‘Guv, if the government knows what’s coming, then they should know how to put the mockers on it.’

‘They probably do, but they are not talking to the people who can stop it physically, the various far-left organisations like this lot. They are just as frightened of them as they are of the generals.’

Just then a messenger rushed in, spouted some news, and set off another loud and incomprehensible argument, full of waving fists and triumphant cries, which at least indicated the proffered information was positive.

‘Good news,’ Florencia explained, having detached herself from the ballyhoo. ‘The Assault Guard are handing out weapons to the workers and we have certain armouries we are sure we can capture with their guns. News has come from the dock workers’ union as well. There is a ship in the harbour carrying explosives and I have volunteered us to help capture it.’

‘With what?’ Cal demanded, making the sign of a pistol.

That got another flash of those dark eyes, attached to a look of determination. ‘If we have weapons, good; if not, we will take the ship with our bare hands.’

Grabbing her shoulders Cal looked right into those lovely liquid pools. ‘Go back into that mob and tell them, from me: no weapons, no help.’

‘I have told them how brave you are!’

‘Tell them how stupid I’m not and also tell them all Vince and I have is a bunch of untrained amateurs, some of whom might be able to swim, others who can box, many who can run a mile in not much over four minutes and none who know how to use a gun, which they must have, just as we must show them how to employ them before they go anywhere near a fight.’

There was a crestfallen air about Florencia as he spoke those words, as if he had gone down miles in her estimation, the rate marked by the spirit of her deflation.

‘Look, we are willing, but we must have weapons.’

‘I cannot deal with this,’ she cried, with a toss of her blonde curls. ‘I will get Juan Luis Laporta. He speaks French and so do you.’

‘And who is he?’

Florencia managed to give Cal Jardine the kind of look that implied he must have spent the last ten years on the moon. ‘Juan Luis is a senior military commander of the CNT-FAI and a true and experienced revolutionary. Surely you have read about him?’

Then she was gone.

‘Fancy you not knowin’ that, guv, eh?’ said Vince, dryly.

CHAPTER THREE

Dragging her man away from the heated discussions took time; it was clear he was important, a person whose views counted in the mass of conflicting arguments. In order that they could talk in relative peace, Cal and Vince moved to a corner window that looked out onto the wide and crowded pavement to wait. Coming towards them, edging past people in the bustling café, exchanging words with some and looks with others, allowed Cal to examine Laporta more closely.

‘He looks a bit useful,’ Vince said, before he got close, as a boxer, well used to observing a potential opponent.

Broad-faced and stocky of build, clad in a worn leather coat and a battered forage cap of the same material, with a pistol worn on his hip, he looked like a fighter – and not just with a gun. The way he held his hands indicated he was prepared to use his fists too, while the hunch on the shoulders pointed to a degree of power to back those up. But most of all, the steady gaze, once he had fixed on Cal Jardine, indicated a man who was confident in his own ability.

For all his physicality, the thing that impressed Cal most about Juan Luis Laporta, once they had started to converse in French, was his lack of excitability. Unlike many in the room he was calm and controlled, a man who could listen as well as talk, while it was obvious that, if he knew these two strangers were assessing him, he was doing the same to them.

It is little things that tell you a man is an experienced fighter, especially if you have been round the block a few times yourself. The scars he has and where they are located are the same ones you see in the shaving mirror or when you are washing your hands; another indicator the wary way they carry themselves, as if trouble is a constant possibility.

‘Monsieur,’ he said, once Cal had outlined the operation they had been volunteered for, as well as his objections. ‘None of the people you see in this room have such training.’

There was an obvious truth in that; those present were workers, but Cal was instinctively aware the man he was talking to knew his business, though his fighting was likely, given his politics, to be of the unconventional kind.

‘They are not only untrained, but unarmed.’

‘Matters are in hand to secure a supply of weapons.’

‘I suspected they must be.’

The silence in such close proximity was highlighted by the surrounding noise, and it lasted for several seconds. ‘Florencia tells me you are an ex-soldier.’

‘As is my friend.’

Laporta flicked a smile at Vince, before casting a long up-and-down stare at Cal, seemingly taken by his looks – the cut of his clothing, blouson aside, and his shoes, which were handmade and recognisably so in a country where people knew about footwear. They also had a patina of age that only came from being well looked after over decades.

‘You were an officer, I suspect.’

‘That, monsieur, is not a crime.’

‘Why are you in Barcelona?’

‘Has Florencia not said?’

‘She has,’ Laporta replied, his eyes hardening. ‘But a room in the Ritz Hotel is not the place for those who I expect to share our political beliefs, or of the class that have come here to take part in the People’s Olympiad.’

‘I don’t share your political beliefs, Señor Laporta, in fact I think they are foolish.’

‘It would be interesting to know, monsieur, what you do believe in?’

Cal jerked his head to include Vince. ‘I think you will find that my friend and I have a certain type of adversary, one we might share with many people, and not just the Spanish. Plus, if you have not been told already, we are here representing many who are sympathetic to your cause.’

‘Your athletes want to fight the generals?’

‘I think it might be a bit broader in purpose, more they want to fight fascism, something they intended to demonstrate through their athletic prowess. They just happen to be here, now, when events are unfolding. I daresay there are young men from every represented nationality at the games who feel the same and are willing to take up arms in the cause you all share.’

‘Right now, monsieur, I am not sure what I would do with them.’

‘Is he givin’ us the elbow, guv?’ Vince asked.

Vince had picked up the odd word and had not mistaken the tone, as well as the cynical look in the Spaniard’s eyes. His intervention caused Laporta to look at him again, but it was brief, his attention turning back to Cal.

‘Your athletes, if they want to be of use, need to be trained, as do many of the workers. You, as an officer at one time, are used to training soldiers, no? But are you a good officer or a bad one? There are many of those, too many, in the Spanish army.’

And, Cal thought, you would struggle to trust them. The man was suspicious of him too, and right to be so; no offence need be taken regarding such an attitude, for if, as suspected, he had participated in insurrection before, there would be within that a memory of both betrayal and incompetence, expensive in terms of plans unsuccessfully executed and lives lost.

‘Maybe it would be best if I was shown what you can do.’

The steady look had within an implication of a test, and Cal Jardine was too long in the war-fighting tooth to allow anyone to examine his ability. ‘I have no objection to being active, but I will only do what I think is both wise and achievable.’

‘And I, monsieur, would only ask you to do what I would also ask of my own comrades.’