‘Exactly.’
‘Never heard of him.’ Kitson’s reply is blunt, but you can tell the brain is already running through the implications. ETA. Real IRA. Weapons that have gone missing.
‘Arenaza disappeared on 6 March, a little over three weeks ago.’ Without asking, I help myself to one of the dashboard cigarettes and push the lighter. ‘You didn’t read about it in the papers?’
‘Well, we’ve all been rather busy…’
‘Rosalía was Arenaza’s mistress. As far as I can tell, nobody else knows that piece of information. He was married and didn’t want his wife finding out.’
‘Understandable in the circumstances. So why did he tell you?’
‘Why does anybody tell anyone anything? Booze. Camaraderie. Mine’s bigger than yours.’ The lighter pops and I take the first delicious draw on the cigarette. ‘Mikel and I were supposed to meet for a drink when he was in Madrid visiting Rosalía. Only he never showed up. I found out where she worked, followed her to the Irish Rover and witnessed the conversation with Buscon. It looked important, so I followed him back to the hotel.’
‘Where you bribed Alfonso González.’
‘How do you know about that?’
‘You’re not the only one on his books, Alec.’ Kitson clears his throat to suffocate a smile. ‘Señor González has made enough money out of the pair of us in the past couple of weeks to buy himself a small villa in the Algarve.’
‘So you instructed him to make that call today? You set the whole thing up?’
‘What can I say? Her Majesty had more leverage. Now tell me what you know about the girl.’
I pause briefly, absorbing the fact that Alfonso betrayed me, but it makes no sense to get annoyed. Suddenly my doubts about Arenaza’s disappearance, the long days and nights tailing Rosalía, the money spent on surveillance, all of it appears to have paid off. I am right back at the centre of things. And the feeling is electrifying.
‘Rosalía Dieste is thirty-four. She lives with her boyfriend in an apartment about half a mile east of the Bernabéu…’
‘We know that.’
‘She trained as an industrial engineer, specializing in nuclear energy.’
‘Nuclear energy?’
‘You weren’t aware of that?’
‘No.’
‘You think it might be important?’
‘Possibly. I’m going to need all of this on paper.’ Kitson checks his blindspot and coughs. What I’m telling him is clearly new and useful. ‘We’re going to need you to come in and write everything down. Is that all right?’
So the conversation isn’t being recorded. ‘That’s fine.’ The M30 passes under a ruined stone bridge and we are briefly slowed in traffic. Up to the right I can see the outline of the Vicente Calderón. The night air above the stadium is floodlit; Atlético must be playing at home. ‘Rosalía left her job just a few days after Arenaza arrived in Madrid. There’s no physical evidence linking the two of them, not even a record of any phone calls, but I’m convinced she’s the girl Mikel was talking about.’
‘How do you know about phone records?’
‘Because I paid somebody to look into her background.’ As if this was an entirely natural course of action, Kitson merely nods and accelerates into a faster lane. He seems to be adjusting to the pace of Spanish roads, growing in confidence even as our own journey progresses. ‘The investigators discovered that Rosalía’s step-father was murdered by ETA in a car-bomb attack in 1983. He was a policeman, she was very fond of him. It’s obvious to me that she lured Arenaza to Madrid…’
‘… to avenge his death, yes.’ Kitson has made the link. ‘So what does that have to do with Buscon?’
‘I haven’t the faintest idea.’
‘What does your instinct tell you?’
‘My instinct tells me not to trust my instinct.’ The man from SIS likes this remark and laughs quietly through his nose. ‘All I can assume is that she hired him to kill Arenaza.’
‘Very unlikely.’
‘Why?’
‘Not the sort of thing Luis gets up to. Far too self-important to get his hands dirty. More likely there’s a separate, unrelated link between the two of them, or she’s part of a broader conspiracy. This is all very useful, Alec. I’m very grateful to you.’
It sounds like the brush-off. We’re going to circle back to Plaza de España and I’ll never see him again.
‘I don’t want to be left out,’ I tell him, suddenly concerned that I have spilled too much information too quickly and may have nothing left with which to bargain. ‘I want to pursue this thing, Richard. I think I can help.’
Kitson says nothing. He might be irritated that I have called him Richard.
‘Where are you staying?’
‘I’m here with a team of eight,’ he says.
‘Tech-op boys? Locksmiths?’
I want to show him that I know the lingo. I want to prove my usefulness.
‘Something like that. We’ve rented a property in Madrid for the duration of the op, an RV point well away from the action.’ As if the thought had just occurred to him, he adds, ‘How come the Spaniards don’t know about Rosalía? If this man’s been missing for three weeks, shouldn’t you have gone to the police?’
It is an uncomfortable question, and one designed perhaps to turn the tables. Is he going to use that as a means of guaranteeing my silence?
‘I only found out about the ETA connection on Thursday’ Kitson appears to accept this, despite the fact that I have completely avoided the question. ‘On Monday a Basque journalist who’s working on the disappearance is going to call me and I’m going to give him the whole story.’
‘I wouldn’t recommend that.’ This is said very firmly. ‘I can’t risk a hack digging around Buscon. Host governments don’t take kindly to us lot carving up the local scenery. This journalist calls back, put him off the scent, stall him. The last thing I need is blowback.’
It is the first time that I have sensed Kitson even remotely rattled. He takes an exit signed out to Badajoz and tucks in behind a red Transit van. Here is the stress of the spy, the variables, the constant threat of exposure. To lead a team on foreign soil in such circumstances must be exhausting.
‘Point taken. But Zulaika is pushy, he sniffs around. Of all the newspapers in Spain, Ahotsa is the one that has kept the Arenaza story alive.’
‘Zulaika? That’s his name?’
‘Yes. Patxo Zulaika. Very young, very ambitious. Real tit.’
Kitson smirks. ‘Then ignore him. Just give him denials. You’re clearly a resourceful bloke, Alec. You’ll think of something.’
‘Sure.’
‘Just keep me in the picture when he calls, OK? I’ll leave you my number.’
Thereafter the conversation turns to the affidavit. Kitson needs a written statement detailing my involvement with Arenaza, Buscon and Rosalía. He asks me to type it up overnight and says we’ll meet tomorrow for a handover at the McDonald’s in Plaza de los Cubos.
‘Nine o’clock too early for you? We can enjoy a hearty breakfast.’
I say that will be fine and only as we are pulling into Plaza de España does he return to discussing the operation.
‘There was just one thing, before you vanish into the night.’
‘Yes?’
I am standing outside the Citroën, leaning in through the passenger window. It is the middle of the paseo and there are seemingly hundreds of people passing through the western end of Gran Vía, families walking six-wide on the pavements in order to show off their grandchildren.
‘Does the name Francisco Sá Carneiro mean anything to you?’
‘Francisco Sá Carneiro?’
‘We think there’s some sort of a connection with Buscon. We think he was going to meet him.’
I can’t prevent a smirk wriggling onto my face. To have caught out Six on such a simple technicality. This answer can only work in my favour.
‘Buscon’s not going to meet anybody,’ I tell him.