out about Cuenca?

The secretary ushered Harry into Hoare’s office. He had not been inside the luxurious room since the day he arrived. The ambassador was standing behind his desk, dressed in a morning suit, his thin face pink with anger. He frowned at Harry.

‘Is he the only one here?’ he snapped at the secretary.

‘Yes, ambassador.’

‘I cannot believe all the translators were allowed to go to that reception.’

‘Mr Weaver’s just left, sir, he was the last. I’ve tried phoning the Spanish Academy but their phones are down.’

Hoare gave Harry an icy look. ‘Well, you’ll have to do, Brett. Why aren’t you at the reception?’

‘My fiancée’s here, getting the documentation for our wedding.’

Hoare grunted. He waved the secretary irritably away. ‘Where’s your morning suit?’ he snapped at Harry.

‘At home.’

‘Then you’ll have to borrow one from here. Now listen. I’ve been trying to get an interview with the Generalísimo for weeks. He keeps me waiting, refuses to see me, while von Stohrer and the Italians are in and out of there every five minutes.’ Hoare’s voice was full of petulant anger. ‘Then out of the blue I get a message he’ll see me this morning. I must go, there are important matters to raise and I need to make my presence felt.’ He paused. ‘I read Spanish of course, but I’m not quite fluent.’

Harry wanted to laugh, with relief that it wasn’t trouble and at Hoare’s posturing; everyone knew he spoke barely a word of the language.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘So I’ll need a translator. I’d like you ready in half an hour, please. We’re driving out to El Pardo. You’ve translated for junior ministers, haven’t you?’

‘Yes, sir. And some of Franco’s speeches.’

Hoare shook his head irritably. ‘Don’t refer to him like that. You mean Generalísimo Franco. He’s the head of state.’ He shook his head.

‘This is why I needed an experienced man. Go and get ready.’ He shooed Harry away, like a troublesome insect.

IT WAS A LONG drive out to the palace in the north of the city that Franco had appropriated as his residence. The car drove out into the countryside, the road following the Manzanares river as it flowed cold and grey between high wooded banks of skeletal trees. Sitting in the back with Hoare, Harry glanced up at the sky; it was still cloudless, icy blue. He hoped desperately there would be no more snow before tomorrow.

Harry had borrowed one of the spare morning suits they kept at the embassy and returned to Hoare’s office, then walked with the ambassador to reception. Sofia, sitting waiting, looked at them with astonishment. He went over and explained quickly where he was going while Hoare glared at him impatiently. When he mentioned Franco’s name, Sofia’s mouth tightened. As they left the embassy he felt her eyes on them.

The ambassador sat riffling through a file, making notes with a black fountain pen. At length he turned to Harry.

‘When you’re translating make sure you convey the exact sense of my words. And don’t look the Generalísimo in the eye, it’s considered impertinent.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Hoare grunted. ‘There are photographs of Hitler and Mussolini on his desk. Don’t stare, just ignore them.’ Hoare ran a hand through his thin hair. ‘I’m going to have to sound quite harsh about all the pro-Axis propaganda in the press. But you keep your voice formal, unemotional, like a butler. Understand?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘If the Generaísimo was a reasonable man he’d be thanking me for the extra wheat I’ve persuaded Winston to let them have. But reasonable’s the last thing he is. All this is sudden, very sudden.’ Hoare produced a comb and smoothed down his hair.

Pictures passed through Harry’s head: the woman foraging through dustbins, arrested when her dress blew over her head, the wild dogs attacking Enrique, Paco clinging to the old woman’s corpse. Now he was actually going to meet the man who had created this new Spain.

The car came to a little village. It had been turned into a barracks, there were troops everywhere; the soldiers peered into the car as it ran alongside a high wall. The driver pulled up at a pair of tall iron gates guarded by soldiers with machine guns. He handed over their papers to be checked, then the gates were opened and they drove slowly through. The guards gave the car the Fascist salute.

El Pardo was a three-storey building of yellow stone surrounded by wide lawns, white with frost. Moroccan guards with lances stood by the flight of steps leading up to the entrance; one came down and opened the car door for them. From somewhere Harry heard the sad howling cry of a peacock. He shivered; it seemed even colder out here.

An aide in civilian clothes met them on the steps and led them through a series of rooms full of eighteenth-century furniture, opulent but dusty. Harry’s heart began to beat faster. They came to a large door flanked by more Moorish guards, their brown faces impassive. One knocked on the door and the aide ushered them in.

Franco’s office was large, full of dark heavy furniture that made it gloomy despite the sunlight coming through the tall windows. The walls were lined with heavy ancient tapestries showing medieval battle scenes. The General for weeks. He keeps me waiting, refuses to Generalísimo stood in front of a large desk, the photographs of Hitler and Mussolini prominent alongside, to Harry’s surprise, one of the Pope. Franco wore a general’s uniform with a broad red sash round his plump middle. His sallow face had a haughty expression. Harry had been expecting presence but Franco had none; with his balding head, double chin and little greying moustache, he reminded Harry of what Sandy had said that first day in the Café Rocinante: he looked like a bank manager. And he was short, tiny. Lowering his eyes as instructed, Harry saw the Generalísimo wore built-up shoes.

‘Generalísimo, buenos dias.’ Hoare said. He knew that much Spanish at least.

‘Excelencia.’ Franco’s voice was high pitched and squeaky. He shook Hoare’s hand, ignoring Harry. The aide took up a position beside Franco.

‘You requested a meeting, excelencia,’ Franco said softly.

‘I am glad to be able to see you at last,’ Hoare said reprovingly. He wasn’t intimidated, you had to give him that. ‘His Majesty’s Government has been very concerned by the support for the Axis in the newspapers. They are virtually inciting the Spanish people to war.’

Harry translated, concentrating on keeping his voice even and unemotional. Franco turned and stared at him then. His brown eyes were large and liquid but somehow blank. The Generalísimo turned back to Hoare with a shrug.

‘I am not responsible for the press, your excellency. Surely you would not wish me to interfere with it?’ He gave Hoare a wintry smile. ‘Is that not the sort of thing the liberal powers criticize us for?’

‘The press is controlled by state censorship, Generalísimo, as you well know. And a good deal of the copy comes from the German embassy.’

‘I do not concern myself with the press. You should speak to the interior minister.’

‘I certainly shall.’ Hoare’s sharp voice cut like a file. ‘It is a matter my government regards most seriously.’

The Generalísimo shook his head, the wintry smile back again. ‘Ah, excellency, it saddens me, these impediments to the friendship of our countries. If only you would make peace with Germany. Chancellor Hitler does not wish to see the destruction of the British Empire.’

‘We shall never allow the Germans to dominate Europe,’ Hoare replied abruptly.

‘But they do, ambassador, they already do.’ A big antique world globe stood nearby. Franco reached out a small, surprisingly delicate hand and turned it gently. ‘The English are a proud people, I know, like we Spaniards. But realities have to be faced.’ He shook his head again. ‘Only two years ago, when he signed the Munich agreement, I thought your old friend Mr Chamberlain would join the Germans and turn against the real enemy, the Bolsheviks.’ He sighed. ‘But now it is too late.’

As Harry translated Hoare stiffened with anger. ‘There is no point in discussing this further,’ he snapped. ‘Britain will never surrender.’

Franco drew himself up, his cold look reminding Harry of his expression on the coins. ‘Then I fear you will be defeated,’ he said.

‘I wished to discuss the wheat imports,’ Hoare said. ‘Your government will need to apply for certificates to bring them through the blockade. We still control the seas,’ he added waspishly. ‘We need assurances none of the wheat will be re-exported to Germany, and that it will be paid for entirely by the Spanish government.’

Franco smiled again, a smile with genuine amusement. ‘It will be. The Argentines have agreed to accept credit terms. After all, we have no gold reserves, and we are not a gold-producing country.’ He turned slowly and looked at Harry, and though he smiled there was something in his eyes now that frightened Harry. ‘I was talking about that only yesterday, with General Maestre,’ the Generalísimo continued smoothly.

Oh God, Harry thought, he knows. Hoare told Maestre and Maestre’s told him.

Hoare gave the Generalísimo a startled look.

‘I do hope everything can proceed smoothly,’ Franco went on. ‘Otherwise – ’ he shrugged again – ‘we would not want to look on England as an enemy, but it is always a question of how a power acts in its relations with us. In its open dealings and its secret ones.’ He raised his eyebrows at Hoare. The ambassador reddened. Harry wondered what Franco would have said if he had known about the Knights of St George. He gripped a table behind him for support.

IN THE CAR going back to Madrid, Hoare was furious. The meeting had gone on for another half hour. Hoare had discussed trade agreements and the rumours of lorry-loads of food being sent to France for the German army, but he had lost the initiative. Franco’s manner had been that of an injured party dealing with an importunate negotiator.

‘Wait till I see Hillgarth,’ he snapped, glaring at Harry. ‘I was humiliated in there, humiliated! That was why he called me in, to throw that bloody mine in my face. Just my bloody luck you were the only translator available. These adventures have got to stop! I’ve been made to look a fool!’ Hoare was almost hissing, his thin features a mask of fury. Harry felt a drop of spittle land on his face.

‘I’m sorry, sir.’

‘Maestre must have told Franco everything, after Hillgarth told him it was all a racket. Maestre’s made the Falange look stupid but he’s made us look a damn sight worse.’ Hoare took a deep breath. ‘Just as well you’re leaving soon. We must make sure the Generalísimo knows you’ve gone. Marrying some lower-class Spanish girl – I don’t know how you think that’ll help your future career, Brett. In fact, I should say that was pretty well finished,’ the ambassador added spitefully. He turned away and opened his briefcase with a snap, pulling out a file. Harry stared out of the window as the first suburbs of Madrid flashed by. This time tomorrow they would be almost in Cuenca and a few days after that they would be away from here. To hell with you, Harry thought, to hell with you all.

Chapter Forty-Five

THERE WAS STILL SNOW high in the Tierra Muerta, but below the quarry most of it had melted during the brief spell of warmer weather that had turned the camp yard into a sea of mud.

Yesterday when they paused for their rest on the way to work, Agustín had sidled up to Bernie as he looked downhill towards Cuenca. ‘Are you ready for tomorrow?’ he whispered.

Bernie nodded.

‘Pick up a sharp stone tomorrow morning, put it in your pocket.’

Bernie looked at him in surprise. ‘Why?’

Agustín took a deep breath. He looked afraid. ‘To hit me with. You should make a cut, draw blood, it will look more realistic.’ Bernie nodded and bit his lip.

Lying his pallet in the hut that evening, Bernie massaged his shoulder, which was afire with pain after the day’s work. His leg was stiff too; he hoped it didn’t give way going down the mountain tomorrow. Down the mountain. It sounded incredible yet it was real. He looked at the bed opposite. Establo had died two nights before, in great pain, and the other prisoners had shared out his blankets. The Communists in the hut were sad, subdued.

When morning came he felt groggy. He got up and looked out of the window. It felt colder than ever but there was still no snow. His heart began thudding. He would do it. Carefully he exercised his stiff leg.

At breakfast he avoided the Communists’ eyes. He felt shame again at leaving the other prisoners. But there was nothing he could do for them. If he got away he wondered whether they would cheer him or condemn him. If he got to England he would tell the world about the conditions here, he would shout it from the rooftops.

He lined up with the others in the muddy yard for roll-call. The undulating mud had frozen and was covered with white frost, like a frozen sea. Aranda took the roll. Sometimes since Bernie had refused to be an informer, Aranda’s eye lighted on him at roll-call: he would pause for a moment and smile, as though he had something nasty in store. One day he would pick him out for something, but today wasn’t the day; Aranda passed on to the next name. Bernie exhaled with relief. You’ve missed your chance, you bastard, he thought.

