‘So, brother, are you goin’ to fill me in on what you’ve been up to since our last little adventure?’

‘You first, Tyler.’

There was calculation in that; given his reasons for being in Madrid, he was not sure whether to be open or keep matters to himself. Tyler Alverson was close to a friend – they had shared much danger in each other’s company – but he was a newspaperman first and foremost, and there was no knowing where disclosure would lead. Thankfully, he seemed happy to oblige.

‘What’s to tell? When we parted company in Aden I went back home, told my Abyssinian stories in great depth and waited for the nation to rise up in disgust at the horror of Italian atrocities there. Sad to say, I’m still waiting.’

‘London’s no better. My people seem more interested in keeping Mussolini happy than the gassing of the African natives.’

‘Then this little brouhaha blew up and the agency asked me to cover it.’

Cal Jardine had first met the American in Somaliland when in the process of seeking to smuggle guns into Ethiopia. Keen to get to a battle zone barred to journalists, Alverson had hitched a ride with him and over the weeks that followed there had grown a degree of mutual respect. Only months past, it seemed like years, but Cal was happy to indulge in a bit of reminiscence about dodging not only Italian bullets, but also clouds of air-delivered poison gas, until inevitably the conversation moved on to where they were now.

‘So, come clean, are you involved in this war too, Cal?’

‘Might be.’

The pistol holster got another meaningful look. ‘I’m not sure you’ll like it much here.’

‘Why not?’

‘I know you and the way you like to do things, but you’ll find yourself dealing with a bunch of military misfits as well as a whole heap of Russian so-called advisors.’

The look Cal gave was meant to imply this was news to him. ‘So-called?’

‘From what I can see they are running the show, with the Spanish commanders acting as nothing but a fig leaf. Not that it’s admitted, of course, but a guy I spoke to a bit lower down the command structure says the locals can’t get a tank or a plane to move without Ivan’s say-so.’

‘That doesn’t sound good,’ Cal replied, his face decidedly bland.

Right then the other American, who had called to Tyler, raised his voice to finish off a particularly noisy anecdote to do with the price of a whore, which gave Cal an excuse to seek to change the subject.

‘Seems quite a character, your friend.’

‘That’s Ernie Hemingway.’

‘The Hemingway?’

‘Yep, and he’s not a friend, but a rival, reporting for the New York Times and a total pain in the ass, but he does love to be where the bullets fly. Never mind Ernie, are you goin’ to tell me how you come to be in Spain?’

‘Maybe I love the climate and the food.’ Alverson’s eyes were not languid now, they had a distinct glint; with his hound’s nose he was beginning to smell something. ‘I was in Barcelona the day the balloon went up and sort of stayed. Helping hand, you know.’

‘See much?’

‘More than I bargained for, Tyler, like the fight for the Parque Barracks and the main telephone exchange.’

‘Care to tell me the story?’

‘It’s old hat, months ago now.’

Alverson eased out a notebook, though Cal noticed he took care to keep it on his lap, hidden from the knot of fellow reporters. ‘Never turn down a first-hand account from a trusted source. You have no idea how much bullshit we hacks get fed in our honest endeavours.’

Loud laughter came with the finish of the tale, which seemed to involve Hemingway in chastising some Spanish pimp with fists he was now waving around; it sounded remarkably like boasting to Cal.

‘Seems you can dish it out as well.’

‘I take it you were in Barcelona because of this dame.’

‘Not really, I had a brief to look out for the British athletes attending the People’s Olympiad and needed an interpreter. The anarchists supplied one and she just happened to be irresistible, so I stayed a bit longer than I should.’

‘You will forgive me if I say the People’s Olympiad and anarchists do not sound like “your cup of tea”.’ The last three words were delivered in a faux snooty accent.

‘I’ve got hidden depths and they’re good boys. A lot of them volunteered when the trouble started. A few of them stayed and are still fighting.’

‘Tell me more.’

Willing to talk about them, he needed to keep Monty Redfern out of it; the last thing he would want was to be identified in a newspaper, especially an American one, given he was always trying to get from the wealthy Jews of New York donations to help his and their co-religionists out of Nazi Germany. Vince was different; Alverson knew him from Ethiopia, so explaining his presence presented no problem.

‘He brought over some of his young boxers but he’s gone home now.’

‘So,’ Alverson said, sitting forward and over his notebook. ‘Tell me what you two witnessed.’

The pencil raced as Cal talked, with Alverson posing apposite questions to get a picture of what Cal and Vince had both seen and participated in, the Olympians as well.

‘That makes a good story. Plucky Brits taking on the forces of evil.’

Naturally, the name of Juan Luis Laporta was mentioned more than once and it was clear Alverson found him interesting too, so he built the man up a bit to keep the talk going and promised an introduction.

‘So what happened after you and Vince saved Barcelona?’

‘Aragón happened.’

That story ended with the disappointment of being stuck in front of Saragossa, the command problems and infighting not helped by the ineffectiveness of the militias and the deviousness of people like Drecker, which had inevitable led to the break up of his unit. Alverson related what he had witnessed and already investigated, written up and cabled back to his agency. In essence, Madrid was as confused as anywhere else, just more so, the fight for control more vicious given the city’s strategic importance.

‘The communists are the best equipped and organised here too.’

‘And the most miserable bunch of shits I have ever met, Drecker especially.’

Alverson laughed. ‘Marx banned smiling as well as capitalism.’

‘What’s the latest on this front?’

‘It’s not going well for your side.’

‘Not our side, Tyler?’

‘Regardless of where my natural sympathies lie, Cal, it’s my job to send my editor all the news fit to print, without bias, which is damned hard ’cause every bastard I talk to tells me lies.’

‘Do your bosses have a reporter on the Nationalist side?’

‘Naturally, everybody does, and before you ask, that guy Franco is not telling him any more truths than Largo Caballero is telling people like me.’

‘You met the prime minister?’

‘Power of the press, brother.’

‘What’s he like?’

The way Alverson paused for a second told Cal he had asked that question too eagerly. Largo Caballero held the purse strings and was, according to Florencia, one of the people he might be required to meet.

‘He’s pretty smart, a politician to his toes, who wants help from the USA.’ He nodded towards those at the bar. ‘And talking to me and other Americans he hopes will aid that. It won’t, any more than talking to the London Times or Le Temps will get anything from London or Paris.’

It was time for Cal to change the subject again and that comment of Alverson’s gave him an outlet. ‘That Anthony Eden sounds like a real slippery bastard.’

‘Unlike Fatso and Adolf.’

Cal lifted his glass. ‘To hell with the lot of them.’

‘Amen,’ Alverson said, downing his drink. ‘Another?’

‘My shout.’

‘Hey, brother,’ Tyler said, raising his empty glass to the barman, ‘I’m on expenses.’

‘So no chance of aid for the Republic from the democracies?’

‘Can’t see it.’