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Now they sat on the bed of the truck, the gate let down and their legs dangling. A small oil lantern turned down low created a dim orange glow. Fitz used a blunted penknife to cut uneven slices of ham off a sausage, then piled them into a torn-apart bread roll. The blade was too short to cut anything other than misshapen triangles off the cheese Sasha had appropriated from the sack of supplies. Fitz leaned on the side and hunched into his jacket as he ate. The night was cold, with the mist deadening any sounds. His world had shrunk to just the sphere of faint lamp light. It seemed hard to connect this bubble of stillness and silence with the day on the road, with the constant rumble of the engine and the steady stream of people. Neither seemed real to him. Paris, next summer and two days ago, was like a story or a dream, not a place he had really been. He stared blindly into the blankness of the mist, replaying Paris. Trying to work out how he had got from there to here.

There was a loud report by his ear. His shoulders tightened, then relaxed as he realised it was a cork being pulled. A bottle was thrust in front of his face and he stared at it.

‘Drink, Fitz.’

Sasha was holding the bottle out at arm’s reach. Fitz stared at the open neck: he’d not forgotten the last time he had drunk wine offered by the Russian. Sasha waggled the bottle at him, then shrugged when Fitz didn’t reach for it. He sat back, turning to lean against the support on his side of the truck and lifting his feet on to the boards. He took a swig from the bottle, then offered it again. Fitz couldn’t resist. The dampness was creeping into him and if he was going to sleep in the open, he’d like at least to be warmed by some alcohol. As he took it, Sasha smiled. Fitz wiped the mouth of the bottle with his sleeve and took a swig. Vinegary, as usual. He grimaced slightly, then passed the bottle back. They sat there for a while, silently passing the bottle and smoking hand-rolled cigarettes.

‘So, my English spy, why do you want to go to Guernica?’

‘I’m not a... oh never mind. The person I...’ Fitz hesitated as he tried to find a suitable term, ‘work for wants a first hand report.’

‘He can’t do it himself? Instead he sends a German with a British passport to a war zone?’

‘No, the Doctor’s checking out somewhere else. He trusts me.’

Sasha let out a heavy sigh as he breathed out some smoke. He let the bottle dangle from one hand, idly swinging it, as he ground out his stub on the wooden floor with the other.

‘Will you tell me who you work for?’ the Russian asked.

Fitz thought. He wanted to phrase this right so he didn’t end up with a bullet in him. The Soviets – they had to be on the side of the Republic, so one of those groups. Except Sasha could check if he admitted belonging to any particular organisation.

‘We’re independent observers,’ he said, trying to sound confident that the other man wouldn’t question it. He took the bottle and swigged again. He had drunk enough now for the edge of the cold to have been taken off, his muscles had relaxed and he had stopped shivering. The taste of the wine seemed less harsh as well. He glanced across. Sasha was concentrating on rolling a cigarette, leaning in so his hands were clearly lit by the lantern.

‘Is there any such thing?’ he asked casually, without looking up.

Fitz started and stared at him. The other man glanced up briefly and grinned at his stricken face. The narrow eyes were crinkled at the edge where the smile reached them.

‘Relax, Fitz. I just wonder how you can sit in this Communist Party truck, sharing wine I bargained out of a Republican barman, handing out food to those poor people on the road and claim to be an impartial witness? Will your report not be biased because we have treated you well and the fascists would have shot you without bothering to find out who you were?’

Fitz shrugged. Sasha lit his cigarette quickly, shaking out the match. ‘And,’ he continued, ‘isn’t your very presence here altering how I behave? I want