Father Eduardo emerged from the church, looking tired and miserable as he usually did these days. It struck Bernie that his dark red hair was almost the same shade as Barbara’s. He had never noticed that before, but he had thought of her so much since he learned she was behind his escape plans. The priest went to the gate, raising his arm in response to the guard’s Fascist salute as he let him through. He must be going into Cuenca. Neither of the priests had come for Establo. Perhaps they hadn’t dared; Establo, unlike poor Vicente, had been a feared man.

Roll-call over, the quarry detail gathered in front of the gate. Agustín didn’t look at Bernie. The gates opened and the crocodile made its way into the hills. At first the path climbed through brown grass, then fingers of snow appeared in the gullies and finally they rose above the snowline, the world white again. Agustín was walking some way ahead of Bernie; he wouldn’t want anyone to remember them being together before the escape.

Bernie was put with a group breaking up large boulders. He had hoped to give himself an easy day to conserve his energy but it was so cold that if he stopped work he began shivering at once. Late in the morning he found a suitable stone to hit Agustín with; flat and round, with a jagged edge that would draw blood and make the blow look worse than it was. He slipped it in his pocket, pushing away a memory of Pablo on the cross.

At the short break for lunch he took as much of the chickpeas and rice as he could from the pot. In the afternoon as he worked he watched the sky. It remained cloudless. The sun began to set, casting a pink glow over the bare hillsides and the high white mountains to the east. Bernie’s heart began pounding with anticipation. One way or another, this was the last time he would see that view.

At last he spotted Agustín, who had ensured he was guarding his section, moving closer. It was their signal that the time had arrived. Bernie took a deep breath and counted to three, preparing himself. Then he dropped his pick and clutched his stomach, crying out as though in pain. He bent double and cried out again, louder. The men he was working with stared at him. There were no other guards in sight. They were in luck.

‘What is it, Bernardo?’ Miguel asked.

Agustín unslung his rifle and approached.

‘¿Que pasa aquí?’ he demanded roughly.

‘I’ve got diarrhoea. Agh, I can’t hold it.’

‘Don’t do it here. I’ll take you behind the bushes.’ Agustín raised his voice. ‘Dios mío, why are you men so much trouble. Stand still so I can chain you.’

He can act, Bernie thought. Agustín put down his rifle and produced the shackles, a long thin chain with cuffs at the end, from the pouch at his belt. He secured Bernie’s legs.

‘Please, quickly!’ Bernie held his face in an agonized rictus.

‘Come on then!’ Agustín picked up his rifle and waved him to walk ahead. They went quickly up the little track that wound around the hill. In a minute they were out of sight, by the bushes. Bernie panted with relief.

‘We’ve done it,’ he breathed. Agustín bent quickly and unlocked the shackles with trembling fingers. He threw the key to the ground. Then he put down his rifle and knelt in the snow. He looked up at Bernie, his eyes full of terrified appeal now he was at his mercy.

‘You will not kill me, will you?’ He swallowed. ‘I have made no confession, I have sins on my conscience—’

‘No. Just a knock on the head.’ Bernie took the stone from his pocket and hefted it.

‘Do it now,’ Agustín said quickly. ‘Now! Just not too hard.’ He clenched his teeth and closed his eyes. For a second Bernie was irresolute, it was difficult to judge how hard to strike. Then he hit Agustín on the temple with the stone. Without a sound the guard rolled over and lay still. Bernie looked at him in surprise, he hadn’t meant to knock him right out. A thin trickle of blood ran from a cut where the stone had struck. He knelt over the guard. He was still breathing.

He stood up and looked back along the path, then down the hillside. He considered taking Agustín’s rifle but it would encumber him. He took a deep breath and began running downhill through the melting snow, terribly conscious of how his tattered brown coat and green boiler suit stood out. His back twitched, waiting for a bullet. It was like the Jarama, the same helpless fear.

He passed below the snowline and paused, looking back at the line of footprints he had left above. He had veered to the right and now he ran to the left, hoping the change of direction might fool the guards. There were folds in the hills both ways. It was frightening to be alone, running through this bare wilderness; unexpectedly Bernie had a frantic longing for the enclosing walls of the hut. Then he slipped on a patch of frosty grass and found himself rolling over and over, gasping and grunting. He bumped his shoulder and had to stifle a cry of pain.

He came to a stop at the bottom of the first fold in the hills and sat up, gasping for breath. He looked upwards. Nothing. Nobody. He smiled. He had got where he wanted much faster than he had intended. He got up and ran round the lee of the hill. As Agustín had said, a stand of the little holm oaks grew in a sheltered spot. He ran into the middle of the copse and lay down against a tree trunk, breathing in gasps. Well done, he thought. So far so good.

He sat listening but there were no sounds, nothing, just a silence that seemed to hum in his ears. It unsettled him, he hadn’t experienced complete silence for over three years. He was tempted to run on, but Agustín was right, he should wait till dark before going any further. Molina would soon notice that Agustín and he were missing. He leaned back, wriggling his frozen toes. A little later he thought he heard a faint shout, far off, but it was not repeated.

A half moon rose and stars appeared. Bernie was surprised to see the stars really did come out one by one. When the sky was quite black, Bernie lifted himself up. Time to go. Then he froze. He had heard a rustling sound, a few yards away at the entrance to the clump of trees. Oh God, he thought, oh God. It came again, from the same spot. Gently, his teeth gritted, he parted the branches of a bush and peered out. A little deer stood cropping the coarse grass, a few feet away. It was very young; perhaps its mother had been shot by the guards. Now the snow had gone the deer would be climbing the mountain again to forage. Bernie felt suddenly moved; tears welled up in his eyes and he reached up to brush them away. The deer heard him; it jerked up its head, turned and shot away, crashing down the hill. Bernie held his breath, listening. If they were hunting him and were anywhere nearby, that sound would draw them. But the silence remained unbroken. He crept out of the bushes again. A cold wind was blowing. He crouched down, feeling terribly exposed again. Then he forced himself up and began loping down the hill once more. Seven kilometres to go. Four miles.

He was surprised how much he could see in the moonlight once his eyes became accustomed to it. He kept to the shadows, following the little trackways the shepherds had made, moving steadily downhill. He guessed it was nearly two hours since he had left Agustín but he had no way of telling. Down and down, pausing every so often to catch his breath and listen behind one of the little oaks that grew more frequently now. His shoulder hurt and his feet began to ache. It felt as though he had been running downhill forever, but his weak leg held out.

Then, cresting a little rise, he saw the lights of Cuenca straight ahead of him, startlingly close: yellow points from lit windows. One little group of lights was lower than the others: the hanging houses set into the cliff itself. He took a deep breath. He had been lucky to come out right opposite the town.

He moved more slowly now, hugging every piece of shadow. Clouds had appeared, scudding across the face of the moon, and he was grateful for the minutes of extra darkness they gave. He could make out the gorge now and the black struts of the iron bridge across it. It looked surprisingly fragile, the wooden walkway barely wide enough to take three people walking abreast. He saw there were actually only a few houses built into the cliff on the other side. They were much smaller than he had imagined.

The road that ran parallel to the gorge was visible a hundred yards below him. Bernie ducked behind a bush. No sign of anyone. The camp would already have phoned the civiles; perhaps they would be sending someone to guard the bridge. But it wasn’t the only bridge, he remembered Agustín telling him, there were others further along, other ways into the town. If the main bridge was guarded Barbara would wait for him in the cathedral.

He heard voices and froze. Female voices. A group of four shawled, black-clad women appeared, accompanied by two donkeys laden with firewood. He watched as they passed beneath him; he couldn’t make out their faces but the harsh voices sounded old. He hadn’t seen a woman in three years. He remembered Barbara lying in his bed waiting for him and his heart pounded and warm saliva rose in his mouth. He swallowed it and took a deep breath.

The women and their donkeys passed on. They crossed the bridge and disappeared. Bernie left his shelter and looked down the road. Some way past the bridge he saw a large clump of trees beside the road. That must be the place. There was little cover; he would have to walk along the exposed hillside now, facing the town across the gorge. He left his shelter and began edging his way along, stopping at each little oak.

As he came out from behind a tree he heard a sound somewhere above him, like the chink of metal. He threw himself down, waiting for a shot. Nothing happened. He opened his eyes: there was only the bare hillside. A little way above him he made out another, larger oak, standing on its own. He thought the sound had come from there, but if it were a civil or a guard surely there would have been a shot by now. He went on, glancing constantly back at the tree, but heard nothing more. Perhaps it had been another deer or a goat.

He reached the trees and plunged in among them. There were thick bushes here too, stiff branches whipped at his legs.

He couldn’t see the road from here but he must stay concealed. He would hear Barbara coming. She would know he was here. Barbara. He shivered, conscious of how cold he was now that he had stopped moving. And tired, his arms and legs were trembling. He rubbed his hands together and blew on them. He would have to put up with it. There was nothing to do now but wait; wait until Barbara came to save him.

Chapter Forty-Six

HARRY HAD WOKEN early that morning. The old humming was back in his ears for the first time in weeks, but as he lay there it faded away. Opening the curtains he saw the street was white and his heart sank for a moment. Damn, he thought, more snow. Then he realized it was only frost, thick white hoar frost on the pavements and roads. He blew out his cheeks with relief.

Sofia arrived at nine as arranged. He made breakfast for her. They were both subdued now the moment was here.

‘Sleep well?’ she asked.

‘Not very. I’ve got the car, one of the old Fords. It’s outside. You?’

‘Good.’

‘Did you get away all right?’

‘Enrique is cross at having to stay home with Paco. I told him we were having a day out and he wanted to bring him.’ She shook her head. ‘I hate lying to them.’

He took her hand. ‘No more lies after today. Come on, we should eat.’ He carried plates of scrambled egg through to the salón.

‘How is Barbara?’ Sofia asked as they ate.

‘All right.’ The previous evening, after collecting the car from the embassy, Harry had driven round to Barbara’s house. He had told her the news of the fake gold mine had reached Franco himself; it was likely the authorities would be hunting Sandy now.

There were footsteps on the stairs. They both tensed. ‘I think it’s her,’ Harry said.

Barbara was carrying a large rucksack and her face was strained and pale.

‘Sorry I’m a bit late,’ she said breathlessly. ‘Some people came at six, I was still in bed. A couple of civiles and someone from the government. I was terrified they’d found out about this. They wanted to know all about Sandy. I played the little woman, said I didn’t know anything.’ She sat down and lit a cigarette. ‘Told them he’d walked out a couple of days ago. It was easy to take them in. They don’t think women are capable of anything. They took everything away from his study, even his fossil collection. I almost felt sorry for him.’

Harry took a deep breath. ‘He brought it all on himself, Barbara.’ He found he felt nothing for Sandy any longer. He was just a blank.

‘Yes.’ Barbara nodded. ‘Yes, he did.’

‘We should go now if we have everything,’ Sofia said. She went to her coat and pulled out a heavy German pistol, a Mauser. She held it out to Harry. ‘You take it.’

‘OK.’ He checked it. It had been cleaned and oiled and the chambers were full. He slipped it in his pocket. Barbara shuddered slightly and looked at Sofia, who met her gaze evenly. Harry stood up. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Let’s check over everything, then go.’

OUTSIDE IT WAS so cold it hurt to breathe at first. They had to scrape frost from the windscreen of the Ford. Harry worried the engine wouldn’t start but it leapt into life at once; the British embassy maintained their cars well. Barbara and Sofia got in the back and they set off along the Valencia road. They were quiet; the issue of the gun seemed still to be a barrier between them. After a while Sofia spoke.

