The Seville Communion

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In Ictu Oculi

Look at that house. It was built by a holy spirit. Magic barriers protect it.

The Book of the Dead

Quart arrived at the church mid-morning, after a brief visit to the archbishop's palace and another to Deputy Superintendent Navajo. Our Lady of the Tears was deserted. The only sign of life was the candle burning at the altar. He sat in a pew and for a long time looked at the scaffolding against the walls, the blackened ceiling, the gilded reliefs of the altarpiece in shadow. When Father Oscar came out of the vestry and saw Quart, he didn't seem surprised. The assistant priest was wearing a grey clerical shirt, jeans, and trainers. He looked older than at their last meeting. His fair hair was unkempt, and he had dark rings under his eyes, visible behind his glasses. His face was greasy, as if he'd woken very early or had a sleepless night.

"Vespers strikes again," Quart told him, showing him the message that had been forwarded by fax from Rome. It had come at around one in the morning, about the time Quart had been dealing with Bonafe in the hotel lobby. The IEA agent didn't mention this to Father Oscar, however. Nor did he tell him that Arregui's team had again managed to divert the hacker to a parallel file, where the hacker left his message in the belief that he was communicating directly with the Holy Father. Father Garofi traced Vespers' signal to the telephone line of El Corte Ingles department store, in the centre of Seville, where the hacker made a loop to hide his trace.

The temple of the Lord is God's place, God's building. If any man defile the temple of God, him shall God destroy; for the temple of God is holy.

"One Corinthians," said Father Oscar, handing the paper back to Quart.

"Do you know anything about this?"

The young priest seemed about to speak, but instead shook his head dejectedly and sat down beside Quart. "You're still casting about blindly," he said, and added, "You're not as good as they said you were."

"When do you leave?" Quart asked, putting Vespers' message back in his pocket.

"Tomorrow afternoon."

"The place you're going is unpleasant."

"Worse than unpleasant," he said with a sad smile. "It rains about once a year. They might as well send me to the Gobi Desert." He gave Quart a look.

Quart raised a hand. "I had nothing to do with it," he said.

"I know." Oscar Lobato ran his fingers through his hair and stared a while at the candle on the altar. "Monsignor Corvo himself is getting even with me. He thinks I betrayed him." He laughed bitterly. "You know. I was trustworthy, a young priest with a brilliant future. That's why he decided to appoint me as Don Priamo's assistant. But instead of acting as the archbishop's mole, I went over to the enemy."

"High treason," said Quart.

"Yes. And there are certain things the Church will never forgive."

Quart nodded. He could testify to that. "Why did you do it?" he asked. "You knew better than anyone that it was a lost cause."

The assistant priest crossed his legs, resting his feet on the kneeler. "I think I answered that question during our last conversation." His glasses slid down his nose, making him look even more vulnerable. "Sooner or later Don Priamo will be made to leave the parish, and then the era of the merchants will have arrived… The church will be demolished and they'll cast lots for her garments." He laughed bitterly, staring straight ahead. "But I'm not so sure that the battle's been lost."

There was silence beneath the vault. The two priests sat motionless. "Until only a few months ago, I was a promising young cleric," Father Oscar said at last. "All I had to do was sit at the archbishop's

feet and keep my mouth shut. But I found my dignity here, both as a man and as a priest. Paradoxical, isn't it? That I should have learned dignity from an old priest with such an unpleasant manner and rough appearance; an Aragonese priest who's as stubborn as a mule, says Mass in Latin and dabbles in astronomy." He leaned back and folded his arms. "Life's strange. The fate that awaits me would once have seemed a tragedy. Now I see it differently. God can be anywhere, in any corner, because He goes with us. Jesus fasted for forty days in the desert. Monsignor Corvo doesn't know it, but now I feel like a real priest, with something to fight for. By sending me into exile, they only make me stronger and more determined. All they've accomplished is to make my faith rock-solid." "Are you Vespers?"

Father Oscar took off his glasses and wiped them on his shirt. He squinted warily at Quart. "That's all that matters, isn't it? The church, Father Ferro, me – you don't really care about any of it." He clicked his tongue. "You have your mission." Absently, he cleaned one lens, then the other. "Who Vespers is," he said, "isn't important. The message is a warning. Or an appeal to whatever there is that's still noble in the firm that you and I work for." He put on his glasses. "A reminder that honesty and decency still exist."

Quart made a sour face. "How old are you?" he asked. "Twenty-six? With age you'll find you get over that nonsense."

Father Oscar raised an eyebrow. "Did you acquire your cynicism in Rome," he asked, "or was it something you already had? Don't be foolish. Father Ferro is an honest man."

Quart shook his head. An hour before, he had been at the archbishop's palace leafing through Father Ferro's file. Monsignor Corvo confirmed the main points during a brief conversation with Quart in the Gallery of the Prelates, beneath portraits of their graces Gaspar Borja (1645) and Agustin Spinola (1640). Ten years ago, Father Ferro was the subject of an ecclesiastical inquiry in the diocese of Huesca as a result of an unauthorised sale of church property. Towards the end of his time as parish priest in Cillas de Anse in the Pyrenees, a panel and a figure of Christ on the Cross disappeared. The figure of Christ was nothing special, but the panel dated from the early fourteen-hundreds and was attributed to the Master of Retascon. The local bishop was very concerned when he found out it was missing. The parish was a poor one, and that kind of episode was common at the time, when a parish priest was almost entirely free to dispose as he wished of the heritage entrusted to him. Father Ferro escaped lightly, with only a reprimand from his ordinary.

