'I'm sorry. I was waiting for the right moment but there isn't one, is there?'

'No.'

'I don't think I really cared if I lived before, but I do now. Now that I'm going back.'

FOR TWO WEEKS after he left she had no news. She went to work and stumbled through the day, but when she returned to the flat and he wasn't there the silence seemed to echo as though he was dead already.

In the first week of February news came of a Fascist offensive to the south of Madrid. They were aiming to sweep round and cut the capital off completely, but they were held at the Jarama river. The radio and newspapers spoke of a heroic defence, Franco's advance checked before it had really begun. The International Brigades were prominent in the fighting. They said there were heavy casualties.

Every morning before work Barbara went to army headquarters in the Puerta del Sol. At first the staff were suspicious, but when she came a second day and a third they were kind to her. She had let herself go, she was losing weight and there were dark rings under her eyes, her pain visible to all.

The headquarters was chaotic, uniformed clerks running around clutching papers, telephones ringing everywhere. Barbara wondered whether some of those phone lines connected with the front, if there might be a connection between one of those buzzing rings and the place where Bernie was now. She did that all the time now, made connections in her head: the same sun shines down on us both, the same moon, I hold a book that he held, put a fork in my mouth that he put in his ...

There was serious fighting in the second and third week of February, but still she had no news. She had had no letters, either, but they told her communications were difficult. Towards the end of February the fighting lessened, turned into another stalemate. Barbara hoped news might start coming through now.

She heard on the last day of February, a cold early spring day. She had come to HQ before work as usual and this time a uniformed clerk asked her to wait in a side room. She knew at once it was bad news. She sat in a shabby little office with a desk and typewriter and a portrait of Stalin on the wall. She thought, irrelevantly, how does he keep that big moustache in order?

The door opened and a man in captain's uniform came in. There was a paper in his hand and his face was sombre. Barbara felt a chill run through her, as though she had fallen through ice into dark water. She didn't get up to shake hands, just sat there.

'Miss Clare. Good afternoon. I hear you have come here many times.'

'Yes. For news.' She gulped. 'He's dead, isn't he?'

The officer raised a hand. 'We do not know for sure. Not for sure. But he is on the list of those missing believed killed. The British Battalion was in heavy fighting on the thirteenth.'

'Missing believed killed,' she said flatly. 'I know what that means. You just haven't found a body.'

He didn't answer, just inclined his head.

'They fought magnificently. They held back the Fascist advance on their own for two days.' He paused. 'Many could not be identified.'

Barbara felt herself fall from the chair. As she collapsed to the floor she started weeping uncontrollably, pushing herself into the floorboards because under them was the earth, the earth where Bernie was buried now.

Chapter Twelve.

THE RITZ DINING ROOM was lit by sparkling chandeliers. Harry took his seat at the long dining table reserved for the embassy staff. Tolhurst sat next to him; on his other side, Goach, the old man who had instructed him in protocol, settled carefully into his chair. He was bald, with a drooping white moustache and a soft voice, and wore a monocle on a long black thread. The collar of his dinner jacket was spotted with dandruff.

Harry's wing collar chafed at his neck as he looked round the table; two dozen embassy staff had come to show the flag. At the head of the table Hoare sat with his wife, Lady Maud, a large plain woman. Hillgarth was on Hoare's other side, his naval uniform bright with medals.

Harry had reported back to Hillgarth after his meeting with Sandy. Tolhurst had been there too. Hillgarth had been pleased with his progress, especially with the invitation to dinner, and intrigued to learn about Barbara.

'See if you can get him to talk more about his business,' Hillgarth had said. 'You don't know who the other guests are going to be?'

'No. I didn't ask. Didn't want to press too closely.'

Hillgarth nodded. 'Quite right. What about his girly, could she be in on his plans?'

'I don't know.' Harry frowned.

'You were just friends?' Hillgarth interjected sharply.

'Yes, sir. It's just, I don't want to involve her unless I have to. But I see it might be necessary,' he added. 'It's odd, their getting together Sandy didn't get on with Bernie.'

'Wonder if he went after the girly because she was his enemy's girlfriend?' Tolhurst mused.

'I don't know.' Harry shook his head. 'When I knew Sandy he was still a boy, really. He's changed. Everything about him seemed contrived, showy. Except for his being pleased to see me, that was real.' He frowned again.