‘I have been thinking about what we should say if anyone asks why we have come to a remote town like Cuenca. We could tell them you are bringing me to find out about my uncle. That would be a reason for going to the cathedral too, to look at the list of priests killed during the war.’

‘Do you think your uncle’s name might be there?’ Barbara asked.

‘Yes, if he was killed.’ Sofia turned her head away and in the mirror Harry saw her blink back tears. Yet she was still willing to use her family’s tragedy to help them. He felt a choking sensation of love and admiration.

They drove all morning. In many places the road was in poor condition, slowing their progress. There was very little traffic and few towns; this was the dry heart of Castile. In the early afternoon the ground began to rise, steep hills breaking up the brown landscape. Frozen streams ran down the sides, thin slashes of white against the brown landscape. Key-cold, Harry thought, key-cold.

Towards three they saw a line of low mountains with rounded summits on the horizon. The countryside began to change; there were more cultivated areas, patches of bright green where the land was irrigated. A large town came into view in the distance, a jumble of grey-white buildings climbing a hillside so steep they seemed to be built one on top of another, up and up to the sky. They came to a sign telling them they were about to enter Cuenca and Barbara leaned over and touched Harry’s arm. She pointed to a track leading from the road into an uncultivated field, winding behind a clump of trees that would screen the car from the road.

‘That must be the place.’

Harry nodded and turned on to the track, the car bumping over frozen ruts. He halted behind the clump of trees. On the other side the meadow rose gently up to the horizon.

‘What d’you think?’ he asked.

‘It’ll be a long walk back,’ Barbara said.

‘We ought to follow Luis’s advice. He said it was the nearest concealed spot.’

‘All right.’

They opened the doors. Outside Harry felt suddenly vulnerable, exposed. A bitterly cold breeze ruffled their hair as they walked out to the road. Harry slung the rucksack with the clothes and food over his back. Sofia stood at the side of the road, looking towards Cuenca.

‘I can’t see the cathedral,’ Harry said.

‘It is at the very top of the hill. The gorge is behind it.’

‘And the Tierra Muerta is on the other side of the gorge?’ Barbara asked.

‘Yes.’ Sofia took a long breath, then began walking towards the town. The others followed her down the long empty road.

Only a couple of carts and a car passed them before they reached a bridge over a swirling grey-green river. By then the winter sun was low on the horizon. They walked through the poor shabby houses of the new town, past the railway station. There were few people around and no one paid them much heed. They kept an eye out for civiles patrolling the barrios but only a couple of mangy dogs challenged them, barking angrily but scurrying away at their approach. Their barking reminded Harry of the feral pack and he put his hand on the Mauser in his pocket for comfort.

Then they were climbing over worn cobbles into a soaring wilderness of stone, higher and higher as dusk began to fall. The narrow streets wound up and up: endless four-and five-storey tenements, centuries old, unpainted and with crumbling plaster. Each tenement block loomed over them, then they would climb to the next street and be looking down on the roofs. Weeds grew between cracked tiles, the only green things among all the stone. Thin wisps of smoke rose from the chimneys; there was a smell of woodsmoke and animal dung, stronger than in Madrid. Most windows were shuttered but occasionally they glimpsed faces peering at them, quickly withdrawn.

‘How old are these buildings?’ Harry asked Sofia.

‘I don’t know. Five hundred years, six. No one knows who built the hanging houses.’

In a little square halfway up the hillside they paused to let an old man lead his donkey past, the burro almost buried under a load of wood.

‘Gracias.’ He looked at them curiously. They paused for a moment to recover their breath.

‘I remember all this,’ Sofia said. ‘I worried I might have forgotten the way.’

‘It’s very bleak,’ Barbara said. The setting sun cast a cold glow on the street, turning the little piles of frozen snow in the gutters pink.

‘Not for a child.’ Sofia smiled sadly. ‘It was exciting, all the steep streets.’ She took Harry’s arm and they climbed on.

The old Plaza Mayor crowned the summit of the hill, municipal buildings lining two sides. The third side was a sheer drop over a parapet to the street below, left unbuilt on to give a clear view of the cathedral that dominated the fourth side, its huge square facade solid and intimidating. A wide flight of steps rose to where a group of beggars sat huddled in the deep porch of an immense doorway. There was a bar next to the cathedral but it was closed; apart from the beggars the plaza was deserted.

They stood in the doorway of the bar, their eyes darting over the shuttered windows surrounding them. An old woman carrying an immense bundle of clothes on her head passed across the square, her receding footsteps echoing through the frosty dusk.

‘Why is it so quiet?’ Harry asked.

‘This was always a quiet town. On a day like this people will be indoors, trying to keep warm.’ Sofia looked at the sky. Clouds were spreading across the sky from the north.

‘I think we should go into the cathedral.’ Barbara looked at the door, brown and studded with nails, the beggars crouched beside it eyeing them silently. ‘Get out of sight.’

Sofia nodded. ‘You are right. We should try to find the watchman.’ She led the way up the steps, shoulders hunched and hands thrust deep into the pockets of her old coat, past the beggars who stretched out their hands. She pushed the huge door and it slid open slowly.

The cathedral was vast, empty, lit with a cold yellowish light filtering through the stained-glass windows. Harry’s breath made a fog in the air in front of him. Barbara stood by his side. ‘There doesn’t seem to be anyone here,’ she whispered.

Sofia walked slowly on between the soaring pillars, towards the chancel where a huge altar screen, decorated in bright gold, stood behind high gates. She stood frowning up at the screen, a tiny figure in her old black coat. Harry went and put his arm round her.

‘So much gold,’ she whispered. ‘The church has never had any shortage of gold.’

‘Where’s the watchman?’ asked Barbara, who had walked up to them.

‘Let’s find him.’ Sofia pulled away from Harry’s side and continued down the nave. The others followed. The heavy rucksack dug into Harry’s shoulders.

To the right a large stained-glass window let in the fading light. Underneath stood a confessional box, a tall narrow thing of dark wood. As they progressed up the cathedral the light grew dimmer. Harry started violently at the sight of a figure standing in a side chapel. Barbara clutched his arm.

‘What is it?’

Looking closer, Harry saw it was a life-size tableau of the Last Supper. It was Judas that had made him start, a startlingly realistic Judas carved in the act of rising from the table. His face, turned slightly to the master he was about to betray, was brutally cold and calculating, his mouth half-open in a grim snarl. Beside him Christ in a white robe sat with his back to the nave.

‘Hideous, isn’t it?’ Barbara whispered.

‘Yes.’ Harry looked at Sofia, a little ahead, her hands still driven so deeply into her pockets the shoulder seams of her coat threatened to part. She stopped, and as they drew level with her she turned and whispered to Harry. ‘See, there he is, on that bench.’

A man was sitting beside a shrine to the Virgin, indistinct in the gloom. They approached him slowly. Then Harry heard a sharp gulp of indrawn breath from Sofia. She was looking at a large new plaque set into the wall. Candles were lit in niches beside it and a bunch of winter roses had been laid underneath. The inscription ‘Fallen for the Church’ stood out above a list of names.

‘He is there,’ Sofia said. ‘My uncle.’ Her shoulders sagged. Harry put his arm round her. She felt so small, so delicate.

She pulled away again. ‘We must go to the watchman,’ she said quietly.

The man rose from the bench as they approached. He was old, short and stocky, wearing an ancient greasy suit and threadbare shirt. He studied them with sharp blue eyes, his seamed face hostile and distrustful.

‘You are from Luis, the brother of Agustín?’ he asked Barbara.

‘Yes. You are Francisco?’

‘I was told to expect only one Englishwoman. Why are there three of you?’

‘The arrangement changed. Luis knows.’

‘Agustín said one.’ His eyes darted anxiously between them.

‘I have the money,’ Harry said. ‘So. Is it safe to wait, to bring our friend here?’

‘It should be. There is no evening service today. It is cold, no one has been in this afternoon except Father Belmonte’s sister.’ He nodded briefly at the memorial. ‘With flowers. He was one of those martyred for Spain,’ he added pointedly. ‘When priests were murdered and nuns raped for the pleasure of the Reds.’

So he’s a Nationalist, Harry thought. ‘We have the three hundred pesetas,’ he said.

The old man held out a hand. ‘Then give it to me.’

‘When the man we came for is here.’ Harry made his voice clipped, authoritative, an officer’s voice. ‘That was the arrangement.’ He reached into his coat pocket and showed the old man the billfold, angling his body so he caught a glimpse of the gun as well. His eyes widened and he nodded.

‘Sí. Sí.’

Harry looked at his watch. ‘We are early. We will have to wait a little.’

‘Wait then.’ The watchman turned and shuffled back to his bench. He sat watching them.

‘Can we trust him?’ Barbara whispered. ‘He’s very hostile.’

‘Of course he is,’ Sofia replied sharply. ‘He supports them. Do you think the church recruits Republicans?’

‘Luis’s brother must trust him,’ Harry said. ‘And he could be shot if this goes wrong.’

They went and sat on a bench that gave a view of both the watchman and the door. ‘It’s six ten,’ Harry said. ‘Sofia, how long does it take to get to the bridge from here?’

‘Not long. Fifteen minutes. We should wait another quarter of an hour. I will take you – we go round the back of the cathedral and then we are at the gorge and the bridge.’

Barbara took a deep breath. ‘Leave me there and come back, Sofia. He’s expecting me to come alone.’

‘I know.’ Sofia leaned forward and squeezed Barbara’s hand. ‘It will be all right, everything will be all right.’

Barbara reddened at the unexpected gesture. ‘Thanks. I’m sorry about your uncle, Sofia.’

She nodded sadly.

Harry thought of the old priest put up against a wall and shot. He wondered if similar pictures were going through Sofia’s mind. He put his arm round her again.

‘Sofia,’ Barbara said quietly. ‘I wanted to say – I’m so grateful to you, for coming here. Neither of you needed to do this.’

‘I did,’ Harry said. ‘For Bernie.’

‘I wish I could do more,’ Sofia said with sudden fierceness. ‘I wish there were barricades again, I would take a gun this time. They should not have won. Even my uncle would not have died if they had not started the war.’ She turned to Barbara. ‘Do I seem hard to you?’

Barbara sighed. ‘No. It’s difficult for someone like me sometimes, to realize all you’ve been through.’

Harry squeezed Sofia’s hand. ‘You try your best to be hard but you don’t want to be, not really.’

‘I have had no choice.’

‘It will be different in England.’

They sat without speaking for a little while. Then Sofia slid Harry’s sleeve up to see his watch. ‘Six thirty,’ she said. ‘We should go.’ She glanced at the watchman. ‘You stay here, Harry, keep an eye on him. Give Barbara the rucksack.’

He didn’t want to leave her. ‘We should all go.’

‘No. One of us should stay here.’

Harry released her hand and the two women stood up. Then, with his back to the watchman, he took out the gun.

‘I think you should take it. In case of trouble. Not to shoot, just to threaten.’ He held it out by the barrel but Sofia hesitated; she seemed reluctant to take it now. Barbara reached out and grasped it gingerly.

‘I’ll take it,’ she said. She put it carefully in her pocket. Harry passed her the rucksack. She smiled wryly. ‘Funny, it does give you a sense of security.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Come on, Sofia.’

The two women walked to the door. It creaked open and closed again behind them. Harry felt the separation from Sofia like a physical pain. He looked at the old man. He could feel his hostile eyes.

