The Spanish Game

The driving, on the other hand, is as Spanish as flamenco and jamón. Cars whipping past at over 160 kph, sliding lane to lane oblivious of sense or reason. It is my habit to copy them, if only because the alternative is a snail-slow crawl in the slipstream of an ageing lorry. Thus I take the Audi well beyond the speed limit, sit on the bumper of the car in front, wait for it to pull to one side, and then surge off into the distance. Traffic police are not a problem. The Guardia Civil tend not to patrol in the long stretches between major towns and one glimpse of my (counterfeit) German driving licence, accompanied by an inability to communicate in Spanish, is usually enough to encourage them to wave me on.

As the weather closes in, however, I am forced to slow down. What had seemed at first like the begi

When the road signs begin to change I know that we have crossed the border. Every town is a

The ‘magnum opus’, as he put it, will probably run to several thousand words, a blend of conjecture, facts and business jargon designed to impress Endiom’s investors and provide a broad overview of the political-financial consequences of investing in the Basque region. ‘Still,’ Julian disclosed, polishing off his second glass of cognac, ‘the idea is to encourage our clients into parting with the readies, yes? No sense in putting them off. No sense at all.’

So, what more do they want? I stop in Vitoria, late for the first of many meetings, and come no closer to an answer. Two hours of employment law and social security benefits with a bespectacled union representative struggling to rein in a bad case of dandruff. It takes twenty-five minutes to find his office and another fifteen for the two of us to walk the damp city streets in search of an eventually mediocre restaurant serving thin soup and stodgy beans. I begin to regret coming. But this is only my second visit to the Basque country and I had forgotten the striking transformation in the landscape as you drive northwest towards the sea, the flat plains of Castilla suddenly soaring into magnificent, bulbous mountains dense with trees and lush grass, the motorway winding frantically along narrow valley floors. This is another country. At half past four I have reached the outskirts of San Sebastián, rain starting to fall and obscuring the hillsides in mist. Every now and again the silhouette of a typical casería, low alpine houses with obtuse angular roofs, will punch through the fog, but otherwise little is visible from the road. So nothing prepares me for the beauty of the city itself, for the long graceful stretch of the Concha, the grandeur of the bridges spa

Natalia has reserved a room with a view looking out into the centre of the bay, a perfect natural harbour crowned by a bowl of pristine sand which sweeps in a precise crescent along its southern edge. Even in the cold of February, brave swimmers are inching gingerly out to sea, shivering in the soft breakers rolling in off the Bay of Biscay. I take a shower, write down some notes from the meeting at lunch and fall asleep in front of CNN.

I am woken just after seven by the shrill of the telephone, a call from Julian in Madrid.

‘Forgot something,’ he says, as if we had been in mid-conversation. ‘Meant to say at lunch yesterday, completely slipped my mind.’

‘And what’s that?’

‘I think you should look up an old acquaintance of mine, useful for the magnum opus. Chap by the name of Mikel Arenaza. Belongs to Batasuna. Or, at least he did.’

‘To Batasuna? Since when did you start making friends with them?’

Herri Batasuna was the political wing of ETA until the party was ba

‘I’m a man of mystery,’ Julian says, as if that explains it. He is tapping something on his desk. ‘Truth is, Mikel approached us a few years back with an investment proposal we were obliged to turn down on ethical grounds. Hugely entertaining individual, however, and somebody you should definitely look up. Bon viveur, ladies’ man, speaks immaculate English. You’ll like him.’

Why does Julian think that I would like a ladies’ man? Because of suspicions he has about Sofía? As a consequence of Saul’s interventions over the weekend I am trying to suppress my wilder flights of paranoia, but there is something I don’t like about this. It feels like a set-up.

‘So you stayed friends? You and this Mikel? A representative of a terrorist organization in cahoots with the boss of a British private bank?’

‘Well I wouldn’t say “cahoots”, Alec. Not “cahoots”. Look, if it makes you uneasy, God knows I understand…’

‘No, it doesn’t make me uneasy. I’m just surprised, that’s all.’

‘Well then, fine, why not give him a call? Natalia will email you his details. No sense in spending all of your time up there lunching with lawyers and car salesmen. You might as well enjoy yourself.’