HARRY WAS DEBRIEFED by Hillgarth the next morning. He was delighted with his progress. He told him to see Sandy again as soon as possible, try to lead him on to talk about the gold, and push Barbara for information too when he met her.

It was almost lunchtime when he returned to his office. He had been translating a new speech from the governor of Barcelona but found that it had been taken from his desk. He went to see Weaver.

‘Had to give it to Carne,’ Weaver said languidly. ‘Didn’t know how long you’d be with the sneaky beakies, and it needed to be done.’ He sighed. ‘You might as well take the rest of the day off now.’

Harry left the building and walked home. The two other translators, he knew, were annoyed that he kept leaving his work, a frostiness was growing up between them. Blow them, Harry thought. They were affected foreign-office types and he couldn’t be bothered with them. He was becoming more and more conscious, though, of loneliness; apart from Tolhurst, he had no friends at the embassy.

At home he ate a cold lunch and then, not wanting to stay in the flat on his own all afternoon, changed into casual clothes and went out for a walk. The weather was still cold and dank, a faint mist obscuring the end of the street. He stood in the square, wondering where to go, then turned down the street that led into La Latina, with Carabanchel beyond, what Tolhurst had called a bad area that first afternoon. He remembered Bernie’s friends, the Meras. He wondered if they might still be down there somewhere.

As he walked through La Latina he thought about Barbara. He didn’t relish the task before him, asking prying questions about Sandy’s work without seeming too obvious. She had changed out of all recognition. But she wasn’t happy, he could see. He had told Hillgarth that, then felt guilty.

He walked down to the Puerta de Toledo. Beyond lay Carabanchel. He hesitated for a few moments, then crossed the bridge and walked into the warren of tall tenements.

On this damp cold afternoon, the barrio was almost deserted, only a few people walking by. He thought, how Bernie and I must have stood out here in ’31, pale and English in our white shirts. Some of the houses looked about to fall down and were supported by wooden beams; the streets were full of potholes and broken slabs and there was the occasional bombsite, half-demolished walls standing among piles of rubble like broken teeth. Harry flinched as a large rat ran from a bombed house and streaked along the gutter ahead of him.

Then he heard steady footsteps behind. He swore quietly. His spy again, he must have been waiting near the flat. In his preoccupation he had forgotten to watch out for him; bad tradecraft. He backed into the doorway of the nearest tenement. The door was closed and he reached for the handle, slipping into a dark hallway. Water dripped somewhere and there was a strong smell of urine. He pushed the door to, leaving just a crack to peer round.

He saw the pale young man plod past, hunched into his coat. Harry waited a few minutes, then emerged and turned down a side street. The area seemed familiar. A little group of middle-aged men eyed him coldly as he passed the corner where they stood talking. He remembered with a stab of sadness how welcoming the people had been nine years before.

He turned into a square. Two sides had been shelled into rubble, all the houses down, a chaos of broken walls rising from a sea of shattered bricks and sodden rags of bedding. Weeds had grown up between the stones, tall scabrous dark-green things. Square holes in the ground half filled with green scummy water marked where cellars had stood. The square was deserted and the houses that had been left standing looked derelict, their windows all broken.

Harry had never seen destruction on such a scale; the bombsites in London were small by comparison. He stepped closer, looking over the devastation. The square must have been intensively shelled. Every day there was news of more raids on England – did London look like this now?

Then he saw a sign on a corner, Plaza General Blanco, and felt a dreadful lurch in his stomach. This was the square where the Mera family had lived. He looked round again, trying to fix his bearings, and realized that the tenement block where the family had lived was gone, rubble. He stood there, his mouth falling open.

There was a flash of movement and Harry started as a dog jumped on to the remains of a wall and stood looking at him. It was a little tan mongrel with a curly tail; once it had been someone’s pet but now it was half starved, ribs showing through a coat half eaten away by mange.

It barked twice, sharply, and a dozen shapes slipped from behind walls and through the weeds, thin mangy dogs of all shapes and sizes. Some were no bigger than the mongrel, but there were three or four large ones including an Alsatian. They gathered together, watching him. Harry stepped back, remembering what Tolhurst had said on his first day about feral dogs, rabies. He looked round frantically but apart from the dogs there was no sign of life in the misty shattered square. His heart began thumping and a hissing noise sounded in his bad ear.

The dogs padded over the rubble towards him, fanning out slowly and carefully, unnervingly quiet. The Alsatian, evidently the leader, stepped ahead and bared its teeth. How easily that lift of the lip could transform a dog into a wild animal.

You mustn’t show fear. That was what they said about dogs. ‘¡Vete!’ he shouted. ‘Go away!’ To his relief they paused, stopping ten yards from him. The Alsatian bared its teeth again.

Harry stepped back, keeping his eyes on them. He almost stumbled on a half brick and flailed his arms to keep his balance. Staring into the Alsatian’s eyes, he bent and picked the half brick up. The dogs tensed.

He hurled it at the Alsatian with a shout. It caught the animal on a scabby haunch and it yelped, twisting away. ‘¡Vete!’ Harry yelled again. For a second the dogs hesitated, then they turned and ran after their leader.

The pack stopped just out of range and stood watching him. Harry’s legs were shaking. He picked up another piece of brick, then slowly retreated. The dogs stayed where they were. He stopped at the far side of the square, his back pressed against a wall. A tattered Republican poster still hung from it, steel-helmeted soldiers leaping into gunfire.

He retraced his steps slowly, keeping against the walls, watching for movement from the bombsite. The dogs had disappeared among the rubbish but he felt their eyes on him and did not turn his back till he was in the street that led to the square. He leaned against a wall, taking deep breaths.

Then he heard the scream, a yell of pure terror. Another followed, even louder. Harry hesitated a moment, then ran back.

The spy was standing at the edge of the bombsite. The dogs had him surrounded, jumping up at him. A big mongrel had him by the shin, worrying it, trying to bring him down as he screamed again. His trouser leg and the dog’s muzzle were red with blood. As Harry watched one of the smaller dogs leapt up and seized the man’s arm, making him stumble. He went down on the ground with another yell. The Alsatian leaped for his neck. The man managed to throw his arm across his throat but the Alsatian seized the arm. The dogs gave low growls of excitement as he almost disappeared under them.

Harry picked up another piece of brick and threw it. It landed among the dogs and they jumped back, baring their teeth and snarling. He ran across the square in a half crouch, picking up stones and pieces of rubble and hurling them with both hands, yelling at the dogs. Again he aimed mostly for the leader, the Alsatian. The dogs hesitated and Harry thought they were about to go for him too but the Alsatian jumped back and ran off. It was limping; the brick he had thrown earlier must have done some damage. The others followed, disappearing once more among the weeds.