a visible presence at something as significant as Valdelcubo.’
He uses the name of the village as though he were already familiar with it. I wonder if Kitson is hiding something. It’s possible that he learned about the location of the body before I called him. In any event, what possible role could I play in any SIS investigation? I’m blown. London doesn’t need me. Kitson is just worried that I’ll spill the beans about his op if I start getting heat from local liaison.
‘Richard, I don’t really get this. I’ve told you what I know. I’ve written it all down. What else do you need me for? I just want to go to the village and see the situation for myself. Call it a personal quest. Call it closure.’
There is a long silence while he gathers his thoughts. I pull the Audi over to the side of the motorway and switch on the hazard lights.
‘O?,’ he says. ‘It’s clearly time to spell this out.’ Over the roar of the traffic it is difficult to tell whether or not he is alone. ‘Everybody was very impressed by the quality of your product on Rosalia, Alec. Very impressed. Now there are people in London who don’t want me to have anything to do with you, and I’m sure that doesn’t come as much of a surprise. But at the same time there are those of us who feel we should let bygones be bygones and get you back on board as soon as possible. There aren’t too many people of your age and experience who aren’t working flat out on other projects. You understand me? We’re stretched. You know the territory out here, you speak the language, you’re coming at this thing from an angle that has already proved very useful. I’m anxious you shouldn’t jeopardize that by doing something stupid.’
It is certain that there are men working at Thames House and Vauxhall Cross who know exactly how Alec Milius thinks. John Lithiby, for one. Michael Hawkes, for another. They know that in order to cause me to abandon any misgivings I might have about working for Five and Six, and to secure my renewed loyalty to the Crown, it would be necessary to say more or less exactly what Richard Kitson has just said. There are those of us who feel we should let bygones be bygones and get you back on board. We were very impressed by the quality of your product, Alec. Very impressed. These are the buttons that would need to be pushed. Flatter him, make him feel special. Cast out the lure of the secret game. Kitson performs the task so perfectly that I experience an almost giddy sense of excitement, something close to a miraculous feeling of relief at the possibility of being accepted back into the fold. It is no exaggeration to say that his words act as a balm which momentarily wipes out all feelings of despair and guilt that I might be feeling over Arenaza’s death. But surely I have to be cautious; that is how they want me to feel. I have to hold on to my cynicism, to my memories of Kate and Saul. Don’t let these guys crawl under your skin again. Don’t let them back into your life.
‘You want me to work for you? You’re saying that you think I’d be useful again?’
‘Yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying.’ Kitson sounds quite disengaged by the whole thing. He might be telling me about a film he watched last night, a meal he ate. The notion of my rehabilitation is as logical and as predictable to him as the sun coming up tomorrow morning. ‘Don’t you think so yourself? Wouldn’t you like to see this thing through?’
‘Well, you can understand that I’m a bit cynical when it comes to trusting people in your line of work. I have a problem with motive.’
Kitson does that laugh again, the one through his nose, and says, ‘Of course.’ Then there’s another pause before he adds, ‘Because of Kate?’
It’s the smart question. He has already given me the formal position on Kate’s accident. Either I accept his word or we have a fundamental breach of trust. If that is the case, then the relationship between us might as well be over before it has started. No officer will work with a source who doubts him. Scepticism is the cancer of spies.
‘What happened to Kate was certainly the principal reason I lost the faith.’ A lorry at high speed passes close to my door and shakes the Audi in a sudden gust of wind. I think about Saul and imagine what he would say if he could hear me having this conversation. ‘Because of what happened, because of everything going wrong, I’ve had to live in exile for six years.’ I’m trying not to sound too pompous, too melodramatic. ‘That’s had an effect on the way I see things, Richard. I’m sure you can understand.’
‘Absolutely,’ he says, and perhaps this reply is too quick, too easy. ‘Still, it would be dishonest of me not to say that I have some thoughts of my own on that.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning why don’t we meet for lunch and talk it all out? I have to fly to Portugal this afternoon and won’t be back in town for a couple of days.’
