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‘Hola!’ the Russian called as the figures became clear. They were in the haphazard uniforms of the Republicans and carrying packing crates, boxes marked with red crosses and misshapen bulging sacks.

‘Comrade,’ the leading man said, nodding. He pushed past Fitz to release the gate of the truck, letting it fall open, crashingly loudly on its hinges. He dropped the wooden crate from his shoulder on to the bed of the truck. The contents clattered, making Fitz jump and then tense as Sasha’s fingers dug in deeper. Fitz held still and watched the men silently load the car with more crates. As one of them leant against the bonnet to light a roll-up, Fitz recognised the face: it was one of the men who had been unloading the ship. The man glanced at him and frowned.

‘Sasha, who is this?’

Fitz briefly thought of speaking but he could almost feel Sasha’s fingernails through the cloth so he kept the straightest face possible.

‘A fellow traveller, comrade, just arrived. This is Agent Fitz.’

The other guy laughed and pushed himself off the bonnet. ‘Fitz? You are starting to run out of code names for agents, comrade. That one is not even Spanish.’

Fitz watched the men disappear back into the night. He tried to look at Sasha without moving at all, hoping the Russian wouldn’t notice and tighten his grip. The other man was looking after the soldiers from the dock, chewing on one lip. Once the dull fug of the mist had obscured all sounds of the footsteps, Sasha swung them round to face the truck and pushed Fitz towards the open passenger door.

‘Get in.’

Fitz considered his options: get in a vehicle with a Communist agent who a) had a gun and b) knew Fitz wasn’t who he purported to be, or try to run. Yes, Sasha had a gun but if Fitz let himself be driven off he could end up anywhere and he doubted the shadowy men who had just witnessed his presence would be likely to tell the Doctor where he was last seen. He sat down sideways on the seat, his feet on the steps of the door, and waited. That rattling crate in the back certainly didn’t contain the food aid it was supposed to and Fitz suspected Sasha was very good at making people disappear. There was no way Fitz was going to go with him.

Sasha walked in front of the partially open door, one hand going to close it. Fitz kicked both feet hard against it, slamming the door open wider, catching the Russian on the hip. Before he could leap out, the other man had smashed the door back again, jolting Fitz’s legs, causing his knees to fly up and crack him on the jaw. Sasha opened the door, pushed Fitz so that he was facing forwards and ran around to the driver’s seat.

The engine was running and the car slipping into spluttering gear before Fitz had even got a hand to his aching jaw. He rubbed the back of his hand against his face and recognised the acrid taste of blood in his mouth. A split lip and he’d been here two days. The car was chugging as it clambered the rise away from the docks, still going fairly slowly. Looking across, Fitz saw Sasha looking at him curiously, slightly frowning. Fitz continued to stare at his captor, hoping the Russian wouldn’t notice his hand slipping down the side, finding the door handle. There were no locks: one fast move and he could be out and rolling away.

‘Where are we going?’ he asked, wanting to keep Sasha’s attention off the door. The catch was stiff, he would have to be fast and he’d probably get badly bruised in the fall. Some part of him – the part that had consumed so much cheap wine on an empty stomach and never wanted to move ever again – growled at the thought. Sasha glanced at him again, one eyebrow raised in amusement.

‘Guernica.’

Fitz started to laugh.

* * *

A stone clattered, the sound sharp in the brittle night silence. Barcelona was, in this part at least, asleep. Distant engines would occasionally roar, the noise carrying miles, sounding so much closer in the stillness, reverberating around the blackened bell towers. There was an echo as a wooden beam shifted, then muttered cursing.

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