‘Water,’ he croaked. ‘Water, please.’

The men bent and started gathering handfuls of snow, holding it up to him to drink. It was a slow process. Then the door of Aranda’s hut opened, yellow light stabbing through the thick snowflakes. The men tensed, expecting the comandante to come and order them away, but it was Father Eduardo who emerged. He saw the crowd round the cross, hesitated a moment, then walked towards them. The prisoners stood aside to let him pass. ‘I thought it was the Romans who crucified innocents,’ someone said loudly. Father Eduardo paused for a second, then moved on and lifted his head to Pablo.

‘I have spoken to the comandante,’ he said. ‘You will be taken down soon.’ Pablo’s only answer was another rattling breath as he heaved himself agonizingly up once more. The priest bit his lip and turned away.

Bernie stepped into his path. Father Eduardo looked at him, blinking, his glasses covered with a film of melting snow.

‘Is this what you mean, cura, by Christians sharing Christ’s sufferings on the Cross?’

Father Eduardo turned and walked slowly away, head bowed. As he struggled through the snow that swirled round him, someone called out, ‘¡Hijo de puta!’

A slap on the back made Bernie jump. He turned to see Miguel.

‘Well done, Bernardo,’ he said. ‘I think you shamed the bastard.’ But as he watched Father Eduardo’s retreating back, Bernie felt shame too. He would never have dared to insult Father Jaime like that, none of them would. He had picked on their weakest representative, the one he could hurt most easily, and where was the courage in that?

BERNIE LEFT the hut after supper, saying he needed to piss and his bucket was full. They were allowed to do that until lights out. Agustín made him uneasy but he needed to know what he wanted. He left Pablo lying on the next pallet, covered in a thick pile of blankets donated by the other men, for he was frozen, his shoulders an agony. Bernie had laid his blanket on the pile. Pablo’s face was white. Miguel whispered to Bernie, ‘He is young and strong, with luck he will come through.’ Evidently he had chosen to ignore Establo’s orders to snub him; perhaps others would follow.

Outside the snow had stopped. Bernie went round to the back of the hut, where the moonlight cast a long shadow. Within the shadow Bernie saw the red glow of a cigarette butt. He walked up to Agustín. The guard trampled his cigarette underfoot.

‘What the hell do you want?’ Bernie asked bluntly. ‘You’ve been giving me shifty looks for ages.’

Agustín stared back at him. ‘I have a brother in Madrid, who was a guard, do you remember? A tall thin man like me, Luis?’

Bernie frowned. ‘He left months ago, didn’t he? What’s he got to do with me?’

‘He went to Madrid to seek work; there is none in Sevilla. There he met an English journalist who knows a friend of yours.’ Agustín hesitated, looking at Bernie, then went on. ‘They have been planning an escape for you.’

‘What?’ Bernie stared at him. ‘Who is this friend?’

‘An Englishwoman. Senõra Forsyth.’

Bernie shook his head. ‘Who? I don’t know a Senõra Forsyth. I knew a boy at school called Forsyth, but he wasn’t a friend.’

Agustín raised his hand. ‘Quietly, senõr, for the love of God. This woman has married the man from your school. You knew her in Madrid during the war. Her name then was Barbara Clare.’

Bernie’s mouth fell open. ‘Barbara’s still in Spain? She’s married Sandy Forsyth?’

‘Sí. He is a businessman in Madrid. He knows nothing, she has kept it from him. She is paying us. Senõr, my own term is nearly up, I do not want to have to sign up again. I hate this place. The cold and the isolation.’

‘Christ.’ Bernie stared at Agustín. ‘How long have you been planning this?’

‘For many weeks. It has not been easy. Senõr, I have been watching you since I returned. You should take care, you have been making enemies. Winter is not a good time in the camp, everyone is cold and stuck indoors and their minds turn to mischief.’

Bernie ran his hand over his scrappy beard. ‘Barbara. Oh God, Barbara.’ He felt suddenly faint, he leaned against the wall of the hut. ‘Barbara.’ He spoke the name softly. His eyes were wet with tears. Then he took a deep breath and stepped close to Agustín, who flinched slightly away. ‘Is this true? Is this really true?’

‘It is.’

‘She married Forsyth?’ He laughed unbelievingly. ‘Does he know about this?’

‘No, only her.’

He took a deep breath. ‘How is it to be done? What’s the plan?’

Agustín leaned closer. ‘I will tell you.’

SINCE EARLY DECEMBER it had been bitterly cold in Madrid, and on the sixth Harry woke to find the city covered in a thick mantle of snow. It was strange seeing snow here. It buried some of the ugliness and the scars of war but as he walked to the embassy, watching the pinched red faces of the passers-by, he wondered how the half-starved populace would cope if this went on.

The snowfall had been so heavy the trams weren’t running; Harry walked through a strangely quiet city, every sound muffled, under a slate-grey sky that promised more snow. Crossing the Castellana he saw a gasogene stuck in the middle of the road, belching out clouds of thick smoke as the driver tried frantically to get it going. An old man walked slowly past, leading a donkey laden with cans of olive oil. The old man’s cracked ancient boots were soaking.

‘Hace mal tiempo,’ Harry said.

‘Sí, muy mal.’

He was due to see Hillgarth at ten; he hadn’t been looking forward to the meeting and now he was going to be late. During the fortnight since the dinner party had been interrupted by Sofia’s call, Harry had continued with his ‘watching brief’ on Sandy, met him twice in the cafe and been round to the house again for dinner, but he had learned nothing more. Sandy hadn’t mentioned the gold mine again and when Harry asked him how things were going there he said ‘difficult’ and changed the subject. He seemed preoccupied, keeping up his customary bonhomie only with an effort. At their most recent meeting in the cafe he had asked Harry how things were in England, how big the black market was and what sort of money the spivs were making. Harry had asked him if he was thinking of coming home after all, but he only shrugged. Harry wished it were all over, he was sick of the deception and lies. The thought that Gomez had probably been murdered was never far from his thoughts.

Barbara still seemed troubled too, and distant with him. But as she showed him out after his visit earlier that week she had asked how Sofia was. Sofia had said she would like to see Barbara again and Harry had suggested that the three of them meet for lunch. Barbara had seemed to hesitate, but then agreed.

THE SPIES had not been pleased to learn about Sofia. Tolhurst had quizzed him about her telephone call to the embassy; Harry guessed any calls concerning him were reported to Tolhurst automatically.

‘You should have told us if you’ve found a Spanish floozy,’ he said. ‘How did you meet?’

Harry told him the tale of rescuing her brother from the dogs, missing out who Enrique was.

‘She could be a spy,’ Tolhurst said. ‘You can’t be too careful with women here. You said you weren’t being followed any more. Still, if you met by chance—’

‘Completely by chance. And Sofia hates the regime.’

‘Yes, Carabanchel was a Red district. But they’re no friends of ours down there. Be careful, Harry, that’s all I’m saying.’

‘I’ve told her I’m a translator. She doesn’t ask about my work.’

‘Is she pretty? Got her between the sheets yet?’

‘Oh bloody hell, Tolly, she’s not one of your tarts,’ Harry said with sudden exasperation.

A hurt offended look came over Tolhurst’s face. He brushed a lick of hair back from his face and adjusted his Eton tie. ‘Steady on, old man.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘Don’t get too involved.’