Harry turned and followed the secretary down the corridor. He was on the verge of panic. Had they somehow found out about Cuenca?

The secretary ushered Harry into Hoare's office. He had not been inside the luxurious room since the day he arrived. The ambassador was standing behind his desk, dressed in a morning suit, his thin face pink with anger. He frowned at Harry.

'Is he the only one here?' he snapped at the secretary.

'Yes, ambassador.'

'I cannot believe all the translators were allowed to go to that reception.'

'Mr Weaver's just left, sir, he was the last. I've tried phoning the Spanish Academy but their phones are down.'

Hoare gave Harry an icy look. 'Well, you'll have to do, Brett. Why aren't you at the reception?'

'My fiancee's here, getting the documentation for our wedding.'

Hoare grunted. He waved the secretary irritably away. 'Where's your morning suit?' he snapped at Harry.

'At home.'

'Then you'll have to borrow one from here. Now listen. I've been trying to get an interview with the Generalisimo for weeks. He keeps me waiting, refuses to see me, while von Stohrer and the Italians are in and out of there every five minutes.' Hoare's voice was full of petulant anger. 'Then out of the blue I get a message he'll see me this morning. I must go, there are important matters to raise and I need to make my presence felt.' He paused. 'I read Spanish of course, but I'm not quite fluent.'

Harry wanted to laugh, with relief that it wasn't trouble and at Hoare's posturing; everyone knew he spoke barely a word of the language.

'Yes, sir.'

'So I'll need a translator. I'd like you ready in half an hour, please. We're driving out to El Pardo. You've translated for junior ministers, haven't you?'

'Yes, sir. And some of Franco's speeches.'

Hoare shook his head irritably. 'Don't refer to him like that. You mean Generalisimo Franco. He's the head of state.' He shook his head.

'This is why I needed an experienced man. Go and get ready.' He shooed Harry away, like a troublesome insect.

IT WAS A LONG drive out to the palace in the north of the city that Franco had appropriated as his residence. The car drove out into the countryside, the road following the Manzanares river as it flowed cold and grey between high wooded banks of skeletal trees. Sitting in the back with Hoare, Harry glanced up at the sky; it was still cloudless, icy blue. He hoped desperately there would be no more snow before tomorrow.

Harry had borrowed one of the spare morning suits they kept at the embassy and returned to Hoare's office, then walked with the ambassador to reception. Sofia, sitting waiting, looked at them with astonishment. He went over and explained quickly where he was going while Hoare glared at him impatiently. When he mentioned Franco's name, Sofia's mouth tightened. As they left the embassy he felt her eyes on them.

The ambassador sat riffling through a file, making notes with a black fountain pen. At length he turned to Harry.

'When you're translating make sure you convey the exact sense of my words. And don't look the Generalisimo in the eye, it's considered impertinent.'

'Yes, sir.'

Hoare grunted. 'There are photographs of Hitler and Mussolini on his desk. Don't stare, just ignore them.' Hoare ran a hand through his thin hair. 'I'm going to have to sound quite harsh about all the pro-Axis propaganda in the press. But you keep your voice formal, unemotional, like a butler. Understand?'

'Yes, sir.'

'If the Generaisimo was a reasonable man he'd be thanking me for the extra wheat I've persuaded Winston to let them have. But reasonable's the last thing he is. All this is sudden, very sudden.' Hoare produced a comb and smoothed down his hair.

Pictures passed through Harry's head: the woman foraging through dustbins, arrested when her dress blew over her head, the wild dogs attacking Enrique, Paco clinging to the old woman's corpse. Now he was actually going to meet the man who had created this new Spain.

The car came to a little village. It had been turned into a barracks, there were troops everywhere; the soldiers peered into the car as it ran alongside a high wall. The driver pulled up at a pair of tall iron gates guarded by soldiers with machine guns. He handed over their papers to be checked, then the gates were opened and they drove slowly through. The guards gave the car the Fascist salute.

El Pardo was a three-storey building of yellow stone surrounded by wide lawns, white with frost. Moroccan guards with lances stood by the flight of steps leading up to the entrance; one came down and opened the car door for them. From somewhere Harry heard the sad howling cry of a peacock. He shivered; it seemed even colder out here.

