just come home.’
‘You’ve talked to Mum?’
‘Now and again.’
‘What about Lithiby?’
‘Who’s Lithiby?’
If Saul is working for them, they have certainly taught him how to lie. He runs his finger along the wall and inspects it for dust.
‘My case officer at Five,’ I explain. ‘The guy behind everything.’
‘Oh, him. No, of course not.’
‘He’s never been to see you?’
‘Never.’
Someone turns the music up beyond a level at which we can comfortably speak, and I have to shout at Saul to be heard.
‘So where did you put the disks?’
He smiles. ‘In a safe place.’
‘Where?’
Another grin. ‘Somewhere safe. Look, nobody’s ever been to see me. Nobody’s ever been to see your mum. It’s not as if… Alec?’
Julian Church has walked into the bar. Six inches taller than anyone else in the room and dressed like a Royal Fusilier on weekend leave. There are certain things that cannot be controlled, and this is one of them. He spots me immediately and does a little electric shock of surprise.
‘Alec!’
‘Hello, Julian.’
‘Fancy seeing you here.’
‘Indeed.’
‘Night on the tiles?’
‘Apparently. And you?’
‘The very same. My beloved wife fancied a drink, and who was I to argue?’
Julian, as ever, is delighted to see me, but I can feel Saul physically withdrawing, the cool of Shoreditch and Notting Hill reacting with violent distaste to Julian’s tasselled loafers and bottle-green cords. I should introduce them.
‘Saul, this is Julian Church, my boss at Endiom. Julian, this is Saul Ricken, a friend of mine from England.’
‘Ah, the old country,’ Julian says.
‘The old country,’ Saul repeats.
Think. How to deal with this? How do I get us away? A chill wind comes barrelling in through the open door, drawing irritated looks from nearby tables. Julian hops to it like a bellboy, muttering ‘ Perdon, perdon,’ as he shuts out the cold. ‘That’s a bit better. Bloody chilly in here. Bloody noisy, too. Senora Church won’t be far behind me. She’s parking the car.’
‘Your wife?’ Saul asks.
‘My wife.’ Julian’s pale skin is flushed and pink, his widow’s peak down to a few fine strands. ‘Madness to drive into town on a Friday night, but she insisted, like most of her countrymen, and who was I to argue? You staying the weekend?’
‘A bit longer,’ Saul replies.
‘I see, I see.’
This is clearly going to happen and there’s nothing I can do about it. The four of us locked into two or three rounds of drinks, then awkward questions later. I try to keep my eyes away from the door as Julian takes off his coat and hangs it on top of Saul’s. Do I have an exit strategy? We could lie about meeting friends at a club, but I don’t want to arouse Julian’s suspicion or risk a contradiction from Saul. Best just to ride it out.
‘Did you get my email?’ Julian asks, and I am on the point of responding when Sofia walks in behind him. She does well to disguise her reaction; just a flat smile, a clever look of feigned recognition, then fixing her gaze on Julian.
‘Darling, you remember Alec Milius, don’t you?’
‘Of course.’ It doesn’t look like she does. ‘You work with my husband, yes?’
‘And this is his friend, Saul… Ricken, was it? They were here quite by chance. A coincidence.’
‘Ah, una casualidad.’ Sofia looks beautiful tonight, her perfume a lovely sense memory of our long night together at the hotel. She uncurls a black scarf, takes off her coat, kisses me lightly on the cheek and gently squeezes Julian at the elbow.
‘We’ve met before,’ I tell her.
‘Si. At the office, yes?’
‘I think so.’
Once, when Julian was away on business, Sofia came down to the Endiom building in Retiro and we fucked on his desk.
‘I thought you two met at the Christmas party.’
‘I forget,’ Sofia replies.
She places her scarf on the surface of the cigarette machine and affords me the briefest of glances. Saul appears to be humming along to the music. He may even be bored.
‘So what’s everybody drinking?’
Julian has taken a confident stride forward to coincide with his question, breaking up the huddle around us by dint of his sheer size. Saul and I want canas, Sofia a Diet Coke.
‘I’m driving,’ she explains, directing her attention at Saul. ‘ Hablas espanol?’
‘Si, un poco,’ he says, suddenly looking pleased with himself. That was clever of her. She wants to know how much she can get away with saying.
‘Y te gusta Madrid?’
‘Si. Mucho. Mucho.’ He gives up. ‘I just arrived tonight.’
And what follows is a pitch-perfect, five-minute exchange about nothing at all: Sofia conducting a conversation about the Prado, about tourists at the Thyssen museum, the week she spent recently in Gloucestershire with Julian’s ageing parents. Just enough chat to cover the span of time before her husband returns from the bar. When he does, all of his attention is focused on me.
‘Actually, Alec, it’s a good job we’ve bumped into each other.’ He clutches me round the shoulder. ‘Saul, can I leave you with my wife for five minutes? Need to talk shop.’
Dispensing the drinks, he steers me into a cramped space beside the cigarette machine and assumes a graver tone. The need for secrecy is unclear, although I should still be able to eavesdrop on Saul’s conversation. I don’t want him leaking information to Sofia about my past. Things are nicely compartmentalized there. They are under control.
‘Look, as I said, I need you to go to San Sebastian early next week. Is that going to be a problem?’
‘Shouldn’t be.’
‘We can pay your expenses, normal form. It’s no different to your usual work. Just diligence. Just need you to look into something.’
‘Your email said it was about cars.’
‘Yes. Client wants to build a factory making parts near the border with Navarra. Don’t ask. Blindingly dull small town. But the workforce will be mostly Basque, so there might be union trouble. I need you to put together a document, interviews with local councillors, real-estate bigwigs, lawyers and so forth. Something to impress potential investors, calm any nerves. Sections about the tax position, the impact on exports of the strengthening euro, that sort of thing. Most importantly, what effect would Basque independence have on the project?’
‘Basque independence? They think that’s likely?’
‘Well, that’s what we need you to find out.’
I’m tempted to tell Julian that Endiom would be better off buying a crystal ball and a subscription to The Economist, but if he wants to pay me €300 a day to stay in San Sebastian as a glorified journalist, I’m not going to
