“How’s the social life?” he said.

“We are not overburdened with society.”

“Much entertaining?”

“Not yet,” said Wavery, recalling Queesal’s preference for buffets over cocktails. He unbent the paper clip. He explained there was no point in having people not as at ease with each other as they would be when the residence was complete. But this hadn’t caused a political problem. Not yet, anyway.

“What problems are there?”

“Tourists with maps that don’t show that Morocco owns the Western Sahara. The odd Gibraltarian who’s forgotten he put a video under his back seat. Nothing exciting. There’s tremendous goodwill here for the British, George.”

“Anyone in prison?”

“No,” said Wavery, wondering if this was any of Queesal’s business. He excavated a rim of dirt behind a fingernail. “It’s not the sort of place where Brits stay on. You eat, you drink, you sleep and that’s it. People come here from Tangier to buy quails’ eggs and lavatory seats.”

Queesal returned the almost blank diary to its original position. His eyes were unemotional. “What do you do all day?”

“I swim,” said Wavery defiantly.

“You swim!”

“You meet people at the pool. It’s good PR.”

Queesal’s eyes lighted upon the towel drying on the radiator. “PR is no substitute for policy,” he advised Wavery with the air of a man who decided then and there he had flown to a higher peak.

“No,” said Wavery. “No, I don’t suppose it is.” He threw away his straightened paper clip and stood up. So she was coming! Catharine was coming here, to Abyla!

“I heard about Johnnie,” said Queesal mercilessly.

“Johnnie?” Near to, Wavery became aware of Queesal’s breath.

“The ape who stole your passport.”

“Yes, wasn’t that ridiculous,” said Wavery agreeably, walking to the window. He put up both arms to open it and changed his mind.

“You must have been so – so embarrassed.”

“That was our job here during the war.” Wavery looked across the Calle Camoes into the room where he had eaten lunch. “Churchill’s orders.”

“What was?”

“To get apes for Gibraltar. They were dying out. You know the story – when the apes leave Gibraltar, so do we.”

According to Asunción, who had heard it from her father, Wavery’s predecessor had offered a crate of Laphroig for each new ape. His offer had been ardently taken up by the legionaries of the Tercio, Senator Zamora’s eldest brother employing a tunny net on La Mujer Muerta to capture thirty-six bottles.

“So tell me about the tunnel,” said Queesal.

“There’s precious little I can tell you. The project is cloaked in secrecy. Officially, they’re three weeks behind.”

Queesal nodded. “I’ve read your reports. You have suggested that the whole thing would have collapsed without the Moroccan loan.”

“So one gathers.” Did Queesal’s rank permit him to read these reports?

“Does the King really believe the tunnel will make it easier for him to join the EC?”

“He argues that Morocco is closer to Europe than is Britain and therefore has a stronger claim to membership.”