An aide in civilian clothes met them on the steps and led them through a series of rooms full of eighteenth-century furniture, opulent but dusty. Harry's heart began to beat faster. They came to a large door flanked by more Moorish guards, their brown faces impassive. One knocked on the door and the aide ushered them in.

Franco's office was large, full of dark heavy furniture that made it gloomy despite the sunlight coming through the tall windows. The walls were lined with heavy ancient tapestries showing medieval battle scenes. The General for weeks. He keeps me waiting, refuses to Generalisimo stood in front of a large desk, the photographs of Hitler and Mussolini prominent alongside, to Harry's surprise, one of the Pope. Franco wore a general's uniform with a broad red sash round his plump middle. His sallow face had a haughty expression. Harry had been expecting presence but Franco had none; with his balding head, double chin and little greying moustache, he reminded Harry of what Sandy had said that first day in the Cafe Rocinante: he looked like a bank manager. And he was short, tiny. Lowering his eyes as instructed, Harry saw the Generalisimo wore built-up shoes.

'Generalisimo, buenos dias.' Hoare said. He knew that much Spanish at least.

'Excelencia.' Franco's voice was high pitched and squeaky. He shook Hoare's hand, ignoring Harry. The aide took up a position beside Franco.

'You requested a meeting, excelencia,' Franco said softly.

'I am glad to be able to see you at last,' Hoare said reprovingly. He wasn't intimidated, you had to give him that. 'His Majesty's Government has been very concerned by the support for the Axis in the newspapers. They are virtually inciting the Spanish people to war.'

Harry translated, concentrating on keeping his voice even and unemotional. Franco turned and stared at him then. His brown eyes were large and liquid but somehow blank. The Generalisimo turned back to Hoare with a shrug.

'I am not responsible for the press, your excellency. Surely you would not wish me to interfere with it?' He gave Hoare a wintry smile. 'Is that not the sort of thing the liberal powers criticize us for?'

'The press is controlled by state censorship, Generalisimo, as you well know. And a good deal of the copy comes from the German embassy.'

'I do not concern myself with the press. You should speak to the interior minister.'

'I certainly shall.' Hoare's sharp voice cut like a file. 'It is a matter my government regards most seriously.'

The Generalisimo shook his head, the wintry smile back again. 'Ah, excellency, it saddens me, these impediments to the friendship of our countries. If only you would make peace with Germany. Chancellor Hitler does not wish to see the destruction of the British Empire.'

'We shall never allow the Germans to dominate Europe,' Hoare replied abruptly.

'But they do, ambassador, they already do.' A big antique world globe stood nearby. Franco reached out a small, surprisingly delicate hand and turned it gently. 'The English are a proud people, I know, like we Spaniards. But realities have to be faced.' He shook his head again. 'Only two years ago, when he signed the Munich agreement, I thought your old friend Mr Chamberlain would join the Germans and turn against the real enemy, the Bolsheviks.' He sighed. 'But now it is too late.'

As Harry translated Hoare stiffened with anger. 'There is no point in discussing this further,' he snapped. 'Britain will never surrender.'

Franco drew himself up, his cold look reminding Harry of his expression on the coins. 'Then I fear you will be defeated,' he said.

'I wished to discuss the wheat imports,' Hoare said. 'Your government will need to apply for certificates to bring them through the blockade. We still control the seas,' he added waspishly. 'We need assurances none of the wheat will be re-exported to Germany, and that it will be paid for entirely by the Spanish government.'

Franco smiled again, a smile with genuine amusement. 'It will be. The Argentines have agreed to accept credit terms. After all, we have no gold reserves, and we are not a gold-producing country.' He turned slowly and looked at Harry, and though he smiled there was something in his eyes now that frightened Harry. 'I was talking about that only yesterday, with General Maestre,' the Generalisimo continued smoothly.

Oh God, Harry thought, he knows. Hoare told Maestre and Maestre's told him.

Hoare gave the Generalisimo a startled look.

