The Russian leaned forward. 'And who told you to ask about Captain Duro?'

Harry took a deep breath. He was in an underground room in a foreign city under martial law. There was no way out of here unless they let him go.

'Miss Clare. She said Captain Duro introduced himself when she first came here making enquiries. I told you, he met Bernie in the Casa de Campo. He tried to find out more for her. Then she was told he had been transferred. No one else would help her.'

'Now we are getting somewhere. Captain Duro was not, in fact, transferred. He was arrested as a saboteur. He was overheard saying we should have treated with the rebels in Barcelona.' He leaned back, crossing his arms. 'Treated with Trotsky-Fascist saboteurs.'

'Look, I really don't know anything about this. I've only been in the country three days.'

'This Private Piper's file shows that after he was injured in the fighting in the Casa de Campo, he offered to help with the reception of volunteers arriving from England. But it was felt he was a bourgeois, a sentimentalist, one likely to disapprove of some of the hard measures we need here. It was felt he should be allowed to recover then sent to the front. He was foot-soldier material, not one of the men of steel we need now.'

Harry stared at the Russian.

'Such people are easily seduced by Trotsky-Fascism.' The Russian turned to his colleague. The Spaniard leaned in close; Harry caught the whispered words, 'Red Cross.' The Russian frowned.

'We shall discuss this outside.' He turned to Harry. 'You, Senor Brett, you stay here.' Harry felt a shiver run down his spine, felt cold in the hot stuffy room.

The soldiers went out. Harry heard a low rumble of voices. He thought feverishly about what would happen if they took him away somewhere. Barbara was expecting him back at the flat. She had seemed calmer after her outburst yesterday; he hoped she hadn't hit the bottle again. She would look for him if he didn't return. His palms were sweating. He told himself he must stay calm.

The voices from the corridor rose. He heard the Russian shouting. 'Who is in charge here?' Footsteps retreated, then there was silence, a thick silence he could almost feel. He remembered the boys talking eagerly about types of torture at school. What the rack did, thumbscrews, new tortures with electric shocks.

The door opened and the Spanish officer entered, alone, his face set. He handed Harry his passport.

'Be thankful for your Red Cross connections,' he said coldly. 'Be grateful we need their medicines. You can go. Get out now before he changes his mind.' He stared into Harry's eyes. 'You have twenty-four hours to leave Spain.'

BACK IN THE FLAT, Harry told Barbara what had happened. He had to leave Spain at once and she should go too; she must never go back to military HQ. He had thought she might not believe what had occurred, but she did.

'We know about what's happening,' she said quietly. 'In the Red Cross, I mean. The arrests and disappearances.' She shook her head. 'I'd just stopped thinking about it. I haven't thought of anything but finding out about Bernie. I've been so selfish. I'm sorry you went through that.'

'I volunteered to go. Maybe we've both been naive.'

'Less excuse for me, I've been here nine months.'

'Barbara, you should come back to England.'

'No.' She stood up, a new decisiveness about her. 'I'll go back to work, tell Doumergue what's happened. I'll see if I can get a transfer.'

'Are you sure you're up to that?'

She smiled wanly. 'I'll be better working. It'll help me pull myself together.'

Harry packed, then went back to Barbara's flat for supper. Neither of them felt like going out into the city.

'I had to have some hope,' she said. 'I couldn't accept Bernie was dead.'

'What will you do now?'

She smiled bravely. 'I talked Doumergue into transferring me. I'm going to help organize medical supplies in Burgos.'

'The Nationalist zone?'

'Yes.' She gave a brittle laugh. 'See the other side of the story. There's no fighting in Burgos, it's well behind the lines.'

'Will you be able to stand that? Working with the people Bernie fought against?'

'Oh, the Nationalists and the Communists are no better than each other. I know that, but I just want to do my job, help the people caught in the middle. Damn all the bloody politics. I'm past caring.'

Harry looked at her. He wondered if she was up to it.

'Can you feel Bernie's presence?' she asked suddenly. 'Here, in the flat?'

'No.' He smiled awkwardly. 'I don't get feelings like that.'

'Sometimes a sort of warmth steals over me, as though he was here. I suppose that just proves he's dead.'

'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.

Chapter Seventeen.

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 Generalisimo 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 salon 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.

'Millan 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. Millan 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.'

Millan 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 Millan 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, Senor Brett. I am so glad that you could come. And you must be Senor 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.'

Senora Maestre smiled. 'I am told you were at Eton, Senor Tolhurst?'

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

'I hope so, sir.'

'And you, Senor Brett?' Senora Maestre asked.

'I went to another public school, senora. Rookwood.' He saw Gomez looking at him, weighing him up.

Senora Maestre nodded. 'And what do your family do?'

Harry was taken aback by her directness. 'I'm from an army background.'

She nodded happily. 'Excellent, just like us. And you are a lecturer at Cambridge?' Her eyes were keen, probing.

'Yes. In peacetime. Only a fellow, not senior.'

Maestre nodded approvingly. 'Cambridge. How I loved my time there, as Senor Brett knows. It was there I got my love of England.'

'You must meet my daughter,' Senora Maestre said. 'She has never met an Englishman. Only Italians, and they are not a good influence.' She raised her eyebrows and gave a little shudder.

'Yes, you young men go with Elena,' Maestre added. As Harry passed him he touched his arm and spoke softly, his keen brown eyes serious. 'You are among friends tonight. No Germans here, and no blue shirts, except for Millan Astray and he is an exception. He has little to do nowadays, we invited him as a kindness.'

Harry and Tolhurst followed Senora Maestre as she cut a path through the crowd, skirts swishing. At the far end three girls stood together self-consciously, nursing tall crystal glasses of wine. Two wore flamenco dresses; the third, short and plump like her mother with olive skin and a round face with heavy features, wore an evening dress of white silk. Senora Maestre clapped her hands and they looked up. Harry remembered for an instant the flamenco singers who had danced in El Toro when he and Bernie were there nine years before. But those had been dressed in black.

'Milagros!' Senora Maestre said. 'You should talk to your guests. Senor Brett, Senor Tolhurst, my daughter Milagros and her friends, Dolores and Catalina.' She turned quickly to a man who was passing by. 'Marques! You came!' She took the man's arm and led him away.

'Are you from London?' Milagros asked Harry with a shy smile. She seemed nervous, ill at ease.

'Near there. A place called Surrey. Simon's from London, aren't you?'

'What oh, yes.' Tolhurst had gone red and was starting to perspire. A lock of fair hair fell over his forehead and he brushed it away, almost spilling his drink. Milagros's friends exchanged glances and giggled.

'I have seen pictures of your King and Queen,' Milagros said. 'And the princesses, how old are they now?'