‘Then you’ll know what she does,’ he replies quietly, and suddenly it dawns on me. Sasha is not a CIA officer. Sasha is not a student studying art at Columbia University. Sasha is a Colombian hooker.
‘Oh Jesus.’ It is difficult to work out which of us is the more embarrassed. Julian’s expression has curdled into one of shame married to intense irritation. I am stuttering. ‘I’ve just put two and two together and got five, Jules, I’m really sorry. It all makes sense now.’
‘It does? Oh what a relief.’
But of course he won’t leave it. It is the final irony of our relationship, of my stupid, impulsive behaviour, that he now proceeds to take me downstairs to a mock-German beer tavern where he all but begs me not to say anything to Sofia.
‘It’s just that it would kill her,’ he implores, nursing a tankard of Weissbier. ‘She’s very old-fashioned,’ and I nod along, drink after drink, playing the friend and trusted confidant. How many hookers have you seen, Julian? How long has this been going on? Does it feel good to talk about it? We discuss the culture of prostitution in Spain – ‘an entirely different ethic over here’ – and how hard it is ‘to maintain an interest in one’s wife after one has been married for a few years’. Julian says it was easy to find Sasha on the internet and reckoned Saul must have found her the same way.
‘Of course I regretted the whole thing instantly,’ he says, five minutes after confessing to at least three other adulteries. ‘It was all so… impersonal. You can’t imagine being intimate with someone like that.’
Finally, I try to placate him with a rapidly assembled medley of platitudes. I have work to do with Carmen and can’t sit here all night trying to save my boss’s marriage.
‘The truth is I really don’t care, Julian. I promise. Show me a beautiful woman and I’ll show you a man who’s tired of fucking her. What a person gets up to in his spare time is his own business. Human sexuality is a mystery, for God’s sake. Who’s to know what people like and don’t like? It has no bearing on the sort of person they are. You’ve been really good to me. You gave me work when I needed a job, you’ve kept me in bread and water. I’m not going to pay you back by grassing you up to your wife. Jesus, what do you take me for? Besides, I barely know Sofia. I’m hardly likely to go and tell her something like this.’
‘ Really? ’
‘Really.’
‘You’re a good bloke, Milius,’ he says. You’re a bloody good bloke.’
39. Product
That night, Felix Rodriguez de Quiros Maldonado appears on national television in an advertisement for the Partido Popular. Carmen is watching TVE1 on her sofa in Calle de Toledo and wriggles quickly out of my embrace when her boss appears on screen. Watching his performance, I am reminded of a line from Updike, heard years ago on British radio: ‘Nixon, with his menacing, slipped-cog manner.’ It is one of the more interesting characteristics of Spanish public life that even the most mendacious-looking politicians – sharks with hooded eyes and slicked-back hair – nevertheless find themselves in positions of great authority. In the UK, a man of Maldonado’s appearance would struggle to make a living as a second-hand car salesman, yet Spanish voters seem blind to his obvious corruption. This bully, this suntan in a suit, has even been spoken of as a possible prime minister. Not if I have anything to do with it. Not if Six blow his cover.
‘What do you think?’ Carmen asks, taking the book I was reading out of my hands. I hate it when women do that, when they demand your attention.
‘Think about what?’
As I look up into her face I see that she has been disquieted by the advertisement, as if she knows something of the circumstances in which it was made. Her face looks drawn and a little worried and I struggle to think of something positive to say, even with the screen of deceit.
‘Well, he seems very charismatic, very calm. It’s hard to know without understanding what he’s saying. I was reading my book. What was the advert about?’
‘It’s saying that the Interior Ministry has the best record on crime of any administration of the last twenty years.’
‘And is that true?’
Without humour or irony she replies, ‘Of course it is true.’ She still looks upset by something.
‘What’s the matter?’
I have come to realize that Carmen Arroyo is stubborn and thick-skinned, despite appearances to the contrary, and will not easily admit to weakness. Ignoring me, she turns the book over and flicks idly through its pages.