It certainly bore out what Bonafe had hinted at. Quart sensed that Corvo, uncharacteristically open on this occasion, was probably quite happy that this murky area of Father Ferro's past was becoming public knowledge. Quart suspected even that the journalist's source had been, directly or indirectly, the archbishop himself. In any case, the story about Cillas de Anso was true; Quart got the next instalment at police headquarters, when Navajo made a couple of calls to his colleague in Madrid, Chief Inspector Feijoo, head of investigations into thefts of works of art. An altarpiece by the Master of Retascon, identical to the one that disappeared from Cillas de Anse, was acquired with a receipt in due form by Claymore's Auctioneers in Madrid. Francisco Montegrifo, director of Claymore's and a well-known art dealer, confirmed that a certain sum was paid to the priest Don Priamo Ferro Ordas. A pittance compared to what the picture fetched at auction, but it was a question of supply and demand, Montegrifo pointed out to Chief Inspector Feijoo, who then passed the information on to Navajo.

"As for Father Ferro's honesty," Quart said to Father Oscar, "perhaps he hasn't always been so upright."

"I don't know what you're insinuating," said the the young priest. "And I don't care. I respect the man that I know. Go look for your Judas elsewhere."

"Is that your last word? It may not be too late."

Father Oscar glared at him. "Not too late? Is that a hint that I might yet be pardoned? As long as I co-operate?" Shaking his head in disbelief, he stood up. "It's funny. Yesterday Don Priamo mentioned that he'd had a conversation with you at the duchess's and that maybe now you were beginning to understand. But whether you understand or not is irrelevant. Killing the messenger is what matters, isn't it? To you and your bosses, it's not the fact that there's a problem but that someone has dared to bring the problem into the open."

With a last dismissive look he headed towards the vestry. He stopped suddenly, as if he'd thought of something, and half-turned to Quart.

"Maybe Vespers was wrong after all," he said, his voice echoing in the vault. "Maybe the Holy Father wasn't worthy of his messages."

A shaft of sunlight shifted slowly from left to right across the worn flagstones at the foot of the high altar. Quart looked up at the window through which the light streamed: it depicted the Descent from the Cross. The stained glass from Christ's torso, head, and legs was missing, making it seem as if Saint John and Mary were bringing only two arms down from the Cross. The lead around Christ's missing figure formed a ghostly outline, a blurred presence making the mother's and the disciple's suffering and effort appear futile.

Quart walked to the high altar and the entrance to the crypt. He stopped beside the iron gate at the top of steps descending into darkness and touched the skull carved in the lintel; as before, the stone chilled his hand. Trying to suppress his uneasiness at the silence of the church, the gloomy staircase, and the musty air rising from the crypt, he made himself stand there. From the Greek kryptos, hidden, he whispered. Where stone held the key to other times, other lives. Where the bones of fourteen dukes of El Nuevo Extremo lay, and the shadow of Carlota Bruner.

The patch of sun on the ground had moved a whole flagstone to the right and was shrinking when the IEA agent proceeded to the middle of the nave. He looked up at the gap where the chunk of cornice had come away, fatally injuring the archbishop's secretary. He went over to the scaffolding supporting the cornice and shook it, but it seemed firmly anchored. He stood at the approximate spot where Father Urbizu had stood when he was killed. There was enough room for someone to stand on the scaffolding under the cornice and dislodge a chunk, but the police report discounted the possibility. That, and the account of the municipal architect's fall – this time with witnesses present – seemed to rule out human intervention in both deaths, attributing them, as Vespers and Father Ferro claimed, to the wrath of God. Or to fate, which in Quart's view was a cosmic watchmaker who seemed to wake up every morning with a taste for practical jokes.

Or to the clumsiness of sleepy Rabelaisian gods. When they dropped a slice of their morning toast, it always fell to earth butter side down.

Vespers' motive was clear. His computer messages were an appeal to common sense, an appeal for justice, to vindicate an old priest fighting his last battle in a forgotten corner of the board. But Father Oscar was right when he said that Vespers had made a mistake in sending his messages. Rome couldn't understand them, and Spada had sent the wrong man. The world and the ideas to which the hacker had made his appeal had long ceased to exist.

Quart took a few steps back and examined the scaffolding and damaged windows on the left-hand side of the church. When he turned again to the nave, Gris Marsala was behind him, watching.

The exhibition Religious Art in Baroque Seville was declared open, and applause filled the rooms of the Cartujano Bank Arts Foundation. Afterwards, waiters brought round trays of drinks and canapes while guests admired the works that would be on display in the Arenal building for the next three weeks. Between Christ of the Good Death by Juan dc Mesa, on loan from the university, and a Saint Leandro by Murillo from the cathedral vestry, Pencho Gavira greeted the gentle-mcn and kissed the hands of the ladies, smiling to left and right. He wore an immaculate charcoal-grey suit and the parting in his gelled hair was as perfect as the white collar and cuffs of his shirt. "A very good speech, Mayor."

The banker and Manolo Almanzor, mayor of Seville, exchanged slaps on the back. The mayor was chubby, with a moustache. He had an honest face that had won him the popular vote and a re-election, but a scandal concerning improper contracts, a brother-in-law grown wealthy in dubious circumstances, and accusations of sexual harassment by three of the mayor's secretaries at the town hall all meant that now, less than a month away from the municipal elections, he was certain to lose.

"Thanks, Pencho. But this'll be my last public function."

The banker smiled consolingly and said, "Things will improve."

The mayor shook his head doubtfully. At least Gavira was going to sweeten his departure from office. In return for reclassifying the land of Our Lady of the Tears, providing a pre-contract of sale and withdrawing any obstacle to the urban development of Santa Cruz, Almanzor would have a certain loan cancelled, a hefty sum with which he'd purchased a luxurious house in the most expensive and exclusive district of Seville. Cool as a poker player, the general manager of the Cartujano had summed it up neatly a few days earlier, over dinner at the Becerra Restaurant, when he suggested the deal: Bread consoles, Mayor.

