Lenny moved closer. ‘I’m Sergeant Griffiths,’ he said. ‘I’ll do anything I can to help you, of course.’ His words were practical, but his tone of voice made them sound like an amorous invitation.

She gave him a dazzling smile. ‘That would be most helpful,’ she said.

Lloyd spoke formally to her in his best Spanish. ‘I’m so very glad you’re here, Señorita.’ He had spent much of the last ten months studying the language. ‘I am Lieutenant Williams. I can tell you exactly which members of the group require lessons . . . and which do not.’

Lenny said dismissively: ‘But the lieutenant has to go to Bujaraloz to get our orders.’ Bujaraloz was the small town where government forces had set up headquarters. ‘Perhaps you and I should look around here for a suitable place to hold classes.’ He might have been suggesting a walk in the moonlight.

Lloyd smiled and nodded agreement. He was happy to let Lenny romance Teresa. He himself was in no mood for flirting, whereas Lenny seemed in love already. In Lloyd’s opinion Lenny’s chances were close to zero. Teresa was an educated twenty-five-year-old who probably got a dozen propositions a day, and Lenny was a seventeen-year-old coal miner who had not taken a bath for a month. But he said nothing: Teresa seemed capable of looking after herself.

A new figure appeared, a man of Lloyd’s age who looked vaguely familiar. He was dressed better than the soldiers, in wool breeches and a cotton shirt, and had a handgun in a buttoned holster. His hair was cut so short that it looked like stubble, a style favoured by Russians. He was only a lieutenant, but had an air of authority, even power. He said in fluent German: ‘I am looking for Lieutenant Garcia.’

‘He’s not here,’ said Lloyd in the same language. ‘Where have you and I met before?’

The Russian seemed shocked and irritated at the same time, like one who finds a snake in his bedroll. ‘We have never met,’ he said firmly. ‘You are mistaken.’

Lloyd snapped his fingers. ‘Berlin,’ he said. ‘Nineteen thirty-three. We were attacked by Brownshirts.’

A look of relief came briefly over the man’s face, as if he had been expecting something worse. ‘Yes, I was there,’ he said. ‘My name is Vladimir Peshkov.’

‘But we called you Volodya.’

‘Yes.’

‘At that scrap in Berlin you were with a boy called Werner Franck.’

Volodya looked panicked for a moment, then hid his feelings with an effort. ‘I know no one of that name.’

Lloyd decided not to press the point. He could guess why Volodya was jumpy. The Russians were as terrified as everyone else of their secret police, the NKVD, who were operating in Spain and had a reputation for brutality. To them, any Russian who was friendly with foreigners might be a traitor. ‘I’m Lloyd Williams.’

‘I do remember.’ Volodya looked at him with a penetrating blue-eyed stare. ‘How strange that we should meet again here.’