‘What are you thinking about?’ she asks, coming back into the bedroom afterwards wearing just a pair of white cotton knickers. She picks the condom up off the floor, ties it quickly and skilfully into a knot and places it in the bin.
‘Nothing. Just how nice it is to be here. Just how relaxed I feel. I didn’t think I’d meet anyone in Spain so quickly. I can’t believe you’ve just dropped into my life.’
Her body is very thin and very pale. When she sits on the bed I can see the skeletal outline of her ribcage, her slightly fallen breasts, the nipples so tiny and almost shy. She lies beside me, on her front, and I stroke her back, thinking of Zulaika for some reason, wondering what Kitson did to shut him up.
‘Would you like to meet my friend Maria?’ she asks.
‘Of course, if you’d like to introduce us.’ It does not seem odd that we have grown so close so quickly. These are the first heady days of a new relationship and anything within the masquerade seems possible.
‘There’s a party on Friday night, in Chueca. A friend of hers is having it. She asked us to come along.’
‘Maria knows about me?’
‘Of course!’
Laughter now as Carmen turns over, meeting me with a wet kiss that soaks my neck. The back of her head smells oddly sour, like the skin under a watch-strap.
‘And what have you told her?’
I know exactly what she’s told her. So does Kitson, for that matter. So does Macduff. That Alex is ‘so sexy’ and ‘funny’ and ‘not like the men we always meet in Madrid’. Thankfully the pair of them have yet to discuss the intricacies of our sex life within earshot of the bug, but it can only be a matter of time. Eventually Carmen falls asleep beside me, but not before I have asked if I can surf the net on her computer. She readily agrees, booting up the laptop (Password: segovia) before coming back to bed. At about one o’clock I roll away from her and creep out of the room, running a search on the laptop for ‘Sellini’, ‘Buscon’, ‘Dieste’, ‘Church’, ‘Sofia’, ‘Kitson’, ‘Vicente’, even ‘Saul’ and ‘Ricken’. Nothing comes up, so I simply transfer files in bulk onto a 128MB removable memory stick. Let SIS sort wheat from chaff: there’s bound to be something in de Francisco’s correspondence that will give Kitson a solid lead. To cover my tracks – and to make it look as though I spent the hour using Internet Explorer – I visit a random selection of sites (Hotmail, BBC, itsyourturn. com), shutting down the machine at around 2 a.m. Carmen keeps a bottle of cheap cooking brandy in the kitchen and I take a decent slug of that before trying to get to sleep.
Yet Tuesday throws everything into confusion. After she has left for work at 8 a.m., I walk back through Sol and buy copies of ABC, El Mundo and El Pais from a newsstand at the eastern end of Arenal. All three carry front-page reports about a failed attempt on the life of an ETA commander outside his home in Bilbao. A 22-year-old Moroccan immigrant, Mohammed Chakor, has been charged by local police. Details are sketchy, but it seems that Tomas Orbe, a veteran of ETA campaigns in the 1980s and early 90s, was washing his car outside his house when he saw Chakor approach, brandishing a gun. In the ensuing struggle the Moroccan let off a single shot which missed Orbe by several feet, embedding itself in the car. Orbe, who was himself armed, returned fire, seriously injuring Chakor in the neck. At the same time, Eugenio Larzabal, the Gara journalist who reported seeing a Madrid number plate on the car that fled the shootings last week in southern France, asks in a page-one story whether it is ‘more than coincidence’ that the kidnap and murder of Mikel Arenaza, the disappearance of Juan Egileor, the killing of Txema Otamendi, the double shootings at the ETA bars and the attempt on the life of Tomas Orbe have all taken place within the last two months. I notice that he is careful, perhaps for legal reasons, not to mention any individuals or government departments by name, yet the thrust of the piece is unmistakable: the shadow of a third dirty war hovers over it like a jackal.
By 10 a.m. the Orbe incident is being discussed by ‘Basque experts’ on a Spanish radio programme. Television stations do not appear to be overly interested, although footage of the Bilbao house and interviews with local residents are shown on morning news programmes. I call Kitson and we arrange to meet at two at the branch of Starbucks on Plaza de los Cubos. He’s late, and looks tired, apologizing for the venue.
