‘Good news. Juan Luis is on the way from Saragossa and he is bringing with him the Barcelona militia.’

‘I hope you’re not planning to join them?’

She nodded towards Hemingway. ‘This, what he said, is it true, querido?’

There was no point in denying it, so he nodded, unsure of her reaction given she turned and left. ‘Thanks, Ernie.’

The reply showed that for a man not easily embarrassed it was still possible. ‘I didn’t shoot the poor guy, you did.’

* * *

Florencia neither immediately mentioned what she had overheard, nor allowed herself to be swayed when Cal found her changing into her fighting overalls. His assertion that she was unfit for combat was not met with her usual temper, but quietly rebuffed.

‘Querido, sometimes you must just do things. These are my people coming to Madrid, men and women I have grown up with, and they are coming to drive the Nationalist pigs into a sewer, which is too good for them.’

‘OK. But I will be with you at all times.’

‘In battle?’ she asked, with just a hint of her old coquettishness.

‘No.’

The hand on his cheek was cool. ‘That pleases me.’

‘One promise: that once Mola’s columns have been thrown back, you will come with me to Valencia. You know why and I will need your help.’

She smiled. ‘For the cause, querido, as much as to be with you.’

‘I can’t marry you, much as I would like to. My wife is a Catholic and won’t consider a divorce.’

For the first time since he had brought her back from the Casa de Campo she laughed. ‘I am an anarchist, I don’t believe in marriage. Tell me about what the American said.’

‘How long before Juan Luis gets here?’

She accepted that he did not want to say. ‘Not long, and I want to meet him on the Saragossa Road. Let me come into Madrid as a Catalan.’

If anything, Juan Luis Laporta, as well as his men, looked hardened by what they had been experiencing, leaner and fitter, not that their efforts had produced much in the way of an advance in Aragón; that had become a stalemate, thus, on paper, the reason for the shift to Madrid where they could be of more use.

It did not take long to establish the real reason – the communists were taking control and needed to be checked; three thousand Barcelona anarchists were just the people to do it, this extracted from their leader as Florencia went down the long line of trucks to say hello to many of her old comrades. It was plain he was now trusted.

‘You must be careful, Juan Luis,’ Cal said, having told him of what he had witnessed: not just that one execution but clear evidence of others, hard to miss with their bodies left in the street or hanging from lampposts with placards pinned on their chests detailing their supposed crimes. ‘And don’t think they won’t suspect your reasons for coming here. I don’t have to tell you they are suspicious of everyone.’

‘Task number one, my friend, is to eject the Nationalists, then we can deal with Stalin’s lackeys.’ He had lost none of his bravado, Laporta, evidenced by what followed. ‘And when we have cleansed Madrid, we can go back to Barcelona and shoot their Catalan cousins.’

‘There’s a couple of war correspondents I’d like you to meet. Americans.’

Laporta’s eyes narrowed. ‘To tell them what?’

‘About yourself and the aims of your movement.’

‘In America they execute anarchists.’

‘They’re not in America, they are here.’

‘To the front first, let us see the eyes of Franco’s pigs, then maybe I will talk with these Yanquis.’

The stop on the Saragossa Road had been to form up the column on foot; like the International Brigades, they would march through Madrid to the cheers of the locals, to bolster their morale. They already knew which part of the front they were going to – their job was to throw the Spanish Foreign Legion back over the San Fernando Bridge.

Invited, he declined to join in the march, at the head of which would be Juan Luis, and behind him each company, for they had formed themselves properly into a quasi-military unit, each led by a commander. Quite apart from it being Laporta’s treat, he would have felt like a charlatan.

That Florencia was determined to take part was only natural, and it was a positive that in meeting some of her long-time companions she seemed to have regained some of her spirit. She entered Madrid just behind Laporta, her hand raised and fist clasped, singing, along with the others, all the best-known anarchist songs. And, as had the brigades, they went straight to the fighting front.

‘So what happens now, Cal?’

Alverson asked this while not bothering to hide his disappointment; not only was his prime story not doing what he should, namely seeking out weapons and telling him how, but Laporta, the man of the moment, had declined to talk to him. They could see him now, moving around as if he were a great general, making encouraging remarks to his men.

‘It’s too late to launch any attacks today,’ was the deliberately misunderstanding reply.

‘You know that’s not what I mean.’

‘Tyler, I won’t leave here without Florencia, and she won’t go until the enemy have at least been sent back across the river, but she has promised me that once things are settled here she will help me.’

‘And this Laporta guy?’

‘Let me flatter him a little.’

‘Up for that, is he?’

‘And some.’

‘Hello,’ Alverson exclaimed. ‘Here come reinforcements.’

There was no mistaking the provenance of the approaching column, some hundred men in their black uniforms, and with Drecker at their head it was clear here were members of the Fifth Regiment come to strut their stuff.

‘Not to fight?’ Alverson asked, when Cal mentioned that.

‘They have done precious little fighting up till now. Killing yes, but not anybody who has a gun to point at them.’

The jeers from Laporta’s men were quick to arise and they were sustained as the communists marched past them, accompanied by a raft of rude gestures. Surprisingly, they halted and about-turned before falling out, dispersing into the line of buildings that backed on to what was the present front line, part of the university. Only Drecker stayed in sight, lighting up once more.

‘Maybe they are here to fight, Cal – to show the anarchists they are not the only hope.’

‘Possible, I suppose. Let me go and talk to Napoleon over there and see if I can get him to give you an interview.’

In the gathering gloom, Laporta’s men were lighting fires, and as he approached him, Cal was vaguely aware that the communists were forming up again – it had been, as he had guessed, no more than grandstanding. By the time he joined the man he had just nicknamed ‘Napoleon’ they were in the process of marching off back to the city centre.

Burly, still in his battered leather coat and hat, Laporta was playing the part Cal had assigned to him to perfection, hands on hips, spinning round, as though his eyes could encompass a battlefield he had not a chance of seeing properly without attracting sniper fire. Seeing Cal approach, he grinned and spoke in a loud voice.

‘You examined the enemy position?’ Cal nodded; he had done so through a periscope, which only gave a partial impression of what lay before them. ‘In the morning we will take back the San Fernando Bridge.’

‘Juan Luis, they have machine guns on fixed arcs of fire.’ That got a dismissive shrug. No change there, thought Cal. ‘It is what the Allies faced in the Great War and I think you know how many died.’

‘Mr friend, we must show these communists our mettle.’

‘That would make sense if they were showing theirs alongside you.’

It took some effort to get Florencia back to the Florida that night, but Cal insisted, not with foreboding – you cannot think like that – but people would die on the morrow and he wanted her to himself before they faced that. Awoken when it was still dark, it was a silent pair that dressed and made their way to rejoin what was now known as the ‘Laporta Column’.