‘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.

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—’