‘Naomi Klein would doubtless disapprove,’ he says, perching next to me on a stool, ‘but I have a soft spot for their double tall lattes.’
We are looking out over the concrete square, at Princesa on the far side, at McDonald’s and Burger King to our right. ‘Could be bloody Frankfurt,’ he mutters, before asking for my ‘take on Bilbao’.
‘Bad news. It’s obviously part of our wider problem. This guy was hired by Madrid and he messed up. The papers say he’s unconscious in hospital, but once he wakes up he’s going to start talking. Even if he doesn’t make it, the press now have a hard lead. They’ve never had evidence like this before and Gara is already hinting at what we know. Larzabal has written a piece this morning which effectively accuses the government of running a dirty war. It’s likely to be ignored in the short term, but ask yourself this. Why would a 22-year-old North African want to shoot an etarra unless he was paid to do it?’
‘Why indeed? You don’t think it’s linked to Letamendia and Rekalde?’
That’s impressive. Last weekend, two veteran members of ETA, Raul Letamendia and Jose Rekalde, caused the first serious split within the organization for twenty years by renouncing the armed struggle. Kitson and I haven’t talked about this, but it’s possible he read something in the British press.
‘Not unless it’s a case of mistaken identity. ETA don’t like their members renouncing the cause. If you’re in, you’re in for life. It’s not pony club camp. When Dolores Catarain deserted in 1986, they had her assassinated. And Orbe is hardline.’
‘I see.’ Kitson runs a hand across his head. I enjoyed trumping him.
‘The only thing that doesn’t make sense in all this is the logic of a dirty war. ETA is on its knees. They arrested seven of its members last week. The French are co-operating. They have nowhere left to hide.’
‘But it must exist,’ Kitson says, and I find myself nodding in agreement. There is simply too much evidence to suggest otherwise. ‘How’s it going with the girl?’
I reach into my jacket pocket and take out the memory stick. ‘Very well. I got some stuff out of her laptop last night. It’s all in here.’
I put it on the counter and he lets it sit there. He’ll pick it up when we leave.
‘And what about the relationship? How are you finding that?’
‘Fine.’
‘Just fine?’
This is not a conversation I particularly want to have. I’d rather talk about the incident up north.
‘Well, what can I tell you, Richard? It’s Hepburn and Tracy. It’s Hanks and Ryan. She’s the love of my life. I can’t thank you enough for introducing us because I really think she might be the one.’
He is laughing. ‘That bad?’
I shrug it off. ‘No. She’s a nice person, fanatically right wing, but you can’t have everything. It doesn’t feel right to be taking advantage of her. But if some good comes of it…’
He takes out a Lucky Strike. ‘Exactly. If some good comes of it.’ I have a book of matches in my pocket and light the cigarette for him. In some ways, this simple act seems to cause Kitson more embarrassment than the intimate discussion of my sex life. ‘Thank you,’ he says, exhaling.
‘Don’t mention it.’
And there is an odd, uncomfortable silence. Two loud American tourists come in behind us and fill it.
‘I suppose it was always going to be the case,’ he says eventually.
‘What was?’
‘That it would be awkward.’
Does he think less of me for agreeing to do it? I have always worried about that.
‘Yes.’
‘Still, as you say, if what she tells you and what you get on
the disks helps us to stop what’s going on, then it’ll all have been worthwhile.’
Strange that of all the things we have ever discussed, this should be the subject to cause Kitson the most discomfort. An Englishman through and through. He looks thoroughly unsettled. I try a joke.
‘Unless she gives me the clap, in which case I might sue the Foreign Office.’
But he doesn’t laugh. ‘I’m just sorry we’ve put you through it,’ he says, dragging an ashtray towards him. ‘Really sorry.’
‘Say no more.’