A waiter passed, and Gavira took a glass of chilled sherry from the tray. He sipped and looked around. Among the ladies in evening dresses and gentlemen in suits and ties – Gavira always stipulated formal attire for such occasions – the second front, the clerics, was also circulating. His Grace the archbishop of Seville and Octavio Machuca progressed slowly through the room, apparently exchanging impressions on the Valdes Leal loaned to the exhibition by the church of the Hospital de la Caridad. In Ictu Oculi: Death snuffing out a candle before the crown and tiaras of an emperor, a bishop, and a pope. But Gavira was sure that the picture wasn't the subject of their conversation.

"Bastards," the mayor said, beside him.

Almanzor wasn't referring to the archbishop or the banker; he meant the other guests, who were giving him the cold shoulder. All Seville knew that he would be out in another month. His likely successor, a politician from Andalucismo Andaluz, Almanzor's own party, was walking round and receiving advance congratulations with a prudent smile.

"Have a drink, Mayor," said Gavira with an encouraging wink. He grabbed him a whisky from the tray and the mayor gulped down half of it. A beaten dog, he gave the banker a grateful look. It was amazing, thought Gavira, how the walking dead created a vacuum around them. People used to toady to Manolo Almanzor; now nobody came near for fear of contamination. Those were the rules of the game. In Almanzor's world there was no. mercy for the defeated, only a drink on the eve of execution. Gavira stood there offering him whisky on behalf of the Cartujano after getting him to open the exhibition, partly because he still needed the man and partly because, buying the mayor, he felt a certain responsibility towards him. Gavira wondered if someone would be offering him drinks one day.

"Smash that church, Pencho," the mayor said and drained his glass bitterly. "Build whatever the hell you want there and fuck the lot of them."

Gavira nodded absent-mindedly, his attention on the two men chatting by the Valdes Leal. He excused himself and moved closer, making sure his approach looked casual. On his way, he smiled in the appropriate directions, shook hands, and kissed a few powdered checks. Polite, confident, he felt the envy of the men and the admiration of the women who came up to him the moment he moved away from the mayor. He heard Macarena's name whispered behind him a couple of times, but he didn't let it dent his smile. He put his glass on a tray, checked his tie, and a moment later stood next to Monsignor Corvo and Don Octavio Machuca.

"Nice picture," he said.

The archbishop and the old banker looked at the painting as if they?d only just noticed it. Death held a scythe and carried a coffin under his emaciated arm. At his feet, a map of the world, a sword and books and parchments symbolised his victory over life, glory, science and worldly pleasures. With his other bony hand he was snuffing out a candle. The skull's empty eye sockets fixed the viewer. In Ictu Oculi. Gavira didn't have any Latin, but the picture was well known in Seville and its meaning was obvious.

"Nice?" The archbishop exchanged a glance with old Machuca. "Only a young man would say that about such a terrible scene. Death seems distant to you, my dear Gavira. But for us, this picture is somewhat closer to home. Isn't that so, Don Octavio?"

The banker nodded, his predatory eyes alert. In fact Corvo was almost twenty years younger than Machuca, but the archbishop liked to affect the bearing of a venerable old man, as if it went with his office.

"Pencho's a winner," said Machuca. "He's not afraid his candle will be snuffed out."

The old man's eyes glinted mockingly between half-closed lids. He had one hand in the pocket of his old-fashioned double-breasted jacket; the other hung by his side, almost as skeletal as the hand of

Death in the painting. The archbishop smiled conspiratorially. "We're all subject to God's will," he said, with a professional air.

Gavira agreed vaguely, but gave the banker a pointed look. Machuca understood his intention. "We were talking about your church, Pencho," he said.

Gavira took it to be a good sign that Aquilino Corvo, his smile unwavering, ignored Machuca's use of the possessive. After all, the archbishopric would be receiving substantial compensation, as well as the Cartujano's promise to build another church in a different location. Not to mention the foundation for community work among the Gypsies that the archbishop had cleverly slipped into the package.

"It's still Your Grace's church," Gavira observed dutifully.

Monsignor Corvo gratefully acknowledged the remark. Since they were talking about churches, he felt obliged to comment in an official capacity. "A painful conflict," he said, after searching for the right phrase.

"But unavoidable," added Gavira, looking regretful.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Machuca's grin. He remembered that the old man knew, alongside the offers made by the Cartujano to His Grace, about an unpublished report concerning half a dozen clerics in the diocese who had broken the rules on celibacy. The priests were all popular with their parishioners, and the publication of such information, with photographs and sworn statements, would cause quite a stir. Corvo had neither the resources nor the authority to deal with the problem, and a scandal would force him to make decisions that he, more than anyone, was unwilling to make. The priests were good men; and in times of change and with few candidates for the priesthood, a hasty decision would be regrettable. So Monsignor Corvo had accepted with relief Gavira's compromise solution of buying the report to prevent its publication. In the Catholic Church, a problem postponed was a problem solved.

Gavira wondered uneasily how Machuca had found out about the stratagem. Gavira himself had masterminded the operation, paying the private investigators to do the research and then using his influence with the press to hush up, for the archbishop, what was in effect a classic example of blackmail.

"His Grace guarantees his neutrality," said Machuca, closely watching Gavira. "But he was telling me a moment ago that disciplinary proceedings against Father Ferro are going rather slowly. Apparently" – he narrowed his eyes – "the priest from Rome hasn't been able to gather sufficient evidence against him."

