diverted from government coffers, to three key individuals: Luis Buscon, Andy Moura and Sergio Vazquez.’
‘Why haven’t you mentioned those names before?’
Kitson looks at me, those calming, unchallengeable eyes. ‘Don’t take it personally, Alec. Plenty of people were out of the loop on this one. That’s just the way I like to run things. Believe me, after the work you’ve done on this, London are going to be cock-a-hoop. SIS have stepped into the breach and saved the day. The Spaniards have a problem in their own back yard and it took the Brits to solve it.’
I don’t respond to this and, in fact, my elation is no sharper than it was moments ago.
‘Who’s Andy Moura?’
‘High-ranking Guardia Civil in Bilbao with a lifelong contempt for all things Basque. On record as saying that ETA could be destroyed within five years if only the police were allowed to do “whatever they want”. Basque pressure groups have been after him for years. Cast-iron thug. Has survived three attempts on his life, two car bombs and a shooting.’
‘Jesus.’
‘Yes, that’s probably who he thanks every morning.’ A grin here. ‘Moura’s fingerprints are all over the Otamendi kidnapping and possibly Egileor’s disappearance as well. The Spanish authorities are keeping it quiet while they carry out an “internal enquiry”. In other words, a cover-up.’
‘Speaking of which…’
‘Hang on a minute.’ Kitson silences me with a flattened palm. This is not an aggressive gesture, more an expression of his desire to articulate a series of complex thoughts. ‘Now Vazquez has a similar sort of profile.’
‘You’ve heard of him before?’
A train is approaching, the sleek metal hum and vibration of engine on track.
‘Oh, we’ve heard of him. He’s CNI, an old right-wing friend of Maldonado who was caught on surveillance cameras beating up two ETA suspects in custody in 1999.’ The train punches into the station, a noise so loud that Kitson is forced to shout. ‘There was an internal stink within what was then called CESID until Maldonado was promoted to interior minister and handed his old friend a pardon.’
‘On the quiet?’
‘Precisely.’
‘And now Vazquez is returning the favour by helping to run the dirty war out of the CNI?’
The doors of the train slide open in a chorus of electronic beeps and we are surrounded by disembarking passengers. Kitson says, ‘Exactly,’ and plays with the material of his jacket. The pocket with the voice recorder in it is facing into his lap. ‘From what Carmen was saying tonight, it certainly looks that way’ A small boy holding a toy gun has been staring at us from the carriage directly ahead. Kitson smiles at him and gets shot for his efforts. Once the doors have closed and the train has moved off, he resumes speaking. ‘As Secretary of State for Security, de Francisco has operational command of both the Guardia Civil and the police. Maldonado’s reach extends even further than that, into the heart of the intelligence community. As luck would have it we had a fairly decent file on Mohammed Chakor before the Orbe incident because he was wanted by Interpol in connection with some ecstasy smuggling. There was an individual within CNI who was making contact with Chakor’s mobile in Marseilles. We just didn’t know who the hell that individual was until tonight.’
‘Vazquez?’
‘Correct.’
Towards us, walking very slowly along the broad platform, come two elderly ladies wearing fake fur coats and eating ice creams. Rather than licking them, they are uneasily chipping away at the cones with little plastic spoons. I suggest that we catch the next train and talk on the way south.
‘Good idea.’ As if to give himself something to do in the interim, Kitson takes out a packet of Lucky Strike and then appears to remember that it’s illegal to smoke on the Madrid metro.
It’s all right. You can light up. People do it all the time.’
‘Not me,’ he says.
Ten minutes later we are on a train, passing back through La Latina just after eleven o’clock. I think about Carmen and wonder what she is up to, how she must despise me for leaving in her hour of need. It is strange and probably unprofessional to feel these thoughts, but a small part of me does care for her. It is not possible to spend time like that with a woman, however ill-suited to one’s taste and preference, without forming at least the structure of an attachment.
‘Alec?’
‘Yes?’
‘I was saying that if Carmen has linked the Interior Ministry to Arenaza and Egileor, it’s only a matter of time before Maldonado and Francisco are named specifically in press reports. There are going to be leaks, even if they only come from this friend of hers at the bank.’
I had drifted off. Perhaps the strain of the Carmen seduction is finally taking its toll. We are sitting at the rear of an almost deserted train.
‘If the people who tortured you had their suspicions about Francisco and Buscon three weeks ago, it’s a certainty they’ve passed them on to other Basque newspapers who will just be waiting for an opportunity to skewer the PP once they have hard evidence. The attempt on Orbe’s life might have been the straw that breaks the camel’s back.’
‘I know that, I know that…’
‘So we’ve got to anticipate this. We’ve got to preempt it.’
Kitson appears to be looking for my advice. ‘And you want my views on that?’
It feels strange to be asking such a question. Has the relationship turned full circle? In the past, before we spent time together, I tended to place all spies on a pedestal: John Lithiby, Katharine Lanchester, Michael Hawkes, even Fortner and Sinclair. Their work seemed more vivid, more essential to the smooth running of the planet than any vocation I could think of. I was in awe of them. Yet as I have come to know Kitson, the more I have realized that he is just like any other professional doing a difficult job: competent mostly, occasionally brilliant, from time to time merely rude and ineffectual. He is not, in other words, a special breed. He was simply spotted at a young age and taught a trade. That is not to say that I do not respect him. It is simply that, for perhaps the first time in my life, I feel the confidence to say that I could do Richard Kitson’s job with equal efficiency. And after what has happened out here, that is probably what I will end up doing.
‘What a lot of people don’t understand about Spain is that it’s still run by twenty or thirty big families,’ I tell him. ‘They control everything, from the newspapers to television, from commerce to banking, industry to agriculture. You find influence with the right families and you will find influence with the media. That’s the way to organize a cover-up on this scale. The Partido Popular is like the Republican Party in the United States – it’s the natural home of immense wealth. If the people of influence in Spain see that their position is in danger, they will circle the wagons. The money will be protected. The PP already control a lot of news content on domestic radio and television. Within two hours of you telling them that Maldonado and Francisco had their fingers in the till, that scandal will be the story that runs and runs. It will completely short-circuit any rumours about a dirty war.’
Kitson puts a hand on my shoulder. ‘I’m glad we got you on board,’ he says, rather oddly. ‘Couldn’t have done this without you. I’ll send a FLASH telegram to London tonight and we’ll move on everything first thing tomorrow.’
‘So that’s it?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You’re going with the financial scandal? That decision has already been made?’
‘Well, it makes sense, doesn’t it?’ I have the oddest feeling that Kitson is lying to me, as if much of what we are talking about is moot or even irrelevant. ‘The Spanish authorities, in conjunction with SIS, will make it in Mr Maldonado’s interest to flee the country. I suspect that his old friend Javier will join him.’
It’s like we’re talking about a game of Monopoly. ‘Hang on. What about the variables? What about blowback?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, what if they stay? What if they want to fight it out in the courts?’
‘Fight what? A financial scandal that doesn’t exist? Run the risk of being vilified for starting another dirty war?’
I lean forward, turning to face him. ‘A lot of ordinary Spaniards might admire them for what they’ve done.
