‘… to avenge his death, yes.’ Kitson has made the link. ‘So what does that have to do with Buscon?’
‘I haven’t the faintest idea.’
‘What does your instinct tell you?’
‘My instinct tells me not to trust my instinct.’ The man from SIS likes this remark and laughs quietly through his nose. ‘All I can assume is that she hired him to kill Arenaza.’
‘Very unlikely.’
‘Why?’
‘Not the sort of thing Luis gets up to. Far too self-important to get his hands dirty. More likely there’s a separate, unrelated link between the two of them, or she’s part of a broader conspiracy. This is all very useful, Alec. I’m very grateful to you.’
It sounds like the brush-off. We’re going to circle back to Plaza de Espana and I’ll never see him again.
‘I don’t want to be left out,’ I tell him, suddenly concerned that I have spilled too much information too quickly and may have nothing left with which to bargain. ‘I want to pursue this thing, Richard. I think I can help.’
Kitson says nothing. He might be irritated that I have called him Richard.
‘Where are you staying?’
‘I’m here with a team of eight,’ he says.
‘Tech-op boys? Locksmiths?’
I want to show him that I know the lingo. I want to prove my usefulness.
‘Something like that. We’ve rented a property in Madrid for the duration of the op, an RV point well away from the action.’ As if the thought had just occurred to him, he adds, ‘How come the Spaniards don’t know about Rosalia? If this man’s been missing for three weeks, shouldn’t you have gone to the police?’
It is an uncomfortable question, and one designed perhaps to turn the tables. Is he going to use that as a means of guaranteeing my silence?
‘I only found out about the ETA connection on Thursday’ Kitson appears to accept this, despite the fact that I have completely avoided the question. ‘On Monday a Basque journalist who’s working on the disappearance is going to call me and I’m going to give him the whole story.’
‘I wouldn’t recommend that.’ This is said very firmly. ‘I can’t risk a hack digging around Buscon. Host governments don’t take kindly to us lot carving up the local scenery. This journalist calls back, put him off the scent, stall him. The last thing I need is blowback.’
It is the first time that I have sensed Kitson even remotely rattled. He takes an exit signed out to Badajoz and tucks in behind a red Transit van. Here is the stress of the spy, the variables, the constant threat of exposure. To lead a team on foreign soil in such circumstances must be exhausting.
‘Point taken. But Zulaika is pushy, he sniffs around. Of all the newspapers in Spain, Ahotsa is the one that has kept the Arenaza story alive.’
‘Zulaika? That’s his name?’
‘Yes. Patxo Zulaika. Very young, very ambitious. Real tit.’
Kitson smirks. ‘Then ignore him. Just give him denials. You’re clearly a resourceful bloke, Alec. You’ll think of something.’
‘Sure.’
‘Just keep me in the picture when he calls, OK? I’ll leave you my number.’
Thereafter the conversation turns to the affidavit. Kitson needs a written statement detailing my involvement with Arenaza, Buscon and Rosalia. He asks me to type it up overnight and says we’ll meet tomorrow for a handover at the McDonald’s in Plaza de los Cubos.
‘Nine o’clock too early for you? We can enjoy a hearty breakfast.’
I say that will be fine and only as we are pulling into Plaza de Espana does he return to discussing the operation.
‘There was just one thing, before you vanish into the night.’
‘Yes?’
I am standing outside the Citroen, leaning in through the passenger window. It is the middle of the paseo and there are seemingly hundreds of people passing through the western end of Gran Via, families walking six-wide on the pavements in order to show off their grandchildren.
‘Does the name Francisco Sa Carneiro mean anything to you?’
‘Francisco Sa Carneiro?’
‘We think there’s some sort of a connection with Buscon. We think he was going to meet him.’
I can’t prevent a smirk wriggling onto my face. To have caught out Six on such a simple technicality. This answer can only work in my favour.
‘Buscon’s not going to meet anybody,’ I tell him.
‘He’s not?’
‘He’s going to Porto. Sa Carneiro was a Portuguese politician. He died about twenty years ago. They named the airport after him. I’ll see you tomorrow, Richard. Make mine an Egg McMuffin.’
26. Sacrifice
As it turns out, we meet for only five minutes. Kitson shakes my hand near a lifesize cutout of Ronald McDonald, takes the brown manila envelope in which I have placed my affidavit and leaves with the excuse that he has a ‘pressing engagement’ in Huertas. It’s obvious that Five and Six have warned him off me. I’m damaged goods, after all, persona non grata on a par with Rimington, Tomlinson and Shayler. You get one chance with these guys and, if you blow it, there’s no going back. It’s club rules, the only way they know how to operate.
I eat breakfast at Cascaras and wait all week for Zulaika’s call. When he doesn’t contact me, I begin to fear the worst. Either he has become another victim of Buscon or Kitson panicked about his interest in the operation and arranged for half a dozen Bilbao heavies to put him off the scent. As the days go by, it begins to feel as though my encounter with the secret world has come to an abrupt end, like an old love affair briefly rekindled, then all too hurriedly snuffed out. But eventually Zulaika makes contact. At 8 a.m. sharp on the morning of Monday 7 April, ten days after I left my initial message, he rings the Nokia mobile. What is it about Zulaika and early mornings? I am fast asleep in bed and reach across to retrieve the phone from my jacket pocket, straining my back in the process.
His name appears on the screen and I buy time by letting him leave a message:
‘Yes, this is Patxo Zulaika for Alec Milius, returning his call. I have been away on holiday and did not take my work phone with my family. Please call me at this number as soon as possible, your information could be important.’
The voice is just as I remembered it – flat, smug, entitled – and acts as an immediate irritant. Interesting that he took a fortnight’s holiday in the middle of the Arenaza disappearance. There have been extensive anti-war protests throughout the Basque country, which he would also have wanted to cover. Perhaps he has given up on the story, or been moved on to something new. I prepare my response, settle down on the sofa with a cup of strong black coffee and call him just after ten o’clock.
‘Mr Zulaika?’
‘Yes?’
‘This is Alec Milius.’
‘I was hoping you would contact me sooner. You said that you had some information.’
That same infuriating manner, devoid of even basic decency, every sentence managing to be both critical and pushy at the same time. I feel immediately predisposed to thwart him and experience a wave of gratitude to Kitson for providing me with the opportunity to do so.
‘And good morning to you, too, Patxo.’
He doesn’t understand the sarcasm.
‘ Que? ’
‘Nothing. I was just saying “Good morning”. You always seem so keen to get down to business. Always in a
