I said nothing.

“You speak fluent Spanish. That, and only that, can possibly account for your desire to take a vacation in the Canary Islands,” Jeremy mocked.

“I’ll ask again. Who the hell are you?” I demanded.

“Mr. Forsythe, I am the person who could get you out of this cell, today. Right now in fact. In the next five minutes you will have to make a decision. That decision will be either to come with me or stay here, get tried, get convicted, and then spend the next few years in the Columbaro Maximum Security Prison in Seville. Perhaps you’ll choose the prison. Miguel de Cervantes began Don Quixote there. A fascinating place, apparently.”

“Who do you work for?” I insisted.

Jeremy finished his cigarette. Slowly lit another.

“What do you see?” Samantha asked from behind Jeremy.

“What do I see?” I repeated.

“Yes. Tell us,” Jeremy said.

I sighed. Leaned back. What game were they playing?

I looked the two of them over. They were relaxed, confident, obviously serious. This was a test.

“Ok, I’ll play if you want to. I guessed Paris because of your fags. Easy,” I said to Jeremy a little warily.

“What else?” he asked.

“You went to Harrow. Not on a scholarship, your father probably went to Harrow and his father before him. Your granddad probably used to tell you stories about how Winston Churchill was in the remedial class when he was there.”

Jeremy laughed and choked on his cigarette. I continued.

“You’re wearing a linen jacket. Expensive, but more than that, a kind of uniform. You knew you were going to have to go to Spain to see me, but you took the time to change from English clothes into something more sartorially suitable. Why? Why not shorts and T-shirt, or a polo shirt, or a cotton shirt and chinos? Hmmm. You feel you have to wear a jacket because you’re on duty. You look like an army officer but you’re in civvies. Maybe you were in the army or maybe the RAF, you don’t seem like a navy man anyway… So why are you here? You work for the government. You and your wee secretary have flown all the way to Spain. You don’t have a tan, you’re not even red, you came here right from the airport. To see me. Huh. Why? A job. You need me for a job. You’ve come to make me a job offer.”