Chapter Forty-Seven

OUTSIDE IT WAS ALMOST dark. Barbara shifted the rucksack with the clothes and food inside to the centre of her back. It was heavy. The beggars had gone from the steps. Clouds hid the moon but the weak streetlights had come on. Sofia led the way into a narrow alley running along the side of the cathedral. It led to a broad street with the back of the cathedral on one side. On the other, beyond a stone parapet, the street fell away into a broad, deep canyon. Barbara looked across the chasm. She could just make out the outlines of hills against the sky, a white line of road running along the bottom. A little way ahead a footbridge supported on iron struts spanned the gorge.

‘So that’s it,’ Barbara said.

‘Yes. The bridge of San Pablo. There is nobody guarding it,’ Sofia said eagerly. ‘The authorities cannot know he has escaped yet.’

‘If he has.’

Sofia pointed at the hills. ‘See, that is the Tierra Muerta. He will come down from there.’

To her right Barbara saw lights shining from houses built right on the cliff edge, balconied windows hanging out over the yawning drop.

‘The hanging houses,’ Sofia said.

‘Extraordinary.’ Barbara tensed suddenly at the sound of heavy footsteps approaching from a side road. A man in a long black cloak appeared, a slash of white at the throat. A priest. He was young, about thirty, with glasses and a round gentle face under red hair almost the same shade as hers. His expression was preoccupied but he smiled when he saw them.

‘Buenas tardes, señoras. It is late for a walk abroad.’ Hell, Barbara thought. She knew priests could question women out in the streets, order them home. Sofia dropped her eyes demurely.

‘We were just returning, señor.’

The priest looked at Barbara curiously. ‘Forgive me, señora, but are you from abroad?’

Barbara put on a cheerful tone. ‘I’m English, sir. My husband works in Madrid.’ She was conscious of the heavy weight of the gun against her side.

‘¿Inglesa?’ He looked at her intently.

‘Yes, señor. Have you been to England?’

‘No.’ He seemed about to say something more, then checked himself. ‘It is getting dark,’ he said gently, as though to a child. ‘I think perhaps you should both be getting home.’

‘We were about to go back.’

He turned to Sofia. ‘Are you from Cuenca?’

‘No.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I came to see the memorial in the cathedral. My friend brought me from Madrid. I had an uncle here, a priest.’

‘Ah. He was martyred in 1936?’

‘Yes.’

The priest nodded sadly. ‘So many dead. My daughter, I can see from your face you feel bitter, but I think we must begin to forgive if Spain is to be renewed. There has been too much cruelty.’

‘That is not a sentiment one hears much,’ Sofia said.

The priest smiled sadly. ‘No,’ he agreed. There was a short silence, then he asked, conversationally, ‘Where are you staying?’

Sofia hesitated. ‘The convent of San Miguel.’

‘Ah. So am I. Just for tonight. Perhaps I shall see you at dinner later. I am Father Eduardo Alierta.’ He nodded to them and turned into the street leading to the cathedral. His footsteps died slowly away. The women looked at each other.

‘We were lucky,’ Sofia said. ‘Some priests would have insisted on walking us back to the convent.’

‘If he’s going back there, he’ll find they’ve never heard of us.’

Sofia shrugged. ‘We will be gone by dinner-time.’

‘He seemed sad. Most priests look stern to me, but he looked sad.’

‘The whole of Spain is sad,’ Sofia said. ‘Come on.’

As they walked up to the bridge Barbara’s heart began pounding. Her mouth was dry. Images of Bernie filled her mind, Bernie as he had been. What would he be like now? She took hold of the metal strut at the end of the bridge and looked down at the walkway; wooden boards laid across iron meshwork. The far end of the bridge was a vague outline in the darkness.

‘You get back to Harry,’ she said to Sofia. ‘I’ll be back inside an hour, I hope.’

‘All right.’ Sofia hugged her quickly. ‘It will go well, you’ll see. Tell the brigadista a friendly Spaniard is waiting to meet him.’

‘I will.’

Sofia kissed her quickly on the cheek, then turned and walked back along the path. She glanced back once, then disappeared down the alleyway the priest had taken.

Barbara stood alone in the silent empty street. A pulse of excitement juddered at her throat. She stepped forward and took the handrail. The metal was cold. With her other hand she gripped the gun in her pocket. Be careful, she told herself. Don’t press the bloody trigger and shoot yourself in the leg. Not now. She stepped on to the bridge, moving slowly in case there was ice on the planks. Still she could not see the other side, only the bulk of the hill, a shade darker than the sky. She started walking. A light breeze, bitterly cold, ran down the river valley. Everything was silent, there was no sound from the river far below; looking down she could see only blackness, blackness underneath and all around the narrow iron bridge. For a moment her head spun with vertigo.

Pull yourself together! She took a couple of deep breaths and pressed on. She felt something cold on her cheek and realized it had started to snow lightly.

Then she heard footsteps, crossing the bridge from the other direction. She caught her breath. Could it be Bernie? Could he have seen her and Sofia from the other side and decided to cross and meet her? No, surely he would stay hidden till he could get rid of his prison clothes; it must be someone from the town.

The footsteps came closer; she could feel little reverberations through the wooden planks now. She walked on, gripping the rail hard, trying to force her face into a relaxed expression.

A tall male figure appeared, dressed in a heavy coat. He was walking down the centre of the bridge, not touching the handrail. Gradually she made out his face, saw the eyes staring fixedly at her. Her heart stopped for a second before thumping back into life.

Sandy stopped ten feet from her, in the middle of the walkway, one hand in his coat pocket and the other clenched in a fist at his side. He had shaved off his moustache and his face looked different, puffy and yellowish. He smiled, his old broad smile.

‘Hello, lovey,’ he said. ‘Surprised to see me? Expecting someone else?’

INSIDE THE CATHEDRAL the old man stood up and shuffled over to a switch on the wall. A loud click made Harry jump as an electric light came on above the altar, the white sodium glow bleaching the screen of its gold colour. He watched the old man trail back to his seat. He wished he had the gun, he had got used to its comforting feel. Like in the war. A picture of the beach at Dunkirk appeared in his mind, a vivid flash.

He stood and paced up and down to warm himself a little. If only Sofia would hurry, surely she should be back by now. It had been hard for her, finding her uncle’s name on the memorial.

He spun round at a creak from the door. It wasn’t Sofia, it was a tall red-haired priest who stood there. Harry dropped to the nearest bench, clasping his hands together and lowering his head as though praying. Between his fingers he watched as the priest walked over to the altar and knelt before it. He crossed himself then walked over to Francisco. The old man rose from his bench, looking flustered. Harry clenched his hands together. What if the old man panicked, betrayed them?

‘Buenas tardes, señor,’ the priest said quietly. ‘I am visiting the town, staying at the convent for two nights. I would like to pray here for a little while.’

‘Of course, señor.’

‘It is quiet tonight.’

‘There are few visitors in this weather.’

‘Ay, it is cold. But not too cold to pray.’

The priest walked over to the seats and took one a few rows ahead of Harry. He seemed preoccupied and appeared not to have noticed the other penitent in the gloom. Francisco sat down again.

His eyes darted between Harry and the priest, who had got down on his knees, burying his face in his hands.

The door opened again. Harry shot a glance at the priest but he went on praying as Sofia came in. Harry leaned round and pointed at the priest. To his surprise Sofia slipped quickly over to the ugly confessional box under the window and flattened herself against its side, concealing herself. Harry stood up, puzzled. His knee banged against the bench and he set his teeth at the noise and the sharp pain. He crossed to the confessional, trying to keep his echoing footsteps to a slow measured pace: the priest would surely look up if he heard anyone running in here. But still the priest knelt, praying.

‘What is it?’ he whispered anxiously. ‘Is Barbara safe?’

‘Yes. I left her at the bridge. But that red-haired priest, we met him. I told him we were staying at the convent, going straight back there. He mustn’t see me here with you. And when Barbara comes with Bernie—’

‘I’ll have to get the old man to get rid of him.’

Sofia shook her head rapidly, a frightened gesture. ‘He won’t tell a priest to leave the cathedral.’

‘He must.’ Harry squeezed her arm and walked steadily down the nave to where Francisco stood.

BARBARA STOOD stock still, clutching the cold rail.

‘Cat got your tongue?’ Sandy jeered. He smiled again, enjoying her astonishment. ‘Remember that call you had from the prison guard? I was listening in; I picked up the phone at the same time.’ His tone was mild, conversational. ‘Afterwards I opened that bureau of yours, saw all the details you had in there. The map with the bushes by the bridge marked.’

‘But how did you open it?’

‘I kept a key to the bureau when I bought it.’ He smiled. ‘I always keep a duplicate key for everything I buy with a lock. Especially if it’s for someone else. Old habit.’

Barbara said nothing, just stood looking at him, her breath coming in sharp stabs.

‘How long have you known Piper was alive?’ he asked. ‘How long have you been planning this?’

‘A couple of months,’ she replied quietly. She studied his face. What was he going to do? His eyes were furious. Despite the cold there was sweat on his brow.

A muscle twitched in his cheek. ‘Was Brett in this too?’

‘No.’ Bernie didn’t know Harry was here. She looked at the hand Sandy kept in his pocket. There was a bulge there. Did he have a gun too?

‘They’ve been to the house for you,’ she said. Her heart was pounding; it was hard to keep her voice steady, but she must. ‘The police. They took everything from your office.’

‘Yes, I thought they would have by now. I’ve got a passport that’ll see me onto a ship at Valencia. Belonged to one of the French Jews but it’s got my face on it now. I thought I’d just stop off here on the way.’

She gripped the gun, working her fingers so they held the trigger. ‘Where’s Pilar?’ she asked. Her voice was steadier now.

‘Gone. I paid her off. She was just a little diversion. Nothing important, like the way you betrayed me.’ He hissed the word with sudden fury, then took a deep breath and continued in his bantering tone. ‘Well, the worm turned into a dragon all right. And to think I made you. I should have left you to rot in Burgos.’

She didn’t reply, just stood looking at him. He glanced back along the bridge.

‘He’s over there,’ he said, ‘waiting in some trees up the road. I saw him. I’ve been behind a tree up there, waiting. I was going to kill him. I wanted you to find him dead. But he heard me lighting a ciggy behind a tree and that put him on the alert, so I came here instead. After all, nothing’s more dangerous than a cornered man. I shouldn’t think he can see us at this end of the bridge.’ Sandy inclined his head towards his pocket. ‘I’ve got a gun, by the way.’

Barbara could just make out the clump of trees a few hundred yards up the road. Was Bernie really there? ‘Why, Sandy?’ she asked. ‘I mean, what’s – what’s the point now? It’s all over.’

Sandy’s voice was still low but it had turned cold. ‘He used to treat me like a piece of dirt at school, like my bloody father. He tried to keep Harry from me. And now he’s got you to betray me and get him out of prison. Well, I’ll have my revenge.’ He smiled again; a strange smile, almost childish. ‘I like revenge; it’s real.’

She stepped back involuntarily. There was something wild now, deranged, in his voice.

‘Don’t bloody look like that,’ he said. ‘Have I done anything worse than what Piper and all the other ideologues did to Spain? Eh? Have I?’

‘Bernie didn’t get me to do this, Sandy, it was my idea. He didn’t even know until a little while ago.’

‘I’ve still been betrayed,’ he said. ‘But I won’t let it happen again. I won’t be just cast out, discarded. If that’s my fate, I’ll fight it to the end. I will.’ His dark eyes were wild, bulging. She didn’t reply. They stood facing each other for a moment, the occasional snowflake drifting down. Sandy took a deep breath, closed his eyes for a second, and when he spoke his tone was conversational again.

‘How did you get here? Train?’

‘Yes.’ He didn’t know Harry and Sofia were here, he thought she was alone. But they couldn’t help her in the cathedral.

