There was complete silence in the hut. All the prisoners were watching and listening, their faces dim white circles in the weak candlelight. Everyone knew Vicente hated the priests, had known this moment was coming.

'No.' Vicente managed to raise himself a little. The light glinted on the grey stubble on his cheeks and his weary, angry eyes. 'No.'

'If you die unconfessed, your soul will go to Hell.' Father Eduardo was uneasy, twisting a button on his sotana. His spectacles reflected the candlelight, turning his sad eyes into two little fires.

Vicente ran his tongue over dry lips. 'No hell,' he gasped. 'Only silence.' He coughed, then began to make a gurgling noise in his throat. He lay back, exhausted. Father Eduardo sighed and turned away. He whispered to Bernie, bending close. He gave off a faint smell of incense and oil.

'I think this man has only a day or two. I will again come tomorrow. But listen, is that piss-pail all you have to give him water?'

'I cleaned it out.'

'All the same, to have to use that. And where did you get the water?'

'It's rainwater.'

'The rain won't go on for ever. Listen, I have a tap in the church, and a bucket. Come tomorrow and I'll give you some water.'

'You won't worm your way into his confidence that way.'

'I do not want to see him suffer more than he should!' Father Eduardo said with sudden anger. 'Come or not as you please, but there is water if you want it.' He turned on his heel and marched out of the hut, back into the storm. Bernie turned back to Vicente.

'He's gone.'

The lawyer smiled bitterly. 'I was strong, Bernardo, wasn't I?'

'Yes, yes you were. I'm sorry I couldn't stop him.'

'You helped distract him. I know there is only nothingness ahead. I embrace it.' Vicente took a gasping breath. 'I was trying to work up enough phlegm to spit at him. If he comes again I shall.'

THAT NIGHT the wind veered round to the east and it snowed again. The following morning was bitterly cold. The wind had dropped; the snow lay thick and noises in the camp were muffled, the men's feet making a creaking sound as they lined up for roll-call. Aranda didn't like the cold weather; he went round muffled in a balaclava helmet that looked odd with his immaculate uniform.

It was Sunday and there was no labour detail. After roll-call some of the prisoners were set clearing the snow from the yard, sweeping it into great piles against the huts. Vicente had woken with a raging thirst. Bernie had set the pail outside before going to bed and it was full of snow. He looked at it. It would take ages to melt in the cold hut and even then it would only be a quarter full. He stood a moment, shivering in the icy morning, the old wounds in his shoulder and thigh aching. He looked across to the hut housing the church, a cross painted on its side. He hesitated, then walked towards it.

Aranda stood in the doorway of his hut, watching the snow-clearing detail. He stared at Bernie as he passed. Bernie walked through the church and knocked at the office door. Inside a large stove was burning, the warm air was like a balm. Father Jaime stood beside it warming his hands while Father Eduardo worked at the desk. The older priest looked at Bernie suspiciously.

'What do you want?'

'This man and I are having some discussions,' Father Eduardo said. Father Jaime raised his bushy eyebrows.

'This one? He's a Communist. Has he taken confession?'

'Not yet.'

Father Jaime wrinkled his nose with distaste. 'I left my missal in my room. I must fetch it. The air in here is not what it was.' He rustled past, closing the door with a snap. Bernie looked at Father Eduardo with raised eyebrows.

'Telling a lie to your superior, isn't that a venial sin or something?'

'It was not a lie. We have talked, haven't we?' Father Eduardo sighed. 'You're quite implacable, Piper, aren't you?'

'I've come for the water.'

'Over there.' The priest nodded to a tap in the corner. A clean steel bucket lay underneath. Bernie filled it, then turned back to Father Eduardo.

'I wouldn't put it past you to have put a drop of holy water in the bottom of the bucket this morning and then blessed it.'

Father Eduardo shook his head. 'You know so little of what we believe. You know how to fashion shafts that bite, but one does not need to see deeply to do that.'

'At least I don't plague people's last hours, father. Adios.' Bernie turned and left.

The yard was almost clear of snow now; the men were piling their shovels against the wall of the comandante's hut. Halfway across Bernie heard a shout.

'You there! Ingles!'

Aranda descended the steps of his hut and walked towards him. Bernie put down the bucket and stood to attention. The comandante halted in front of him, frowning angrily.

'What is in that bucket?'

'Water, senor comandante. There is a man ill in my hut. Father Eduardo said I could take some water from the church tap.'

'That stupid pansy. The sooner the abogado dies the better.'

Bernie sensed Aranda was bored and trying to provoke a reaction. He looked at the ground.

