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.