‘You were reading this when I met you,’ she says. It is the same crumpled copy of Homage to Catalonia that I had in the bar. ‘Why have you not read it before?’
‘I have read it before. I just wanted to read it again.’
‘And is it interesting?’
‘Fascinating.’
We speak briefly about Orwell being shot through the neck while fighting for the POUM, but I want to get to the bottom of her feelings for Maldonado. In the back of my mind is the dream that they were once lovers. Should Carmen tell me that they were, I can move on her tonight, threatening to expose both of them if she refuses. This is cynical and cold, the worst part of our heartless trade, but in the circumstances it is my best chance of obtaining information quickly.
‘Would you like me to cook for you tonight?’ she asks.
‘Sure. That would be great.’ I touch her arm and move my hand slowly towards her neck. ‘So what’s he like to work for, as a boss?’
‘As a what?’
‘A boss. A manager.’ I am just about to say the Spanish word ‘ jefe ’ when I stop myself, remembering Alex’s legend. ‘Mr Maldonado. How does he treat you? How much do you see of him?’
Carmen has a glass of Rueda on the go and she drinks from it before replying.
‘Why do you want to know?’
‘Because I’ve never really spoken to you about your job. Because I don’t really know what you do all day.’
‘And you care? ’ She rises on this last word, as if nobody has ever cared, as if nobody has ever paid her the slightest bit of attention. Then she rolls into me and I smell that same unwashed staleness on her neck.
‘Of course I care.’
‘Well, I do not like him particularly.’ This after a short pause. ‘I do not think he is a good man. But of course I support him.’
‘Because you have to?’
‘No. Because of Javier. Because I am loyal to Javier. Felix is my boss’s boss.’ She looks delighted to have mastered the word so quickly and I feel a warm hand escaping up my back. ‘And what about your boss, Alex? Tell me more about him.’
‘No, you first. Tell me what you do all day when we’re not together, when I miss you.’
There is that look on her face again, the slight sickness, but just as quickly it is gone, replaced by a grateful, loving smile. She is behaving very oddly, concealing something, a worry or an unhappiness. Sometimes I wonder if this is all just a game for her, and I suffer the quiet, paranoid nightmare that Carmen Arroyo is the one playing me.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘What do you mean?’ She drains her glass of wine and stands up from the sofa.
‘I don’t know. You’ve been acting strangely all night, not like I’ve seen you before. Ever since Felix appeared on television you’ve been uncomfortable.’
‘ Si? ’
‘Yes.’
She shakes her head. ‘The wine is finished.’
This is going to be more difficult than I thought. It will take time to break her down. But the one quality that a spy must always possess is patience; my time will come. I simply need to wait for the opportunity, a matador timing the kill. It’s possible that Carmen is pre-programmed never to discuss state business with non-government personnel. After all, she knows nothing about Alex Miller. There’s no reason in the world that she should trust him at such an early stage in our relationship.
‘Do you want me to go out and buy some more?’ I ask, looking across at the empty bottle.
&
nbsp; ‘That would be very kind,’ she replies. ‘And I will cook.’
So I go outside. On the stairs I consider telephoning Kitson for advice on how to proceed, but I must be able to work this one out for myself. I’m convinced that either de Francisco or Maldonado has been romantically involved with Carmen at some point in the past. Both are married men, and the fingerprints of an adultery seem visible whenever Carmen speaks about them. How else to explain her sudden shift in mood tonight? How else to explain her evasiveness?
‘Alex!’
She has opened the sitting-room window above me and is looking down from the first-floor balcony.
‘Can you buy some spaghetti as well as wine? I have none in the cupboards. Laura must have eaten it.’
‘Sure.’
It takes about twenty minutes to find a decent bottle of wine in the supermarket, as well as the pasta and some Haagen-Dazs. I need a drink after queueing at the checkout and duck into Oliveros for a vermouth. The owner, who remembers me as a friend of Carmen’s, insists that I stay for a second glass, on the house, and attempts to involve me in a conversation about the war in Iraq. A middle-aged man smoking a cheap cigar says something complimentary about Donald Rumsfeld, but I can’t challenge him without revealing a fluency in Spanish. It’s close to 9.30 by the time I make it back to the apartment, but when I let myself in with Carmen’s keys she is nowhere to be seen.
