‘Yes. Yes, I can do that.’

He studied her speculatively. ‘Your husband, he knows nothing?’

‘No.’ She raised her head. ‘I just want to rescue Bernie, get him to the British Embassy so they can send him home.’

‘Very well.’ He sighed wearily. Barbara lit another cigarette and gave him one.

‘Shall we meet here again then?’ she asked. ‘Next week?’

‘The same time.’ He looked awkward. ‘I shall have to have the fare now.’

Again they went outside to pass over the money. When she handed the envelope to him he gave a bitter little laugh.

‘Spaniards were a proud people once. The things we do now.’ He turned and walked quickly away, his thin shabby form disappearing up the road.

There were more road closures on the way home and she had to walk down Calle Fernando el Santo, past the British Embassy. She glanced at the building. Harry Brett was probably in there; she would see him tonight. Harry, Bernie’s friend.

At the bottom of the street civiles were turning pedestrians back from the Castellana.

‘I am sorry, señora,’ one said. ‘No one may cross for the next hour. Security.’

She nodded and stepped back. A little crowd had gathered. Somewhere up the road youthful voices cheered and then a black Mercedes, flanked by soldiers on motorcycles, drove slowly past. There was a swastika pennant on the bonnet. In the back Barbara saw a pale, puffy face, its owner’s black uniform and cap making it appear disembodied. There was a quick glint of sunlight on spectacles, and it seemed to Barbara that Heinrich Himmler turned and looked at her for a second. Then the car was gone in a swirl of autumn leaves. More cheers sounded from the Falange Youth ahead. Barbara shivered and turned away.

HARRY WALKED ALONG the Castellana, the Nazi flags on the buildings looming up through the mist that had descended on the city. He wore his hat and coat; it was late October now and the evenings were getting chilly. He was on his way to take the tram out to Vigo district, for dinner with Sandy and Barbara.

He and Tolhurst had talked some more about Barbara that afternoon.

‘Bit of a turn-up, that,’ Tolhurst had said. ‘Never knew where he lived, you see. Our source said he was with a girly, but we thought it was some Spanish tart.’

‘I wish I understood how she ended up with Sandy.’ Harry shook his head. ‘Though she was in a bad way when I met her in ’37. I wrote afterwards but she never replied, or didn’t get the letters.’

‘She wasn’t political, was she? The Red boyfriend’s ideas didn’t rub off?’

‘No. She was Red Cross, a practical, commonsense type. I don’t know what she’ll make of the regime now.’

He would find out tonight. Walking along Harry felt a sudden weariness at the thought of the task before him. But he was committed, he had to go on.

He became conscious of footsteps behind him, a faint sound through the mist. Hell, his follower again. He hadn’t seen the man over the weekend but it sounded as though he was back. He quickly took a left turn, then a right. The doorway to a block of flats stood open, the concierge away somewhere. They were middle-class flats, well maintained, the air smelling of cleaning fluid. Harry stepped inside, stood behind the door, and peered out. He heard footsteps, a pit-pat and the crunching of dead leaves. A moment later the young man who had followed him before appeared. He stood in the centre of the empty road, looking up and down, a frown on his pale delicate features. Harry quickly withdrew his head. He heard the footsteps recede, back the way they had come. He waited a few minutes, then stepped outside. The street was clear, save for a woman in a fur coat walking a dog; she gave him a suspicious look. He went back the way he had come. He shook his head. The man really wasn’t much good.

The spy hadn’t frightened him but he did feel a clutch of fear, that momentary light-headedness that came on him sometimes, as he walked up Sandy’s drive half an hour later. He hadn’t told Sandy about his panics after Dunkirk, despite the spies saying it could do no harm. Pride had stopped him, he supposed. The house was a big villa standing in a large garden. Harry stood on the step for a moment, collecting himself, then took a deep breath and rang the bell.

A young maid answered the door, pretty but rather glum-looking. She took him through a hall where Chinese porcelain stood on little tables into a large salon where a fire burned. Everything was comfortable, expensive.

Sandy came forward, taking his hand in a firm grasp. His dinner jacket was immaculate, his hair sleek with oil. ‘Harry, marvellous you could come. ‘Now then, Barbara you know, of course.’

She was standing smoking by the mantelpiece, a glass of wine in her hand. She looked utterly different, the old cardigans and untidy hair replaced by an expensive silk dress that set off her fine skin and figure, her face thinner, and carefully made up to emphasize her high cheekbones and bright green eyes, her long, styled hair curled at the ends. Only the glasses were the same. Despite the changes she looked tired and strained but her smile was warm as she took his hand.

‘Harry, how are you?’

‘I’m all right. You’ve changed a lot.’

‘I’ve never forgotten how kind you were three years ago. I was in such a state back then.’

‘Just did what I could. It was a rough time.’

‘Sandy says you tried to write to me. I’m so sorry, I never got the letters. The Red Cross moved me to Burgos. I needed to get away from Madrid, after—’ She made a gesture with one hand.

‘Yes. I wrote to you in Madrid. I guess letters weren’t forwarded across the lines.’

‘My fault,’ Barbara said. ‘I should have tried to keep in touch.’

‘I often wondered how you were. I hear you don’t work for the Red Cross any more?’

‘No, I gave that up after I met Sandy. Had to really, I wasn’t in a fit state to work. But I might be doing some voluntary work soon with war orphans.’

Harry shook his head, smiling. ‘And you met up with Sandy. How extraordinary.’

‘Yes. He helped put me back together.’

Sandy came over to her, putting an arm round her shoulders, squeezing protectively. It seemed to Harry that Barbara flinched a little.

‘And you, Harry,’ she asked. ‘Are you all right? Sandy said you were at Dunkirk.’

‘Yes. I’m fine now. Just a spot of deafness.’

‘How are things at home? I get letters from my family but they don’t give me much idea how people are bearing up. The Spanish papers say it’s pretty bad.’

‘People are coping well. The Battle of Britain was a boost.’

‘That’s good. One’s so far away, I didn’t worry too much during the phoney war, but since the bombing – I expect you hear all about how things are at the embassy. All the papers are censored here.’

Sandy laughed. ‘Yes, they even censor the fashion shows in the Daily Mail. If they think the dresses are too low-cut they put a black band across them.’

‘Well, things are tough, but not as bad as the papers here make them out. There’s an amazing spirit, Churchill’s rallied everyone.’

‘Have some wine,’ Sandy said. ‘We’re having some food later, once the others arrive. Look, why don’t you two meet up one afternoon, have a longer chat about home? It’d do Barbara good.’

‘Yes, yes we could.’ She nodded agreement, but Harry sensed reluctance in her voice.

‘That would be good.’ Harry turned to Sandy. ‘And what exactly are you up to now? You didn’t really say the other day.’

He smiled broadly. ‘Oh, I’ve fingers in a number of pies.’

Harry smiled at Barbara. ‘Sandy’s come up in the world.’

‘Yes, he has.’ She seemed bored by this mention of business. Harry felt glad. If she didn’t know anything she wouldn’t have anything to tell.

‘I’m involved mainly with a government-backed project just now,’ Sandy said. ‘Mineral extraction. All very dull, just exploratory stuff. Takes some organizing, though.’