'Use that.' Hillgarth looked at Harry seriously. 'What you're doing is important. This gold business fits into a bigger picture, the question of how we handle the regime. It matters a lot.'

Harry met Hillgarth's gaze. 'I know, sir.'

THE WAITER laid a menu before him, large and white. The choices could have come from before the war. Harry wondered if they still had food as good as this at the London Ritz. He had had a letter from Will that morning. He was being transferred to a new post out in the countryside, somewhere in the Midlands; Muriel was delighted to get away from the bombs, though worried the house might be burgled. The news from home had filled Harry with almost unbearable nostalgia. He looked up from the menu with a sigh, his eyes widened at the sight of four officers in grey uniforms who were taking seats at a table a little way off, among the well-dressed Madrilenos. The officers' harsh, clipped voices were instantly recognizable.

'There's Jerry,' Tolhurst said quietly. 'Military advisers. The Gestapo people wear civvies.'

One of the Germans caught Harry's stare, raised an eyebrow and turned away.

'The Ritz is such a German and Italian haunt now,' Tolhurst continued. 'That's why Sir Sam likes to fly the flag now and then.'

'Ready for tomorrow?' Tolhurst asked quietly. 'The dinner with our friend?'

'Yes.'

'Wonder if that girly knows anything?' Tolhurst's eyes were alight with curiosity.

'I don't know, Tolly.' Harry looked down the table. Tonight's dinner, too, had its hidden agenda: they were all under instructions to be cheerful, relaxed, show they weren't worried by the cabinet changes. Everyone was drinking hard, joking and guffawing. It was like a rugby club dinner. The embassy secretaries, brought along to make up the numbers, looked ill at ease.

Waiters in starched white coats brought food and wine. The food was superb, the best Harry had eaten since his arrival. 'The old standards are coming back,' said Goach at his elbow. Harry wondered how old he was; they said he had been at the embassy since the Spanish-American War forty years ago. No one, apparently, knew more about Spanish protocol.

'They are at the Ritz, at least, judging by the food,' said Harry.

'Oh, in other places too. They're reopening the theatres, the Opera House. I remember the old King spoke to me there once. He was very charming. Put one at ease.' He sighed. 'I think the Generalisimo would like to invite him back, but the Falange won't have it. Wretched shower. They threw flour at you on Thursday, I heard?'

'Yes, they did.'

'Filthy rabble. He had the Hapsburg jaw, you know. Protruding.'

'What?'

'King Alfonso. Only slightly. The burdens of royalty. The Duke of Windsor passed through Madrid, you know, back in June. When he escaped from France.' Goach shook his head. 'They just rushed him through the embassy and out to Lisbon. No formal reception or anything. I mean, he was the King once.' He shook his head again, sadly.

Harry looked round the table again. He wondered what Bernie would have made of this.

'Penny for 'em,' Tolhurst said. Harry turned to him.

'Sometimes I feel like I'm in Wonderland,' he said quietly. 'I wouldn't be surprised to see a white rabbit in a suit pop up.'

Tolhurst looked puzzled. 'What d'you mean?'

Harry laughed. 'They haven't a clue what life's like out there.' He nodded towards the window. 'Doesn't it ever get to you, Simon, all the sheer bloody misery you see in this city?'

Tolhurst frowned thoughtfully. Through the chatter Harry caught the ambassador's sharp tones. 'This Special Operations nonsense is mad. I hear they're using Spanish Republican exiles to train British soldiers in political warfare. Bloody Communists.'

'Set Europe ablaze,' Hillgarth replied.

'Oh yes, that's a typical Winston phrase. Purple prose.' Hoare's sharp voice was raised. 'I know what the Reds are like, I was in Russia when the Tsar fell.'

Hillgarth lowered his voice but Harry heard him. 'All right, Sam. I agree with you. It's not the time for that.'

Tolhurst came out of his brown study. 'I suppose I'm used to it. The poverty. Cuba's just the same.'

'I can't get used to it,' Harry said.

Tolhurst thought a moment. 'Ever been to a bullfight?'

'I went once, in '31. Didn't like it. Why?'

'The first time I went it made me feel sick, all the blood when they spear the bull, the terrified expression still on the bloody thing's face when they brought its head to the restaurant afterwards. But I had to go; it was part of the diplomatic life. The second time it wasn't so bad. I thought, dammit, it's only an animal, then the third time I started appreciating the skill, the matadors' bravery. You have to shut your eyes to the bad side of a country if you're a diplomat, d'you see?'

