really
have
found gold deposits, in the sierras not far from Madrid. There’s a geologist with South African experience working for them, one Alberto Otero. And they’re keeping it quiet, which makes us more inclined to think there’s something in it. The boffins say that geologically it’s a possibility.’
‘And that would make Spain less dependent on us?’
‘They’ve no gold reserves to back the currency. Stalin made the Republic send the gold reserve to Moscow during the Civil War. And kept it, of course. That makes buying anything on the open market very difficult for them. At the moment they’re trying to get export credits from us and the Yanks.’
‘So if the rumours are true – they’d be less dependent on us?’
‘Exactly. And therefore more inclined to enter the war. Anything could tip the balance.’
‘We’re trying to perform a high-wire act out there,’ Miss Maxse added. ‘How much of a stick to wave, how many carrots to offer. How much wheat to allow through, how much oil.’
Jebb nodded. ‘The point is, Brett, the man who introduced Otero to the regime was Sandy Forsyth.’
‘He’s in Spain?’ Harry’s eyes widened.
‘Yes. I don’t know if you saw the adverts in the newspapers a couple of years ago, tours of the Civil War battlefields?’
‘I remember. The Nationalists ran the tours for English people. A propaganda stunt.’
‘Somehow Forsyth got involved. Went to Spain as a tour guide. Franco’s people paid him quite well. Then he stayed on, got involved in various business schemes, some of them pretty shady I would imagine. He’s a clever businessman apparently, of the flashy sort.’ Jebb’s mouth crinkled with distaste, then he stared keenly at Harry. ‘He has some important contacts now.’
Harry took a deep breath. ‘May I ask how you know all this?
Jebb shrugged. ‘Sneaky beakies working out of our embassy. They pay minor functionaries for information. Madrid’s full of spies. But no one’s got near Forsyth himself. We’ve no agents in the Falange and it’s the Falangist faction in the government that Forsyth’s with. And word is he’s clever, likely to smell a rat if a stranger appeared and started asking questions.’
‘Yes.’ Harry nodded. ‘Sandy’s clever.’
‘But if
you
were to turn up in Madrid,’ Miss Maxse said. ‘As a translator attached to the embassy say, and run across him in a cafe? The way people do. Renew an old friendship.’
‘We want you to find out what he’s doing,’ Jebb said bluntly. ‘Perhaps get him on our side.’
So that was it. They wanted him to spy on Sandy, like Mr Taylor had all those years ago at Rookwood. Harry looked out of the window at the blue sky, where the barrage balloons floated like huge grey whales.
‘How’d you feel about that?’ Miss Maxse’s voice was gentle.
‘Sandy Forsyth working with the Falange.’ Harry shook his head. ‘It’s not as if he needed to make money – his father’s a bishop.’
‘Sometimes it’s the excitement as much as the politics, Harry. Sometimes the two go together.’
‘Yes.’ He remembered Sandy coming breathless into the study from one of his forbidden betting trips, opening his hand to show a five-pound note, white and crinkled. ‘Look what I got from a nice gee-gee.’
‘Working with the Falange,’ Harry said reflectively. ‘I suppose he was always a black sheep, but sometimes – a man can do something against the rules and get a bad name and that can make him worse.’
‘We’ve nothing against black sheep,’ Jebb said. ‘Black sheep can make the best agents.’ He laughed knowingly. Another memory of Sandy returned to Harry: staring angrily across the study table, his voice a bitter whisper. ‘You see what they’re like, how they control us, what they do if we try to break away.’
‘I think you’re someone who likes to play the game,’ Miss Maxse said. ‘That’s what we expected. But we can’t win this war playing a straight