After leaving the church she let Harry take her to a coffee bar. She asked what the latest word was at the embassy about Franco entering the war. Harry told her they thought Franco's meeting with Hitler had gone badly. That was some comfort.

When she got home she made some tea and sat by herself in the kitchen, thinking and smoking. Pilar was out for the afternoon; Barbara was glad, she could never feel at ease around the girl. The weather forecast came on, the announcer promising more cold weather for Madrid and snow for the Guadarrama mountains. Barbara looked out at the rainswept garden and thought, that'll mean snow in Cuenca too. And nothing to do now but wait for Luis's brother to take his leave. She thought about Harry again. She wished she could have told him about Bernie, she hated letting him carry on thinking his old friend was dead and longed to tell him the truth, but he was Sandy's friend too, and what she was thinking of doing was illegal. It wasn't safe, it wasn't safe to tell a soul.

After a while she went into the salon and wrote a letter to Sister Inmaculada, telling her in coldly polite tones that domestic commitments meant she couldn't work at the orphanage any more. She was just finishing as Sandy came in. He looked tired. He smiled as he put down his briefcase. It made a chinking sound, as though it contained something metal. He came over and put a hand on her shoulder.

'How are you, darling? Listen, I'm sorry I was bad-tempered at the office. I've had a hard day. Been at the Jews' Committee for the last hour.' He leaned over and kissed her neck. Once that would have melted her, now she was conscious only of the tickling hairs of his moustache. She pulled away. He frowned.

'What's the matter? I've said I'm sorry.'

'I've had a bad day too.'

'Who are you writing to?'

'Sister Inmaculada. I've said I'm not going to the orphanage any more. I can't stand how those children are treated.'

'You haven't said that in the letter, have you?'

'No, Sandy, I've said domestic commitments. Don't worry, there won't be any trouble with the marquesa.'

He stepped away. 'No need to be so snappy.'

She took a deep breath. 'I'm sorry.'

'So what are you going to do with yourself now? You need something to do.'

I need a month till I can get Bernie away and escape, she thought. 'I don't know. Maybe I could help with your refugees? The Jews?'

Sandy took a sip of whisky. He shook his head. 'I've just been meeting some of them. They're very traditional. Don't like being told what to do by women.'

'I thought they were mostly professional people.'

'They're still very traditional.' He changed the subject. 'What did Harry have to say for himself?'

'We talked about the war. He doesn't think Franco will come in.'

'Yes, that's what he told me. You know, he's quite shrewd when it comes to business.' He smiled reflectively. 'More than I'd have expected.' He looked at her again. 'Look, lovey, I think you're making a mistake about the orphanage. You have to do things their way. When in Rome I've said that often enough.'

'Yes, you have. But I'm not going back there, Sandy, I won't be part of how those children are treated.' Why did he always seem to provoke her to anger these days, just when she needed to keep things normal, on an even keel? Barbara knew he had noticed something was wrong. She even avoided love-making now, and when he persisted and she gave in, she couldn't fake pleasure.

'Those children are wild,' Sandy said. 'You've said so yourself. They need disciplining, not toy animals.'

'God, Sandy, sometimes I think you've got a stone instead of a heart.' The words came out before she could stop herself.

He flushed angrily and took a step towards her. His fists were clenched and Barbara flinched, heart thudding. She had always known he could be cruel, venomous when he was crossed, but until now she had never feared violence from him. She drew a sharp breath. Sandy checked himself and spoke coldly.

'I made you,' he said. 'Don't you forget it. You were nothing when I met you, a mess, because all you've ever cared about is what people think of you. All you've got for a heart is sentimental mush.' He glared at her furiously and she saw clearly, for the first time, what he had always wanted from her, what their relationship had been about from the start. Control. Power.

She got up and walked out of the room.

Chapter Twenty-Seven.

WHEN HARRY RETURNED home after leaving Barbara he found two letters waiting for him. One was a hand-delivered scribbled note from Sandy. It said he had persuaded Otero and de Salas to let him visit the mine, and that he would collect Harry early on Sunday, in three days' time, and drive him there. It was only a few hours' journey, he said.

