The Spanish Game

37. The Raven

As it turns out, I needn’t have worried. On Thursday morning Carmen sends me a text message apologizing if she seemed ‘strange’ outside the apartment and promising to ‘make this up’ to me if I am free for lunch on Saturday. I give Macduff the good news over coffee – explaining that our Friday dinner date has morphed into a weekend lunch – and he concurs with me that Carmen simply didn’t want to seem cheap by sleeping with me on our first date. I run through my general impressions of the evening and then head home for a siesta. The vital question – concerning her willingness to betray de Francisco once she learns of the dirty war – is left unanswered. None of us can make an informed judgment about that until I have spoken to her at length both about her career and her views on Basque terror. Of course it’s still possible that she herself might be part of the conspiracy. It’s an implausible thesis, but the liar is always vulnerable to his own deceit.

When I have woken up, later than planned after a night of gruelling dreams, I walk down Ventura Rodríguez and check emails at the internet café. There’s one from Saul which reawakens all my old paranoia just at the point at which I was sure there was nothing left to worry about.

From: sricken 1789@hotmail.com

To: almmlalam@aol.com

Subject: Enrique

So, what does a recently divorced man of 33 do with his time except sit around drinking Rioja and watching DVDs? And what does he do once he gets bored of doing that and of ringing up his old girlfriends, EVERY SINGLE ONE OF WHOM is now living in Queen’s Park or Battersea with her ‘wonderful husband’ and their little ‘bundle of joy’ and their wedding list crockery and their David Gray albums? Well, a recently divorced man of 33 writes down a list of famous Spanish movie stars and translates their names into English.

Here’s what I came up with:

Antonio Banderas – Anthony Flags

Penelope Cruz – Penelope Cross

Benicio del Toro – Ben of the Bull

Paz Vega – Peaceful Lowlands

Good game, isn’t it? Only, I was doing this for quite a long time, got into singers and politicians, and guess what I discovered?

Julio Iglesias – Julian Church

He’s a spook, Alec! It’s a cover name! All your worst nightmares have been confirmed! Pack your bags! Sell your flat! Check your underwear for bugs!

Hope all well -

S

I cannot allow myself to react to this. If I am going to do my job properly there can be no doubt in my mind about the legitimacy of Kitson’s operation, of Sofía’s possible role in the dirty war or of Julian’s double-life as a spy. All these things have been ironed out. I have to blank out such conspiracies. In none of my initial research into Julian’s background, nor in the more recent discoveries regarding Nicole and his life in Colombia, did I discover anything to make me remotely suspicious about his real identity. Julian Church is just who he appears to be – a private banker with an adulterous wife living out the expat dream in Spain. Saul is just winding me up.

Carmen and I meet for lunch on Saturday at a restaurant off Calle de Serrano, and it is from this point on that our relationship starts to become more serious. Barrio Salamanca is a more rarefied environment than La Latina, and one in which she seems a good deal more relaxed, at home with the expensive wives and moneyed twentysomethings gabbling into their mobile phones in branches of Gucci and Christian Dior. I glimpse, not for the first time, her secret dream of joining this elite urban middle class through marriage; they are, after all, the very people who voted her boss into office. Afterwards we go for a walk in the Retiro and I hire a rowing boat in a spirit of romantic endeavour. About fifteen metres from the concrete shore we share our first, surprisingly skilful kiss. I spend the rest of the afternoon in abject terror of encountering Sofía walking hand-in-hand with Julian but disguise my apprehension with ease. Fortune tellers, portrait painters, Peruvian puppeteers, even a poet from Chile have set up stalls along the western edge of the Estanque lake and we drift from group to group in the dense crowds with the permanent accompaniment of pan-piped music. On a grass verge near the café a group of Chinese immigrants are selling head and shoulder massages for a couple of euros. Carmen offers to buy me one – giggling now, really enjoying herself – but just as I have sat on the low stool and felt a dry hand settling on my aching neck two policemen appear on horseback, scattering every illegal immigrant in the vicinity to the four winds.