He thinks I overreacted. Kitson thinks I’ve wasted six years of my life worrying about a problem that never existed. He’s another Saul. I say, ‘That sounds like a good idea, let’s have lunch,’ and let him end the conversation.
‘Just turn your car round and head back to Madrid, OK? We’ll catch up on Wednesday. Just sit tight until then.’
He gives me an address in Tetuan, which I assume to be the SIS safe house, and a time – two o’clock on the afternoon of the 16th. Then we say goodbye and, against his express wishes, I pull the car back onto the motorway and continue into Castilla-La Mancha. The village lies about eight miles north of Siguenza, a cathedral city which was once a front line for nationalist troops in the Civil War. This is Cervantes country, the bare plains and rolling hills and ruined forts of Quixote and Sancho Panza. Two thousand years ago there was a Roman presence here and the road runs in a pure straight line all the way to Valdelcubo, which turns out to be an archetype of the rural Spanish pueblo: crumbling, deserted, dusty. Boys are kicking a football against the wall of a pelota court in the centre of the village, but so many strangers have passed through today that they no longer bother to look up when I drive past. At a cafe just off the main square, television crews from TVE, Telemadrid and Euskal Telebista are eating bocadillos and slices of tortilla in the window and I worry that the Audi might draw their attention. Kitson’s words are echoing in my ears and he might have a source here who will report back if my car is sighted.
Driving out of the square I head down a narrow street barely wide enough for a single car and simply follow the scent of the story. A steady, ant-like stream of cops and hacks are funnelling back and forth from the countryside, although by the time I reach the scene only a sprinkling of bystanders remains. Parking the Audi next to a pile of timber and encrusted manure, I walk to a high point from which it is possible to observe the entire area through 360 degrees. The landscape is breathtakingly beautiful and, before my gaze falls on the horror of Mikel’s impermanent grave, I find myself regretting the fact that I have spent so little time in this region over the past six years. Whatever happens, these will be my final weeks in Spain. When it’s over, when Arenaza’s killer has been jailed and Kitson moved on to pastures new, I will be obliged to leave, either to take up his offer of a renewed career with SIS, or to live in some as yet undisclosed location, there to rebuild the lies and the paranoia of Madrid, to discover new haunts and safe houses, to find another Sofia.
Arenaza’s body has been completely removed. That much is immediately clear. A lone forensic scientist is examining the scene, planting her legs awkwardly as she encircles the grave, like someone walking through deep snow. When did they bring him here? Was Rosalia waiting near by? It’s hard to imagine that the woman I followed and observed day after day could have involved herself in something as diabolical as murder. Why jeopardize her career, her relationship, for vengeance? Why involve herself with a man like Luis Buscon? Perhaps Gael played a part in the entrapment. Perhaps that’s where Kitson should be looking. An old man, clearly local, with age lines cut through his cheeks like scars from the sun, comes and stands beside me, muttering something about Batasuna being ‘the enemy’. I move away from him with a nod and get back in the car.
One of the tracks leading back to the main road passes beside an old wall that is in the midst of being rebuilt. Fresh blocks of grey stone have been placed next to a hut in a small clearing, and there’s a freshly constructed wooden cross planted at the top of a low summit looking out over the western side of the village. I put out my indicator and wait for a car to pass before making the turn back into Valdelcubo. Just as I am preparing to pull out, Patxo Zulaika walks past the passenger window, holding a small baby in a harness attached to his chest. His eyes ignite. Peering through the window, he stares at my face, fingers raised to tap on the glass.
I manage to say, ‘Patxo, I thought I might see you here,’ before my throat blocks and dries up in panic.
‘I cannot say the same about you,’ he replies. I slide the window down, erasing my reflection, trying as best I can to look relaxed.
‘Well, I saw what happened on TV. Had the morning off so I drove up to see for myself.’
He looks at me for a long time, drawing out the stare, as if to check the validity of my entire existence. Then his eyes scan the back seat and he purses his lips.
‘So, you reporting for Ahotsa?’ I ask, just to break the silence. Zulaika is the kind of man who obliges you to