'I do hope everything can proceed smoothly,' Franco went on. 'Otherwise ' he shrugged again 'we would not want to look on England as an enemy, but it is always a question of how a power acts in its relations with us. In its open dealings and its secret ones.' He raised his eyebrows at Hoare. The ambassador reddened. Harry wondered what Franco would have said if he had known about the Knights of St George. He gripped a table behind him for support.

IN THE CAR going back to Madrid, Hoare was furious. The meeting had gone on for another half hour. Hoare had discussed trade agreements and the rumours of lorry-loads of food being sent to France for the German army, but he had lost the initiative. Franco's manner had been that of an injured party dealing with an importunate negotiator.

'Wait till I see Hillgarth,' he snapped, glaring at Harry. 'I was humiliated in there, humiliated! That was why he called me in, to throw that bloody mine in my face. Just my bloody luck you were the only translator available. These adventures have got to stop! I've been made to look a fool!' Hoare was almost hissing, his thin features a mask of fury. Harry felt a drop of spittle land on his face.

'I'm sorry, sir.'

'Maestre must have told Franco everything, after Hillgarth told him it was all a racket. Maestre's made the Falange look stupid but he's made us look a damn sight worse.' Hoare took a deep breath. 'Just as well you're leaving soon. We must make sure the Generalisimo knows you've gone. Marrying some lower-class Spanish girl I don't know how you think that'll help your future career, Brett. In fact, I should say that was pretty well finished,' the ambassador added spitefully. He turned away and opened his briefcase with a snap, pulling out a file. Harry stared out of the window as the first suburbs of Madrid flashed by. This time tomorrow they would be almost in Cuenca and a few days after that they would be away from here. To hell with you, Harry thought, to hell with you all.

Chapter Forty-Five.

THERE WAS STILL SNOW high in the Tierra Muerta, but below the quarry most of it had melted during the brief spell of warmer weather that had turned the camp yard into a sea of mud.

Yesterday when they paused for their rest on the way to work, Agustin had sidled up to Bernie as he looked downhill towards Cuenca. 'Are you ready for tomorrow?' he whispered.

Bernie nodded.

'Pick up a sharp stone tomorrow morning, put it in your pocket.'

Bernie looked at him in surprise. 'Why?'

Agustin took a deep breath. He looked afraid. 'To hit me with. You should make a cut, draw blood, it will look more realistic.' Bernie nodded and bit his lip.

Lying his pallet in the hut that evening, Bernie massaged his shoulder, which was afire with pain after the day's work. His leg was stiff too; he hoped it didn't give way going down the mountain tomorrow. Down the mountain. It sounded incredible yet it was real. He looked at the bed opposite. Establo had died two nights before, in great pain, and the other prisoners had shared out his blankets. The Communists in the hut were sad, subdued.

When morning came he felt groggy. He got up and looked out of the window. It felt colder than ever but there was still no snow. His heart began thudding. He would do it. Carefully he exercised his stiff leg.

At breakfast he avoided the Communists' eyes. He felt shame again at leaving the other prisoners. But there was nothing he could do for them. If he got away he wondered whether they would cheer him or condemn him. If he got to England he would tell the world about the conditions here, he would shout it from the rooftops.

He lined up with the others in the muddy yard for roll-call. The undulating mud had frozen and was covered with white frost, like a frozen sea. Aranda took the roll. Sometimes since Bernie had refused to be an informer, Aranda's eye lighted on him at roll-call: he would pause for a moment and smile, as though he had something nasty in store. One day he would pick him out for something, but today wasn't the day; Aranda passed on to the next name. Bernie exhaled with relief. You've missed your chance, you bastard, he thought.

Father Eduardo emerged from the church, looking tired and miserable as he usually did these days. It struck Bernie that his dark red hair was almost the same shade as Barbara's. He had never noticed that before, but he had thought of her so much since he learned she was behind his escape plans. The priest went to the gate, raising his arm in response to the guard's Fascist salute as he let him through. He must be going into Cuenca. Neither of the priests had come for Establo. Perhaps they hadn't dared; Establo, unlike poor Vicente, had been a feared man.

Roll-call over, the quarry detail gathered in front of the gate. Agustin didn't look at Bernie. The gates opened and the crocodile made its way into the hills. At first the path climbed through brown grass, then fingers of snow appeared in the gullies and finally they rose above the snowline, the world white again. Agustin was walking some way ahead of Bernie; he wouldn't want anyone to remember them being together before the escape.