For a while we sit in silence, watching the local Romanian beggar doing her Balkan moan outside. She works the crowds near Burger King and McDonald’s, looking forlornly at the swaddled toddler in her arms. There’s a VIPS restaurant next door and a regular flow of customers passing in front of the window. Inside Starbucks, a woman with a cup of hot chocolate looks to be moving within earshot of our conversation, so Kitson calls it a day.
‘Look.’ He seems suddenly energized. ‘It’s important that we get results from Arroyo as quickly as possible. If she can point a finger at the guilty parties we can arrange to have them taken out of the equation using our contacts in Spanish intelligence. A sex scandal, financial irregularities, these things are easy to arrange.’
‘A sex scandal won’t do it.’
‘What?’
‘Spaniards don’t give a shit about that sort of thing. Aznar could be doing it sideways with Roberto Carlos and nobody would bat an eyelid. If you want to create a scandal in this country, stay away from the bedroom. They’re a lot more enlightened than we are when it comes to things like that. More like the French.’
‘I see.’ Judging by his expression, Kitson doesn’t necessarily regard this as a good thing. ‘Look, in order to create any sort of smokescreen, we’re going to need hard evidence. SIS can’t launch something with the collusion of the Spanish government without conclusive proof. It would be highly embarrassing if we’ve got our facts wrong. At the moment all we have is conjecture.’
I dispute this. ‘You’ve got a lot more than that, Richard…’
‘Fine,’ he agrees, but it is as if he is about to lose patience. Why don’t we just take the conversation outside and walk around for a bit? Why is he so keen to leave? ‘We don’t have anything that would stand up in court.’ The hot chocolate woman has made her way to the counter and is now just a few feet away, but she takes out a mobile phone, dials a number, and begins chattering loudly in Spanish. That buys him time. ‘The vital thing to remember is that we’re trying to preserve the dignity of the international relationship.’ Kitson puts on his coat, stubs out the cigarette and lowers his voice. Why is he so rushed? ‘Mr Aznar is trying to drag this country, kicking and screaming, into the twenty-first century and an illegal counter-terrorism operation within one of his ministerial departments must not be allowed to get in the way of that.’
‘Richard, you’re preaching to the converted…’
‘Fine.’
I look down at the memory stick, annoyed now, taking Kitson’s eyes with me.
‘There might be something in there.’
‘Unlikely,’ he replies. ‘Anything state sensitive will be on the Interior Ministry mainframe. Carmen wouldn’t be allowed to take it home. Or at least she shouldn’t be. You have to push it now, Alec. It’s not just a question of snooping around a computer. You have to run her.’
Behind us, the American couple are walking out of the door with takeaway cups of coffee. One of them says, ‘It was just like home,’ and waddles out into the square. The Romanian beggar blocks her exit.
‘What about Anthony’s investigations?’ I ask, but it’s clear Kitson just wants to leave. Perhaps he thinks we have been observed. ‘Hasn’t he uncovered anything?’
‘Not much.’ I don’t really believe this response, but it’s too late to start arguing. ‘Look.’ He is already at the door. ‘You’re the prize catch here, Alec. You’re the one who needs to deliver.’
And with that he is gone, slipping the pen into the inside pocket of his coat. I watch him disappear into the lunchtime crowds, still wondering why he forced the issue so blatantly, so suddenly towards the end. Was it simply that his professional mask was disturbed by talk of sex and Carmen? Did that throw him? And how the hell am I going to find a moment in which to pitch her in the next twenty-four hours? My instincts tell me she’ll simply throw me out into the street. Kitson should have listened to my concerns. That was bad tradecraft.
Then more confusion. Just as I am gathering up my belongings – a wallet, a mobile phone, a copy of the Daily Telegraph – Julian Church walks right past the window, deep in conversation with a beautiful black girl. I recognize her. It takes just a couple of seconds to remember where I have seen her before: in the hall of my apartment, standing naked, wearing a pair of bright yellow knickers. She is the girl Saul was sleeping with on the morning that I came back from Euskal Herria. She was the student studying art at Columbia. She was American.