I check the sitting room and the kitchen, where sauce for spaghetti is bubbling gently on the stove, before it becomes clear that she is on the telephone in the bedroom, using her portable landline. The door is half-closed and Carmen is talking rapidly, with a definite shiver of alarm in her voice. My first thought is that something has gone wrong with her mother in hospital and I wait in the hall to hear more.
‘And you’re sure about this? I just can’t believe it.’
I experience a moment of undiluted selfishness: if Mitxelena’s condition has deteriorated, I will have to accompany Carmen on a long and tedious visit to the hospital. Any chance of recruiting her will be lost to my obligations as a boyfriend. But then I hear the single word ‘Felix’.
‘I’m only repeating to you what I said in the restaurant,’ she says. All the time Javier has been asking me to send money to this account. He said it was something to do with his wife, a trust they were setting up for their children. Are you sure?’
I take a step backwards and a floorboard creaks in the hall. Carmen must have heard me come in, so I go directly into the bedroom, smile an apology for being late and dangle the bag of shopping at her. She barely looks up from the phone. Her face is blank with concentration. I gesture to see if she is all right, but she just waves me away.
‘I don’t believe this.’ She turns her back to face out towards the window. ‘No, it’s just Alex. He doesn’t understand Spanish. He doesn’t know what’s going on.’
How can I hear the rest of their conversation? There’s music on in the sitting room, but it’ll look ridiculous if I linger here when I should be boiling spaghetti. But then Carmen walks past me, out into the hall, and turns the volume down on the hi-fi.
‘If it’s the same Sergio Vazquez then I don’t know what to think,’ she says, sitting down on the sofa. Si se trata del mismo Sergio Vazquez, entonces no se que pensar. ‘But with everything that’s happening around Chakor, I’m really worried, Joao. It looks like a connection. I don’t know who to speak to about this.’
There is a long pause in the conversation while ‘Joao’ responds. It is as if I have walked into a perfect storm of information: this is raw product that appears to prove a financial irregularity within de Francisco’s department, linked to the incident involving Mohammed Chakor, the Moroccan who was shot by Tomas Orbe. But who is Sergio Vazquez? Now that the music has been lowered, Macduff will be getting all of it loud and clear on the bug and may be able to recover those sections of the conversation which I missed while drinking in Oliveros. If we can find out more about Joao and Vazquez, the pieces should quickly start to fall into place. Rather than enter the kitchen, where it will be necessary to start removing pans and crockery from the cupboards, I go into the bathroom, pretending to examine my face in the mirror. It is still possible to hear Carmen’s end of the conversation, even with the door slightly ajar.
‘I understand that,’ she says. Lo entiendo. ‘But this is a man I admire. For God’s sake, I was talking to Alex an hour ago about how much I like him, what he stands for…’
Joao interrupts again. If only Six had ears on Carmen’s landline.
‘I’ve been so stupid,’ she continues. ‘I tried to pretend that this was not going on, but there have been so many things, too many coincidences with Arenaza and Juan Egileor. I don’t know what to do about it.’
I step away from the sink, flush the loo and go back into the kitchen. Hearing Mikel’s name brings a pump of blood to my head. What does she mean about coincidences involving Arenaza and Egileor? That she suspects Maldonado and de Francisco of conspiracy in their disappearance? Carmen now responds to something Joao has said:
‘I can’t resign. What will I do? I’ve seen the emails with Chakor’s name on them. You’ve seen the bank statements. We’re talking about three-quarters of a million euros of public money, maybe more. God, maybe I shouldn’t even be speaking on this phone. What happens when this man wakes up and starts saying that he was ordered to kill Orbe?’
