‘But I have not come to talk of such things, monsieur.’

‘I didn’t think you had.’

There was a very lengthy pause before Laporta continued; it was as if he was looking for certain words and those that emerged seemed to Cal to be somehow amiss. ‘Once we have secured the city, which will be soon, we must seek to aid our comrades elsewhere.’

‘Which ones?’

‘Saragossa first – it is under threat; in fact, it might have already fallen to the generals.’ There was reflected light enough for Laporta to see that the name, even if he knew it to be a large city, did not register in any other way. ‘It is the capital of Aragón and an anarchist stronghold, a place we cannot allow to remain in the hands of the generals and their lackeys, who will shoot anyone who opposes them. The CNT leadership are forming a flying column to bring relief to the city.’

Another pause accompanied by a sigh. ‘Florencia has told me things about you, as you already know.’ Which I now regret telling her, Cal thought. ‘I must go to what I hope will be a final conference—’

‘Another one?’ Cal interrupted, which brought a rare smile to the lips of a man not much given to such expressions.

‘A necessary curse, monsieur; everyone must have their say, even in the highest councils of Catalonia. I have come from the first and I must return soon for a second.’

The conferences were being held at the Generalitat, the seat of the regional government. It seemed all the time Callum Jardine had spent snoozing and as a spectator, Laporta had spent arguing about what course to take next to defeat the insurgency, without a final decision being made. As related, it did not sound like fun, but was Laporta seeking advice or maybe just a disinterested sounding board?

‘You asked me a question before, and I think you will know my opinion of your conferences by what I said then.’

‘We have agreed not to send thousands of men into Aragón without the leadership of an appointed commander; in this case the committee has put forward Colonel Villabova, who has stayed loyal to the Republic.’

‘That is good, surely?’

‘Is it? Villabova is sure he is another Cortez, but he is an arrogant fool who has no idea of how useless he is, and neither do those proposing him.’

‘He will be appointed by vote?’ Laporta nodded. ‘Not yours, then?’

The response was spat out. ‘No!’

Why was Laporta telling him this? Indeed, with so much going on, why had he sought him out? Was he looking for help? If he was, the man was too proud to say the words and Cal would have to think about that. Any decision would have much to do with what Vince and his boys intended and, as well as those committed to the fight, the majority of the People’s Olympians had to be accounted for. Most would want to get out of the country, and he had as much responsibility for that as anything else, given it would be a proper use of what remained of the funds entrusted to him.

A ship was the most obvious, but even if the Spanish navy was mostly on the side of the elected government, that was not wholly the case and rebel warships might intercept vessels sailing for other Mediterranean ports. The land route, provided it was not blocked, or a zone of battle, was the safest, quickest and, no small consideration, the cheapest way out, but only if he could find them transport to the French border and that was going to be hard; a lot of the Barcelona buses had been used as barricades, and if the anarchists were off to Saragossa they would need what was left for transport.

‘My men,’ Laporta continued, after a very long silence, ‘those I commanded today, are not soldiers.’

Cal Jardine had to stop himself from too hearty an agreement, while at the same time thinking that the Spaniard was beginning to rise another notch in his estimation, because nothing so far had intimated anything other than a blind faith in the power of political belief to overcome any difficulty. It took courage, of a sort, to admit it was insufficient.

‘Here,’ the Spaniard waved, to encompass the city, ‘they are effective, for they are people of the city, but once we are out in open country they will not have the skills needed to fight, and if they do not have these things they will suffer.’

If you want to ask for help, do so, Cal thought, knowing he was damned if he was going to volunteer. The question that followed only hinted at the possibility.

‘Will you stay and fight?’

‘I have other responsibilities.’

‘Florencia has told me of these.’ Laporta stood up; he was clearly not going to beg but he did point out that the shooting was dying down and that a contingent of Civil Guards was now making for the entrance to the Ritz Hotel. ‘If you do not decide to stay on, then I must thank you and your people for what you have already done this day.’

With hand held out to shake, Cal was obliged to stand up and take it, then, with a nod, Laporta departed.

The hotel guests, those who had not already fled and who had taken refuge in the basement with the staff, were being led out of the Ritz as he made his way towards the entrance. With his black and red CNT armband and a rifle sling on his shoulder, he was stopped by a grime-covered Civil Guard who demanded in Spanish where he thought he was going; getting over that took some doing – it was not easy for anyone to either understand him or believe that someone staying in a luxury hotel would be on the side of the government and filthy from a day’s fighting.

It required that he be vouched for by the hotel manager, a seriously harassed individual, aided by the receptionist – both of whom clearly disapproved of the connection – to identify him as a proper guest so he could go to his room, passing, in the lobby before the lifts, those who had defended the place and survived, sat in dejected rows, hands over their heads and eyes cast down.

The staff had clearly not taken part in the fighting. They were now working hard to get the public spaces back to rights so it could function again as a proper hotel, and once you got away from the parts adjoining the frontage it was hard to match up the deep-piled carpets and the walls lined with pastoral pictures and silk wallpaper as anything to do with what he had witnessed out front.

Reality bit as soon as he opened his own door without the need for his key. The room was a mess, the plaster to rear and side blasted off the walls by bullets, one or two of which had taken splinters out of the door, though Cal was grateful there was no sign of blood, despite the high number of spent shell casings by the window. His luggage had been ransacked and was strewn all over the floor, while the mattress was full of holes, having been used as a shield, but it was still likely to be more comfortable than any alternative, and bliss for a very weary man, so he heaved it back onto the bed frame.

Running the taps in the bathroom, he was grateful the water had been kept piping hot, and within minutes he was stripped off and soaping, before enjoying a good long soak, listening to the popping sounds of distant gunfire and the odd explosion through windows entirely lacking in glass. Dry, aching to sleep and fearing to be disturbed by an overzealous maid wanting to tidy the place, while enjoying the delicious irony, he hung the ‘do not disturb’ sign on his door handle, not forgetting to put out his shoes to be cleaned and polished, before jamming a chair under the handle of the door.

Florencia had to bang on that for an age before he opened it the next morning; he had been having another luxurious soak and was wrapped in a towel, she in a fetching pair of blue overalls, a pistol at her waist and one in a holster for him. Whatever they had been when first acquired, the garment was now tailored to her enticing figure, with the top buttons undone enough to show a decent amount of cleavage, this while his towel failed in any way to hide his quickening interest.