‘Really?’
‘Really.’
‘You’re a good bloke, Milius,’ he says. You’re a bloody good bloke.’
39. Product
That night, Félix Rodríguez de Quirós Maldonado appears on national television in an advertisement for the Partido Popular. Carmen is watching TVE1 on her sofa in Calle de Toledo and wriggles quickly out of my embrace when her boss appears on screen. Watching his performance, I am reminded of a line from Updike, heard years ago on British radio: ‘Nixon, with his menacing, slipped-cog manner.’ It is one of the more interesting characteristics of Spanish public life that even the most mendacious-looking politicians – sharks with hooded eyes and slicked-back hair – nevertheless find themselves in positions of great authority. In the UK, a man of Maldonado’s appearance would struggle to make a living as a second-hand car salesman, yet Spanish voters seem blind to his obvious corruption. This bully, this suntan in a suit, has even been spoken of as a possible prime minister. Not if I have anything to do with it. Not if Six blow his cover.
‘What do you think?’ Carmen asks, taking the book I was reading out of my hands. I hate it when women do that, when they demand your attention.
‘Think about what?’
As I look up into her face I see that she has been disquieted by the advertisement, as if she knows something of the circumstances in which it was made. Her face looks drawn and a little worried and I struggle to think of something positive to say, even with the screen of deceit.
‘Well, he seems very charismatic, very calm. It’s hard to know without understanding what he’s saying. I was reading my book. What was the advert about?’
‘It’s saying that the Interior Ministry has the best record on crime of any administration of the last twenty years.’
‘And is that true?’
Without humour or irony she replies, ‘Of course it is true.’ She still looks upset by something.
‘What’s the matter?’
I have come to realize that Carmen Arroyo is stubborn and thick-skinned, despite appearances to the contrary, and will not easily admit to weakness. Ignoring me, she turns the book over and flicks idly through its pages.
‘You were reading this when I met you,’ she says. It is the same crumpled copy of Homage to Catalonia that I had in the bar. ‘Why have you not read it before?’
‘I have read it before. I just wanted to read it again.’
‘And is it interesting?’
‘Fascinating.’
We speak briefly about Orwell being shot through the neck while fighting for the POUM, but I want to get to the bottom of her feelings for Maldonado. In the back of my mind is the dream that they were once lovers. Should Carmen tell me that they were, I can move on her tonight, threatening to expose both of them if she refuses. This is cynical and cold, the worst part of our heartless trade, but in the circumstances it is my best chance of obtaining information quickly.
‘Would you like me to cook for you tonight?’ she asks.
‘Sure. That would be great.’ I touch her arm and move my hand slowly towards her neck. ‘So what’s he like to work for, as a boss?’
‘As a what?’
‘A boss. A manager.’ I am just about to say the Spanish word ‘jefe’ when I stop myself, remembering Alex’s legend. ‘Mr Maldonado. How does he treat you? How much do you see of him?’
Carmen has a glass of Rueda on the go and she drinks from it before replying.
‘Why do you want to know?’
‘Because I’ve never really spoken to you about your job. Because I don’t really know what you do all day.’
‘And you care?’ She rises on this last word, as if nobody has ever cared, as if nobody has ever paid her the slightest bit of attention. Then she rolls into me and I smell that same unwashed staleness on her neck.
‘Of course I care.’
‘Well, I do not like him particularly.’ This after a short pause. ‘I do not think he is a good man. But of course I support him.’
‘Because you have to?’
‘No. Because of Javier. Because I am loyal to Javier. Félix is my boss’s boss.’ She looks delighted to have mastered the word so quickly and I feel a warm hand escaping up my back. ‘And what about your boss, Alex? Tell me more about him.’
‘No, you first. Tell me what you do all day when we’re not together, when I miss you.’
There is that look on her face again, the slight sickness, but just as quickly it is gone, replaced by a grateful, loving smile. She is behaving very oddly, concealing something, a worry or an unhappiness. Sometimes I wonder if this is all just a game for her, and I suffer the quiet, paranoid nightmare that Carmen Arroyo is the one playing me.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘What do you mean?’ She drains her glass of wine and stands up from the sofa.
‘I don’t know. You’ve been acting strangely all night, not like I’ve seen you before. Ever since Félix appeared on television you’ve been uncomfortable.’
‘Sí?’
‘Yes.’
She shakes her head. ‘The wine is finished.’
This is going to be more difficult than I thought. It will take time to break her down. But the one quality that a spy must always possess is patience; my time will come. I simply need to wait for the opportunity, a matador timing the kill. It’s possible that Carmen is pre-programmed never to discuss state business with non-government personnel. After all, she knows nothing about Alex Miller. There’s no reason in the world that she should trust him at such an early stage in our relationship.
‘Do you want me to go out and buy some more?’ I ask, looking across at the empty bottle.
‘That would be very kind,’ she replies. ‘And I will cook.’
So I go outside. On the stairs I consider telephoning Kitson for advice on how to proceed, but I must be able to work this one out for myself. I’m convinced that either de Francisco or Maldonado has been romantically involved with Carmen at some point in the past. Both are married men, and the fingerprints of an adultery seem visible whenever Carmen speaks about them. How else to explain her sudden shift in mood tonight? How else to explain her evasiveness?
‘Alex!’
She has opened the sitting-room window above me and is looking down from the first-floor balcony.
‘Can you buy some spaghetti as well as wine? I have none in the cupboards. Laura must have eaten it.’
‘Sure.’
It takes about twenty minutes to find a decent bottle of wine in the supermarket, as well as the pasta and some Häagen-Dazs. I need a drink after queueing at the checkout and duck into Oliveros for a vermouth. The owner, who remembers me as a friend of Carmen’s, insists that I stay for a second glass, on the house, and attempts to involve me in a conversation about the war in Iraq. A middle-aged man smoking a cheap cigar says something complimentary about Donald Rumsfeld, but I can’t challenge him without revealing a fluency in Spanish. It’s close to 9.30 by the time I make it back to the apartment, but when I let myself in with Carmen’s keys she is nowhere to be seen.
I check the sitting room and the kitchen, where sauce for spaghetti is bubbling gently on the stove, before it becomes clear that she is on the telephone in the bedroom, using her portable landline. The door is half-closed and Carmen is talking rapidly, with a definite shiver of alarm in her voice. My first thought is that something has gone wrong with her mother in hospital and I wait in the hall to hear more.
‘And you’re sure about this? I just can’t believe it.’
I experience a moment of undiluted selfishness: if Mitxelena’s condition has deteriorated, I will have to accompany Carmen on a long and tedious visit to the hospital. Any chance of recruiting her will be lost to my obligations as a boyfriend. But then I hear the single word ‘Félix’.