Again Joao interrupts and Carmen’s subsequent response – ‘Of course that’s what happened’ – would indicate that he questioned whether or not Mohammed Chakor was paid by elements in the Interior Ministry to assassinate Tomas Orbe.
‘What if they trace it back…’ But Carmen is unable to complete the thought. ‘What if… I don’t even want to think about that. I can’t believe that this is happening.’
I have heard more than enough. On the evidence of this telephone call alone, Kitson must alert London and set in motion the SIS plan to disgrace de Francisco and Maldonado. How they do that, at this late stage, without the dirty war becoming public knowledge, I have no idea. But my work with Carmen is done. I now need to get out of her apartment as quickly as possible, to call an emergency meeting with Kitson, and to assist him as best I can. The last thing I hear her say, in Spanish, is, ‘I am a patriot, you know that. I believed in him. And now I feel so stupid. But I don’t want to betray my friend,’ as I switch on the extractor fan above the stove, grating cheese onto a plate. Sixty seconds later Carmen goes into the bathroom, locks the door and does not emerge for another ten minutes. I knock once, asking if she is all right, but she responds only to tell me to boil a pan of water for the pasta. When she comes out, I put my arm round her shoulder and she shrugs me off.
‘What was that about?’
‘What was what about?’
‘The phone call. The argument you were having. Are you OK?’
‘It wasn’t an argument.’
‘It sounded like one from where I was standing.’
She takes a corkscrew out of the drawer beside the stove and stabs it into the neck of the bottle of wine.
‘And where were you standing?’
‘In here. You sounded very upset.’
‘It’s just a problem at the ministry, OK?’ The cork pops. ‘Can we not talk about it?’
The escalating tension here might work in my favour. If I can manufacture a full-scale argument it may give me an opportunity to leave and to contact Kitson within the next thirty minutes.
‘But I’d like to talk about it,’ I tell her, trying to sound patient and concerned.
‘Well I would not,’ she spits. ‘Can you just stir the sauce, please?’
And here is my opportunity.
‘Don’t talk to me like that.’
‘ What? ’
‘I said don’t order me around. You said you were going to cook dinner for me tonight, so you stir the fucking sauce.’
It is our first row. A sullen, intolerant sneer makes its way across Carmen’s face as she leav
es the room. She looks like a spoiled child.
‘Oh don’t just storm out.’
Under her breath she insults me, quite effectively – Cerdo! – and slams the bedroom door. I am so wired by the prospect of seeing Kitson that I experience only a momentary beat of sympathy for her wretched predicament. This lasts about as long as it takes me to collect my coat from the hall. Then I leave the apartment, slamming the door with my own brand of adolescent petulance, and hurry down the stairs to the metro.
40. Line 5
‘This, as they say, had better be worth it.’
I have pulled Kitson out of dinner at the Taj Mahal with Ellie, Michelle and Macduff. He still looks exhausted, but his mood appears to have lightened considerably since Starbucks.
‘Was just about to have my first mouthful of chicken jalfrezi when you called,’ he says. ‘Bottle of Cobra on its way, sag aloo, a nice peshwari nan. First normal food in weeks. Not bloody jamon, not bloody tortilla, not bloody chorizo. I’ve been running on a single poppadum since lunch, so make it snappy.’
We have met in the ticket hall of the metro station at Callao. He clunks through the metal barriers and we head down the stairs to the southbound platform of Line 5.
‘You wanted information out of Carmen,’ I tell him. ‘I’ve got it.’
‘ Already? ’
‘Believe me, you won’t be going back to finish your curry.’
We find a bench at the far end of the platform and sit down beside one another, about ten metres from the closest passenger. Kitson is wearing hiking boots, a checked shirt with a frayed collar, a bottle-green V-neck pullover and a badly patched tweed jacket. He looks like a sheep farmer who took a wrong turn at Dover. I tell him everything that I can recall from Carmen’s phone conversation – that she suspects Maldonado and de Francisco of diverting public funds to bankroll a secret state operation against ETA – and he nods along, alerting me to the fact that he has triggered the digital voice recorder in the outer pocket of his jacket.
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