What brought matters to a peaceful compromise was not the endless talk, but raw military power, the arrival in the city of ten thousand heavily armed Assault Guards, enough men to drive any other force from the streets and with orders to show no mercy. That allowed García Oliver to knock heads together, though Andreu Nin, when he finally met with Callum Jardine, saw the eventual peace agreement as an outright defeat.

Able to communicate now without the need for an intermediary, Cal found the POUM leader resigned to his fate: Moscow would insist on the banning of his organisation and what would happen to him personally would be, he had no doubt, unpleasant. The notion that he should flee the country, a wise one, was politely declined.

‘That would play into Stalin’s hands, Señor Jardine.’

‘Better that than Stalin’s victim.’

‘They are so skilled at lies, these Bolsheviks, I would be shown as a pawn of Franco, and as for my life, well, Trotsky was not safe from the ice pick that smashed his skull in Mexico.’

It was hard, looking at the scholarly Nin, to see him as heroic, he physically just did not fit the bill, yet he had a stoicism about his possible death that was very Spanish; if he was to be shot, he would face it with equanimity. But when it came to the most important point, he was no longer in a position to act to facilitate matters; his influence was now zero.

‘Use García Oliver.’

‘You trust a man who you believe has just thrown you and your people to the wolves?’

‘I have no choice, señor, and neither do you if you wish to proceed with your plans.’

He did not like García Oliver and it was clear the feeling was mutual; it was not just lack of a spark of geniality, it was the feeling that, if things went wrong, here was a man who would somehow slip out of trouble while leaving Cal Jardine to face the consequences, very much like he had dealt with Nin.

The politician’s instructions were to go to Valencia and wait until he had secured everything in Barcelona. Only then could he make an approach to Caballero, who would need to involve others now – he could not just send millions in gold out of the country on his own signature, though he would still keep it secret from the communists.

No sooner had he arrived than all his plans were thrown into turmoil when Largo Caballero resigned and was replaced by the one-time finance minister, and there was a new minister of war, Indalecio Prieto. Obliged to kick his heels for two weeks in Valencia, he found a room at the Hotel de Los Altos, a famous seaside spa hotel overlooking the Mediterranean, which had once been a favourite haunt of the European rich.

That was where Alverson found him and was able to bring him up to date on the politics, more than he had been able to glean from the newspapers and their screaming headlines that said the communists had got their way: the POUM had been disbanded, the offices and funds seized, their leaders arrested.

‘Then slung,’ Alverson added, gloomily, ‘into a communist-run jail right in the heart of Madrid, and guess who’s running it?’

‘Who?’

‘That Drecker guy you so love.’

‘Is that a move up or down?’

‘Definitely up.’

‘Would you do me a favour, Tyler, and keep tabs on him?’

‘Why?’

‘His career interests me,’ Cal replied gnomically.

The American shrugged. ‘Whatever, but what about my scoop?’

Hungry for information on the progress of the arms buy, the American had to be content only with a part of the story; the arrest of Nin and his comrades made more insecure what was already a dangerously exposed position. He did tell Alverson that he had access to what was needed, but not the where and the how.

‘So what about the when?’ he demanded.

‘It’s not in my hands, Tyler, and if they don’t get a move on, the deal I have arranged will fall through.’

‘And the how much?’ Alverson whistled when he was told; even he knew that was way over the going rate.

‘Still, I guess they’re used to it, Cal, even the Soviets are bilking them, big time, I hear. They have a real sweetheart deal: every time they despatch anything, they just take the Republic’s gold out of their bank to pay for it.’

It was another week of thumb-twiddling before a message came from the new minister for war, asking for a meeting and giving an address which was not an official one, which meant a taxi to the main railway station, a wait and a check there was no tail, then another to the address. Prieto, a much more pleasant man with whom to deal, was keen that things should proceed and was there with a representative of the Spanish Central Bank, who could tell Cal the necessary gold had been shipped to Athens and was in a vault there under the control of the Republican ambassador.

It was necessary to agree certain codes and procedures, as well as settle some queries. The ambassador only had the right to make the payment; any communication with the Republican government had to be through him and it was essential that he was kept informed at every stage of the deal. Cal was relieved – Peter Lanchester would not be needed.

Yet the new man had his own ideas: would it be acceptable if the payment were released only when the vessel in which it was being carried cleared German territorial waters? Cal was of the opinion the best they could hope for was completion on it slipping its berth – not ideal, but better than paying for it prior to loading.

‘My impression is that this is a trade they will want to repeat.’ And why not, he thought, given the profit margin? ‘So, they will not endanger the transaction by playing games.’

‘I can guess why they are doing this, but why are you doing this, Señor Jardine?’ Prieto asked, dropping his pleasant manner.

The Spanish bank official had the good grace to look embarrassed at the question, yet he too must have wondered why a non-Iberian was giving so much time and effort to aiding the Republic.

‘García Oliver told me you have never mentioned a fee. Perhaps your payment is in the price you have given to us?’

It would have been easy to agree, to say yes, and to these men it would have made sense. That it was for the memory of Florencia he would keep to himself, for that would sound too sentimental, but given he did not like to be challenged in this way, it was much more to his taste to provide an answer that would do nothing to lessen any suspicions, so he said,

‘You’ll never know, will you? Now, if we are concluded here, I have to get back to Athens.’

MCG was not content to be told there was gold in the bank, he required to see it, and it had the same effect on him as any other human being, and Jardine knew that he was not immune to its allure either. It rested deep in the vaults of the Attica Bank, chosen for it being a relative newcomer to the Greek financial sector and eager for business in a country not overfriendly to Spain.

The sturdy boxes containing the ingots had been opened for inspection, and even in artificial light the precious metal had a shiny lustre that drew both the eye and the need to touch its cold surface. Looking at the Greek’s face as he wetted his lips with anticipation, it was interesting to speculate how much of this prize would stick to his stubby little mitts. As his index finger stroked the mark of the Spanish mint, he gave an involuntary shudder.

Next they went to the boardroom, happily lent to them by a bank extracting a healthy fee for merely transferring the funds from one account to another with the required degree of discretion. Here the documents of sale were laid out, the formal contracts that he would take away for his scrutiny and the ambassadorial signature, one copy in German, the other in Spanish. It was while Cal was looking at them that MCG dropped his bombshell.

‘It has proved impossible to move your goods without an End User Certificate, Herr Moncrief. Even in normal times that is a difficulty, but with the amount of international scrutiny at present it is too dangerous.’