It was the entrée Harry had been told to angle for, offered on a plate.

‘Will that be all right – for Barbara? I wouldn’t want to bring back, well, bad memories.’

‘She’d be delighted to see you.’ Sandy lowered his voice. ‘By the way, we tell people we’re married, though we’re not actually. Makes it easier, the government are a puritan lot.’

Harry saw him watching for his reaction. He smiled and nodded. ‘Understood,’ he said awkwardly.

‘Everyone was living over the brush during the Civil War, of course, you never knew how long you’d got.’ He smiled. ‘I know Barbara was very grateful for all the help you gave her.’

‘Was she? I wished I could have done more. But thanks, I’d love to come.’

Sandy leaned forward, clapped him on the shoulder again. ‘Now, more about you. How are that old aunt and uncle of yours?’

‘Oh, same as ever. They don’t change.’

‘You’re not married?’

‘No. There was someone, but it didn’t work out.’

‘Plenty of nice señoritas here.’

‘As a matter of fact I’ve been invited to a party next week, by one of the junior ministers I did some interpreting for. His daughter’s eighteenth.’

‘Oh, who’s that?’ Sandy looked interested.

‘General Maestre.’

Sandy’s eyes narrowed. ‘Maestre, eh? You are moving in exalted circles. What’s he like?’

‘Very courteous. You know him?’

‘I met him briefly once. He had a pretty brutal reputation during the Civil War, you know.’ He paused reflectively. ‘I expect you’ll get to meet a lot of government people, in your line.’

‘I suppose so. I just go where they want me to.’

‘I’ve met Maestre’s new boss, Carceller. Dealt with quite a few people in the government. Met the Generalísimo himself as a matter of fact,’ Sandy added proudly. ‘At a reception for foreign businessmen.’ He’s trying to impress, Harry thought.

‘What’s he like?’

Sandy leaned forward and spoke quietly again. ‘Not what you’d think when you see him strutting about on the newsreels. Looks more like a bank manager than a general. But he’s crafty, a real Galician. He’ll still be here when people like Maestre are long gone. And they say he’s the hardest man that ever lived. Signs death warrants over coffee in the evenings.’

‘What if we win the war? Franco’ll be out then, surely, even if he doesn’t come in with Hitler.’ They had told him to steer clear of politics at first, but Sandy had started on the topic. It was a chance to find out what he thought of the regime.

Sandy shook his head confidently. ‘He won’t come in. Too scared of the naval blockade. The regime’s not that strong; if the Germans marched into Spain, the Reds would start coming out of their holes. And if we win – ’ Sandy shrugged – ‘Franco has his uses. There’s no one more anti-communist.’ He smiled ironically. ‘Don’t worry. I’m not helping an enemy of England.’

‘You’re very sure.’

‘I am.’

‘Things seem pretty desperate here. The poverty. There’s a really grim atmosphere.’

Sandy shrugged. ‘That’s Spain. It’s what it’s always been like, always will be. They need order.’

Harry inclined his head. ‘I wouldn’t have thought you’d like the idea of being ordered about by a dictatorship, Sandy.’

He laughed. ‘This isn’t a real dictatorship. It’s too chaotic for that. There’s lots of opportunities for business if you keep your wits about you. Not that I’ll stay here for ever.’

‘You might move on.’

Sandy shrugged. ‘Next year perhaps.’

‘People here look as though they’re on the verge of starvation.’

Sandy looked at Harry seriously. ‘The last two harvests have been disastrous because of drought. And half the infrastructure was wrecked in the war. Britain’s not helping, frankly. There’s hardly enough oil being allowed in to keep transport going. Have you seen those gasogene things?’

‘Yes.’

‘The place is a bureaucratic nightmare, of course, but the market will win out. People like me are showing the way.’ He looked into Harry’s eyes. ‘That will help them, you know. I do want to help them.’

The woman was staring at them again. Harry leaned across, whispering. ‘See her, at that table? She’s been looking at us ever since I arrived. I can’t help worrying she might be an informer.’

Sandy looked blank for a moment, then threw his head back and roared with laughter. The other customers turned and stared at them.

‘Oh, Harry, Harry, you are priceless!’

‘What? What do you mean?’

‘She’s a tart, Harry. She’s always here, she’s looking for business.’

‘What?’

‘You keep looking over, meeting her eyes and turning away again, the poor girl won’t know what’s going on.’ Sandy grinned at the woman. She didn’t understand his words but reddened at his mocking look.

‘All right, I didn’t know. She doesn’t look like a tart.’

‘A lot don’t now. She’s probably the widow of some Republican. A lot of them have gone on the game to make ends meet.’

The woman got up. Fumbling with her handbag, she dropped some coins on the table and walked out. Sandy watched her go, still grinning at her embarrassment. ‘You do have to look out, though,’ Sandy continued. ‘I thought someone was following me recently.’

‘Were they?’

‘Not sure. They seem to have disappeared, anyway.’ Sandy looked at his watch. ‘Well, I must get back to the office. Let me get these.’

‘Thanks.’

Sandy laughed again, shook his head. ‘It is good to see you again.’ There was genuine affection in his voice. ‘Wait till I tell Barbara. Can I get you at the embassy about Tuesday?’

‘Yes. Ask for the translation section.’

Out in the street Sandy shook Harry’s hand. He looked at him seriously. ‘England’s lost the war, you know. I was right – all the Rookwood ideas, empire and noblesse oblige and playing the game, it’s all nonsense. One knock and it’s all fallen down. People who create opportunities for themselves, who make themselves up, they’re the future.’ He shook his head. ‘Oh, well.’ He sounded almost regretful.

‘It’s not over yet.’

‘Not quite yet. But almost.’ Sandy smiled commiseratingly, then turned and walked away.

THE DOORS OF THE Opera House stood open, light from the chandeliers shining out over Plaza Isabel II. The October evening was cold, and around the square civiles cradled their guns in the shadows. A red carpet trailed down the steps to the kerb in anticipation of the Generalísimo’s arrival. The bright lights made Barbara blink as she approached, her arm in Sandy’s.

The evening before she had taken her deception of Sandy a stage further. She had savings in England and had written to her bank asking them to send her money to Spain. She had tried the Express office again too, asked them to send a telegram to Markby saying she needed to talk to him, but they didn’t know where he was.

She waited in the salón for Sandy to come home. She had told Pilar to make up a fire and the room was cosy and welcoming, a bottle of his favourite whisky and a glass on a little table by his chair. She sat there reading, waiting, as she did most nights.

He arrived at seven. Barbara had taken her glasses off when she heard his footsteps but she could see he was excited about something. He kissed her warmly.

‘Mmm. I do like that dress. Shows off your white skin. Listen, you’ll never guess who I met today in the Rocinante. Never in a million years. Is this Glenfiddich? Marvellous. You’ll never guess.’ He sounded like a schoolboy in his eagerness.

‘I won’t know if you don’t tell me.’

‘Harry Brett.’

She was so astonished she had to sit down.

Sandy nodded. ‘I couldn’t believe it myself. Walked in large as life. He’s an interpreter at the embassy. He was wounded at Dunkirk, then sent out here.’

‘Good God. Is he all right?’