He opened the other letter; the address was written in a small, neat hand he didn't recognize. It was from Sofia, and enclosed a bill for treatment and drugs from a doctor in the town centre, along with a letter in Spanish.

Dear Senor Brett, I enclose the bill from the doctor. I know his charges are reasonable. Enrique is better already. Soon he will be able to work again and things will be easier for all of us. He sends his thanks, as does Mama. You saved Enrique's life and we will always remember what you did with gratitude.

Harry felt disappointed by the letter's formal tone, the hint of dismissal. He turned it over in his hands a couple of times, then sat down and wrote a reply.

I am so glad Enrique is better and I shall pay the doctor's bill tomorrow morning. I would like to meet you to give you the receipt and also to buy you coffee. I enjoyed our talk and I meet few Spanish people informally. I hope you will feel able to come.

He suggested they meet in two days' time, at a cafe he knew near the Puerta del Sol, at six o'clock because he knew she began work early.

Harry sealed the letter. He would post it when he went out. The receipt was an excuse, as she would realize. Well, either she would reply or she would not. He turned to the telephone table and dialled the embassy. He asked reception to tell Mr Tolhurst that he wished to come in to discuss the planned press release on the fruit imports. It was the code they had agreed for when he had news about Sandy. He had thought these codes were silly and melodramatic at first but realized they were necessary as the phones were tapped.

The receptionist came back and said Mr Tolhurst was available if he would like to call in now. He wasn't surprised: Tolly seemed to spend many of his evenings at the embassy. Harry fetched his coat and went out again.

Tolhurst was delighted when Harry told him what had happened. He said he would tell Hillgarth; he was in a meeting but he would want to know about this. He returned to his little office a few minutes later, beaming excitedly.

'The captain's really pleased,' he said. 'If there is a lot of gold my guess is the captain will go straight to Churchill and he'll order the blockade strengthened; let in fewer supplies to make up for any they can pay for with gold.' He rubbed his hands.

'What will Sir Sam say to that?'

'It's what the captain thinks that counts with Churchill.' Tolhurst's face flushed with pleasure as he rolled off the Prime Minister's name.

'They'll ask why the blockade's being tightened.'

'We'll probably tell them. Show them they can't keep anything from us. And one in the eye for the Falange faction. You said we should have a firmer policy, Harry. We might be going to get it.'

Harry nodded thoughtfully. 'That'll leave Sandy in the soup. I suppose he could end up in real trouble.' He realized he had been so focused on his mission, he had hardly thought about what might happen to Sandy. He felt a twinge of guilt.

Tolhurst winked. 'Not necessarily. The captain's got something up his sleeve there too.'

'What?' Harry thought a moment. 'You're not going to try and recruit him?'

Tolhurst shook his head. 'Can't say, not yet.' He smiled, a self-important smile that irritated Harry. 'By the way, that other business, the Knights of St George, you haven't told anyone else?'

'Of course not.'

'Important you don't.'

'I know.'

NEXT MORNING Harry accompanied one of the embassy secretaries to another interpreting session with Maestre, more certificates to be gone through. The young Falange interpreter was there again and they repeated the game of pretending Maestre spoke no English. The Spanish general's manner towards Harry was distinctly cool and he realized Hillgarth had been right; his failure to contact Milagros again had been taken as a slight. But he wouldn't pretend there might be something between him and the girl just to keep the spies happy. He was glad it was Friday, the end of the week. When he came home there was a reply from Sofia on the mat, just a couple of lines agreeing to meet him the next evening. He was surprised by the degree to which his heart soared.

The cafe was a small place, bright and modern. But for Franco's picture on the wall behind the counter it could have been anywhere in Europe. He was a little early but Sofia was there already, sitting at the back of the cafe nursing a cup of coffee. She wore the same long black coat she had had on the day he took Enrique back to the flat, a little threadbare he could see under the lights. Her elfin face, without make-up, was pale. She looked much younger, vulnerable. She looked up with a smile as he approached.

'I hope I haven't kept you waiting,' he said.

'I was early. You are on time.' There was something different in her smile. It was open and friendly but there was something knowing in it too.

'Let me get you a fresh coffee.'

He fetched the drinks.

