There are guys from the days of the GAL who did time in prison and now get applauded every time they walk into a restaurant.’
‘We’ll make it worth their while.’
At the far end of the carriage, an inevitably South American accordion player has stepped on at Urgel station, four drunk students behind him. He strikes up some bars of a tango and they begin dancing in the space near the doors.
‘What about Buscon? What about Dieste? Vazquez? Moura? They’ll all need to be silenced, one way or another. And there are almost certainly others whom we know nothing about.’
‘True,’ Kitson admits, ‘true.’ He shuts his eyes and blinks rapidly, as if controlling a wild idea. ‘Well, Vazquez and Moura aren’t going to talk to anyone. They’re not stupid. They’re not going to implicate themselves. And if the money trail finds its way to the CNI or the Guardia Civil in Bilbao, it can be explained away in terms of the war against terror.’
This seems to me extraordinarily flimsy, but I let it go. ‘Then what about Mohammed Chakor?’
‘Mohammed Chakor won’t be talking to anyone. He died three hours ago in hospital. You can send flowers.’
I shake my head. ‘And Buscon?’
‘What about him?’
‘Well, he hired Rosalia. He probably organized other operations. The shootings in France, maybe the kidnapping of Egileor. He certainly pulled the trigger on Mikel. Carmen has linked him directly to Javier de Francisco.’
‘14-INT took Buscon into custody earlier this week. He’s going to be tied up for a while. They’re sending him to Guantanamo.’
‘ Guantanamo? ’
Kitson’s face suddenly loses its characteristic equanimity. He has made a serious slip.
‘The Yanks have been after Buscon for ages,’ he explains. ‘Weapons smuggling, narcotics, we just handed him over…’
I jump on this. ‘Oh, come on, Richard. Since when were the CIA involved in your operation? You told me you hadn’t even alerted our embassy in Madrid.’ Then it dawns on me, a shaming feeling. ‘Fuck. SIS can’t organize the cover-up on their own, can they? London doesn’t have enough leverage. They need the bloody CIA to hold their hand.’
‘Not so. We had finished our debriefing of Buscon, resolved the Croatian issue, and then alerted the Cousins to the fact that we were holding a wanted man. It’s what allies do for each other.’
‘So he just gets dragged off to Guantanamo to share a cell with some Afghan peasant farmer who got mistaken for an international terrorist?’
‘What do you care?’
‘I’m just not a big fan of the Yanks. I told you that it was a pre-condition of my co-operation that the CIA weren’t told of my whereabouts.’
‘Nor have they been,’ Kitson replies, this time with more venom. Once again, our little spat is being recorded for the benefit of ears in London, and he wants to be seen to get tough. ‘Try to forget about Luis Buscon. He’s a separate issue.’
‘And when you questioned him about his role in the dirty war, in the Arenaza killing, what did he tell you?’
‘Alec, I’m afraid I can’t divulge any more. You don’t at this point have clearance. Suffice to say that he proved a less than co-operative prisoner. Categorically denied any links to Dieste or any involvement in the abduction of Mikel Arenaza. Was only prepared to talk about Croatia. Maybe the Yanks can get more out of him. They’re not as sensitive as our lot. Use different methods, if you follow my meaning…’
I stare ahead at the black tunnel flashing by, at the plastic seats and the floor. It’s sickening.
‘So my work is just done? That’s it? You have what you wanted?’
‘It looks like it. More or less.’ This comes off as cold and matter-of-fact, so he tries to console me. ‘Look. There’s talk of John Lithiby coming out here next week. To oversee things. You can meet him and discuss your future. He wants to thank you in person. This doesn’t end here, Alec. This is still your triumph.’
The train is pulling in to Carabanchel. Kitson puts on his jacket and prepares to leave. One final question stops him.
‘What about Carmen?’ he says. It’s no more than an afterthought.
‘What about her?’
‘Will she talk?’
A mischievous part of me feels like misleading him, but duty overrides this.
‘Carmen is loyal to the PP. She’s having a crisis of conscience, but she’ll keep quiet about it for the greater good. You’ll just need to have a word with her.’
Kitson nods. ‘And you’re going to keep seeing her?’
‘What do you think?’
And with that he is gone. The doors of the train slam shut and a lone British spy vanishes into the white light of a suburban metro station. A moment of intense and sudden regret comes over me and I wonder if any of it was worthwhile. Sleeping with Carmen when Kitson knew so much already. Demeaning myself to save Blair and Bush and Aznar. What was I thinking?
An hour later, returning home, I see that an envelope has been pushed under the door of my apartment. Inside there is a letter, handwritten in Spanish. It is from Sofia.
My darling Alec
Julian came home tonight and said that he had seen you today. More than this, he said that you had spoken for a long time and that he had seen a side of you that he had never noticed before. He said that for the first time you had revealed yourself. And I found that I was jealous of this. He spoke very highly of you, said that he regarded you as a true friend. He said that he was glad to have another Englishman with him here in Madrid. I began to wonder if you had arranged to meet him so that you could laugh about me. I began to think that I was your little private joke.
We have moved away from each other, my love. You never used to care about the things you seem to care about now About money, about ambition. You never used to care about the future. I loved that about you. You were so settled, you were so much lighter. Then I do not know what happened to Alec Milius. I think something in his past found him and darkness fell across his face. There is no place for me under this darkness. I have been crying for days and Julian does not know that my tears are for you.
We are not lovers any more. It seems that we are not even friends. You have not chosen me. In the end, you did not even fight.
When I have read the letter I have to sit down on a stool in the kitchen and breathe slowly and deeply for a long time, as if to carry on would release sobs of despair. Where is this coming from? It is like the farm again, a near-breakdown, all the shame and the regret suddenly catching up with me. I did nothing for Sofia. I used her solely for my own pleasure. I took no responsibility for my actions and ignored her in her hour of need. And now she is gone. I have thrown her away, just as I threw away the others.
41. Sleeper
And so the cover-up moves into place, and for five days the terrible, invisible, inevitable power of the secret state envelops Spain. How many of the players in this Establishment fix know the truth about the dirty war? Aznar? The proprietors of El Pais and TVE? A few house-trained executives and editors? It is impossible to know. I acknowledge the brilliance of SIS – with, quite probably, an American input – yet find that I am dejected by the speed with which the press have been duped and cajoled. Sofia’s letter has much to do with my sombre mood: a sense of intense regret overcomes me as I realize that the aftermath of my sick little game was just another fix and sham. I question time and again whether it was the right thing to do. Saul’s words haunt me: What are you doing to make amends, Alec?’