"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 archbisho
p 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 Bonafé, from Q&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 Bonafé 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," Bonafé said, "on that church you're so interested in." "What do you mean?"
Bonafé 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, Bonafé 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 Bonafé. "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. Bonafé 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 Bonafé, 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?"
Bonafé's smile was insolent. "Well. You would have control over the information. You'd be giving your side of things." Bonafé 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.''