Charles Cumming - The Spanish Game

‘I advise you to go home and sleep,’ he says, doubtless catching the smell of alcohol on my breath. ‘If you remain here I will call the police. You have been warned now.’

Then, a miracle. A moat of light as a door opens in the concrete building behind him. A young diplomat, no older than twenty-eight or twenty-nine, emerges into the forecourt. He seems to sense the commotion at the gate and looks up, meeting my gaze. He has brown, uncombed hair, intelligent eyes and a way of moving that’s so relaxed it’s as if his whole body is chewing gum. He comes towards us. Dark suit trousers, brogues, a long, antique British overcoat.

‘ Algun problema, Vicente?’

‘ Si, senor.’

‘There’s no problem,’ I interrupt, and he looks almost startled to hear the language of the old country. ‘I apologize. I’ve been standing out here shouting because I have something of great importance to tell the ambassador. I’m not a madman, I am not a fake. But you need to take me very seriously. You need to let me in.’

Very cool, very reserved, the diplomat conducts a rapid up-and-down analysis of my appearance. Shoes to face. Lunatic or messiah?

‘Can it not wait until the morning?’ he says. ‘I’m the last to leave.’

‘No, it can’t wait. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. It’s about the government here, the financial scandal.’ The guard takes a step back, letting the diplomat get closer. ‘My name is Alec Milius. I am a British citizen. I am a former support agent of the Secret Intelligence Service and I have lived here for a number of years. I can’t tell you anything more than that without breaking the Official Secrets Act. But I need to speak to a senior member of the embassy staff as a matter of urgency.’

‘Do you have any form of identification?’

With that simple question I know that he is taking me seriously. I reach into my jacket pocket and take out the Paris-issued Lithuanian passport. It’s not ideal, but it will do. The diplomat pulls it through the bars as the guard scuffs his feet.

‘This is a Lithuanian passport. It says here that you were born in Vilnius.’

‘That part of it is fake,’ I tell him, and it looks as though this seemingly crazy revelation serves only to cement his belief in my authenticity. ‘I haven’t been to the United Kingdom since 1997. My situation is complicated. I have information for the Foreign and Commonwealth Office which will be of immense importance to -’

He interrupts. ‘You’d better come inside.’

I feel a great surge of affection, of victory. The diplomat turns to the guard and instructs him to buzz the metal door on the right of the fence. I walk towards it and step onto British soil for the first time in seven years.

‘And you said your name is Alec Milius?’ he says, offering me a hand to shake.

‘Alec Milius, yes.’

It is a sort of homecoming.