Corvo raised a hand. Beneath his pastoral calm he looked uncomfortable. It wasn't exactly a question of that, he said in a grave voice made for the pulpit. Father Quart hadn't come to Seville to act against the parish priest of Our Lady of the Tears but, rather, to provide Rome with detailed information. The prelate reminded the two men that an ecclesiastical formality prevented the See of Seville from taking direct action. He went on to describe the sad situation: a priest getting on in years, a question of discipline, and so on. He agreed with Rome on the general principles, but he had reservations. As he said this, Corvo avoided Gavira's eyes and glanced at Machuca, checking to see whether it was appropriate to continue. The old man remained inscrutable, so His Grace went on to say that Father Quart's investigation wasn't proceeding with the desired diligence. The archbishop had alerted his superiors, but in a matter such as this he could do no more.

"Do you mean," Gavira said with a frown of irritation, "that you don't expect Father Ferro's imminent removal from his post?"

The archbishop raised both hands, as if to say Ite, missa est. "More or less. It will happen eventually, of course. But not in two or three days. A couple of weeks maybe." He cleared his throat. "A month at the most. As I've said, the matter's out of my hands. You have all my sympathy, of course."

Gavira, regarding the Valdes Leal, suppressed the urge to say something rude. He felt like punching the archbishop. He counted to ten, staring at Death's empty eyes, and then managed a smile.

Machuca had his eyes fixed on him. "That's too long, isn't it?" the old banker asked.

Corvo, thinking that the remark was addressed to him – though, in fact, Machuca's narrowed eyes hadn't left Gavira's face – pointed out that he could do nothing without an order from Rome, nothing while Father Ferro continued to celebrate Mass every Thursday.

Gavira couldn't keep in his anger. "Your Grace shouldn't have referred the matter to Rome," he said sharply. "It should have been taken care of under your jurisdiction, while there was still time."

The archbishop went white. He straightened. "Maybe," he said. "But we prelates also have a conscience, Mr Gavira. Now if you'll excuse me." He nodded and walked away, tight-lipped.

"You've offended him," said Machuca, wrinkling his nose.

Gavira had made another mistake. He shrugged, impatiently. "Monsignor's dignity has a price, like everything else. A price that I can pay." He hesitated for a moment, gauging the old banker's reaction. "That the Cartujano can pay."

"But for the time being there's still that priest," Machuca said malevolently. "The old priest, I mean." He watched Gavira closely. The younger man, well aware of the scrutiny, touched his tie and cuffs and looked round. A beautiful woman passed, and he smiled at her. Machuca went on, watching the woman walk away, "And that means that Macarena and your mother-in-law will go on fighting for the church. For the time being."

It didn't work. Gavira had recovered his composure. "Don't worry," he said. "I'll sort it out."

"I hope so, because you're running out of time. How many days do you have until the meeting? A week?"

"You know how long," said Gavira. "Eight days."

Machuca nodded slowly. "You know something, Pencho? I'm curious to see how you handle this. On the board they really want your head." He smiled slyly. "But if you pull it off, congratulations."

Machuca went to greet some acquaintances, and Gavira was left alone beside the Valdes Leal. A flabby little man, with lacquered hair and a double chin that looked like a continuation of his cheeks, stood nearby. As soon as he met Gavira's eye, he came up and said, "My name's Honorato Bonafe, from Q amp;S magazine." He held out his hand. "Could we talk for a moment?"

Gavira ignored the outstretched hand, frowning, wondering who'd let the man in.

"I'll only take a minute of your time."

"Ring my secretary," the banker said coldly, turning his back. He moved away, but to his surprise Bonafe followed. Both obsequious and smug, the man was pursing his lips and peering at Gavira out of the corner of his eye. An odious character, thought Gavira, stopping at last.

"I'm doing a story," Bonafe said, "on that church you're so interested in." "What do you mean?"

Bonafe raised a podgy hand. "Well," he said with an ingratiating grin, "if we consider that the Cartujano Bank is the main party that wants to have Our Lady of the Tears demolished, I think that a conversation, or a statement, would be… You understand."

Gavira remained impassive. "I don't."

Unctuously, patiently, Bonafe put the banker in the picture: the Cartujano, the church and the reclassifying of the land. The parish priest, a somewhat dubious individual, clashing with the archbishop of Seville and subject to disciplinary action or something similar. Two accidental deaths, or who knows what. A special envoy from Rome. And, well, a beautiful wife, or ex-wife, daughter of the duchess of El Nuevo Extreme And she and that priest from Rome…

He stopped, seeing Gavira's expression. The banker took a step towards him, glaring.

"Right, well, you understand," said Bonafe. "I'm telling you this so you get the idea: headlines, the cover, and so on. We're publishing the story next week. So naturally your comments would carry a lot of weight."

The banker remained still, saying not a word. Bonafe smiled vaguely, waiting for an answer. At last Gavira said, "You want me to tell you all about it."

"That's right."

Peregil passed close by. Gavira thought he saw a look of alarm on his face when he caught sight of Bonafe, and he was tempted to call Peregil over and ask him if he was responsible for the journalist's presence. But this wasn't the right moment for a confrontation. What he really wanted to do was to kick the fat little man out.

"And what do I get from talking to you?"

Bonafe's smile was insolent. "Well. You would have control over the information. You'd be giving your side of things." Bonafe paused meaningfully. "You could get us on your side, if you see what I mean."

"And if I don't talk?"

"Ah, well, that's different. We'll run the article anyway. You'll have missed a good opportunity."

Now it was Gavira's turn to smile menacingly, with the smile that had earned him his nickname. "That sounds like a threat.''

Bonafe shook his head, oblivious to the meaning of Gavira's smile. "Good God, no. I'm just letting you know how things stand." His puffy little eyes shone with greed. "I'm playing fair with you, Mr Gavira."

"And why arc you doing that?"

"Well… I don't know." Bonafe smoothed his crumpled jacket. "I suppose it's because you have a good public image. You know, 'Young Banker Imposes New Style', and so on. You look good in photos, you're popular with the ladies. In other words: you sell papers. You're in fashion, and my magazine can help make sure you stay in fashion. Think of it as a way of boosting your image. Now, your wife…"

"What about my wife?"