‘I suppose you’ve got a change of clothes for him in that rucksack.’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, I’ll tell you what you can do. You can turn round and go back the way you came. Go back to England. Then I’ll deal with him.’ He nodded at his pocket. ‘I’d like to kill you too but a shot from here might be heard.’ He leaned forward then, his face working. ‘Just don’t ever forget, for the rest of the life I’m letting you have, don’t forget I won.’ He almost hissed the words; he sounded silly, like a child. He gestured with the thing in his pocket. ‘Now, turn round and start walking.’

She released her hold on the rail, took a deep breath.

‘Go on.’ His voice rose. ‘Now. Or I will shoot you, damn it. Three years I spent building you up from nothing so you could betray me. Bitch. Turn round, start walking.’

Barbara put her hand in her pocket and drew out the Mauser. She took it in both hands and thrust out her arms, slipping the safety catch as she levelled it at his chest.

‘Throw your gun over the bridge, Sandy.’ She was surprised how clear her voice was. She spread her legs, concentrating on her balance. ‘Do it. Do it now or I’ll kill you.’ As she spoke she knew she could if she had to.

Sandy stepped back a pace. He looked astonished. ‘You – you’ve a gun?’

‘Take yours out of your pocket, Sandy. Slowly.’

He clenched his fists. ‘Bitch.’

‘Throw your gun off the bridge!’

Sandy looked into her eyes, then pulled his hand slowly from his pocket. She thought, what if he whips it out and shoots me. But she would get her shot in first. He wouldn’t get Bernie, he wouldn’t.

Sandy pulled out a large stone. He looked at it, then smiled at her and shrugged. ‘There wasn’t time to get a gun. I was going to brain Piper with this.’ He dropped the stone on to the bridge. It bounced and went over the side, disappearing into the void. There was no sound of it hitting the water, it was too far.

Barbara ran her eyes quickly over his other pockets. ‘Put your hands on your head,’ she said.

Sandy’s face darkened again, but he did as she ordered. ‘What are you going to do?’ he asked. There was fear in his voice now, something she had never heard before. She was glad; he realized she meant it. She thought quickly.

‘We’re going back across the bridge. To Bernie.’

‘No.’ His face seemed to crumple. ‘Not like this.’

She jerked the gun up, towards his face. ‘Turn round.’

He flinched. ‘All right.’ He turned and began slowly walking back the way he had come. Barbara followed, an arm’s length away in case he made a sudden grab for her. They walked to the end of the bridge and stepped on to the grass verge by the road. The snow had stopped and the moon appeared from behind the clouds.

‘Stop,’ she said. Sandy halted. He looked ridiculous standing there with his hands on his head. She had to think what to do now. She turned to stare at the clump of trees. Can Bernie see us? she thought. What are we going to do with Sandy? She knew she couldn’t shoot him in cold blood, but Bernie might.

Then she heard a patter of feet. She turned and saw Sandy running across the road. He had moved like lightning, the moment she had looked away.

‘Stop!’

He began zigzagging from side to side. She tried to aim but it was impossible. She remembered what he had said earlier, a shot would echo all over the place. She lowered the gun as Sandy reached the other side of the road and began running up the hill, still twisting and turning. He disappeared among the trees. She heard the creak and rustle of branches.

She lowered the gun. Let him go, she thought, don’t risk a shot. He hadn’t a weapon and he wasn’t in a position to go into town and tell the authorities about her – they were looking for him too.

She walked quickly up the road, glancing continually up at the hillside, feeling alone and exposed. She looked across the gorge at the lights of the town, making out the dark bulk of the cathedral where Harry and Sofia would be waiting.

She found the clump of trees. It was dark and silent. Had Sandy been lying, was Bernie really there? She stood looking up at the bank for a moment, then began to climb. She realized she was still carrying the gun and slipped it into her pocket. Her feet slipped on the frosty grass. She looked back at the road and the bridge, both still deserted. She wondered how she had known to say those things, hands up and hands on your head? A decade of talkies, she supposed, everybody knew such things now.

‘Bernie,’ she called into the trees in a loud whisper. There was no reply.

‘Bernie,’ she called again, louder.

There was a sound of branches moving from inside the copse. She tensed and took hold of the gun again as a man appeared. Barbara saw a gaunt shape in a ragged old coat, a beard and an old man’s limp. She thought it was some tramp and reached for the gun again.

‘Barbara.’ She heard him cry out, heard his voice for the first time in more than three years. He stepped forward. She opened her arms and he fell into them.

THE OLD MAN Francisco had taken out a rosary and was turning it over and over in fretful hands. Harry bent over him, putting his lips to the old man’s hairy ear.

‘You must get the priest to leave. He saw my friends outside. They said they were going to the convent. If they come back and he sees them, there will be questions.’

‘I cannot ask a priest praying to Our Lord to leave the cathedral,’ Francisco whispered furiously.

‘You must.’ Harry stared into his eyes. ‘Or there will be danger for us all. And no money.’

Francisco ran a callused hand over the stubble on his cheeks. ‘Mierda,’ he breathed. ‘Why did I agree to this?’

The priest’s muttering had stopped. He had lifted his face from his hands and knelt looking at them. He couldn’t have heard their whispered words but the urgency in Harry’s tone might have carried. Hell, he thought, bloody hell. He whispered again.

‘He’s not praying now. Tell him there’s a family emergency and you have to lock the cathedral up for a while.’

The priest rose and came over to them, black cloak swishing round his legs. Francisco stood up. The priest smiled gently at him.

‘Are you all right, viejo?’

‘I am afraid his wife has been taken ill,’ Harry said. He tried to make his accent sound more Spanish. ‘I am a doctor. It would be a great favour, sir, if he could close the cathedral and go home to her. I can fetch the other watchman.’

The priest gave him a keen look. Harry wondered how easy it would be to overpower him. He was young but flabby-looking.

‘Where are you from, doctor? I do not recognize your accent.’

‘Catalunya, señor. I fetched up here after the war.’

Francisco gestured at Harry. ‘Father, he has, he has—’ But he couldn’t continue. He bowed his head.

‘If you like I can stay while you fetch the other man,’ the priest said.

Francisco swallowed. ‘Please, señor, the rules say the cathedral must be closed if there is no watchman here.’

‘It is best if we close the cathedral,’ Harry said. ‘I will take Francisco home; the dean’s house is on the way and I can fetch the other man.’

The priest nodded. ‘Very well. I should be back at the convent anyway. What is your wife’s name?’

‘Maria, señor.’

‘Very well.’ He turned away. ‘I will pray to the Virgin for her recovery.’

‘Yes. Pray for us.’ The old man broke down then, dissolving into floods of tears and burying his face in his hands. Harry nodded to the priest.

‘I’ll take care of him, señor.’

‘Vaya con Dios, viejo.’

‘Vaya con Dios, señor.’ The watchman’s reply was a shamed mumble. The priest touched his shoulder. Then at last he walked away, down the nave and out of the church.

Francisco wiped his face but did not look at Harry. ‘You have shamed me. Cabrón rojo. You have shamed me in this holy place.’

BERNIE AND BARBARA held each other tightly. She felt the rough material of his coat, like sacking, smelt his sickly odour, but the warm body underneath was his, his. ‘Bernie, Bernie,’ she said.

He pulled away, looked at her. His face was thin, seamed with dirt, his beard unkempt.

‘My God,’ he said. ‘How did you do this?’

‘I had to, I had to find you.’ She took a deep breath. ‘But listen, we have to go.’ She looked up at the hill. ‘Sandy was here earlier.’

‘Forsyth? He knows?’

‘Yes.’ Quickly she explained what had happened. His eyes widened when she told him Harry was in the cathedral with his Spanish fiancée.

‘Harry and Sandy.’ He laughed incredulously, shook his head. ‘And Sandy’s out there somewhere.’ He looked up at the hill. ‘He sounds mad.’

‘He’s gone. He won’t come back while I’ve got a gun.’

‘You with a gun.’ He shook his head. ‘Oh, Barbara, what you’ve done for me.’ His voice broke with emotion. Barbara took a deep breath. She had to be practical now, practical. Sandy was gone but there were so many other dangers.

‘I’ve got some clothes here. You should change and shave off your beard. No, there’s not enough light for that, we’ll have to do that at the cathedral. But change.’

‘Yes.’ He took her hands. ‘God, you’ve thought of everything.’ He studied her in the gloom. ‘How different you look.’

‘So do you.’

‘The clothes. And you’re wearing perfume. You never used to do that. It smells so strange.’

She bent and started unpacking the rucksack. It was hard to see among the trees, she should have brought a torch. ‘I’ve got a warm coat in here.’

‘Did you come through the town?’

‘Yes. It was very quiet.’

‘The camp should have radioed to the civiles by now.’

‘We didn’t see any.’

‘Have you a car?’

‘Yes. One with diplomatic number plates. Harry’s car. It’s hidden outside the town, we’re going to drive you back to the embassy. They’ll have to take you in.’

‘Won’t Harry get into trouble?’

‘They won’t know he was involved. We’ll leave you outside and you can say you stole the clothes, broke into a house or something, then hitch-hiked.’

Bernie looked at her, then suddenly burst into tears. ‘Oh, Barbara, I thought I was finished, then I heard you were going to save me. And I abandoned you to go back to the war. Barbara, I’m so sorry—’

‘No. No. Look, darling, come on. Someone might come. You have to change.’

‘All right.’

Bernie began undressing, grunting painfully as he took off the shirt he had worn for days, stuck to his body with dirt. In the gloom Barbara caught glimpses of scars, of the physique she had loved reduced to skin and bone.

A few minutes later he stood before her dressed in Sandy’s suit, coat and trilby that she’d brought from home, crushed from the rucksack but making him look plausibly normal except for his dirty tramp’s face and beard. She pulled at a couple of creases. ‘There,’ she said softly. She had a sudden wild desire to laugh. ‘You’ll do.’

THE HALF HOUR after the priest left was the longest in Harry’s life. He and Sofia paced about uneasily, looking between the door and the old man. They had had a narrow escape with the priest. And they were on the verge of happiness, he and Sofia and perhaps Paco too. Let nothing else go wrong, he prayed to the God he didn’t believe in, nothing else.

At last the door opened again. Harry and Sofia tensed. The old man stared too, fearfully, as Bernie and Barbara came slowly in, Barbara supporting Bernie who was limping with exhaustion. At first Harry didn’t recognize the gaunt, bearded figure, then he ran over to them, Sofia following behind.

‘Bernie,’ he said quietly. ‘Christ, you look as if you’ve been through it.’

Bernie laughed incredulously. ‘Harry. It is you.’ He kept blinking rapidly, as though this new world where he found himself was too much to take in. ‘Jesus, I couldn’t bloody believe it.’

Harry felt his face working with emotion at the sight of the scarecrow face. ‘What the hell have you been up to? Look at the state of you. Rookwood would have something to say.’

Bernie bit his lip. Harry could see he was close to tears. ‘Been fighting a war, Harry.’ He leaned forward and hugged him in the Spanish way. Harry allowed himself to relax into the embrace and they held each other tightly for a moment before Harry pulled apart, embarrassed. Bernie swayed a little.

‘Are you all right?’ Sofia asked anxiously.

‘I’d better sit down.’ Bernie smiled at her. ‘You must be Sofia.’

‘Yes.’

‘Viva la República,’ he said softly.

‘Viva la República.’

‘Are you a Communist?’ he asked her.

‘No.’ She looked at him seriously. ‘I did not like the things the Communists did.’

‘We thought they were necessary.’ He sighed.

