Jack grimaced. ‘That, I am afraid, is the first of many hurdles to be overcome. I have no idea what he looks like, never having met the man. The partisans operated in small, isolated groups to preserve anonymity. I dealt only with third parties—contacts of contacts, so to speak. Even assuming they have survived, which is by no means certain, many of them went into exile at the end of the war. It will be like looking for a needle in a haystack.’ Jack ran his fingers through his hair. ‘What you need is a starting point, and we don’t have one.’
‘Actually, I think we might have,’ Finlay said slowly. ‘Do you remember my tale of the occasion I attacked what I thought was a French guard, and it was...’
‘A female Spanish partisan.’
Finlay smiled. ‘Isabella, her name was. I’ve often wondered what became of her.’
Jack laughed. ‘I’m sure her charms, as you described them to me, were grossly exaggerated. Moonlight and a dearth of females to compare her to will most certainly have coloured your view.’
‘Not at all, she was a right bonny wee thing, and a brave one, too, but that’s not what’s important.’
‘Now you’re the one talking in riddles.’
‘She claimed to know how to get in touch with El Fantasma. Now, I know virtually nothing about her. I don’t even know for certain if she was telling the truth. It’d be clutching at straws. A very long shot, indeed. But in the absence of any other lead...’
‘It is at least a potential starting point, although as a partisan, there’s a good chance she may not have survived the war.’
Finlay grimaced. ‘She didn’t even tell me her full name. All I know is that she came from a place not far from where I found the arms cache. Roma? Roman? Romero? Aye, something Romero, I think that was it, but to be honest I can’t be sure. If I could take a look at a map I reckon I could pinpoint it.’
‘Don’t go leaping into action just yet,’ Jack cautioned. ‘You’ll need a cover story, papers, funds. I have contacts in London who will arrange everything you need, including passage on whatever naval ship is heading for Spanish waters. You may have to leave at very short notice.’
‘If it means not having to take part in another mess discussion about the best way to tie a cravat, I’ll go today.’
‘I am very much in your debt. You will send me word, won’t you, as soon as you are back safe in England?’
Finlay clasped his hand firmly. ‘I will return, never fear. Where would Wellington be without his Jock Upstart?’
North of Spain—one month later
Finlay had endured a long journey, and since arriving in Spain, one increasingly redolent with memories of the campaign there, some of them very unpleasant indeed. Though more than two years had passed, the legacy of the war was evident in the ruined fortress port of San Sebastian where he had made landfall, and in the surrounding countryside as he travelled south through Pamplona, thankfully avoiding the site of that last bloody battle at Vitoria.
Here, in the wine-growing countryside of the La Rioja region, was his final destination. Hermoso Romero. He was still not absolutely certain he was heading for the right place, but it was the only one on the map that had anything approaching the name he thought the Spanish partisan had mentioned. It was not, as he had imagined, a small hamlet where her family had a farm, but as the Foreign Office research had revealed, a very large winery where presumably the partisan’s family were employed to work on the estate, which was the largest in the region.
Finlay dismounted from his horse and shaded his eyes to gaze down into the valley. Hermoso Romero was a beautiful place, the pale yellow stone walls and the terracotta roofs mellowed by the late-autumn sunshine. The grapes had been harvested from the regimented lines of vines that fanned out on three sides from the house, while cypress trees formed a long windbreak on the fourth. The main house was a large building three storeys high, the middle section of which was graced with arched windows. What must be the working part of the estate was located to one side, built around a central courtyard, while at the back of the main block he could see what looked like a chapel, and some elegant private gardens contained by a low wall constructed of the same yellow stone.
Jack’s mysterious contacts at the Foreign Office in London had done an impressively thorough job in providing Finlay with a cover story. The owner of the winery, Señor Xavier Romero, was by all accounts an extremely ambitious man, with a very high opinion of his Rioja wine. So when Señor Romero had been informed through a ‘reliable’ diplomatic source that an influential English wine merchant wished to pay him a visit to discuss a potential export deal, an invitation was immediately extended.
‘He’s likely to push the boat out a bit,’ the man at the Foreign Office had warned Finlay. ‘Be prepared to be courted. It would be advisable to crib up a little on the wine-production process if you can find the time.’
But time had been in very short supply. ‘It is to be hoped that Señor Romero is more interested in allowing me to taste the wine than grilling me on my knowledge of grape varieties and vintages,’ Finlay muttered, patting his pockets to reassure himself that his forged papers and letters of introduction were still in place. Though maintaining his alias was really the least of his problems. The scale of his task, the lack of information, the lack of any certainty at all, meant the odds of success were heavily stacked against him.
‘So we are going down there,’ he said, addressing his completely indifferent horse, ‘filled with hope rather than expectation. Let’s face it, laddie, there’s a hundred reasons why this could be a wild goose chase. Would you like to hear some of them?’
The horse pawed at the ground, and Finlay chose to take this for assent. ‘Let’s see. First, there’s the fact that though I think my partisan lass came from Hermoso Romero, I could be misremembering the name completely. Two years and a lot of water under the bridge since, it’s likely is it not?’
He received no answer, and so continued, ‘Then there’s the lass herself. A woman who, if she did not actually fight with the guerrillas, most certainly was one of them. What are the chances of her having survived? And if she has, what are the chances of her remaining here, if indeed here is where she lived? And if she is alive, and she is here, how am I to know I can trust her? It’s a dangerous thing, to espouse the liberal cause in Spain these days. My lass may well side with the royalists now—or at the very least, she’ll simply keep her mouth shut and her nose clean and herself well clear of associating with the likes of El Fantasma, won’t she?’
Receiving no answer once more, Finlay nodded to himself. ‘And if by a miracle she is still alive and still a liberal, why in the name of Hades would she trust me enough to lead me to the great man? For all she knows, I could be out to snare him myself. And in a way, she’d be in the right of it, too. The Ghost. I have to find him, for I most certainly don’t intend to let him haunt me for the rest of my life. So there you have it, what do you think of my chances now, lad?’
To this question, his horse did reply with a toss of his head. Finlay laughed. ‘As low as that, eh? You’re in the right of it, most likely, but devil take it if I don’t try to prove you wrong all the same. I’ve never been a death-or-glory man, but I’ve always been a man who gives his all.’
Mounting his trusty steed and turning towards the wide, new-built road that wound down towards the winery, Finlay felt as he did surveying the field before a battle: excited, nervous, with every sense on high alert, dreading the start and at the same time wishing it could come more quickly. It was one of the worst feelings in the world, and one of the best. He felt, for the first time since Waterloo, truly alive with a sense of purpose. He had missed it greatly, he realised.