27. Shallow Grave

The body of Mikel Arenaza is discovered six days later lying in a shallow grave about 130 kilometres north-east of Madrid. Julian calls me at home and asks if I am watching the news.

‘They’ve found him,’ he says. His voice sounds cracked and shocked. I think that I can hear Sofía crying in the background.

Spanish television holds nothing back. Shots broadcast live just after 11 a.m. show what would appear to be Arenaza’s arm, covered in clods of earth, protruding from waste ground at the foot of a low hill. His body is limp and very heavy, the skin so ghostly pale as it is pulled from the wet earth that I feel a dryness in my throat like a stain of guilt. Police are busy about the naked corpse with their black sacks and their stretches of tape, local villagers standing back to observe the scene, some sobbing, others merely curious. The broadcaster says that the body was found at dawn by a secretary on her morning jog. Though it was covered in quicklime, it was identified as that of missing Herri Batasuna councillor Mikel Arenaza, and the family informed in San Sebastián. Then the channel switches back to the everyday dross of daytime TV, to a chat show host and a bearded chef making couscous with roasted vegetables. Life goes on.

The name of the nearest village was given as Valdelcubo and I go immediately to the car and drive north on the N1, reaching the outskirts sometime around two o’clock. En route I dial Kitson’s mobile to tell him the bad news.

‘Alec. I was just thinking about you. Was going to call later this afternoon.’

This sounds like a lie and I ignore it. ‘Have you heard?’

‘Heard what?’

‘They’ve found Arenaza. They’ve found his body.’

‘Oh Christ. Where?’

I give him what details I learned from the TV and explain that I am on my way to the scene.

‘You’re going there yourself? Is that the right idea?’

I don’t really understand the nature of the question and ask what he means.

‘Well, it’s pretty obvious. You’re involved in this thing, Alec. You had information about Rosalía Dieste that you failed to give to the Spanish police. You turn up at the graveside, people might wonder who you are. There might be photographs in the press. The Guardia Civil will certainly want to ask questions.’

Why would Kitson care about that? ‘I’ll take my chances,’ I tell him.

‘Look, I’m going to be frank. Buscon has gone to ground in Oporto and we’re keeping an eye on him. Thanks to you, we’ve got people digging around in new areas of his background, trying to put the pieces together in relation to the girl. You could become essential in that task later on. London might need you. So I can’t afford to have you as 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.

‘OΚ,’ 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 Rosalía, 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.