‘¡Je-fe! ¡Je-fe! ¡Fran-co! ¡Fran-co!’ The Generalísimo did not acknowledge the salutes, marching on like an automaton until he reached a door at the other end. The flunkeys opened it and the pair disappeared through. The shouts went on, people turning their heads and outstretched arms to the royal box as Franco and Doña Carmen reappeared above them. The couple stood a moment, looking down. Doña Carmen was smiling now but Franco’s face stayed coldly expressionless. He raised a hand briefly and at once the noise ceased. The crowd sat down. The conductor stood, bowing to the royal box.

Barbara liked classical music. When she had lived at home, she had preferred it to the jazz her sister liked and would sometimes sit listening to concerts with her parents. She had never heard anything like this concerto but she liked it. The guitar began the allegro on a liquid flowing note and then the strings joined in, the tempo slowly rising. It was cheerful and gentle and around her Barbara saw people relax, smiling and nodding.

The allegro moved to a climax and the adagio began. The music was slower now, the guitar alternating with wind instruments, and the sound was pure flowing sadness. All over the hall people began to weep, first one or two, then more and more, women and a few men too. She could hear half-suppressed sobs everywhere. Most of the people here would have lost someone in the Civil War. Barbara glanced at Sandy; he gave her a tense, embarrassed smile.

She looked up at the royal box. Carmen Franco’s face was composed and still. The Generalísimo’s wore a slight frown. Then she noticed a quivering movement of the muscles round his mouth. She thought he was going to weep too but then his features settled again and she realized he had been stifling a yawn. She turned away, with a sudden, violent revulsion.

The horn playing made Barbara think of a bare empty plain. She knew the man Luis was most likely a liar, but there was still a possibility Bernie was out there somewhere, imprisoned while she sat here. She clenched a fist tightly round her stole, fingers digging into the soft fur.

The guitar notes quickened and then the violins took over, bringing the music to a wrenching climax. Barbara felt something break and well up inside her and then she was crying too, tears flowing down her cheeks. Sandy looked at her curiously, then took her hand and squeezed it diffidently.

When the music ended there was a long moment of silence before the audience broke into thunderous applause. It went on as the blind composer Rodrigo was led to the front of the stage. Tear tracks glistened on his face too as he shook the conductor’s hand and spoke with the soloist, the clapping going on and on. Sandy turned to Barbara. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes. Sorry.’

He sighed. ‘I shouldn’t have snapped earlier. But you should know how some things get me.’ She caught an undertone of irritation behind his reassurance.

‘It’s not that. It’s just – oh, everyone’s lost so much. Everyone.’

‘I know. Come on, dry your eyes. It’s the interval. D’you want to stay here? I’ll get you a brandy at the bar if you like.’

‘No, I’m all right. I’ll come.’ She glanced round and saw Otero looking at her curiously. He caught her eye and smiled, quickly and insincerely.

‘Good girl,’ Sandy said. ‘Come on, then.’

In the bar Sandy got her a gin and tonic. It was strong, she needed it. She felt her face flush as she drank. Otero joined them with his wife, who was surprisingly young and pretty.

‘Wasn’t it sad?’ she asked Barbara.

‘Yes. But very beautiful.’

Otero straightened his tie. ‘A great composer. He must be very proud, his concierto played for the first time before the Generalísimo.’

‘Yes, did you see him?’ Otero’s wife asked Barbara eagerly. ‘I’ve always wanted to. Every inch the soldier.’

Barbara smiled stiffly. ‘Yes.’ She caught a whisper from Otero to Sandy.

‘Any word on the latest Jews?’

‘Yes. They’ll do anything to escape being sent back to Vichy.’

‘Good. We need something more to show. I can make it look good.’ Otero noticed Barbara listening and gave her another of his sharp looks.

‘Well, Señora Forsyth,’ he said. ‘I wonder if Don Rodrigo will get to meet the Generalísimo?

‘I’m sure he will have loved the music,’ she replied neutrally.

A man pushed through the crowd towards them. It was the general whose gaze had upset Sandy earlier. Otero’s mouth tightened and his sharp eyes flickered around but Sandy bowed and gave the soldier a friendly smile.

‘General Maestre.’

The general stared coldly into his eyes. ‘Señor Forsyth. And my old friend Captain Otero – that is your Falange rank, I think.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Maestre nodded. ‘I hear your project is proceeding well. Building materials requisitioned here, chemicals there.’

‘We only ask for what we need, sir.’ There was a note of defiance in Otero’s voice. ‘The Generalísimo himself has—’

‘Approved. Yes, I know. A project to help Spain in its path back to prosperity. And make money for you, of course.’

‘I’m a businessman, sir,’ Sandy said with a smile.

‘Yes. You help us and become rich at the same time.’

‘I hope so.’

Maestre nodded twice, slowly. He studied Barbara a moment with narrowed eyes, then bowed abruptly and walked away. As he turned, Barbara heard him mutter the word ‘sinvergüenza’. It meant shameless, without morals.

Otero looked at Sandy; Barbara could see the Falangist was scared. ‘It’s all right,’ Sandy said. ‘Everything’s under control. Look, we’ll talk tomorrow.’

Otero hesitated a moment. ‘Algo va mal,’ he muttered. ‘Come on,’ he said sharply to his wife. They joined the trickle of people heading for the exit. Sandy leaned against the bar, twirling the stem of his empty glass, his expression thoughtful.

‘What was that all about?’ Barbara asked. ‘What did he mean, all is not well?’

Sandy stroked his moustache. ‘He’s an old woman, for all the Falange regalia.’

‘What have you done to annoy that general? You don’t annoy generals here.’

His eyes were pensive, half-closed. ‘Maestre’s on the supply committee for our Min of Mines project. He’s a Monarchist.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s just politics. Jockeying for position.’

‘The general doesn’t like your project because it’s got Falange support?’

‘Exactly. But at the end of the day Maestre won’t count, because we’ve got Franco’s blessing.’ He got up, adjusting his lapels.

‘What was Otero saying about the Jews?’

Sandy shrugged again. ‘That’s confidential too. We have to keep the committee’s work quiet, Barbara. If the Germans found out there’d be a fuss.’

‘I hate seeing the Nazis being feted.’

‘They’re enjoying their bit of flattery. But that’s all it is. Diplomatic games.’ His voice was impatient now. He placed a hand in the small of her back. ‘Come on, it’s Beethoven next. Try to forget the war. It’s far away.’