The young woman was bending over, poking among the slops, when a sudden gust of wind caught her thin black dress, blowing it over her head. She cried out and stood up, arms clawing at it. She had no underclothes and her thin body was suddenly exposed, startlingly pale with prominent ribs and sagging breasts. The old woman ran over and tried to disentangle the dress.

The civiles sprang to life. They darted across the road, grabbing at the woman. One jerked at the dress, there was a ripping tear but it dropped again, covering her. She put her arms across her breasts, shivering violently.

‘What are you doing?’ one of the guards shouted in her face. ‘Whore!’ He was a tall middle-aged man with a black moustache. His expression was furious, outraged.

‘It was an accident.’ The old woman wrung her hands together. ‘You saw it, the wind, please, it was an accident.’

‘You should not allow such accidents!’ he yelled in her face. ‘A priest went by not two minutes ago.’ He yanked at the young woman’s arm. ‘You are under arrest for offending public morals!’

She buried her head in her hands and wept, her cries turning to coughs. The older woman stood beseechingly in front of the civil, hands still clasped together as though in prayer. ‘My daughter,’ she pleaded. ‘My daughter!’

The younger civil looked uncomfortable but the older one was still furious. He pushed the old woman away. ‘The rest of you, away from there! Those bins are private property! Why don’t you find work? ¡Vete!’

The old woman gathered the children and stood trembling as her daughter was led away, sagging between the civiles. Sickened, Harry watched as they took her down the street, between the high stone buildings of a modern European city.

Then he saw the man. A short, thin man with black hair, in a dark jacket and white collarless shirt, who ducked into a shop doorway as he caught Harry’s eye. Harry turned and walked on, pretending he hadn’t seen him.

Ahead a white-helmeted, white-clad traffic policeman stood in the middle of the road; pedestrians were supposed to wait until signalled to cross but many darted over when his head was turned, risking the traffic and the two-peseta fine. Harry stopped and looked right and left. The man was close, ten paces behind. He had a square pale face, surprisingly delicate-looking features. As he saw Harry looking in his direction he floundered for a moment then walked quickly past him, head bowed.

Harry ran across the road, between a donkey cart and an ancient Ford. Whoever the man was, he wasn’t very good at this. He felt a cold whisper of uneasiness, but reminded himself he had been warned to expect someone to tail him, that it happened to all the embassy people. He was junior staff so perhaps the spy was junior too.

He didn’t look round again until he reached the doorway of the flats, though it was an effort. He felt angry now as much as scared. When he turned at last his follower had disappeared. He climbed the stairs and unlocked the door, then jumped violently as a voice called from within.

‘Harry, is that you?’

Tolhurst was sitting on the settee in the salón. ‘Sorry to barge in, old chap, did I startle you? Only I’ve got a message from Hillgarth, he wanted you to have it at once. It came right after you left so I drove over.’

‘All right.’ Harry crossed to the window and looked down at the street. ‘God, I don’t believe it, he’s there. I’m being tailed, come and look.’

‘OK. Don’t twitch the curtain, old man.’ Tolhurst joined him and they stood looking down at the young man. He was walking up and down the road, looking at the house numbers, scratching his head. Tolhurst laughed.

‘Some of these people are just hopeless.’

‘A spy for a spy,’ Harry said quietly.

‘It’s the way it works.’ Tolhurst looked at him seriously. ‘Listen, there’s been a change of plan. Captain Hillgarth wants you to move on Forsyth now, call in at the Café Rocinante tomorrow afternoon and see if you can make contact. Come for a briefing at the embassy at nine tomorrow.’ Tolhurst looked at him keenly. ‘OK?’

Harry took a deep breath. ‘Yes.’ He smiled wryly. ‘It’s what I came for, isn’t it.’

‘OK.’ Tolhurst jerked his head towards the window. ‘Make sure you lose chummy.’

‘Why the change of plan?’

‘Hitler’s visiting France, big meeting with Pétain. There’s word he’s coming on here afterwards. This is all very hush hush, by the way.’

Harry looked at him seriously. ‘So Franco could be about to enter the war.’

Tolhurst nodded. ‘Moving in that direction, at least. We need to know as much as we can, about everything.’

‘Yes.’ Harry nodded grimly. ‘I can see.’

‘I’d better get back, tell Hillgarth I’ve caught you.’ He glanced round the bare walls. ‘You ought to cover up those blank spaces. We’ve loads of pictures at the embassy if you want some.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘Let’s be optimistic, and assume we’re not all going to be kicked out, or worse.’

After Tolhurst left, Harry returned to the window. It was raining again, little spots tapping the glass. The man had disappeared; probably he was hanging around somewhere waiting for him to emerge. He thought about the poor woman who had been arrested. Where would they put her? In some stinking cell probably. The incident seemed to crystallize everything he had seen these last few days. Harry realized he wasn’t neutral any more; he hated what Franco was doing here.

His mind went back to Sandy and tomorrow’s meeting. He thought of German tanks rolling south over the Pyrenees, war in Spain again. He wondered how the embassy had got that information. Perhaps it was something to do with what Hillgarth and Maestre had been talking about. Juan March, the crooked millionaire, had financed Franco during the Civil War but he could still be pro-English, like Maestre. He wondered what the Knights of St George were, some sort of code. Hoare had told him to put it out of his mind but why had he and Hillgarth been so obviously worried that he knew? He shrugged. Well, he had better start preparing himself mentally for his task, prepare to meet Sandy, Sandy who was making a profit out of the Spanish Hell.

What would he be like now? He thought back to the year at Rookwood when he had shared a study with Sandy, that strange year.

THE INCIDENT WITH the spider in Taylor’s study had been the start of a difficult time. Things felt unsettled, uncomfortable. Bernie had been moved to a different study, but he remained friendly with Harry. Bernie and Sandy loathed each other. It wasn’t anything particular; it was visceral, instinctive. The school was full of feuds and rivalries between boys, but this was more unsettling because it was expressed not in rows and fights but cold glances and sarcastic comments. Yet Sandy and Bernie were in some ways alike. They shared a contempt for Rookwood, its beliefs and the system, which Harry found painful.

Bernie kept his socialism mainly to himself because he knew most of the boys would have found his ideas not just distasteful but incomprehensible. He carried on doing well in class; he was clever, as scholarship boys had to be to get to Rookwood at all. He played rugger aggressively, making the junior team. But occasionally his feelings about Rookwood showed through and he would talk about it to Harry with cold, hard disdain.

‘They’re preparing us to be part of the ruling class,’ he said to Harry one afternoon. It was wet and they were all in Harry’s study, Harry and Bernie at the table, Sandy sitting reading by the fire. ‘To rule the workers here and the natives in the colonies.’

‘Well, someone’s got to rule them,’ Harry replied. ‘I’ve thought of applying to the Colonial Office myself when I leave. My cousin might be able to help.’

‘Oh God!’ Bernie laughed harshly.

‘Being a district commissioner’s bloody hard work. My uncle’s got a friend who was in Uganda for years, only white man for miles. He came back with malaria. Some of them die out there.’