'I do not believe in softness.' Aranda kicked the bucket over with his booted foot, the water splashing out over the earth. He smiled. 'I say, Viva la Muerte! Take that pail back to the pansy priest. I will have a word with Father Jaime about this. Go on!'

Bernie picked up the bucket and walked slowly back to the hut. He felt anger but also relief. He had got off lightly. Aranda was in a mood to persecute someone.

He told the priest what Aranda had said. 'He says he's going to report you to Father Jaime.'

'He is a hard man.' Father Eduardo shrugged.

Bernie turned to go. 'Wait,' the priest said. He was still looking out of the window. 'He is going back inside his hut.' He turned to Bernie. 'Listen, I know him, he will go and warm himself at the stove now. It is at the back of his hut. Fill the bucket again and go quickly, he won't see you.'

Bernie's eyes narrowed. 'Why are you doing this?'

'I saw your friend desperate for water and I wanted to help. That is all.'

'Then leave him in peace. Don't trouble his last hours for the million to one chance he'll repent.'

The priest did not reply. Bernie refilled the bucket and left the hut without another word. His heart pounded as he crossed the yard. He and the priest were both mad. If Aranda saw he'd been disobeyed he'd go berserk.

He reached the hut safely, shutting the door behind him. He went up to Vicente's bed. 'Water, amigo,' he said. 'Courtesy of the church.'

THE PRIEST came again that afternoon. Most of the men who were fit, tired of being cooped up, had gone outside and were playing a desultory game of football in the yard. Vicente was delirious, he seemed to imagine himself back in his office in Madrid, and kept muttering to someone to bring him a file and open the window, he was too hot. He was covered in sweat although the hut was freezing cold. Bernie sat beside him, wiping his face now and then with a corner of the sheet. On the bed opposite Establo lay smoking, watching them. He seldom went outside now.

Bernie heard a rustle at his elbow and turned. Father Eduardo was there; he must have come in quietly.

'He's in a dream, father,' Bernie whispered. 'Leave him, he's far away from this place.'

The priest put a box on the bed, a box of oils Bernie supposed. His heart thumped; the moment had come. Father Eduardo leaned over and touched Vicente's brow. The lawyer grimaced and flinched away, then slowly opened his eyes. He took a deep rattling breath.

'Mierda. You again.'

Father Eduardo took a deep breath. 'I think your hour is close. You have been slipping into dreams and next time you may not return. Even now, Senor Vicente, God will receive you into eternal life.'

'Don't listen to him,' Bernie said.

Vicente gave a ghastly rictus of a smile, exposing pale gums. 'Don't worry, compadre. Give me some water.'

Bernie helped Vicente to drink. He took long slow sips, his eyes never leaving the priest, then lay back gasping.

'Please.' There was a pleading note in Father Eduardo's voice. 'You have a chance of eternal life. Don't throw it away.'

Vicente began to make a gurgling noise in his throat. The priest spoke again.

'If you do not take this last chance, you must go to Hell. That is what is written.'

Vicente's throat was working, he gurgled and spluttered. Bernie knew what he was trying to do. The priest leaned forward and Vicente took a deep breath but the phlegm he had been working slipped down his throat. He coughed, then started choking, gasping frantically for breath. He sat up, his face red, heaving for air. Bernie reached over and slapped him on the back. Vicente's eyes bulged as he gagged and retched. Then a spasm ran through his wasted body and he fell back on the pallet. A long gurgling sigh came from his throat, a sound of terrible weariness. Bernie saw the expression leach out of his eyes. He was dead. The priest sank to his knees and began to pray.

Bernie sat on the bed. His legs were shaking. After a minute Father Eduardo rose and crossed himself. Bernie looked at him coldly.

'He was trying to spit at you, father, did you realize?'

The priest shook his head.

'You threatened him with Hell and he tried to spit at you and choked on it. You gave him his death.'

The priest looked at Vicente's body then shook his head and turned away, walking down the hut. Bernie shouted after him.

'Don't worry, father, he's not in Hell. He's out of it!'

VICENTE WAS buried the next day. As he had not received the last rites there could be no church ceremony. Vicente would have been pleased. Bernie trudged through the snow behind the digging detail that carried the body, sewn into an old sheet, to the hillside where the graves were. He watched as it was lowered into a shallow grave that had been dug that morning. 'Adios, compadre,' he muttered quietly. He felt very alone.

The guard accompanying them crossed himself and signalled with his rifle for Bernie to return to the camp. The digging detail began filling in the grave, struggling with the frozen earth. It began to snow again, white heavy flakes. Bernie thought, Father Eduardo will be thinking you're in the eternal fire, but really you're going to be encased in ice. The joke would have amused Vicente.