38. Columbia
I follow them. They walk out of the square, still deep in conversation, and appear to be heading towards one of the southern entrances of the Cubos underground car park. At the last minute, however, the girl leads Julian off to the right into the foyer of an apartment block immediately behind the Torre de Madrid. She’s wearing tight blue jeans and boots that accentuate her extraordinary figure. Their relaxed body language and physical proximity would suggest that they have met before. I am no more than six or seven metres behind them. There are two sets of glass swing doors leading into the building. They ignore the porter inside the entrance, moving along the L-shaped lobby towards a bank of lifts. I wait round the corner and hear only a snatch of their conversation.
‘So this is where you live?’ Julian asks in Spanish. It sounds as though the girl merely giggles as the lift doors close behind them. Two seconds later I come round the corner and try to discover which floor they were heading for. The lights are out on two of the six lift panels and another left the ground floor at more or less the same time. It’s not going to be possible to track them. There’s only one thing for it: I’ll just have to wait here until they come out.
‘Is there another exit from this building?’ I ask the porter, walking back up to the lobby entrance. He’s an old man, at least mid-seventies, and it looks as though he hasn’t been asked a question since the Civil War.
‘ Que? ’
‘I said, is there another exit from this building? If two of my friends just went up in the lift, do they have to come out this way?’
‘ Si, senor.’
In different circumstances, in the salad days before Mikel Arenaza, I would have played this differently. I would have followed the girl home and endeavoured to discover the nature of her relationship with Saul and Julian by more subtle means. But the time for patience is over. If I am being used as a pawn in a CIA set-up then I will confront my conspirators and let them know that the game is up.
It’s exactly an hour before Julian comes back downstairs to the ground floor, alone and staring concentratedly at the ground. In that time I have worked through every possible variation of the situation, only to stumble at every turn. How does Saul fit into this? Was Sofia really telling the truth about the package at the Hotel Carta? Is Carmen herself a part of some sinister set-up? My life has become a Rubik’s cube which it is simply impossible to solve. Standing up from the sofa, hungry and angry and ready for anything that Julian might throw at me, I walk quickly towards him until we are just a few feet apart. He is utterly startled when he looks up and sees me.
‘Alec! Bloody hell!’ A kind of public-school bluster and charm instinctively kick in, an automatic reflex to protect himself. ‘Fancy seeing you here.’
‘Who was the girl, Julian?’
‘What?’
‘The girl.’
‘What girl?’ He’s no good at this. He can’t lie. He has even started blushing. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘The girl I
saw you with. Tight jeans, suede jacket, expensive tits. You got into the lift together, an hour ago.’
He provides a snapshot of grace under pressure – ‘I’m not sure that’s any of your business’ – but the game is up. He walks away from me, stiff and straight, away from the lifts and out of the building. He knows, of course, that I will follow him and discover the truth. Perhaps he just doesn’t want our conversation to be heard by other people in the lobby. It has occurred to me that this might be the CIA station in Madrid. Three or four floors above our heads packed with Yank spooks.
‘You got into the lift together,’ I say again. ‘I saw you. You went upstairs with her.’
By now we are between the glass doors. I notice that Julian smells clean and freshly soaped. Have they just slept together?
‘She’s a client, all right? Endiom business. I’m doing some work for her. What the hell are you doing here?’
‘This isn’t about me. It’s about you. What’s her name, Julian?’
‘You’re behaving incredibly strangely. I really think you ought to head home. We can discuss this another time.’
‘Is it Sasha?’
His face cannot disguise its fear. Julian stops at the top of the car park staircase and looks right at me.
‘And?’
And what’s your relationship with her? What’s her relationship with Saul?’
He appears to remember Saul’s name, but only vaguely. ‘I’m still struggling to work out why this is any of your business.’
‘It’s my business because I’ve met her, Julian. I’ve seen her before. At my flat.’
And this causes him to hesitate. You can almost see the wheels turning behind his eyes. I would have expected a more polished performance from a professional liar, but if Julian has a cover story, it isn’t coming out. He just looks panicked and uncomfortable.
The Spanish Game am-3 Page 29