A gentleman of advanced years and slim build, he was clad in beautifully cut clothes, set off by a yellow silk waistcoat, a four-in-hand tie, and spats over highly polished shoes, while in his gloved hand was a silver-topped malacca cane. He had a narrow, high-boned face and a set of grey, waxed and well-tended moustaches over a trimmed goatee beard. It came as no surprise to Cal Jardine when he addressed him in French.

‘Monsieur Maxim?’ As soon as Cal nodded, the man rose, his fine nose twitching as if picking up an untoward smell. ‘I cannot believe it is safe to talk in this place.’

‘Then we shall walk, monsieur.’

The elderly dandy nodded and looked Cal up and down, sniffed disapprovingly at his clothing – he was in blouson and twills – picked up the homburg hat which lay on the seat beside him and placed it with some care on his head. The cane then flicked towards the now unmanned door and he waited till Cal moved, following in his wake.

Out on the street, the malacca cane was elegantly used, its ferrule striking a steady tattoo as they made their way along busy pavements and streets rendered noisy by passing traffic. He said nothing until they were out onto the wide plaza where, separated from road noise and able to ensure he was not overheard, he passed on what he had been sent to impart.

To a man not easy to shock, what he said was startling, so much so that Cal could not believe he was telling the truth as relayed to him by Drouhin – had there been some leak? Could this dandy really be saying to him that the best place to buy what was needed was from Nazi Germany?

They traversed the plaza three times with much repetition, so that the unnamed dandy was sure Monsieur Maxim had all the names and contact details memorised – not easy, as one, a German-speaking Greek, went by the name of Manousos Constantou-Georgiadis. He owned an Athens company whose main shareholder was Rheinmetall-Borsig, and that German enterprise, which made armaments, was controlled by none other than the deputy Führer, Hermann Göring.

‘The old gentleman of Monaco assures you that should you contact the Greek gentleman and make known what it is you need, he will take the matter to Göring, where he is sure you will receive a positive response, though he also advises the price you will be charged will be painful.’

‘He did not propose any alternative?’

‘Only some countries who might seek to take your money and avoid delivery.’

‘And the Germans will not?’ Cal asked, making no attempt to disguise the irony.

‘Greed will ensure they do not. Now, if you are clear in the details I have given you, I will depart.’

Cal said goodbye to the old fellow, wondering if he should pinch himself, yet there was one task he had to carry out very quickly. In a code only he would understand he had to get down on paper the details he had been given before they slipped entirely from his mind. He would need to get to Valencia and see if he could convince the people with whom he was dealing that this was on the up and not some fiddle.

But before that he was determined to go to Madrid and find Florencia.

Miles away it was clear much of the city was ablaze, or had been; Madrid was covered in a blanket of smoke, with black plumes rising from places still on fire and, closer, the crump of artillery shells registered faintly for the first time, along with that strange feeling of the air around you moving. The only blessing was that the jams had ceased; everyone who was going had gone and what little traffic there was flowed freely in one direction: towards the battle.

He was stopped on the outskirts by militiamen checking his papers, with deep suspicion very evident, which did not surprise him; one of the things he had heard on the radio was an early claim from General Mola, who was in command of the assault on the capital, that, as well as the four columns which had advanced on Madrid, he had what he called a ‘fifth column’ inside the city, creating a scare in which innocents risked being shot as suspected spies.

Once in the city the noise of battle was constant, and as well as the whining sound of shells coming in, then the boom of them exploding, there was the distant rattle of gunnery, volley fire from small arms and the occasional staccato sound of a machine gun.

Planes were in the air, but not many, and they were mostly Russian biplanes on patrol, but he had passed several bombed buildings and one street closed off, in which a downed Italian bomber lay wrecked and twisted. He could feel on his tongue the dust that permeated everything in an urban battle area and see in the faces of those he drove past that etched look of fear which comes from not knowing if the next bullet, shell or bomb is meant for you.

With lots of time to think there was one thing Cal Jardine knew: if he was about to get involved in the fighting – very likely, given Florencia – he did not want to be part of anything structured, a member of a militia or some International Brigade. All he wanted was to find out where the anarchist forces were fighting, which was where she would be, and get alongside her.

That way he might be able to keep her alive, for try as he had, he could think of no way to detach her from her cause; she had grown up with it and it had formed a large part of her life. In his heart he knew that as long as the battle went on she would want to be in the thick of it, and by extension, so would he. Buying arms, even if he doubted it was truly possible, could wait till the fate of Madrid was decided.

With darkness falling he made straight for the Hotel Florida on the very good grounds that she might well be using it as a base. Besides that, if she was not, the war reporters would know as much about what was going on as anyone, and he trusted Tyler Alverson, as he had already, to keep tabs on her location if he could.

Not that it was easy: he kept getting stopped at checkpoints and his papers were getting tattered from being so often examined. As well as that, many of the streets were being used as sheep and cattle pens and those he suspected owned the animals had set up shelters in which to live. By the time he got to the hotel it was clear, by the diminishing noise level, that, as darkness fell, the fighting was slacking off.

The room, when he got to it, was empty, with no evidence that she had been back since he left, and that was a worry, yet he had to avoid the temptation to just go looking. With his limited Spanish and obvious foreignness, even if he did have papers, he was safer at the Florida until he knew what was going on. Albeit under a fine layer of dust and a skeleton staff, the hotel was still functioning, but there was scant evidence of any of the reporters.

Yet there was food in the kitchens, no doubt bought from the streets he had passed through, and, of course, wine in the cellars. He treated himself to some Castilian lamb and a good bottle from the best Spanish region and bodega he knew, a Vega Sicilia Unico from Ribera del Duero. If he was going to get involved in this war it would be a long time before he would get anything as good.

He was in the bar when the first of the reporters began to troop back in from a day of observation, which got him many a dusty look from grimy hacks who were both hungry and thirsty, one of whom was Tyler Alverson who, grubby as he was, shouted for a beer and flopped down on a chair next to Cal.

‘Don’t ask till I’ve had a drink.’

‘Bad?’

Alverson just shook his head and picked up the cold beer, drinking deeply, paused for one breath, then emptied the glass. Cal immediately ordered another.

‘The Foreign Legion took the San Fernando Bridge this morning and got into the University district, though by Christ it cost them plenty.’

‘Worth it,’ Cal replied, his heart sinking; he was wondering how, when the commanders must have known the river bridges had to be held whatever the cost, they had allowed one to be lost. ‘Florencia?’