Bernie was put with a group breaking up large boulders. He had hoped to give himself an easy day to conserve his energy but it was so cold that if he stopped work he began shivering at once. Late in the morning he found a suitable stone to hit Agustin with; flat and round, with a jagged edge that would draw blood and make the blow look worse than it was. He slipped it in his pocket, pushing away a memory of Pablo on the cross.

At the short break for lunch he took as much of the chickpeas and rice as he could from the pot. In the afternoon as he worked he watched the sky. It remained cloudless. The sun began to set, casting a pink glow over the bare hillsides and the high white mountains to the east. Bernie's heart began pounding with anticipation. One way or another, this was the last time he would see that view.

At last he spotted Agustin, who had ensured he was guarding his section, moving closer. It was their signal that the time had arrived. Bernie took a deep breath and counted to three, preparing himself. Then he dropped his pick and clutched his stomach, crying out as though in pain. He bent double and cried out again, louder. The men he was working with stared at him. There were no other guards in sight. They were in luck.

'What is it, Bernardo?' Miguel asked.

Agustin unslung his rifle and approached.

'Que pasa aqui?' he demanded roughly.

'I've got diarrhoea. Agh, I can't hold it.'

'Don't do it here. I'll take you behind the bushes.' Agustin raised his voice. 'Dios mio, why are you men so much trouble. Stand still so I can chain you.'

He can act, Bernie thought. Agustin put down his rifle and produced the shackles, a long thin chain with cuffs at the end, from the pouch at his belt. He secured Bernie's legs.

'Please, quickly!' Bernie held his face in an agonized rictus.

'Come on then!' Agustin picked up his rifle and waved him to walk ahead. They went quickly up the little track that wound around the hill. In a minute they were out of sight, by the bushes. Bernie panted with relief.

'We've done it,' he breathed. Agustin bent quickly and unlocked the shackles with trembling fingers. He threw the key to the ground. Then he put down his rifle and knelt in the snow. He looked up at Bernie, his eyes full of terrified appeal now he was at his mercy.

'You will not kill me, will you?' He swallowed. 'I have made no confession, I have sins on my conscience-'

'No. Just a knock on the head.' Bernie took the stone from his pocket and hefted it.

'Do it now,' Agustin said quickly. 'Now! Just not too hard.' He clenched his teeth and closed his eyes. For a second Bernie was irresolute, it was difficult to judge how hard to strike. Then he hit Agustin on the temple with the stone. Without a sound the guard rolled over and lay still. Bernie looked at him in surprise, he hadn't meant to knock him right out. A thin trickle of blood ran from a cut where the stone had struck. He knelt over the guard. He was still breathing.

He stood up and looked back along the path, then down the hillside. He considered taking Agustin's rifle but it would encumber him. He took a deep breath and began running downhill through the melting snow, terribly conscious of how his tattered brown coat and green boiler suit stood out. His back twitched, waiting for a bullet. It was like the Jarama, the same helpless fear.

He passed below the snowline and paused, looking back at the line of footprints he had left above. He had veered to the right and now he ran to the left, hoping the change of direction might fool the guards. There were folds in the hills both ways. It was frightening to be alone, running through this bare wilderness; unexpectedly Bernie had a frantic longing for the enclosing walls of the hut. Then he slipped on a patch of frosty grass and found himself rolling over and over, gasping and grunting. He bumped his shoulder and had to stifle a cry of pain.

He came to a stop at the bottom of the first fold in the hills and sat up, gasping for breath. He looked upwards. Nothing. Nobody. He smiled. He had got where he wanted much faster than he had intended. He got up and ran round the lee of the hill. As Agustin had said, a stand of the little holm oaks grew in a sheltered spot. He ran into the middle of the copse and lay down against a tree trunk, breathing in gasps. Well done, he thought. So far so good.

He sat listening but there were no sounds, nothing, just a silence that seemed to hum in his ears. It unsettled him, he hadn't experienced complete silence for over three years. He was tempted to run on, but Agustin was right, he should wait till dark before going any further. Molina would soon notice that Agustin and he were missing. He leaned back, wriggling his frozen toes. A little later he thought he heard a faint shout, far off, but it was not repeated.