Barbara took his arm. ‘Come on, you have to shave. Go to the font. Go on.’ She handed Bernie a shaving bag and he limped down to the font. Harry went over to the old man. Francisco glared up at him, his face smeared from his tears. Harry handed him the roll of notes. ‘Your money, señor.’

Francisco crushed them in his fist in an angry gesture. Harry thought he was going to throw them to the floor but he slipped them in his pocket and slumped against the wall. Bernie reappeared, his face still a little stubbly, older and much thinner and marked with deep lines but now recognizably Bernie.

‘I must sit down,’ he said. ‘I’m bloody shattered.’

‘Yes, of course.’ Barbara turned to the others. ‘He’s very tired, but we have to get away as soon as possible.’

‘Did something happen?’ Sofia asked, the sharpness in her voice making Harry look up. Barbara told them about Sandy.

‘Jesus Christ,’ Harry said. ‘He’s gone over the edge. Mad.’

‘Half mad anyway, with anger.’

‘We should go as soon as we can,’ Sofia said. ‘I am worried about the priest telling them at the convent that the cathedral is closed, them sending someone to the old man’s house.’

‘Yes.’ Harry glanced over to where Francisco sat looking at them stonily, then put his hand on Bernie’s shoulder. ‘The car’s a few miles away. Outside the town. D’you think you can make it? It’s all downhill.’

He nodded. ‘I’ll try. Yes. If we go slowly.’

‘You look human again.’

‘Thanks.’ He looked up. ‘Is it true England’s still holding out?’

‘Yes. The bombing’s bad but we’re holding on. Bernie, we ought to go,’ Barbara said.

‘All right.’ Bernie stood, wincing as he rose. He’s completely exhausted, Harry thought, burnt out.

‘What were you saying about a priest?’ Bernie asked.

‘Sofia and Barbara met him on their way to the bridge. Then he came into the church to pray, but I managed to get the watchman to get rid of him. It was a nasty moment; I’ll see him kneeling there praying for the rest of my life I think, his black sotana and red hair.’

‘Red hair?’ Bernie thought a moment. ‘What was he like?’

‘Young, tall. Fattish.’

He took a deep breath. ‘God, that sounds like Father Eduardo. He’s one of the priests at the camp.’

‘Yes, that was his name,’ Barbara said. ‘Good lord. He didn’t seem the type.’

‘He isn’t, he’s a sort of holy innocent or something.’ Bernie set his lips. ‘But if he finds us here we’re done for. He’d still report us.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Come on. Let’s go.’

Harry took the empty rucksack and they headed for the door. He felt an overwhelming relief at leaving the building. He looked back at the old man; he still sat on his bench, his head in his hands, a tiny figure among all the gigantic monuments to faith.

Chapter Forty-Eight

THEIR PROGRESS back down the steep, badly lit streets was slow. Bernie felt exhausted. The few people they passed turned to look at them; Bernie wondered whether with his unsteady gait they thought he was drunk. He felt drunk, intoxicated with amazement and happiness.

He had wondered how he would feel seeing Barbara after so long. It was a tougher, more sophisticated woman who had appeared on the cold hillside but it was still Barbara, he could see that all the things he had loved were still there. It felt as though it was only yesterday he had last seen her, that the Jarama and the last three years were all a dream. But the pain in his shoulder was all too real, while his feet, which had swollen into every crevice of his cracked broken boots, were an agony.

Halfway down the long hill they came to a little square with a stone bench under a statue of a general. ‘Can I sit down?’ Bernie whispered to Barbara. ‘Just for a minute?’

Sofia turned and looked at them seriously. ‘Can you not go on?’ She glanced nervously at a bar on one side of the square. The windows were lit and voices came from within.

‘Just five minutes?’ Barbara pleaded.

Bernie slumped on to the bench. Barbara sat beside him and the other two stood a few paces off. Like guardian angels, Bernie thought. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said quietly. ‘I just feel a bit dizzy. I’ll be all right in a minute.’

Barbara put her hand on his forehead. ‘You’re a bit feverish,’ she said. She took out her cigarettes and offered him one.

He laughed. ‘A proper cigarette. Gold Flake.’

‘Sandy used to get them.’

He held her hand, looked into her face. ‘I tried to forget you,’ he said. ‘In the camp.’

‘Did you manage it?’ she asked with forced lightness.

‘No. You have to try and forget the good things or they just torment you. But they keep coming back. Like the glimpses of the hanging houses. We used to see them sometimes on the way to the quarry. Hanging above the mist. It was a sort of mirage. They looked so small when we passed them earlier.’

‘I’m sorry about Sandy,’ she said. ‘Only – when I thought you were dead I was so broken up. And he was kind at first, he seemed kind.’

‘I should never have left you.’ He gripped her hand tight. ‘When Agustín told me it was you arranging the escape, when he said your name, that was the best moment, the best.’ He felt a rush of emotion. ‘I’ll never leave you again.’

The bar door opened, letting out a smell of stale wine and cigarette smoke. Two labourers came out and walked up the hill, glancing in surprise at the quartet by the fountain. Harry and Sofia came over.

‘We mustn’t stay here,’ Harry said. ‘Can you go on?’

Bernie nodded. When he stood up it was as though he put his feet in fire; but he made himself ignore it, they were nearly there.

THEY WALKED slowly on, saying little. Bernie found that despite the pain from his feet he seemed to notice everything with newly heightened senses: the sound of a dog barking, the sight of a tall tree looming up in the darkness, the smell of Barbara’s perfume; all the thousand and one things that had been kept from him since 1937.

They cleared the town, crossed the river, then walked down the long empty road to the field where the car was. It began to snow again, not heavily, little flakes that made a tiny pit-pit noise in the silence as they landed on the grass. His new clothes kept Bernie warm, their unfamiliar softness another new sensation.

‘We’re nearly there,’ Barbara whispered at length. ‘The car’s behind those trees.’

They turned through the gateway and on to the rutted track, Bernie gritting his teeth as his boots slipped on the uneven surface. Harry and Sofia walked a little ahead, Barbara was still at Bernie’s side. He saw the dim shape of a car ahead.

‘I’ll drive,’ Barbara told Harry.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes. You drove us out. Bernie, if you go in the back you can stretch your legs out.’

‘All right.’ He leaned against the cold metal of the Ford as Barbara opened the driver’s door. She threw in the rucksack and slid into the passenger seat, pulling the catches that unlocked the other doors. Harry opened a rear door, smiling the old solid reassuring smile. ‘Your car, sir,’ he said. Bernie squeezed his arm.

Then Sofia raised a hand. ‘I heard something,’ she whispered. ‘In the trees.’

‘It’ll be a deer,’ Bernie said, remembering the one that had disturbed him in his hiding place.

‘Wait.’ Sofia stepped away from the car and walked slowly over to the stand of holm oaks. They sent long black shadows over the grass. The others watched her. She stopped and squinted into the branches.

‘I can’t hear anything,’ Bernie whispered. He glanced into the car. Barbara was looking over her shoulder at them questioningly.

‘Come on,’ Harry called out.

‘Yes, all right.’ Then Sofia turned away.

A SEARCHLIGHT BEAM lanced from the trees. The crashing rattle of a machine gun spat from the copse and Bernie saw little branches flying into the air as Sofia, caught in the searchlight, jumped and jerked as bullets tore into her. Gouts of blood flew from her small form as it crashed over and hit the ground.

Harry began running to her but Bernie grabbed his arm and with a strength he didn’t know he had left threw him against the side of the car. Harry struggled for a second, then froze as two civiles stepped from the trees, their black bicorn hats glinting in the searchlight. One, an older man with a hard-bitten face, pointed a heavy submachine gun at them with a cold, unemotional expression. The other, who was young and scared-looking, held a revolver.

Bernie found himself unable to breathe. He gasped as he tried to suck in air, still holding Harry by the shoulders. The older civil went and prodded Sofia’s head with his foot, grunting with satisfaction as it lolled back lifeless. Harry tried to move again but still Bernie held him, though it hurt his shoulder.

‘It’s too late,’ he said.

He turned to look into the car. Barbara was still leaning over the seat watching, her expression terrified. The civiles stood at a little distance, covering them, as two men in army uniform stepped into the open. One was Aranda, a smile on his handsome face. The other was thinner, older, thin strands of black hair combed across his bald head, grim satisfaction on his craggy face.

‘Maestre,’ Harry said. ‘Dear God, it’s General Maestre. Oh God, Sofia.’ His voice lurched and he began to sob helplessly.

The officers marched purposefully to them. Maestre flicked a look of contempt at Harry.

‘All of you stay where you are.’ He raised his voice. ‘Señorita Clare, get out of the car.’

Barbara stepped out. She seemed on the point of collapse; she leaned against the open door, her face stricken as she looked at Sofia’s body. Aranda smiled happily at Bernie.

‘Well, we have caught our little bird again.’

Harry stared at Maestre. ‘How did you know about this? Was it Forsyth?’

‘No.’ The minister stared at him coldly. ‘This rescue was set up by us, Señor Brett. Colonel Aranda and I are old friends, we served in Morocco together. One night at a reunion he told me of an Englishman being held at the Tierra Muerta camp, with an English girlfriend who was now in Madrid. The name rang a bell.’ He put his hands in his pockets. ‘We have files on anyone who was involved with the Republic and when I saw Miss Clare was passing herself off as Forsyth’s wife, my friend and I decided we could embarrass him. Today would have been a good day to bring it all to a head – there is an important meeting to do with the gold mine tomorrow.’

‘Oh, no,’ Barbara groaned.

Maestre took out a cigarette and lit it. He blew a cloud of smoke at the sky then looked at Harry again with hard concentration, as though he hated him, Bernie thought. But his voice was still quiet, urbane.

‘Although there was no gold mine in the end, was there? We know that now.’

Harry made no reply. He hardly seemed to be listening any more.

He tried again to jerk away from Bernie’s grip but Bernie held him fast, though he winced with the effort. If he tried to run they might shoot him. Maestre went on.

‘We bribed the English journalist Markby to start things off – oh, do not look so surprised, Señorita Clare, the English can be bribed too – and then Colonel Aranda arranged for one of our former guards who was unemployed in Madrid to develop things. He knew that he and his brother needed money for their mother.’

‘Luis?’ Barbara asked. ‘Luis was working for you? Oh, Christ.’

‘He and Agustín will be getting money to help their mother, but from us. Though we are also letting them keep the money you gave them.’ He shook his head. ‘Luis tried to get out of it a couple of times. I think deceiving you troubled both him and his brother. But we have to be hard if we are to rebuild Spain.’

Maestre began walking to and fro, his tall slim form moving in and out of the searchlight beam where more and more snowflakes whirled, a soldier reflecting on a successful campaign. The light twinkled on his polished buttons. Aranda watched him with a smile. A little way off the snow was settling on Sofia’s black coat and in her hair. Harry had stopped sobbing, he stood slumped in Bernie’s arms now.

‘We always planned to arrest you here. Forsyth doesn’t matter now and we thought of preventing the escape. But we knew you would make trouble at the embassy about the camp, Miss Clare, perhaps involve your Red Cross friends. And Señor Brett is involved too. That would embarrass Ambassador Hoare, who has already annoyed the Generalísimo because of his spying, and because the Englishman Forsyth tried to deceive him over the gold. We will catch Forsyth by the way, all the ports and borders are being watched. And we need Hoare, we need his help to keep Spain out of the war, so that the people who have always ruled Spain can take control from that Falange rabble.’

‘What are you going to do with us?’ Bernie heard a tremble in Barbara’s voice.

Maestre shrugged. ‘Keep you locked away for now. It might be most convenient for all if Piper was shot trying to escape, and you and Señor Brett were reported dead, in a car accident perhaps.’