Gavira spat out the words, but Bonafe didn't seem to notice the danger signs. "She looks good in photos too," he said, meeting Gavira's eye calmly. "Though I think that that bullfighter… But that's all over. Now, the priest from Rome… You know the one I mean, don't you?"

Gavira thought fast. He needed only a week; after that, nothing would matter. "Yes, I sec," he said. "And how much might this boost to my image cost?"

Bonafe lifted both hands, placing his fingers together as if in prayer. "Oh, well," he said, relaxed, pleased. "I thought maybe an in-depth interview about that church. An exchange of views. Beyond that, I don't know." He gave the banker a wink. "Maybe you'd like to invest in the press."

Percgil passed again. Gavira noticed that his assistant looked more and more worried. The banker smiled. "I've been investing in the press for some time," he said. "But I haven't had to deal with someone like you before."

The journalist looked smug, conspiratorial. And Gavira thought to himself that Honorato Bonafe was just the kind of oily little man who turned up dead in the movies.

"What fascinates me about Europe," said Gris Marsala, "is its long history. You come to a place like this, look at a landscape, or lean against an old wall, and it's all there. Your past, your memories. You yourself."

"Is that why you're obsessed with this church?" asked Quart. "Not just with this church."

They were inside the portico, before the figure of Jesus with the real hair and dusty ex-votos hanging on the wall.

"Maybe you have to be American to understand," said the nun after a while. "Over there you sometimes get the feeling that all this was built by strange, alien people. Then one day you come here and you understand that it's part of your own history. That, through your ancestors, you placed these stones one on top of the other. Maybe that's why many of my countrymen are so fascinated by Europe." She smiled at Quart. "You turn a corner, and suddenly you remember. You thought you were orphaned, but it turns out you're not. That's why I don't want to go back."

She leaned against the wall, next to the stoup. As usual, her grey hair was plaited and she wore an old blue turtleneck that smelled slightly of sweat. She hooked her thumbs in the back pockets of her stained jeans.

"I was orphaned several times," she said. "And being an orphan means being a slave. Memories give you some security; you know who you are and where you're going. Or where you're not going. Without them you're at the mercy of the first person who comes along and calls you daughter. Don't you agree?" She waited for him to nod, and he nodded. "To defend one's memories is to defend one's freedom. Only angels have the luxury of being spectators."

Quart was thinking about die report on Gris Marsala that he'd received from Rome and that was now lying on his hotel desk, with certain paragraphs underlined in red. She had joined a religious order at eighteen. Studied architecture and fine art, at the University of California in Los Angeles, taking specialised courses in Seville, Madrid and Rome. A brilliant academic record. Seven years teaching art. Four years as director of a religious university college in Santa Barbara. A personal crisis, with health complications. Indefinite provisional dispensation from her order. Three years in Seville, where she earned her living teaching art students from the USA. Discreet, nothing special to report. She barely kept in contact with a local residence of the order to which she belonged. Living in private accommodadon. She hadn't requested to leave the order. The report didn't say whether she'd taken any computer courses.

Quart looked at the nun. Outside, in the square, the light was growing more intense and it was getting hot. He was grateful for the cool of the church. "So it's your recovered memories that keep you here."

"More or less." Gris Marsala smiled sadly, looking at the military medal tied to a wedding bouquet among the ex-votos, as if wondering who once held those flowers. "The Futurists," she said, "thought Venice should be blown up, in order to destroy the model. What seemed like a pretentious paradox then has now become a reality in architecture, literature… And in theology. Razing cities to the ground is an extreme example, a brutal way of hurrying things up. There are subtler methods."

"You and the others can't win this battle," Quart said gently.

"I and the others?" The nun was surprised. "We're not some kind of clan or sect. We're just people who have gathered around this church, each for their own personal reasons." She shook her head – it was obvious. "Take Father Oscar. He's young and has found a cause to fall in love with. It could just as easily have been a woman, or liberation theology. As for Don Priamo, he makes me think of that wonderful book, The Equinoctial Adventure of Lope de Aguirre by Ramon Sender, whom I heard lecture at the university. It's the story of a small, hard conquistador who limps from old wounds and is always in armour despite the heat because he trusts no one. Like him, Father Ferro is rebelling against an ungrateful, distant king and fighting his own personal battle. Isn't it amusing? Kings sent men like you to imprison or execute men like Aguirre." She sighed and was silent a moment. "I suppose it's inevitable."

"Tell me about Macarena."

On hearing the name, Gris Marsala looked closely at Quart. He bore her scrutiny. "Macarcna," she said, "is defending her own memories: a few mementoes, her great-aunt's trunk, and the books she read as a child that marked her deeply. She's struggling with what she herself, in moments of humour, calls the Buddenbrooks effect: the awareness of a dying world, the temptation to side with the parvenus in order to survive. The desperation of intelligence."

"Please go on."

"There's not much more to tell. It's all there for you to see." Gris Marsala pointed out of the door at the sun-filled square. "She inherited a world that no longer exists, that's all. She's another orphan clinging to the wreckage."

"And what part do I play in all of this?" He regretted it as soon as he'd said it, but she didn't seem to find it odd.

"I don't know," she said with a shrug. "You've become a witness." She thought a moment. "They're all so alone. I think they want you to understand, or, rather, they want those who sent you to understand. Just like Aguirre, who deep down wanted his king to understand him."

"What about Macarena?"

Gris Marsala considered the wounds on Quart's knuckles. "She likes you," she said simply. "As a man, I mean. I'm not surprised. I don't know if you're aware of it, but your presence in Seville gives everything a special quality. I imagine that she's trying to seduce you, in her own way." She smiled like a mischievous little boy. "I don't mean in the physical sense."