Or a spy, Harry thought. He traced a line in the white tablecloth with his fork. 'Isn't that how it always starts, though? We deaden ourselves for protection, stop seeing the cruelty and suffering.'

'I suppose if we let ourselves think about all the gruesome things we start imagining them happening to us. I know I do sometimes.' Tolhurst laughed uneasily. Harry looked up and down the table, saw the forced quality of the smiles, the harsh undertone to the laughter.

'I don't think you're alone,' he said.

Someone on Tolhurst's other side grabbed his arm and began whispering to him about two clerks who had been caught together in a stationery cupboard. Tolhurst turned away with relief to the gossip.

'Julian, a pansy? I don't believe it.'

Harry turned back to Goach. 'Nice salmon.'

'Very good.'

'What?' Harry hadn't caught the old man's reply. Among a crowd, his deafness could still be a problem. For a moment he felt disorientated.

'I said it's very good,' Goach said. 'Very good.'

Harry leaned forward. 'You've been in the diplomatic service a long time, sir. I heard a phrase the other day, the Knights of St George. Any idea what it might mean? I wondered if it might be embassy slang of some sort.'

Goach adjusted his monocle, frowned. 'Don't think so, Brett, never heard that one before. Where d'you hear it?'

'Oh, round the embassy somewhere. It just struck me as odd.'

Goach shook his head again. 'Sorry, no idea.' He glanced at Hoare for a moment, then said, 'He's a good man, the ambassador. For all the faults he may have, he'll keep Spain out of the war.'

'I hope so,' Harry said, then added, 'If Spain does stay out, and we win, what happens to the country afterwards?'

Goach gave a little laugh. 'Let's win the war first.' He thought a moment. 'Though if Franco stays out, keeps the Fascist element in the government under control, well, we'd have reason to be grateful to him, wouldn't we?'

'You think he's a Monarchist at heart?'

'Oh, I'm sure of it. If you analyse his speeches carefully, you can see he cares everything about Spain's traditions, its old values.'

'What about its people?'

Goach shrugged. 'They've always needed a firm hand.'

'They've got that all right.'

Goach inclined his head, then lowered it to his plate. There was a shout of laughter from the other end of the table, matched by a guffaw from the Germans, as they tried to be louder.

Chapter Thirteen.

ON TUESDAY, Barbara went to meet Luis again. It was a fine day, still and quiet, leaves fluttering down from the trees. Barbara walked because the Castellana was closed to traffic; Reichsfuhrer Himmler would be driven down it later on his way to meet the Generalisimo at the Royal Palace.

She had to cross the Castellana. Swastika flags hung from every building and were strung across the road, the scarlet banners with the hooked cross gaudy against the grey buildings. Civiles stood at intervals along the road, some cradling sub-machine guns. Nearby a parade of Falange Youth was lined up on the kerb, holding little swastika flags. Barbara hurried across and disappeared into the maze of streets leading to the Centro.

As she neared the cafe her heart was beating fast. Luis was already there, she saw him through the window. He was at the same table, nursing a coffee. His expression was gloomy. Barbara noticed again how down at heel he looked; he wore the same threadbare jacket, cheap rope-soled alpargatas on his feet. She took a deep breath and went in. The landlady nodded to her from beneath Franco's portrait. She wished she could get away from the Generalisimo's cold stare; it was everywhere, even on the stamps now.

Luis stood up with a relieved smile. 'Senora. Buenos dias. I thought you might not come!'

'I'm sorry,' she said without an answering smile. 'I had to walk and it took longer than I thought. Himmler's visit.'

'It does not matter. A coffee?'

She let him fetch her a cup of the filthy coffee. She lit a cigarette but this time did not offer him one. She took a deep breath and looked him in the eye. 'Senor Luis, before we discuss this further there is something I must ask.'

'Of course.'

'Last time you told me you left the army in the spring.'

'That is correct, yes.' He looked puzzled.

'But you also told me you spent two winters out there. How could that be? Cuenca was in Red hands until the surrender last year.'

Luis swallowed hard. Then a sad smile settled over his face. 'Senora, I said I had spent two winters up on the meseta, not at Cuenca. The previous winter I was in another part of it. A posting at Teruel. You remember that name?'