Aranda stepped up to Maestre, his smile gone. ‘We should kill them all now,’ he said.

Maestre shook his head. ‘No. We’ll keep them locked away for now. I need to think. We have the big meeting tomorrow. But thank you, Manuel, for bringing the escape forward a day. I wanted to see them for myself.’ Maestre smiled again.

They all turned as Barbara gave a little moan and slumped to the ground. Aranda laughed. ‘The stupid whore has fainted.’ He nodded to the young civil. ‘Wake her up.’

The man knelt beside her. He shook her shoulder and she groaned. ‘What—’

‘You fainted, señorita,’ he said, surprisingly gently.

‘Oh. Oh God.’ Barbara sat up, put her hands between her knees. Bernie moved to go to her but the civil motioned him back with his pistol. Harry, freed from Bernie’s grasp, tottered away. He walked slowly over to Sofia’s body, bent like an old man, passing unheedingly through the searchlight beam. The civil with the machine gun swivelled towards him but Maestre raised a hand, watching as Harry knelt beside her. He stroked her snow-spotted hair, then looked at Maestre.

‘Why did you kill her? Why?’

‘She broke the law.’ Maestre waved a finger in a minatory way. ‘That will not be tolerated now. This disorderly people needs keeping in order and we know how to do it. Now get back to the car.’

‘Murderers,’ Harry said, stroking Sofia’s hair. ‘Murderers.’

‘And to think my daughter wanted to walk out with you,’ Maestre said. ‘You little prick. It was because of you Alfonso died.’

Barbara stood up. She leaned on the open car door, her face white. ‘Please,’ she said weakly. ‘May I sit in the car? I can’t stop shaking.’

‘She looks ill, mi general,’ the young civil said.

Maestre nodded, looking disdainfully at Barbara as she climbed inside. The young civil closed the door. Aranda smiled at Bernie. ‘Englishwomen, they have no guts, eh?’

Maestre grunted. ‘They are an effete, decayed people. If they could win the war we could get rid of the Falange but I wonder if they are capable of it.’

Bernie glanced round. He could see the back of Barbara’s head, trembling slightly. Harry was crouched over Sofia, sobbing, the snow settling on him too now.

‘It is time to leave,’ Maestre said. ‘You!’ he called to Harry. ‘Back to the car!’

Harry got up and walked slowly back to Bernie. Bernie took his arm and looked at him. He looked awful, his face sagging with shock.

Maestre waved to the civil with the pistol. ‘Go to our car. Radio your office we are coming in.’

The man saluted. ‘I will be back in a quarter of an hour, mi general.’ He ran off towards the road. His colleague stood motionless, the other civil still covering Harry and Bernie with the machine gun.

Aranda waved a finger at Bernie, his good humour restored. ‘General Maestre made a special trip from Madrid to join me here. We knew you were at the cathedral, of course; the watchman and the church authorities were in on this too. I have seen you these last weeks, Piper, waiting for your punishment for not informing for me. That was a game I played with you. Well, here is your punishment.’ He laughed. ‘Do you know, the civiles have had Father Eduardo pestering them, saying two women were missing, they had not arrived at the convent where they were staying. What a simpleton he is.’

BARBARA HADN’T really fainted, although when the general talked of them being killed she almost had. That was what had given her the idea to pretend to collapse in order to get back in the car. The two officers were standing directly behind it. She guessed they wouldn’t know she could drive, few Spanish women drove. She watched the scene behind her in the mirror, trying to keep her eyes from Sofia’s body, calculating. When she saw the young civil go back to the trees she thought, it’s now or never. It would be a risk but she had to try. They were probably all going to be killed anyway, and she hadn’t come this far not to be able to take Bernie back with her, to share her life with him. She wouldn’t leave him to them again.

Slowly, checking in the mirror that she was unobserved, she grasped the key in the ignition. It all depended on the engine catching first time but it was a good car; it had started that morning after a whole night outside. If she reversed fast then Bernie and Harry, leaning against the side of the car, would be pushed away; the officers would be hit, and if the civil with the machine gun gave her time she could swerve and get him too. She looked at the civil. His eyes were fixed on Harry and Bernie, his face still hard and expressionless.

She took a deep breath and quietly turned the key. The engine roared into life and she threw the car into reverse. She felt Bernie and Harry fall away, Bernie shouting ‘No!’ The older officer, the one who had taunted Harry, managed to jump aside but fell over backwards. For a split second, in the mirror, she saw an expression of outraged surprise on the face of the other officer, the colonel from the camp. Then he fell beneath the car; she heard a scream and felt a crunch as the wheels went over him.

The civil stood with an astonished look on his face, then he turned, raising the heavy machine gun to point at the car. But those seconds gave Barbara time to slew round; the rear corner hit the man hard and the sub-machine gun flew into the air, bouncing off the car roof with a bang as the man went down. Barbara hauled the handbrake up and jumped out, pulling the gun from her coat pocket. The engine was still running.

Harry and Bernie were picking themselves up from the grass. Harry looked stunned but Bernie was alert. ‘Look out!’ he shouted.

The civil was pulling himself groggily to his feet, reaching for his pistol. Barbara didn’t stop to think, she just pulled the Mauser up and fired. There was a roar and a flash and a spout of blood from the man’s chest. He pitched over backwards and lay still. She stood, shocked by what she had done. She turned to where Aranda lay under the car. He too was dead; his eyes stared unbelievingly upwards, his mouth open, white teeth bared in a final snarl of rage. A sliver of blood trickled down his chin.

‘Oh God,’ she said.

Maestre sat up groggily; he looked stunned, the rats’ tails of black hair that had been combed over his head falling absurdly down one side of his face. ‘Don’t shoot me,’ he cried out in a new voice, hoarse and terrified. He held up his arm as though it could ward off bullets. ‘Please, please.’

Barbara felt Bernie take her arm, pull the gun from her hand.

He pointed it at Maestre. ‘Get in the car,’ he said urgently over his

shoulder to Barbara. ‘Get Harry in. Can you drive?’

‘Yes.’

‘We haven’t much time,’ he said, ‘the other one will be back.’

Maestre was lying on his back on the grass, supporting himself on his elbows. Barbara watched as Bernie walked slowly towards him, aiming the gun at his head. The general blinked snow out of his eyes. It was coming down faster, settling on his uniform. Near him Sofia’s body was a white mound now.

Barbara couldn’t face hearing another shot, seeing someone else die. ‘Bernie,’ she said. ‘Bernie, don’t kill him.’

Bernie turned to her and she saw Maestre’s hand move to his pocket, quick as a striking snake. ‘Look out!’ she called as the general pulled out a gun. Bernie turned and fired at the same time as Maestre. The general and Bernie each jerked backwards. Barbara saw the side of Maestre’s head fly off, blood and brains spurting out as Bernie tottered and slumped against the side of the car. She heard a wild animal scream and realized it was her own voice.

‘Bernie!’

‘Hell!’ he shouted. ‘Barbara, get me in the car.’ He gritted his teeth with pain. He grasped his thigh. Blood welled through his fingers.

Harry had stood staring at the scene, a confused expression on his face, but now he seemed to come back to life. He looked at Bernie. ‘Oh Christ, no,’ he groaned.

‘Help me get him in,’ Barbara said to him. Harry stepped forward and the two of them managed to manoeuvre Bernie into the back seat.

‘Harry, please drive,’ Barbara said. ‘I need to help him. We have to get away now, before the other civil comes back. Harry, can you do it?’

Harry looked past her, at Sofia. ‘She’s dead, isn’t she? There’s nothing we can do for her.’

‘Yes. Harry, can you do it?’ She took his head between her hands and stared into his eyes. She was terrified the engine would stop again.

He took a deep breath, focused on her. ‘Yes. Yes. I’ll do it.’

BERNIE FELT a heavy throbbing pain in his thigh. He couldn’t move his leg and he could feel blood welling up through his fingers, a lot of blood. Barbara had taken off her coat and was ripping out the heavy lining. In front of him he could see the back of Harry’s head and his hands, steady on the wheel. In the headlights the snow was whirling relentlessly down.

‘Where are we going?’ he asked.

‘Back to Madrid, the embassy’s our only hope.’

‘Won’t they put calls out when that civil gets back, try to stop us?’

‘We have to try for Madrid. Don’t talk, darling.’ She was calling him darling, just like the old days. Bernie smiled up at her, then winced as she took a pair of nail scissors and cut his trouser leg open.

‘It’s smashed your leg, Bernie. I think the bullet’s lodged in the bone. I’m going to bandage you up. We’ll get you to a doctor in Madrid. Try to sit up now.’ She began winding the strips of lining round his body with cool, practised hands.

When she had finished he fell back against the seat. He found it hard not to close his eyes. He felt for her hand and squeezed it. He passed out for a while; when he came to Barbara was still holding his hand. The snow was still whirling in the headlights. His leg felt numb. Barbara smiled at him.

‘Remember something for me, Barbara,’ he said. ‘Will you remember something?’

‘You’ll be all right. I promise.’

‘If I’m not. Remember something.’

‘Anything.’

‘The people, the ordinary people, it looks like they’ve lost but one day, one day people won’t be manipulated and hounded by bosses and priests and soldiers any more; one day they will free themselves, live with freedom and dignity as people were meant to.’

‘You’re going to be all right.’

‘Please.’

‘I will. Yes. I will.’

He closed his eyes and slept again.

Chapter Forty-Nine

HARRY DROVE FAST and steadily, like an automaton. He tried to concentrate only on the patch of light created by the car’s headlights. Everything beyond their white glow was pitch black. After a while the snow stopped but it was still difficult, driving along the uneven road in the dark. And all the time there was a feeling like a terrible dark hole in his stomach, as though he had been shot as well. The picture of Sofia’s body raked by bullets would stab into his brain and make him want to cry out but he forced himself to push it aside, concentrate on the road, the road, the road. In the mirror he could see Barbara’s anxious face as she leaned over Bernie. He was asleep or unconscious, but at least the sound of his breathing, heavy and laboured, meant he was still alive.

At every village or town he feared the civiles would appear and flag the car down, but they saw hardly a soul on the whole journey. A little after eleven they reached the outskirts of Madrid and Harry slowed down as he headed through the still white streets towards the embassy.

‘How is he?’ he asked Barbara.

‘Still unconscious,’ she replied quietly. ‘I was worried. He was in a weak condition anyway, and he’s lost a lot of blood.’ She lifted a blood-smeared hand and looked at her watch. ‘You’ve made good time.’

‘Why haven’t we been stopped?’ he asked anxiously.

‘I don’t know. Maybe that civil took a long time to get back.’

‘He had a radio. And the police force is the one thing that’s efficient here.’ A thought that had been in the back of his mind throughout the journey came to the surface. ‘They may be waiting to catch us here, in Madrid. He looked at her face in the mirror, pale and exhausted. ‘Where’s the gun?’

‘In Bernie’s pocket. I don’t want to disturb him. Movement could start the bleeding again.’

Harry watched the tall buildings flashing by; they were approaching the city centre now. ‘We might have to shoot our way through,’ he said. ‘Let me have it.’ She hesitated a moment, then felt in Bernie’s pocket. She passed the gun, black with dried blood, to Harry. He cradled it in his lap. He had a sudden memory of he and Sofia in the cathedral, sitting together, and jumped, then swerved to avoid a passing gasogene that was creeping and sputtering along the snowy road. The driver hooted angrily.

At last the embassy came into view. Harry drove past the entrance, drawing a stare from the single civil on duty, then round the corner to the car park. It was almost empty. Harry drew to a halt beside the back door. They were on British territory now. On the first floor he saw a light at a single curtained window; the duty officer. He sounded the horn. The curtain twitched and a head looked out.