"Does that bother you?"

The nun glanced at him with curiosity. "Why should it? I'm not a lesbian, Father Quart. I say that in case you're concerned about the nature of my friendship with Macarena." She laughed. "As for men in general and good-looking priests in particular, I'm a virgin by vow and by choice."

Embarrassed, Quart glanced out at the square beyond the woman's shoulder. "What's going on between Macarena and her husband?" he asked.

"She loves him." She looked surprised, as if it was so obvious it needed no explanation. She smiled ironically at Quart. "Don't look like that, Father. It's obvious you don't spend much time in a confessional. You know nothing about women."

Quart went outside and the sun fell on his shoulders like a heavy cloak. Gris Marsala followed, skirting round a pile of sand and gravel, and stopped by the cement mixer. The priest looked up at the belfry covered with scaffolding, and his gaze stopped at the headless Virgin above the door. "I'd like to see your apartment, Sister Marsala."

"You surprise me." "I don't think so." There was a silence.

"I hate being called Sister Marsala. Or is that a way of making your request sound official? After all, you are proposing to visit the apartment of a nun who lives alone. Aren't you worried about what people will say? Monsignor Corvo, for instance. Or your bosses in Rome. Although of course you keep your bosses in Rome informed."

Quart didn't know whether to frown or laugh. In the end, he laughed. "It's only a suggestion," he said. "An idea. I'm trying to piece together the puzzle. Seeing how you live might help." He looked straight into her eyes. She realised that he meant it.

"I see. You're looking for clues."

"I am."

"Computers connected to Rome. That sort of thing." "Yes."

"And if I refuse, will you get in anyway, as you did with Don Priamo's quarters?" "How do you know about that?" "Father Oscar told me."

There was too much information circulating, thought Quart, annoyed. They all told one another everything in that strange little club. The only person who had to struggle for information was he. With the sun beating down mercilessly, he suddenly felt very tired; he was tempted to loosen his dog collar and take off his jacket. But he didn't.

Gris Marsala walked slowly round the cement mixer. "Why not?" she said at last with a thoughtful smile. "There hasn't been a man in my apartment in the three years I've lived there. It'll be interesting to see how it feels. I'll try not to throw myself at you the minute I shut the door. Will you defend yourself like Saint Maria Goretti, or will I have a chance with you? Although at my age I don't think I'd be much of a test of anyone's resolve. It's hard, you know, for any woman to realise that she's lost her looks for good." Her expression became harder now. "Especially for a nun."

"Make yourself comfortable," she said.

The irony was thick. There was little of comfort in the small sitting room of her apartment, on the third floor. The narrow balcony looked out on to the Calle San Jose near the Puerta de la Carne. It took them only ten minutes to get there from Our Lady of the Tears. With the sun beating down, the streets were like furnaces and the whitewashed walls dazzled. Seville was all light. White walls and light in every variation, thought Quart as he had walked with Gris Marsala, zigzagging in search of shade. It reminded him of when he and Monsignor Pavelic ran from shelter to shelter down the streets of Sarajevo, avoiding the snipers.

As he put his sunglasses away, he looked around the. room. Everything was immaculately clean and tidy. There was a sofa with crocheted antimacassars, a television, a small bookcase containing books and tapes, a desk with papers, folders and pots of pens. And a personal computer. Sensing Gris Marsala's eyes on him, he went to the PC: a 486 with a printer. Powerful enough to be Vespers', but it didn't have a modem, and the telephone was across the room. The telephone, also, had an old-fashioned fixed plug.

He ran an eye over the books and tapes. She had mainly baroque music, but there was also quite a lot of flamenco, both classical and modern, and all of Camaron's albums. The books were treatises on art and restoration, and studies of Seville. Two of them, The Baroque Architecture of Seville by Sancho Corbacho and Guide to the Art of Seville and Surrounding Provinces, were full of slips of paper covered with notes. The only religious work was a worn, leather-bound bible. On the wall hung a framed reproduction of The Chess Game by Pieter Van Huys.

"Guilty or innocent?" asked Gris Marsala.

"Innocent, for the moment," he answered. "Due to lack of evidence."

She laughed. As he turned to face her, smiling, he saw his reflection in a mirror on the wall opposite. With an old, beautiful frame of very dark wood, the mirror stood out in the modest apartment.

The nun followed the direction of his gaze. "Do you like it?" she asked.

"Very much."

"I lived on sandwiches for several months to save up for it." She looked at herself in the mirror, then went to the kitchen for two glasses of water.

"What's so special about it?" asked Quart when he'd drunk his water.

"The mirror?" Gris Marsala hesitated. "You could say it's a kind of personal revenge. A symbol. It's the only luxury I've allowed myself here." She gave Quart a sardonic look. "That, and letting a man into my apartment, even if he is a priest. I haven't weakened too many times in three years, have I? We nuns are very strict." She made a theatrical sigh, and they both grinned. She gestured around the room. "From the beginning, as a novice, you're taught that in a nun's cell mirrors are dangerous," she said. "According to the rules, your image can be reflected only in the rosary and in the prayer book. You own nothing: you receive your habit, your underwear, even your sanitary towels from the hands of the community. If you're to save your soul, there must be no show of individuality or personal choice."

She went over to the window and opened the blind a little. Sunlight flooded in, making Quart squint.

"I've followed the rules all my life," she said. "And I've continued to do so here in Seville, despite this minor infringement of my vow of poverty. I had a problem. Macarena said she told you. A disease of the spirit more than of the flesh. I was the director of a university college for girls. I never exchanged a word with the archbishop of my diocese about anything but professional matters. Yet I fell in love with him, or thought I did, which is the same thing… And the day I found myself, aged forty, applying makeup in front of the mirror because he was coming, I realised what had happened." She showed the scar on her wrist to Quart. "It wasn't attempted suicide, as my colleagues suspected, but a fit of rage. Of desperation. When I came out of hospital and asked my superiors for advice, all they recommended was prayer, discipline and the example of our sister Saint Therese of Lisieux."

