‘Whatever happens, you’ve some good memories. That’ll be a comfort, in time.’

‘I suppose so. What about you?’

He smiled. ‘Back home to the routine.’

‘It sounds a good life. Are you happy?’

‘Content, I suppose. Perhaps that’s as much as we should hope for.’

‘I always wanted more.’ Her eyes took on a faraway look for a moment. ‘Oh God, I’m going to have to pull myself together to work in Burgos.’ She smiled. ‘Will you write to me?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘Tell me all about Cambridge, while I’m up to my neck in forms.’ She gave that quick, sad little smile again.

GENERAL MAESTRE’S HOUSE was an eighteenth-century mansion in the northern suburbs. He sent a car to pick up Harry and Tolhurst, a big American Lincoln; they drove at speed up a dark empty Castellana from which the Nazi flags had been taken down. Himmler had gone, but the previous day the newspapers had sprung even more sensational news: Hitler and Franco had met at the town of Hendaye on the French border for six hours of talks. The papers predicted that Spain would soon join the war.

‘The meeting went badly, actually, that’s the word from Sam,’ Hillgarth had told Harry and Tolhurst that afternoon. He had summoned them to a meeting in Tolhurst’s office. Dressed today in an ordinary suit, he looked tired. He sat with one leg crossed over the other, constantly jiggling his free foot. ‘He’s got a source in Franco’s entourage. Said Franco told Hitler he’d only enter the war if Hitler guaranteed huge amounts of supplies. He knows we’d let nothing through the blockade. Well, let’s hope that’s right.’ He picked up a copy of ABC from Tolhurst’s narrow desk; the Generalísimo was shown leaning down from the royal train to greet Hitler, grinning broadly, eyes alight.

‘Franco’s besotted with Hitler, wants to be part of the New Order.’ Hillgarth shook his head, then looked at them keenly. ‘You’re both going to that party tonight, aren’t you? See if you can find out from Maestre how the new trade minister’s doing. Carceller made a pro-Fascist speech the other day; Maestre may not last much longer as deputy. Then we’ll have lost a friend.’

‘Did you see the report from our man in Gerona, sir?’ Tolhurst asked. ‘Food trains heading for the French border, “For Our German Allies” painted on the side?’

Hillgarth nodded. He shifted in his chair, bringing his foot to rest. ‘Time to move on with Forsyth, Brett. Find out more about this damned gold. And what about this Clare woman, where does she fit in?’

‘I don’t think Barbara knows anything.’

Hillgarth eyed him keenly. ‘Well, find out,’ he said tersely. ‘You know her.’

‘Not well. But we’re meeting for lunch on Monday.’ He had phoned yesterday; Barbara had seemed hesitant but accepted his invitation. Harry felt guilty but at the same time full of curiosity about her relationship with Sandy. Being a spy stimulates nosiness, he thought. ‘I think my best bet’s to follow up what Sandy said about business opportunities,’ he went on. ‘It may help me get a picture of what he’s doing.’

‘When are you seeing him again?’

‘I thought I’d arrange something when I met Barbara.’

Hillgarth’s foot jigged again. ‘This can’t wait. You should have organized something when you spoke to the woman.’

‘We don’t want to seem too eager,’ Tolhurst interjected.

Hillgarth waved a hand impatiently. ‘We need that information.’ He rose abruptly. ‘I’ve got to go. See to it.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘He’s worried,’ Tolhurst said as the door closed. ‘Better fix another meeting with Forsyth pronto.’

‘All right. But Sandy’s sharp.’

‘We’ll have to be sharper.’

THE BALL HAD a Moorish theme. A pair of Moroccan guards flanked the front door, dressed in turbans and long yellow cloaks and holding lances. Harry looked at their impassive brown faces as he passed, recalling the savage reputation the Moors had during the Civil War.

Inside, the wide hallway was decorated with Moorish tapestries; guests circulated, the men in evening dress and many of the women in wide Andalusian skirts. A partition separating the hall from the salón had been pushed back, creating one enormous room. It was full of people. A servant, Spanish but wearing a fez and kaftan, took their names and waved a waiter across to serve them drinks.

‘Know anyone?’ Harry asked.

‘One or two people. Look, there’s Goach.’ The old protocol expert stood in a corner, talking earnestly to a tall red-robed cleric. ‘He’s a Catholic, you know, loves a monsignor.’

‘Look at the waiters in fancy dress. They must be hot.’

Tolhurst leaned close. ‘Talking of things Moroccan, look over there.’

Harry followed his gaze. In the middle of the room Maestre stood with two other men, like him in uniform. One was a lieutenant. The other, a general like Maestre, was an extraordinary figure. Elderly, thin and white-haired, he was talking animatedly, threatening to splash his companions with the drink he held in one hand. His other sleeve hung empty. His cadaverous scarred face had only one eye, a black patch screwed into an empty socket on the other side. He laughed, showing an almost toothless mouth.

‘Millán Astray,’ Tolhurst said. ‘You can’t mistake him. Founder of the Spanish Foreign Legion. Astray’s pro-Fascist and mad as a hatter, but his old troops love him. Franco served under him, and so did Maestre. Chief of the bridegrooms of death.’

‘The what?’

‘That’s what they called the legion. Make the French legion look like Sunday-school teachers.’ Tolhurst leaned closer and lowered his voice. ‘The captain told me a story about Maestre. Some nuns from a nursing order came out to Morocco during the tribal rebellions. Maestre and some of his men met them at Melilla docks and presented them with a huge basket of roses – with the heads of two Moroccan rebel leaders in the middle.’

‘Sounds like a tall story.’ Harry looked again at Maestre. Millán Astray’s gestures had become even wilder and Maestre looked a little strained, but still bent his head politely to listen.

‘Maestre told Captain Hillgarth himself. Nuns never batted an eyelid, apparently. The legion had a bit of a thing about heads, used to parade with them stuck on the end of their bayonets.’ Tolhurst shook his head wonderingly. ‘Half the government are ex-legion now. It’s one thing that holds the Monarchist and Falangist factions together. A shared past.’

Millán Astray had put down his drink and was squeezing the shoulder of Maestre’s other companion as he went on talking animatedly. Even that hand, Harry saw, had fingers missing. Maestre caught Harry’s eye, and muttered something to Millán Astray. The old man nodded and Maestre and the lieutenant came over to Harry and Tolhurst. On the way Maestre whispered to a small plump woman in a wide Andalusian skirt and long white gloves and she followed the others over. Maestre extended a hand to Harry with a welcoming smile.

‘Ah, Señor Brett. I am so glad that you could come. And you must be Señor Tolhurst.’

‘Yes, sir. Thank you for inviting me.’

‘I am always glad to welcome friends from the embassy. I should be circulating but I have been reliving old times in Morocco. My wife, Elena.’

Harry and Tolhurst bowed.

‘And my right-hand man from those days, Lieutenant Alfonso Gomez.’

The other man shook hands and bowed stiffly. He was short and stocky, with a stern face the colour of mahogany and keen eyes. ‘You are English?’ he asked.

‘Yes, from the embassy.’

Señora Maestre smiled. ‘I am told you were at Eton, Señor Tolhurst?’

‘A fine place.’ Maestre nodded approvingly. ‘Where English gentlemen are bred, eh?’

‘I hope so, sir.’

‘And you, Señor Brett?’ Señora Maestre asked.

‘I went to another public school, señora. Rookwood.’ He saw Gomez looking at him, weighing him up.