‘True,’ Kitson admits, ‘true.’ He shuts his eyes and blinks rapidly, as if controlling a wild idea. ‘Well, Vázquez 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 Rosalía. 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 Guantánamo.’

‘Guantánamo?’

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 Guantánamo 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 Sofía.

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 Sofía. 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 País 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. Sofía’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?’

As Kitson predicted, both Félix Maldonado and Javier de Francisco flee to Colombia – on the same aeroplane – where they both go to ground, despite the best efforts of the republic’s finest journalists to track them down. Three days later their wives and children follow unmolested. Carmen and three other women from the secretarial pool, as well as numerous individuals from the Interior Ministry, were taken into custody at the weekend for questioning. I have heard nothing from her, despite attempting to make contact on four separate occasions.

In Gara, the ETA-sympathetic newspaper printed in San Sebastián, Eugenio Larzabal runs a story on 12 May in which he attempts to link the kidnap and murder of Mikel Arenaza and the disappearance of Juan Egileor to de Francisco’s sudden flight to Colombia ‘in the teeth of the Interior Ministry finance scandal’. Ahotsa is more reserved – and Zulaika’s by-line nowhere to be seen – yet the paper claims to have traced the car seen at the shootings in southern France to ‘an associate of Andy Moura’. Extensive research has also been conducted into Mohammed Chakor’s background, and an editorial urges the Madrid government to investigate why a known drugs smuggler was photographed in February of this year talking to Sergio Vázquez, the disgraced CNI officer pardoned by Félix Maldonado. In El Mundo there is a similarly tantalizing but ultimately inconclusive op-ed about a possible third GAL. When I read these stories, I fear that the entire edifice of the cover-up will crumble in a matter of hours, but on Tuesday there is not a single article or letter or news story dedicated to the suggestion of a third dirty war in any outlet of the mainstream Spanish media. Again I marvel at the extent of the cover-up, yet lament its efficacy. Why, at the very least, have there not been demonstrations on the streets of Bilbao? Has the government done a deal with Batasuna, promising prisoner releases or leverage in votes against the PNV? It has all come down to tradeoffs. It has all come down to politics.