THAT AFTERNOON Bernie was leaning against the wall of the hut, smoking a cigarette one of the digging party had given him out of kindness, when Pablo came up to him. He looked uncomfortable.

'I've been detailed to speak to you, on behalf of the party cell,' he said.

Because you were my friend, Bernie thought, to show me Establo's brought everyone into line.

'You have been found guilty of incorrigible bourgeois individualism and resistance to authority,' Pablo said woodenly. 'You are expelled from the party, and warned if you make any attempts to sabotage our cell, measures will be taken.' Bernie knew what that meant; a knife thrust in the dark; it had happened before among the prisoners.

'I'm a loyal Communist and I always have been,' he said. 'I don't accept Establo's authority to lead us. One day I shall take my case to the Central Committee.'

Pablo lowered his voice. 'Why do you make trouble? Why be so obstinate? You are obstinate, Bernardo. People say you only became friends with the lawyer to annoy us.'

Bernie smiled bitterly. 'Vicente was an honest man. I admired him.'

'What was the point of making all that trouble with the priest? These things cause trouble. There's no point arguing with the priests. Establo's right, it's just bourgeois individualism.'

'Then what do we do? How do we resist?'

'We keep strong, united. One day fascism will fall.' Pablo winced and scratched at his wrist. Perhaps he had scabies that was a risk if you were round Establo too much.

'One thing more, Establo wants you out of the hut. He wants you to apply for a transfer, say being in the hut is hard after your friend's death.'

Bernie shrugged. 'They may not let me move.'

'Establo said you must.'

'I'll ask, comrade.' Bernie put a bitter emphasis on the last word.

Pablo turned away. Bernie watched him go. And if I don't get a transfer, he thought, which I probably won't, Establo will say I'm making more trouble by staying. He's got it all worked out. He looked through the wire at the hill where Vicente was buried, a brown slash in the snow. He thought he wouldn't mind joining him under the earth. Then he set his lips. While he lived he would fight. That was what a real Communist did.

Chapter Thirty-Four.

THERE WAS AN uneasy atmosphere round the dinner table. Sandy and Barbara were both smoking constantly, lighting up between courses. Sandy was unusually quiet, withdrawing into little silences, while Barbara's attempts at conversation seemed nervous and brittle, and once or twice she looked at Sandy strangely. They seemed to Harry to be distant from each other, oddly disconnected. The atmosphere made Harry feel nervous, uneasy. He couldn't stop looking at Sandy's preoccupied, slightly surly face and thinking, what happened to Gomez? What have you done to him?

The spies knew he had been invited for dinner at Sandy's again and he had had an interview with Hillgarth that afternoon. He hadn't seen him for over a week. The captain's office was at the rear of the embassy, an area Harry had never visited. A business-like female secretary led him into a large room with high coved ceilings. Framed photographs of battleships lined the walls; on a shelf, beside Whitaker's Almanac and Jane's Fighting Ships, were bound copies of Hillgarth's novels. Harry remembered one or two titles he had seen Sandy reading at school: The Princess and the Perjurer, The War Maker.

Hillgarth sat behind a big oak desk. His face wore a heavy, frowning expression; there was anger in the large expressive eyes although his tone was quiet. 'We're in trouble with Maestre,' he began. 'He's bloody furious. He and some of his Monarchist chums were spying at that bloody mine and Gomez was working for them. It's a pity you were the one who gave his man away. Maestre wasn't too pleased with you anyway for leaving his daughter in the lurch. It's the end of their operation.'

'Can I ask what's happened to Gomez, sir? Is he-'

'Maestre doesn't know. But he doesn't expect to see him again. Gomez worked for him for years.'

'I see.' Harry felt his stomach sink.

'At least Forsyth doesn't seem to be on to you.' Hillgarth stared at him. 'So keep stringing him along, agree to invest, and tell me about these reports they talked about when you get them. It's them I want to see.'

'Yes, sir.'

'Sir Sam's lobbying in London. They may pull the plug on this operation. If they do, or if anything goes wrong, I've got a contingency plan for Forsyth.' He paused. 'We'll try to recruit him. We can't offer him what he's hoping to make from that mine, but we could maybe bring other pressures to bear. He's still estranged from his family?'

'Completely.'

Hillgarth grunted. 'Nothing we can use there, then. Oh well, we'll have to see.' He looked at Harry sharply. 'You look worried. Don't like the idea of us putting the squeeze on Forsyth? I'd got the impression you despised him.'

Harry said nothing. Hillgarth went on looking at him. 'You're not really cut out for this sort of work, are you, Brett?'

'No, sir,' Harry said heavily. 'I just did what I was asked to do. I'm sorry for what happened to Lieutenant Gomez.'