She was silent a moment, rubbing her wrist as if trying to erase the scar. "Do you remember Saint Therese, Father?" she asked. The priest nodded. "She had tuberculosis and slept in a freezing cell but never complained and never asked for a blanket. The good Lord rewarded her for her suffering by taking her unto Him at the age of twenty-four!"

She laughed quietly, wrinkling up her eyes. She must have been attractive once, thought Quart. In a way she still was. He wondered how many members of a religious order, male or female, could have done what she did.

Gris Marsala took a seat in the armchair while Quart remained standing. She smiled at him bitterly. "Have you ever visited a nuns' cemetery, Father Quart? Rows of small, identical headstones. And engraved on them, their adopted names, not the ones they were baptised with. They were members of an order; nothing else counts before God. They're the saddest tombs you'll ever see. Like a war cemetery with thousands of crosses with the inscription 'unknown'. They are so unbearably lonely, and seem to ask, what was it all for?"

Quart spoke cautiously, a hunter trying not to scare his prey.' "Those are the rules. You knew them when you took your vows."

"When I took my vows, I didn't know the meaning of words like 'repression', 'intolerance', and 'ignorance'. Those are the true rules. It's like Orwell's 1984: Big Sister's watching you. And the younger and more attractive you are, the worse it is. The gossiping, the cliques, best friends, envy, jealousy… You know the old saying: they come together without knowing one another, they live without loving one another, they die without mourning one another… If I ever stop believing in God, I hope at least I'll go on believing in the Last Judgement. I'd love to find some of my fellow nuns and all my superiors there!"

"Why did you become a nun?"

"This is turning into a confession. I didn't bring you here to unload my conscience. Why did you become a priest? Was it the usual story: a repressive father and over-affectionate mother?"

Quart shook his head. This wasn't the way he wanted the conversation to go. "My father died when I was very young," he said.

"Right. Another case of oedipal transference, as dirty old Freud would have said."

"I don't think so. I also considered joining the army."

"How literary. The scarlet and black." She played with the antimacassar. "My father was a jealous, domineering man. I was afraid of disappointing him. If you take a close look at many women's vocations, especially those of pretty girls, you'll often find long-term anxiety caused by the continual warnings of their fathers: all men want only one thing, and so on. From childhood lots of nuns are taught, as I was, to be careful with men and not lose control in front of them. You'd be surprised how many nuns' sexual fantasies involve beauty and the beast."

They regarded each other in silence for some time. Quart felt there was now fellow feeling between them based on awareness that they were in the same job. The strange and painful solidarity that arose between clerics in a difficult world.

"What can a nun do when she realises, at the age of forty, that she's still that little girl dominated by her father?" Gris Marsala went on. "A child who, out of the intense desire not to displease him, not to commit any sin, has committed the even greater sin of not really living her own life. Is it wise, or is it stupid and irresponsible, at eighteen, to renounce worldly love, and with it trust, surrender, sex? What is a woman to do when these feelings come too late?"

"I don't know," Quart said. He was friendly, sincere now. "I'm only a low-ranking priest. I don't have many answers." He considered the room, the modest furniture and the computer. "Break a mirror, perhaps, and then buy another. That takes courage."

"Perhaps," replied Gris Marsala. "But the woman in the mirror isn't the same." There was pain in her eyes when she looked up at Quart. "There are few things in life as tragic as awakening to the truth too late."

They were waiting for him at the Casa Cuesta Bar, punctual as always, sitting at a table under the sign for the Seville-Sanlucar-Coast steam train, around a bottle of La Ina sherry.

"You're a disaster," said Celestino Peregil. "You're making me look really bad."

Don Ibrahim frowned at the embers of his cigar, which were about to drop on to his white waistcoat. He pulled nervously on the ends of his singed moustache while Peregil let rip. Beside him, El Potro del Mantelete stared intently at his left hand, still bandaged, resting on the table. La Nina Punales seemed to be the only one indifferent to their common shame, her vacant eyes fixed on a yellowed poster on the wall – LINARES BULLRING, 1947, GITANILLO DE TRIANA, DOMINGUIN AND MANOLETE. Her long, emaciated brown hands had nails as red as her lips and coral earrings, and her silver bracelets jangled every time she filled her glass. She'd drunk half the bottle herself.

"It was really stupid of me to give you this job," said Peregil. He was furious, felt sick, and his tie was crooked. His face looked greasy, and his elaborate comb-over hairdo was in disarray. Just an hour ago, Gavira had hauled him over the coals. Results, imbecile. I pay you to get results, and for a week you've just been messing around. I gave you six million for this job, and we haven't got anywhere. Now, on top of that, there's this journalist, Bonafe, sticking his nose in things. Oh, and by the way, Peregil, when we get a moment, you can tell me what your business is with that creep. You can explain it to me really slowly, because I think there's something I don't know about. Now, you have till Wednesday. Understand? Wednesday. Because on Thursday I want no one in that church, not even God. Otherwise you're going to be shitting out the six million, bit by bit. You're a cretin, Peregil, a complete cretin."

"Dealing with priests brings bad luck," said Don Ibrahim.

Peregil, glaring at him, said, "You're the ones who bring bad luck."