‘Not very relaxing,’ I joke, struggling to my feet. Carmen laughs and we kiss again and she puts her arm round my waist.

‘Why don’t you come back to my apartment?’

And that’s where it all begins. The truth is that I do not compare her to Sofía, to Kate, nor to any other woman I have been with. The time that we spend in bed together over the next two days feels almost natural, as if there were never anything false or morally reprehensible in my pursuit of her. You get so far into a deceit, so entwined in a legend, that the life becomes your own. After the first time, for example, standing under the shower at her apartment on Saturday afternoon, I realized that it would be possible to continue seeing Carmen for as long as it took to obtain the information. Equally, if my task were suddenly completed, I could walk out of the door and never see her again, only to feel guilty about the damage to her self-esteem at some later date. JUSTIFY was exactly like this. The process of long-term deception against Katharine and Fortner became commonplace. In order to function effectively as a spy, it was necessary to forget that I was lying to them. It is a version of method acting, I suppose, although one with far more serious implications.

So I stay at her place all weekend, closing both the kitchen and the bedroom doors in order to muffle the sound of our lovemaking from Macduff’s intrusive bug. I find physical characteristics to enjoy in Carmen – her flat stomach, the stone-smooth sweep of her back – and concentrate on these even as others – the smell of her hair, her chin, her childish laugh – conspire to repel me. There was only one thing which proved unnerving; her oddly muted reaction to the bruises on my body. Carmen barely commented on them. I had felt that they would be a barrier between us, even a clue to my true identity, yet it was almost as if she was expecting to find them, almost as if she had encountered violence in a relationship before.

On Sunday evening she has to visit her mother in hospital and I take the opportunity to go through her personal belongings, making a visual record of any Interior Ministry documents and searching for evidence of love letters from her former boyfriend at work. There is, of course, the danger that Laura de Rivera might return at short notice from Paris, so Macduff is stationed in the window of the bar outside her apartment, watching the front door for visitors. At eight I leave a note explaining that I need to go home for a change of clothes and dead-drop Macduff the list of phone numbers drawn from Carmen’s mobile while she was asleep. There were two for de Francisco and one for Maldonado, but as yet no information from her personal computer. A laptop is sitting on a chair in our bedroom, but I could not risk booting it up for fear of encountering a password.

Come Monday evening we meet for dinner again and drink a lot of good, homemade red vermouth in Oliveros, an old, family-run bar around the corner from her apartment. Over meatballs downstairs in a brick cellar we have our first serious conversation about ETA, but there’s nothing in Carmen’s unequivocal view of Basque terror to merit lengthy analysis.

‘They are all fascists,’ she tells me, and I suppress a smile. ‘The only way to deal with ETA is to arrest their leaders and to make sure that there is no place for them to hide. This is the view of the Spanish government and it also happens to be the view of my family.’

The vehemence of this last remark, given that her mother is Basque, surprises me a little, but I let it go. She is otherwise predictable company. She laughs at my jokes. She teaches me words and phrases in Spanish. We find out about each other’s families – Alex’s parents live in Edinburgh and have been happily married for over thirty years – and talk about music and films. I try to appear as smitten and sincere as possible and Carmen seems to be as enthusiastic about me as she ever was. Afterwards we return to her apartment and I suppose that I start to miss Sofía at this point, if only for her intemperate moods and greater skills as a lover. The friction of adultery with a beautiful woman is different from the necessity of sex with a plain, if willing, target.

‘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 María?’ 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.’

‘María 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’, ‘Sofía’, ‘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 País 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 Tomás Orbé, 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 Orbé by several feet, embedding itself in the car. Orbé, 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 Tomás Orbé 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 Orbé 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 Letamendía and Rekalde?’

That’s impressive. Last weekend, two veteran members of ETA, Raul Letamendía and José 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 Orbé 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.