They passed the parliament building, shuttered and empty, and turned into the Trade Ministry courtyard. A civil waved them through the gate. ‘Is this a revolution?’ Harry asked. ‘It seems more like – I don’t know – decay.’

‘Oh, it’s a revolution all right, for the Falangists anyway. They want a state like Hitler’s. You should see some of the people we have to deal with. Make your hair stand on end. Make the books I used to write seem tame.’

IN A WOOD-PANELLED office under a huge portrait of Franco, a man in a general’s uniform, the creases immaculate, stood waiting for them. He was in his early fifties, tall and fit-looking. He had a tanned face from which clear brown eyes shone. Thinning black hair was brushed carefully across the crown of his head to hide his baldness. A younger man in morning dress stood beside him, his face expressionless.

The officer smiled and shook Hillgarth’s hand warmly. He spoke to him in Spanish, in a clear rich voice. His younger colleague translated.

‘My dear captain, a pleasure to see you.’

‘And you, general. I think we can give you the certificates today.’ Hillgarth glanced at Harry, who repeated his words in Spanish.

‘Very good. The matter should be settled.’ Maestre gave Harry a courtly smile. ‘You have a new translator, I see. Señor Greene is not incapacitated, I hope.’

‘Had to go home. Family problems, compassionate leave.’

General Maestre nodded. ‘Oh, I am sorry to hear it. I hope his family have not been bombed.’

‘No. Private problems.’

They took their places round the desk. Hillgarth opened his briefcase and produced the certificates that would allow specified oil tankers to be escorted in by the Royal Navy. Hillgarth and Maestre went through them, checking dates and routes and tonnage. Harry translated Hillgarth’s words into Spanish and the young Spaniard translated Maestre’s replies into English. Harry was unsure of one or two technical terms, but Maestre’s manner was friendly and polite. Maestre wasn’t what Harry had expected one of Franco’s ministers to be like.

At length Maestre gathered the papers together, sighing theatrically.

‘Ah, captain. If you knew how angry it makes some of my colleagues, Spain having to ask permission from the Royal Navy to import necessities. It insults our pride, you know.’

‘England’s at war, sir; we have to be sure anything imported by a neutral is not sold on to Germany.’

The general held the certificates out to his translator. ‘Fernando, have these taken across to the Navy Ministry.’ The young man seemed to hesitate a moment, but Maestre raised his eyebrows at him and he bowed and left the room. The general relaxed at once, producing a cigarette case and offering it round.

‘That’s got rid of him,’ he said in perfect English. Harry’s eyes widened. The general smiled. ‘Oh yes, Mr Brett, I speak English. I studied at Cambridge. That young man is there to see I don’t say anything I shouldn’t. One of Serrano Suñer’s men. The captain knows what I mean.’

‘All too well, Minister. Brett here studied at Cambridge too.’

‘Did you?’ Maestre looked at him with interest, then smiled reflectively. ‘During the Civil War, when we were fighting the Reds on the meseta, amidst the heat and flies I would often think of my days at Cambridge: the cool river, the magnificent gardens, everything so peaceful and stately. You need such things in war to keep you sane. What college were you at?’

‘King’s, sir.’

Maestre nodded. ‘I had a year at Peterhouse. Wonderful, as I say.’ He pulled out a gold cigarette case. ‘Will you smoke?’

‘Thanks, I don’t.’

‘Any news?’ Hillgarth asked. ‘About the new minister?’

Maestre leaned back and blew out a cloud of smoke. ‘Don’t worry about Carceller. He’s got a lot of Falangist notions – ’ he curled his lip disdainfully – ‘but he’s a realist at heart.’

‘Sir Sam will be pleased.’

The general nodded slowly. Then he turned to Harry with an urbane smile.

‘Well, young man, how do you find Spain?’

Harry hesitated. ‘Full of unexpected things.’

‘We passed a big queue of women outside a baker’s,’ Hillgarth said. ‘They’d heard he’d got potatoes.’

Maestre shook his head sadly. ‘Those Falangists could cause a famine in the Garden of Eden. Have you heard the new joke, Alan? Hitler meets Franco and asks how he can starve Britain into surrender, the U-boats are not enough. Franco replies, “Mein führer, I will send them my Junta de Abastos. In three weeks they will be desperate to sign.” ’ Hillgarth and Maestre laughed, Harry joining in uncertainly. Maestre smiled at him, bowing his head a little.

‘Forgive me, señor, we Spaniards have a dark sense of humour, it is how we cope with our problems. But I should not joke about England’s troubles.’

‘Oh, we’re coping,’ Hillgarth said.

‘I hear when the Queen was asked if the royal children would leave London because of the bombing she said – what was it? – they won’t leave without me, I won’t leave without the King, and the King won’t go.’

‘Yes, that’s right.’

‘What a fine woman.’ He smiled at Harry. ‘What style. She has duende.’

‘Thank you.’

‘And now the Italians are being beaten in Greece. The tide will turn. Juan March knows.’ The general raised his eyebrows at Hillgarth, then rose and turned again to Harry.

‘Mr Brett, I am giving a party in ten days, for my daughter who will be eighteen. My only child. There are so few suitable young men in Madrid these days, perhaps you would like to come? It would be good for Milagros to meet a young man from England.’ He smiled with sudden tenderness at the mention of his daughter’s name.

‘Thank you, sir. If – er – embassy commitments allow—’

‘Excellent! I am sure Sir Sam can spare you for one evening. I will have an invitation sent. And, captain, the Knights of St George, we shall discuss that later.’

Hillgarth glanced quickly at Harry, then gave Maestre a barely perceptible shake of the head. ‘Yes. Later.’

The general hesitated, then nodded sharply. He shook Harry’s hand. ‘I must leave you now, I am afraid. It was a great pleasure to meet you. There is a ceremony at the palace, the Italian ambassador is pinning a new medal on the chest of the Generalísimo.’ He laughed. ‘So many honours, Il Duce weighs him down with them.’

THE RAIN HAD STOPPED. Walking through the car park Hillgarth looked thoughtful. ‘That name Maestre mentioned in there. Juan March. Know it?’

‘He’s a Spanish businessman, isn’t he? Helped finance Franco during the Civil War. A crook, I heard.’

‘Well, forget you heard his name, all right? And the Knights of St George, forget that too. Something private the embassy’s engaged on. Maestre thought you knew more than you do since you were with me. All right?’

‘I won’t say anything, sir.’

‘Good man.’ Hillgarth’s tone lightened. ‘You should go to that party. Relax a bit. Chance to meet some señoritas. God knows there’s little enough social life in Madrid. The Maestres are a good family. Connected to the Astors.’

‘Thank you, sir, I might.’ Harry wondered what the party would be like.

The chauffeur was waiting in the car, reading a week-old Daily Mail. As they got in, Harry glanced at the cover. The German raids were moving out of London now, Birmingham had been badly hit. Barbara’s home city. Harry remembered the woman he had seen a few nights ago. It couldn’t possibly have been her. She must be back home now; he hoped she was safe.

‘Maestre’s daughter’s quite attractive,’ Hillgarth continued as they drove back to the embassy. ‘Real little Spanish pomegranate— Jesus Christ!’ They both fell back against their seats as the car braked sharply. They were turning into Calle Fernando del Santo, where the embassy was. The normally quiet street was filled with people, a roaring, shouting mob. The driver was startled out of his calm.