Eventually I pay my bill and head out onto the street, sticking to the shadows under the colonnade of the square until I’m out on Calle Mayor. A cab glides past and I hail it, giving directions to Calle de la Libertad. It has occurred to me that I am running late for the meeting at Bocaito, although in Kitson’s absence John Lithiby will be a more than capable replacement. Numbed by whisky, I sit in the back seat, scribbling down notes as my pen jumps with each spring of the suspension. To turn up at the meeting in such a condition is far from ideal, but I have no choice. SIS need to know about these new developments as soon as possible. Lithiby is my sole remaining contact.
There’s only one thing I’m not sure about: the precise nature of the relationship between Maldonado and Javier de Francisco. What seems most likely is that they were simply Basque sympathizers who gradually worked their way up the political ladder, concealing themselves for – what? – fifteen or twenty years while they fed information back to their ideological masters in ETA. It’s Burgess and Maclean, Philby and Blunt all over again, a nest of spies at the heart of the Spanish state. And now they must live out the rest of their lives in a pointless Colombian exile. Two high-level ETA operatives gone to ground after waiting years for their chance to strike from the immaculate camouflage of office. I feel almost sorry for them. Francisco probably recruited Carmen during their love affair, or she was turned during the four-year stint in Colombia. She seemed to confess to a relationship back at the flat. A man I loved, she said. And of course her mother, the ailing Mitxelena, is a Basque married to a man whose father fought against Franco in the Civil War. I was very dumb about that. I should have put two and two together.
As the cab accelerates through Puerta del Sol, I try Kitson again. There’s no answer, so I just hang up, wondering how long it will be before the neighbours break into Carmen’s flat and alert the police. If they track me down, I can always plead self-defence. Christ, if the worst comes to the worst I can probably claim diplomatic immunity. That’s the least SIS can do after what I’ve pulled off tonight. When Lithiby hears about this, about what I’ve done for the Service, everything in my past will be forgotten.
44. The Vanishing Englishman
Bocaito is packed. It’s ten minutes past nine when I push through the door towards the seating area at the rear of the restaurant. Waiters in aprons and white jackets are preparing canapés at the crowded bar. There’s a smattering of tourists eating an early dinner in the restaurant, but no sign of Lithiby. I’m given a pre-reserved table near the kitchen and listen to the constant clatter and sizzle of plates and pans as my mind races once again through the thesis. Is there a flaw? Is there still something I’m missing?
By half past nine Lithiby has still not shown. I order a second glass of wine and rub my right hand under the table, trying to soothe the intense pain in my fist. I go to the bathroom again and check my face for marks. A small scratch has appeared, unnoticed before, within the two-day stubble on my jaw. Kitson is still not answering his phone and it feels like Museo Chicote all over again, waiting for Arenaza to show even as Buscon was digging his grave. A British couple – The Rough Guide to Spain on their table next to a bottle of Vichy Catalán – have been arguing for twenty minutes about a flight back home in the morning. The man, bald and tired, keeps checking his watch, drinking the water constantly as his wife suggests over and over again that they ‘must order the cab for six o’clock’. Beside them, at a table tucked in the far corner, three quieter Americans are grazing on steaks and fish. Then the mobile phone pulses in my jacket pocket and I tear it out.
‘Richard?’
‘This is not Richard.’
It is as if the room tilts and makes strange, the cold air of shock enveloping me in a dizzy confusion. For an instant I can barely breathe as my body revolts at the sound of her voice. It can’t be. Not now. Not after everything that has happened tonight.
‘Katharine?’
‘Hello, Alec.’
I take the phone away from my ear and check the read-out. Número Privado. Then she speaks again.
‘John Lithiby’s not coming tonight. No doubt he sends his warmest regards. Last I heard John was earning $450,000 a year working for Shell out in Nigeria. So how have you been?’
She doesn’t let me answer. The voice doesn’t let me respond. It’s part of a script I haven’t read, words in a hideous scheme. I am on the point of challenging her, trying to find out how or why this could be happening, when Katharine Lanchester says, ‘The Central Intelligence Agency would just really like to take this opportunity to thank you for all of the hard work that you’ve done on our behalf over the course of the last few months. We really couldn’t have pulled this thing off without you. You’ve gotten so good, Alec. What happened?’
‘Kitson is CIA? Richard is an American?’
‘Well, Brown University out of Charterhouse, but we like to think of him as one of our own. His Mom’s American, after all. You were mirror-imaging, Alec. Seeing yourself in him, just as we knew you would.’
Katharine is laughing under this, contempt and delight in each revelation. I want to lash out at her. I feel more humiliation in this single instant than I have ever known in my life. I have been played for a fool by all of them, one after the other.
‘But how did you… What… I don’t…’
I cannot get the words out. The British couple are staring at me, as if sensing that something is not right. When I look at them their eyes flick away and there’s a split-instant realization that Michelle wasn’t Canadian SIS; she was American all along. Did Geoff and Ellie smother their accents? Did Macduff?
‘How did we know about you?’ Katharine asks, picking up on my question. ‘How did you fall for such a dumb trick?’ I look at my left hand and it is gripping the edge of the table so hard that I can see the white bones of my knuckles bulging like pearls. ‘Well, what can I tell you? It was all just such a coincidence. You dropped right out of the sky. There we were in Spain, just a small-time operation tracking Buscon, and who do we find on his tail? None other than Mr Alec Milius. As you can imagine, one or two people at Langley were kind of interested to see you, so we cooked up a little revenge.’