A half moon rose and stars appeared. Bernie was surprised to see the stars really did come out one by one. When the sky was quite black, Bernie lifted himself up. Time to go. Then he froze. He had heard a rustling sound, a few yards away at the entrance to the clump of trees. Oh God, he thought, oh God. It came again, from the same spot. Gently, his teeth gritted, he parted the branches of a bush and peered out. A little deer stood cropping the coarse grass, a few feet away. It was very young; perhaps its mother had been shot by the guards. Now the snow had gone the deer would be climbing the mountain again to forage. Bernie felt suddenly moved; tears welled up in his eyes and he reached up to brush them away. The deer heard him; it jerked up its head, turned and shot away, crashing down the hill. Bernie held his breath, listening. If they were hunting him and were anywhere nearby, that sound would draw them. But the silence remained unbroken. He crept out of the bushes again. A cold wind was blowing. He crouched down, feeling terribly exposed again. Then he forced himself up and began loping down the hill once more. Seven kilometres to go. Four miles.

He was surprised how much he could see in the moonlight once his eyes became accustomed to it. He kept to the shadows, following the little trackways the shepherds had made, moving steadily downhill. He guessed it was nearly two hours since he had left Agustin but he had no way of telling. Down and down, pausing every so often to catch his breath and listen behind one of the little oaks that grew more frequently now. His shoulder hurt and his feet began to ache. It felt as though he had been running downhill forever, but his weak leg held out.

Then, cresting a little rise, he saw the lights of Cuenca straight ahead of him, startlingly close: yellow points from lit windows. One little group of lights was lower than the others: the hanging houses set into the cliff itself. He took a deep breath. He had been lucky to come out right opposite the town.

He moved more slowly now, hugging every piece of shadow. Clouds had appeared, scudding across the face of the moon, and he was grateful for the minutes of extra darkness they gave. He could make out the gorge now and the black struts of the iron bridge across it. It looked surprisingly fragile, the wooden walkway barely wide enough to take three people walking abreast. He saw there were actually only a few houses built into the cliff on the other side. They were much smaller than he had imagined.

The road that ran parallel to the gorge was visible a hundred yards below him. Bernie ducked behind a bush. No sign of anyone. The camp would already have phoned the civiles; perhaps they would be sending someone to guard the bridge. But it wasn't the only bridge, he remembered Agustin telling him, there were others further along, other ways into the town. If the main bridge was guarded Barbara would wait for him in the cathedral.

He heard voices and froze. Female voices. A group of four shawled, black-clad women appeared, accompanied by two donkeys laden with firewood. He watched as they passed beneath him; he couldn't make out their faces but the harsh voices sounded old. He hadn't seen a woman in three years. He remembered Barbara lying in his bed waiting for him and his heart pounded and warm saliva rose in his mouth. He swallowed it and took a deep breath.

The women and their donkeys passed on. They crossed the bridge and disappeared. Bernie left his shelter and looked down the road. Some way past the bridge he saw a large clump of trees beside the road. That must be the place. There was little cover; he would have to walk along the exposed hillside now, facing the town across the gorge. He left his shelter and began edging his way along, stopping at each little oak.

As he came out from behind a tree he heard a sound somewhere above him, like the chink of metal. He threw himself down, waiting for a shot. Nothing happened. He opened his eyes: there was only the bare hillside. A little way above him he made out another, larger oak, standing on its own. He thought the sound had come from there, but if it were a civil or a guard surely there would have been a shot by now. He went on, glancing constantly back at the tree, but heard nothing more. Perhaps it had been another deer or a goat.

He reached the trees and plunged in among them. There were thick bushes here too, stiff branches whipped at his legs.

He couldn't see the road from here but he must stay concealed. He would hear Barbara coming. She would know he was here. Barbara. He shivered, conscious of how cold he was now that he had stopped moving. And tired, his arms and legs were trembling. He rubbed his hands together and blew on them. He would have to put up with it. There was nothing to do now but wait; wait until Barbara came to save him.