"The business with the petrol," remarked La Niiia, "was a warning from God. The flames of hell." She was reading the poster for Manolete's last bullfight. Don Ibrahim looked tenderly at her Gypsy profile and smudged makeup, and once again felt the weight of responsibility. El Potro was waiting like a faithful dog. PeregiPs comment that they brought bad luck had probably only just sunk in. Don Ibrahim gave El Potro a reassuring look. "A warning from God," he said, echoing La Nina, out of respect and from lack of anything better to say.

uOthu.n

"Does that mean you're backing out?" asked Peregil. "Nobody's backing out," Don Ibrahim said with dignity, placing his hand on his chest. As he did so, ash dropped on to his paunch. "Nobody," repeated El Potro.

"So what are you going to do?" asked Peregil. "We're running out of time. There must be no Mass in that church this Thursday."

The former bogus lawyer raised a hand. "Let us weigh and consider," he said. "Though we may, for reasons of conscience, have decided not to strike at a sacred building, there's nothing to prevent or impede us from dealing with the human element." He drew on his cigar and watched a ring of Cuban smoke float away. "I refer to the priest."

"Which of the three?"

"The parish priest." Don Ibrahim smiled confidently. "According to intelligence gathered by La Nina around the neighbourhood and among the parishioners, the assistant priest is leaving tomorrow – Tuesday – so the parish priest will be alone." His sad, red eyes, lacking lashes since the petrol incident, rested on Pencho Gavira's henchman. "Do you follow, my friend?"

"Yes," said Peregil, shifting in his chair. "But I'm not sure where this is leading."

"You don't want a Mass there on Thursday, right?"

"Right."

"No priest, no Mass."

"Yes. But the other day you told me your conscience didn't allow you to break the old guy's legs. And while we're on the subject, I'm sick of your conscience."

Don Ibrahim looked round and lowered his voice cautiously. "We don't have to go that far. Imagine that this priest, this venerable minister of the Lord, disappears for two or three days without suffering any physical damage."

A faintly hopeful smile broke on the henchman's face. "Could you see to that?"

"Of course." Don Ibrahim drew on his cigar. "A clean operation. No blood, no broken bones. But it'll cost you a little more."

"How much more?" asked Peregil, suspicious.

"Oh, not much." Don Ibrahim shot a glance at his companions and hazarded a sum. "Half a million each for accommodation and food."

Four and a half million was nothing at this point, so Peregil agreed. His financial situation was dire, but if this worked, Gavira wouldn't quibble at the extra sum.

"What have you got in mind?" asked Peregil.

Don Ibrahim looked out of the window at the narrow white arch of the Callejon de la Inquisicion, reluctant to give details. Feeling very hot despite the chilled wine, he picked up La Nina's fan and fanned himself. "There's a place on the river," he said. "The boat where El Potro lives. We could keep the priest there till Friday, if you like."

Peregil glanced at El Potro's vacant face and arched his eyebrows. "Will it work?"

Don Ibrahim nodded, gravely. "It'll work."

Like all men desperate to be reassured, Peregil calmed down. He took out a packet of American cigarettes and lit one. "Sure you won't harm the priest?" he asked. "What if he puts up a fight?"

"Please." Don Ibrahim glanced anxiously at La Nina and placed his hand on El Potro's shoulder. "An elderly priest. A man of God."

Peregil nodded. They had to make sure to keep an eye on the priest from Rome, and, er, the lady, he reminded them. And photographs. Above all, they mustn't forget the photographs. "It's not a bad plan," added Peregil. "How did you get the idea?"

Stroking what was left of his moustache, Don Ibrahim smiled, looking both gratified and modest. "From a film they showed on TV last night: The Prisoner of Zenda."

"I think I've seen it," said Peregil, readjusting his hair to hide his bald patch. He signalled for the waiter to bring a second bottle. "Is that the one where the guy is put in prison by his friends, then he finds treasure and gets his revenge?"

Don Ibrahim shook his head as the waiter poured the fino. "No," he said. "That's The Count of Monte Cristo. The one I mean is where the evil brother kidnaps the king, so he can be king himself. But then Stewart Granger comes along and saves him."

"Well, isn't that something." Peregil nodded, pleased. "It's a real education watching TV."

It wasn't only in his personality that Honorato Bonafe possessed certain pig-like qualities. By the time he reached the portico, sweat poured down his pink double chin, soaking his collar. He mopped his face with his handkerchief as he took in the ex-votos hanging on the wall, the pews piled up to one side of the nave, and the scaffolding.

It was late afternoon in Santa Cruz. The light filtering through the damaged windows was gold and red, bathing the chipped and dusty carvings in a strange haze. Two angels stared into space, and the shadowy figures of the dukes of El Nuevo Extremo, kneeling in prayer, seemed alive.

Bonafe walked forward uncertainly, looking round at the vault, the pulpit and the confessional, whose door was open. There was no one there or in the vestry. He went up to the gate of the crypt and looked down the steps into the darkness. He turned to the altar. The figure of the Virgin was there in her niche, surrounded by scaffolding. Bonafe stood looking at her for a moment and then, with the determined air of one who has planned his move, he climbed the ladder to the figure, some five metres above the ground. The reddish light from the windows illuminated the foreshortened baroque carving, the heart pierced with daggers, the eyes of our Lady of Sorrows raised to heaven. And on her cheeks, blue mantle and crown of stars gleamed Captain Xaloc's pearls.

Bonafe took out his handkerchief, again mopped the sweat on his brow and neck, and dusted the pearls. He peered at them closely. He took a small penknife from his pocket. He gently scraped one of the pearls set into the mantle and stared at it thoughtfully. Then he carefully prised it out. It was about the size of a chickpea. He held it in his palm for a moment, then put it in his jacket pocket with a satisfied smile.

In the deserted nave, the evening light filtered in past the torsoless Christ on the damaged window, reddening the drops of sweat on Bonafe's flabby face. He mopped it yet again with his handkerchief. At that moment he heard a gentle rustle behind him and felt the scaffolding move very slightly.