Harry turned to Barbara. There was a smear of blood on her white face. ‘Someone will be down in a minute. Let’s get Bernie out. Oh, God, he looks awful.’ Bernie’s eyes were closed. His breathing seemed shallow and his cheeks more sunken than ever. Broad strips of Barbara’s coat lining were wound tightly round his trousers.

‘Can you wake him up?’ he asked.

‘I’m not sure we should move him.’

‘We have to get him inside. Try.’

Barbara squeezed Bernie’s shoulder, lightly then harder. He groaned, but did not stir. ‘You’ll have to help me with him,’ she said.

Harry stepped out of the car. He opened the rear door and took Bernie’s shoulders. He was surprised how light he was. Barbara helped him pull him into a sitting position. Blood was seeping from under the makeshift bandage. It was all over the back seat, all over Barbara.

There was a sound of bolts being drawn back. A door opened and footsteps crunched on the snow. They turned to meet the gaze of Chalmers, a tall thin man in his thirties with a prominent Adam’s apple. Even at this time of night he wore a formal suit. He shone a torch into their faces. His eyes widened at their bloodstained clothes. ‘Good God, what’s this? Who are you?’

‘I’m Brett, one of the translators. We’ve got an injured man here, he needs medical attention.’

Chalmers turned the beam on to Bernie. ‘Jesus Christ!’ He shone the torch into the car, staring in horror at the blood on the back seats. ‘Christ, what’s happened? This is one of our cars!’

Harry helped Barbara drag Bernie towards the open door. Thank God he was still breathing. He moaned again. Chalmers hurried after them.

‘What happened? Who is he? Has there been an accident?’

‘He’s been shot,’ Harry said. ‘He’s British. For Christ’s sake, man, will you stop dithering and ring for a doctor?’ Harry pushed the door open and they staggered inside. They were in a long corridor; Harry threw open the door of the nearest office and went in. He and Barbara laid Bernie carefully on the floor while Chalmers went to the desk and picked up the telephone.

‘Dr Pagall,’ he said. ‘Get Dr Pagall.’

‘How long will he be?’ Harry asked tersely as Chalmers put the phone down.

‘Not long. Listen, Brett, for Christ’s sake, what’s happened?’

The picture of Sofia’s body jerking backwards appeared in his mind again. He winced and took a deep breath. Chalmers was looking at him curiously.

‘Listen, phone Simon Tolhurst, Special Operations, his number’s in the book. Let me speak to him.’

‘Special Operations? Jesus.’ Chalmers frowned; the regular staff disliked the spies. He rang another number and passed the receiver to Harry. A sleepy voice answered. ‘Hello, yes?’

‘It’s Harry. It’s an emergency. I’m at the embassy with Barbara Clare and an Englishman who’s been shot. No, not Forsyth. A prisoner of war. Yes, the Civil War. He’s badly injured. There’s been an – an incident. General Maestre’s been shot dead.’

Tolhurst was surprisingly quick and decisive. He told Harry he would be there at once, he would phone Hillgarth and the ambassador. ‘Stay where you are,’ he concluded. As though there was anywhere else they could go, Harry thought as he put the phone down. He remembered Enrique and Paco; at home, waiting. They would be wondering where he and Sofia were. This would be the end for Paco. ‘I told her not to come,’ he whispered aloud.

THE DOCTOR and Tolhurst arrived at the same time. The doctor was a middle-aged Spaniard, still blinking sleep from his eyes. He went over to Barbara and she explained what had happened. Tolhurst took in the sight of Bernie lying on the floor, his and Barbara’s clothes spattered with blood, with surprising calmness.

‘Is that Miss Clare?’ he asked Harry quietly.

‘Yes.’

‘Who’s the man?’

Harry took a deep breath. ‘He’s an International Brigader who’s been held illegally in a labour camp for three years. He’s an old friend of ours. We had a plan to rescue him; it went wrong.’

‘Christ, I’ll say.’ Tolhurst glanced at Barbara. ‘The two of you had better come to my office.’

Barbara looked up. ‘No, I’m a nurse, I can help.’

The doctor looked at her. He spoke quietly and his eyes were kind. ‘No, señorita, I will be better alone.’ He had begun unwinding the bandages. Harry glimpsed red pulp and white bone underneath. Barbara looked at the wound and swallowed.

‘Can you – can you help him?’

The doctor raised his hands. ‘I will do better if you will all leave me. Please.’

‘Come on, Barbara.’ Harry took her elbow and helped her stand. They followed Tolhurst out of the room and up a dark staircase. Around the building lights were clicking on and voices muttering as the night staff prepared to deal with the crisis.

Tolhurst switched on his office light and ushered them to seats. Harry thought, I was here yesterday, only yesterday. In another time, another world. Sofia was alive. Tolhurst sat behind his desk, his plump features composed into a stiff alertness.

‘All right, Harry. Tell me exactly what’s happened. What the hell’s this about Maestre being shot?’

Harry told him the story, from Barbara coming to Sofia’s flat and telling them of her plan, to the rescue that afternoon. Tolhurst kept glancing at Barbara. She had sunk into her chair and was staring into space with a glassy-eyed look.

‘You did all this without telling Forsyth?’ Tolhurst asked her sharply at one point.

She replied indifferently, ‘Yes.’

Harry told him about the ambush in the clearing. ‘They shot Sofia,’ he said and for the first time his voice broke. ‘I asked Maestre why and he said because Spaniards need keeping in order.’

Tolhurst let out a deep breath. Help us, Tolly, Harry thought, help us. As he went on to describe how they had escaped, Tolhurst’s eyes widened and he stared at Barbara again.

‘You ran over one man and shot another dead?’

‘Yes.’ She met his gaze. ‘They left me no choice.’

‘Have you the gun now?’ he asked.

‘No. Harry’s got it.’

Tolhurst stretched out a hand. ‘Give it to me please, old chap.’

Harry reached into his pocket and passed it over. Tolhurst placed it in his desk drawer, grimacing with distaste at the blood on it. He wiped his fingers carefully on a handkerchief, then leaned forward.

‘This is bad,’ he said. ‘A government minister killed and an embassy official involved. And after what Franco said to Hoare yesterday – hell.’ He shook his head.

‘It wasn’t murder,’ Barbara said flatly. ‘It was self-defence. Sofia was the only one who was murdered.’

Tolhurst frowned at her as though she was someone stupid who couldn’t understand what was important. Harry felt a weight of disappointment settle on top of the dull heavy grief. He had thought Tolly might help them somehow, speak for them. But what could he have done?’

Tolhurst’s head jerked round as the telephone on his desk rang. He picked it up. ‘Right,’ he said. He took a deep breath. ‘The captain and the ambassador are here. I’ll have to brief them.’ He got up and left.

Barbara looked at Harry. ‘I want to see Bernie,’ she said flatly. He noticed there was a smear of blood on her glasses.

‘That doctor seemed to know what he was doing.’

‘I want to see him.’

Harry felt sudden anger. Why had she survived while Sofia was dead? It was strange, they should be comforting each other, but he felt only this terrible anger. When he had knelt over Sofia, her blank eyes had been half open and her mouth too, showing a glimpse of her white teeth that she had clenched as the life was ripped out of her. He blinked, trying to clear the picture from his mind. They sat in silence. They seemed to wait a very long time. Occasionally they heard sharp voices and footsteps outside. The whining noise began again in his bad ear.

Voices sounded in the corridor. He heard Hillgarth’s deep tones and the ambassador’s shrill jabber. Harry tensed as the door opened. Hillgarth was in a suit and looked as fresh as ever, black hair slicked back, the large brown eyes keen. Hoare was a mess, his suit pulled on untidily, eyes red and his wispy white hair standing on end. He glanced furiously at Harry, then blenched at the sight of Barbara covered with blood. He sat behind Tolhurst’s desk, Tolhurst and Hillgarth on either side of him. The little room seemed very crowded.

Hillgarth looked at Barbara. ‘Are you injured?’ he asked, surprisingly gently.

‘No, I’m all right. Please, how’s Bernie?’

Hillgarth didn’t reply. He turned slowly to Harry. ‘Brett, Simon says your fiancée’s dead.’

‘Yes, sir. The civiles shot her with a machine gun.’

‘I’m very sorry. But you’ve betrayed us. Why did you do this?’

‘They shot her with a machine gun,’ Harry repeated. ‘She broke the law. You have to keep people in order.’

Hoare leaned forward, his face a mask of outraged fury. ‘And they want you too, Brett, for murder!’ He turned and pointed at Barbara. ‘And you!’ She blinked at him in surprise. The ambassador’s voice rose. ‘I’ve phoned one of our friends in the government. They know all about it, that civil came back to the glade and found a bloodbath. His superiors went to El Pardo. They’ve had to wake the Generalísimo! Hell!’ he shouted. ‘I should let them have the pair of you, letı them put you up against a wall and shoot you!’ His voice trembled. ‘A government minister shot dead!’

‘It was the man Piper who did that,’ Hillgarth said quietly. ‘They don’t really want Brett and Miss Clare, Sam, Franco doesn’t want a major diplomatic incident now. Think about it, they could have picked them up on the way but they let them come here.’

Hoare turned back to Harry, a tic in his cheek making one eye blink spasmodically. ‘I could have you charged with treason, young man, I could have you sent home to jail!’ He ran a hand though his hair. ‘I should have been Viceroy of India, Winston all but promised me! I should have been Viceroy, not dealing with this madness, this rubbish, these fools! This is a fine thing for this new man on the Madrid desk in London – what’s his name—’

‘Philby,’ Hillgarth said. ‘Kim Philby.’

‘A fine thing for Philby to have to deal with! And Winston will blame me!’

‘All right, Sam,’ Hillgarth said soothingly.

‘It is not all right!’

Barbara asked in a quiet voice, ‘Please, can you tell me how Bernie is? Please. This is his blood, we brought him from Cuenca, please tell me.’

Hoare made an impatient gesture. ‘The doctor’s having him removed to hospital, he needs a blood transfusion. Let’s hope they’ve got the equipment, I’m damned if I’m sending him to a private clinic. If he comes through he may not be able to use his left leg again, nerve damage or something.’ The ambassador frowned at her. ‘And if he doesn’t make it, so far as I’m concerned it’d be good riddance! A major diplomatic incident over a bloody Red terrorist! At least we don’t have to worry about the other one, the Spanish woman they killed.’

Barbara jerked back in her chair, as though struck. A momentary look of satisfaction crossed the ambassador’s face and that did something final to Harry, all the pain and grief and anger welled up in him and he cried out and launched himself across the room at Hoare and fixed his hands round the ambassador’s scrawny neck. Squeezing that dry skin, feeling the tendons give under his grip, filled him with a tremendous sense of release. Hoare’s face reddened and his mouth opened. Harry could see right down the throat of His Britannic Majesty’s Ambassador on Special Mission to the Court of Generalísimo Francisco Franco. Hoare’s arms fluttered weakly as he tried toı grip Harry’s shoulders.

Then he heard Barbara cry ‘Look out!’ and felt a terrific blow on his neck. It stunned him and made him relax his grip. He looked round dazedly and saw it was Tolhurst who had hit him, Tolhurst who was dragging him off the ambassador with surprising strength, his face horrified. Hoare had fallen back in his chair, retching and gagging, two angry red weals standing out on his throat.

Harry felt dizzy. His legs buckled. As he fell to the floor he caught a strange expression on Hillgarth’s face, something almost admiring. Perhaps he thinks it’s all an adventure, Harry thought, just before he blacked out.