'Enrique is much better,' she said as he sat down. 'He is going out to look for work next week.'

He smiled wryly. 'Different work.'

'Oh yes. Labouring if he can get it.'

'Did the the ministry pay him while he was sick?'

Her smile became cynical for a moment. 'No.'

'I've got the receipt.' Harry had visited the surgery and paid the doctor's bill, as he said he would.

'Thank you.' Sofia folded it carefully and put it in her pocket.

'If he has any more problems, I'd be happy to help.'

'He will be all right now.'

'Good.'

'As I said in my letter, you saved his life. We will always be grateful.'

'That's all right.' Harry smiled, then dried up suddenly, he couldn't think of anything to say.

'Has he been ' Sofia raised her eyebrows a little 'replaced?'

'No, thank goodness. I'm being left alone. I'm not at all important, you know. Just a translator.'

She lit a cigarette, then leaned back, studying him. Her expression was enquiring but not hostile or suspicious. She was far more relaxed away from the flat.

'Will you be going home to England?' she asked. 'For Christmas?'

'Christmas.' He laughed. 'I hadn't thought about it.'

'It is only six weeks away. You make a lot of the celebration in England, I believe.'

'Yes. But I doubt I'll be going home. They need everyone at the embassy. You know, the way things are. Diplomatically.' He wondered how she knew about the English Christmas. That boy from Leeds she had met in the Civil War, perhaps. He wondered again if he had been her lover. How old was she? Twenty-five? Twenty-six?

'So you will not be able to spend it with your parents.'

'My parents are dead.'

'That is sad.'

'My father died in the First War. My mother died in the influenza epidemic just after.'

She nodded. 'Yes. Spain did not fight in the First War, though we suffered in the epidemic afterwards. It is sad to lose both parents.'

'I have aunts and an uncle, a cousin. He keeps me in touch with what's happening at home.'

'The air raids?'

'Yes. They're bad, but not quite as bad as the propaganda makes out here.' He saw her look quickly around at those words, and cursed himself for forgetting they were in a country full of spies, where you had to take care what you said. 'I'm sorry,' he said.

She gave that sardonic smile again. It was strangely attractive. 'There is no one in earshot. I deliberately chose a seat at the back of the restaurant.'

'I see.'

'And do you have anyone else back home?' she asked. 'A wife, perhaps?'

He was taken aback by her directness. 'No. Nobody. Nobody at all.'

'Forgive my question. It must seem bold. You will be thinking, it is not the sort of question Spanish women ask.'

'I don't mind directness,' he said. He looked into her large brown eyes. 'It makes a change from the embassy. I went to a party given by a government minister a couple of weeks ago, for his daughter's eighteenth. The formality was stifling. Poor girl,' he added.

Sofia blew out a cloud of smoke. 'I come from a different tradition.'

'Do you?'

'The Republican tradition. My father and his family before him were Republicans. Rich foreigners think of Spain in terms of ancient churches and bullfights and women in lacy mantillas, but there is a whole different tradition here. In my family we believed women should be equal. I was brought up to believe I was as good as any man. By my mother, at least my father had old-fashioned notions. But he had the grace to be ashamed of them sometimes.'

'What did he do?'

'He worked in a warehouse. He worked long hours for little money, like me.'

'I think the family I met when I was here in 1931 were a part of that tradition as well. I didn't see it in those terms, though.' He thought of Barbara's story, Carmela and her donkey.

'You were fond of them,' Sofia said.

'Yes, they were good people.' He smiled. 'Your family, were they Socialists too?'

She shook her head. 'We had Socialist friends, and Anarchists, and Left Republicans. But not everyone joined a party. The parties talked of Communist and Anarchist utopias but all most people want is peace, bread on the table, self-respect. Is it not so?'

'Yes.'

She leaned forward, an intent look in her eyes. 'You don't know what it was like for people like us when the Republic came, what it meant. All of a sudden we mattered. I got a place in medical school. I had to work as well in a bar, but everyone was so hopeful, change was coming at last, the chance of a decent life.' She smiled suddenly. 'I am sorry, Senor Brett, my tongue runs away with me. I do not often get the chance to talk about those times.'