With Florencia a late riser, Cal met Tyler Alverson over breakfast, taking a table as far away as possible from any other journalists, the first bit of the tale his trip to Monaco and what had transpired.

‘So old Zaharoff is on the way out?’

‘Sadly, yes.’

‘Not many would share that sentiment.’

‘Because people like you have demonised him.’

‘Hey, buddy, hold on. Zaharoff is not only a crook, he admits he’s one and takes pride in telling the world of his scams.’

‘You don’t know the gunrunning business, Tyler; it’s full of crooks, and when it comes to governments it is a case of dealing with charlatans.’

‘I’ll leave it to you to tell me which one of those you are, Cal.’ That was responded to with a jaundiced look, as Alverson added, ‘But if you don’t mind I will alert the rag. Zaharoff is news and they will want someone there when he pops his clogs.’

‘Can’t see it makes any difference.’

‘So how can he help you if he is so ill?’

The name Drouhin was kept back and Alverson did not push for it, though Cal knew he might at a later stage. He explained the arrangement, as well as the reasons, glad that the American was not taking notes. As he suspected, the reporter was not satisfied with just that.

‘For me to get this right, I need to know where you’re going, when you are there and who you are dealing with.’

‘You can’t use names, Tyler, especially not mine.’

‘I can use hints, brother. I will give you a cable address in the States. I will be like you, moving around, but Scripps Howard always know where I am and you can use that to tell me where you are, then I can keep in touch.’

‘Why don’t you just wait till it’s all done and dusted?’

‘Because, Cal, I am not a dummy. If I wait, you will have all the information and the decision to give or withhold it. This way you don’t.’

‘I will not put myself in danger to keep you posted, that you have to know.’

‘I can live with that.’

‘I wouldn’t live without it – I’d end up face down in a river, if I’m lucky.’

‘Now, how would you come to a fate like that, friend?’

Concentrating, neither had seen Hemingway approach and both were obliged to look up at him, the first thing to notice the fact that he looked pretty bleary in the eye. There was also a more gravelly quality to the voice, which indicated a heavy night.

‘You look well, Ernie.’

‘Tyler, I feel like shit,’ he croaked. ‘I woke up on a table in Chicote’s Bar. Is there any coffee in that pot?’

‘Sure.’ Alverson pushed his empty cup across the table and Hemingway filled it and drank deeply, just before sitting down. ‘Do join us.’

‘You goin’ to introduce me, Tyler?’

‘Why not? Ernie Hemingway, meet Callum Thomas.’

Cal just held out his hand, not in the least fazed by the false name, paying no attention to the way that the American squeezed it far too hard, just as he ignored the look in those reddened eyes that went with it. As he had observed before, this was a man who liked to dominate.

‘So, Mr Thomas, how does someone like you end up face down in a river?’

‘Drinking too much, maybe,’ Cal replied, holding the stare.

‘I’d take that as a warning, Ernie.’

‘Was it meant as that, Mr Thomas?’

Cal smiled, but there was no humour in his voice. ‘It has been my practice in life, Mr Hemingway, never to warn people.’

The decision that he was dealing with a possible bully was quickly arrived at and there was only one way to counter that: make it known right away that you are up for a scrap. The mutual stare, still in place, lasted only a few more seconds. Then Hemingway laughed, a booming sound that filled the room and turned heads.

‘Maybe, Mr Thomas, we’ll have a drink sometime.’

‘If you wish.’

‘Hey there,’ Alverson cried, looking towards the door to the lobby. ‘Here comes the lovely Florencia, and at a run.’

Cal could see her hair was still tousled from sleep and what clothes she was wearing had been flung on; whatever it was she was coming to say had to be important and he stood to go and meet her halfway, only to be given the news with a shout.

‘The Nationalist pigs will attack Madrid in two days.’

That got Alverson and Hemingway to their feet as well, but it was Tyler who spoke. ‘How do you know?’

‘Some comrades have found the plans in an Italian tank,’ she answered, breathlessly, grabbing a roll from the bowl on the table. ‘I must go to the front.’

‘You can’t print that, Tyler, it will tell Franco his plans are no longer secret.’

The American looked at the other occupants, all of whom were staring at Florencia, now munching away. ‘Can’t see why not, brother, it’s not much of a secret.’

That was when it became easy to tell the journalists from the rest of the hotel guests: they were the ones running off to the phones, and it had to be said that Hemingway, hung-over as he was, led the pack and showed that elbows made good weapons.

In the end, it was not a scoop, it was common knowledge; Largo Caballero came on the radio to announce to the world the impending attack, and worse, as far as Cal Jardine was concerned, he told the enemy just how and where they were going to be repulsed, naming by number and strength the newly formed brigades that had been cobbled together in an attempt to impose some order on the militias who still constituted the majority of fighters.

Trying to calm an excited Florencia, he knew he had to go back to Barcelona, first to arrange to see if any package had arrived for Mr Maxim, and suggested she come with him, an offer that she would not accept, but she was not about to say goodbye to Callum Jardine without a proper parting, albeit a very quick one; the situation did not allow for languorous carnality.

They found Tyler Alverson in the hotel lobby, camera over his shoulder and dressed in the kind of garments that suggested, despite his protestations, he was going to look for a story where the bullets flew. The look he gave Cal when he said he had to make a quick trip to Barcelona, while Florencia was staying in Madrid, was one designed to take the rise out of him.

‘Don’t you worry, Cal, I will take care of your gal.’

‘That’s what worries me, Tyler.’

In truth, it was not the American who worried him but Florencia herself; she thought herself immune from harm and she would, regardless of what he said, want to be in the forefront of the fighting, doing battle alongside her comrades, many of whom, as he had seen in Barcelona, were like her, young women. He had tried to lecture her upstairs about taking care and she had responded with her customary dismissals and a confidence not in the least dented by what she had experienced up till now.

‘We will beat them into the dust, querido!’

It had been impossible not to laugh, and there was no derision in it either. She just looked so damned beautiful in her fighting overalls, with the heavy pistol at her hip; blonde hair, golden olive skin, dark-brown eyes and that smile to melt his heart. If he had ever wondered why he was proposing to do what he was about to try and achieve, standing before him was the answer.

He paid for the room for another week, then departed to the sound of air raid sirens and the citizens rushing for the shelters, which was followed by a snowstorm of leaflets which filled the sky. He only had to open a window to catch one and his schoolboy Latin aided him in reading the warning message to the people of Madrid, telling them to surrender or the Nationalist aviators would wipe them off the face of the earth.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Caballero’s stupid radio announcement of both the forthcoming assault and the intended response had made the road situation ten times worse; anyone who had hung on in the hope that things would improve was on the road, as well as a suspicious number of armed men of fighting age who seemed to be more concerned with directing traffic out of the city than helping in the forthcoming battle.