The doubts returned, though, in the cold night. They had needed hard men then but what if they had won, would people like Establo be in charge now? The priest Eduardo had said Marxism was a false faith. He had never understood dialectical materialism properly and he knew many Communists didn’t, it was hard to understand. But communism wasn’t a faith, it wasn’t like Catholicism – it was rooted in an understanding of reality, of the material world.

He tossed and turned. He tried not to think of Barbara, it hurt too much, but her face still came back to him. Memories of her always brought guilt. He had abandoned her. He thought of her back in England, or perhaps in Switzerland, surrounded now by Fascist states. He used to say she didn’t understand things; tonight he was starting to wonder how much he had understood himself. He made himself think of an old comforting image he sometimes brought to mind when he couldn’t sleep, a scene from an old party newsreel he had seen in London. Tractors rolling through the endless Russian wheat-fields, followed by singing workers as they gathered in the plentiful grain.

SANDY MET HARRY outside his flat early in the morning. It was a clear cold day, the sun low in a bright blue sky. Sandy stepped from his Packard and shook Harry’s hand. He wore a heavy camelhair coat and a silk scarf; the sunlight glinted on his oiled hair. He looked happy, exhilarated to be out so early.

‘What a fantastic morning!’ he said, looking at the sky. ‘We don’t get many mornings like this in winter.’

They drove north-west out of Madrid, climbing into the Guadarrama mountains. ‘Fancy coming round to dinner again soon?’ Sandy asked. ‘Just us and Barbara. She’s still a bit out of sorts. I thought it might cheer her up.’

‘That’d be good.’ Harry took a deep breath. ‘I’m grateful for your bringing me in on this.’

‘That’s all right,’ Sandy replied quietly, patronizingly. He smiled.

They climbed to the top of the mountain road; above them, the highest peaks were already covered in snow. Then they descended back into the bare brown countryside, drove through Segovia and turned west, towards Santa Maria la Real. There was little traffic, the countryside was still and empty. It reminded Harry of the day he arrived, the drive into Madrid with Tolhurst.

After an hour Sandy turned into a dusty cart track that wound between low hills. ‘We’re in for a bit of a bone-shaking, I’m afraid. It’s another half hour to the mine.’

On the track donkeys’ hoofmarks were overlaid with deep ruts made by heavy vehicles. The car clattered and juddered over them. Sandy drove confidently.

‘I find myself thinking about Rookwood since we met up again,’ he said reflectively. ‘Piper moved back into our study after I was sacked, didn’t he? You said in a letter.’

‘Yes.’

‘Bet he felt he’d won.’

‘I don’t think so. He hardly mentioned your name again, as I remember.’

‘I’m not surprised he turned to communism, he always had that fanatical streak. Used to look at me as though he’d like nothing better than to put me up against a wall to be shot.’ He shook his head. ‘The Communists are still the real danger to the world, you know. It’s Russia England should be fighting, not Germany. I thought things were going to turn out that way after Munich.’

‘Fascism and communism are as bad as each other.’

‘Oh, come on. At least with right-wing dictatorships our sort of people are looked after so long as we toe the party line. There’s hardly any income tax here. Though I admit dealing with the bureaucracy’s a pain in the arse. Still, the government has to teach the people who’s in charge. That’s their thinking, make everyone follow all these procedures, teach Spaniards order and obedience.’

‘But the bureaucracy’s completely corrupt.’

‘This is Spain, Harry.’ He gave him a glance of affectionate irony. ‘You’re still a Rookwood man at heart, aren’t you? Still believing all those codes of honour?’

‘I used to be. I’m not sure I’m anything any more.’

‘I admired you for it, you know, in the old days. But it’s schoolboy stuff, Harry, it’s not real life. I suppose the academic life’s pretty sheltered as well.’

‘Yes, you’re right, it is. I’ve had my eyes opened to some things out here.’

‘The real world, eh?’

‘You could say that.’

‘We all need security for the future now, Harry. I can help you get that if you let me.’ There was something like an appeal for approval in Sandy’s tone. ‘And nothing’s more secure than gold, especially these days. Look, here we are.’

Ahead a high barbed-wire fence ran round a wide stretch of rolling land. Large holes had been gouged in the yellow earth, some half filled with water. A couple of mechanical earth-movers sat nearby. The track ended at a gate with a wooden hut on the inner side. Two more huts, one large, stood at a little distance and there was a large stone blockhouse too. A board by the gate read: ‘Nuevas Iniciativas S.A. Keep Out. Sponsored by the Ministry of Mines.’

Sandy sounded his horn and a thin elderly man ran from the hut and opened the gates. He saluted Sandy as the car tooled through and came to a halt. They got out. A cold wind was blowing; it stung Harry’s cheeks. He pushed his hat down on his head.

Sandy turned to the gatekeeper. ‘All well, Arturo?’

‘Sí, Señor Forsyth. Señor Otero is here, he is in the office.’ The gatekeeper’s manner was deferential. What you’d expect from a junior staff member to the boss, Harry supposed. It was strange to think of Sandy as a boss, in charge of staff.

Sandy pointed into the distance. A sizeable farm, surrounded by poplars, was visible in a fold of the hills. Black cattle grazed in the fields around it.

‘That’s the place we want to buy. Alberto’s been onto the land on the q.t., taken some samples. He’s quite happy about your visit now, by the way. I talked him round. He was worried about trusting someone who worked at the embassy, but I told him your word was your bond, you wouldn’t say anything.’

‘Thanks.’ Harry felt a stab of guilt. He concentrated on what Sandy was saying.

‘The seam of gold runs right under that farm, gets richer there too. The owner breeds bulls for the corrida. He’s none too bright, he hasn’t twigged what we’re doing here. I think we could get him to sell.’ He laughed suddenly, gazing over the fields. ‘Isn’t it wonderful? All just lying there. Can’t believe it myself sometimes. And we’ll get that farm, don’t worry. I’ve told the farmer I’ll pay him cash, he can go and live with his daughter in Segovia.’ He turned to Harry. ‘I can usually persuade people to see things my way, sniff out something they want and dangle it before them.’ He smiled again.

Harry bent and scooped up some of the yellow soil. It was similar to the earth in the canister in Sandy’s office. It felt friable, cold. Sandy clapped him on the arm.

‘Let’s go and get a cup of coffee in the office. To warm us up.’ He led Harry towards the nearest hut. ‘No one’s here today, just the security people.’

The office was spartan: a desk and a few folding chairs. There was a picture of a flamenco dancer on one wall, and a photograph of Franco above a desk where Otero sat, reading a report. He rose when Harry and Sandy entered and shook Harry’s hand. He smiled, his manner much friendlier than a few days ago.

‘Señor Brett, welcome, thank you for coming all this way. Would you both like a coffee?’

‘Thanks, Alberto,’ Sandy replied. ‘We’ve been freezing our cojones off. Sit down, Harry.’

The geologist fussed with a kettle and gas stove that stood in a corner. Sandy sat on a corner of the desk and lit a cigarette. He picked up the document Otero had been reading.

‘This the report on the latest samples?’

‘Yes. The results are good. That section by the stream is one of the best. We only have powdered milk I am afraid, Señor Brett.’