The Seville Communion (44 page)

Peregil steadied himself by the table, making sure he didn't look at the food, and smiled faintly. "The old man's tough," he said.

"Othu
"
said La Nina. "Bloody tough." She was crocheting, her fingers moving quickly, her bracelets jangling. From time to time she put the work down and had a swig of her Manzanilla, the half-empty bottle within arm's reach. Her mascara had run in the heat, and her lipstick was smeared. Her long coral earrings swung as the boat rocked.

Don Ibrahim arched his eyebrows approvingly at La Nina's remark. She wasn't exaggerating. They'd gone to nab the old priest after midnight, in the alley leading to the garden gate of the Casa del Postigo, and it took some doing to get a blanket over his head, tie his hands and bundle him into the van - rented for twenty-four hours -waiting on the corner. In the scuffle, Don Ibrahim's walking stick was snapped in two, El Potro received a black eye and La Nina lost two fillings. You wouldn't have believed what a fight the little old man put up.

Peregil was nervous as well as seasick. Manhandling a priest and keeping him out of circulation for a few days wasn't likely to be viewed sympathetically by a judge. Don Ibrahim was having doubts too, but he knew it was too late to go back now. Besides, this was all his idea. Men like him went forward bravely. On top of that, the four and a half million they'd get for the job wasn't to be sniffed at.

Like Don Ibrahim, Peregil had removed his jacket. But unlike Don Ibrahim's white shirt, Peregil's shirt was a lurid combination of blue and white stripes with a sweat-stained salmon-pink collar, and his tie, patterned with green, red and mauve chrysanthemums, looked like a dead bouquet. "I hope you'll stick to the plan," he said.

Don Ibrahim looked offended. He and his colleagues were conducting this operation with razor-sharp precision - if you discounted little episodes like El Potro's contretemps with the petrol, or the unfortunate propensity of film to be ruined by exposure to light. Anyway, the plan was nothing special. It was just a question of holding on to the priest for another day and a half and then letting him go. It was easy, inexpensive, and had a certain elegance. Stewart Granger, James Mason, Ronald Colman and Douglas Fairbanks Jr.

would have approved. Don Ibrahim, El Potro and La Nina had rented videos for research purposes.

"As for renumeration . . ." The former bogus lawyer tactfully left the sentence unfinished, concentrating on lighting his cigar. Men of honour didn't discuss money. Peregil wouldn't know what honour was if it hit him in the face, but that was no reason not to give him the benefit of the doubt. So Don Ibrahim held his lighter to the Montecristo, took the first, delicious draw, and waited for Peregil to speak.

"When you let the priest go," Peregil said, "I'll pay the three of you. A million and a half each, excluding VAT." He laughed quietly at his own joke and mopped his forehead again. La Nina looked up from her crocheting for a moment, and Don Ibrahim squinted at Peregil through the cigar smoke. He didn't like the man or his laugh, and suddenly he had the awful suspicion that Peregil might not have the money to pay them. With a sigh, he pulled his watch from his jacket. It was hard being a leader, he thought. Pretending you were confident, giving orders in a steady voice, hiding your doubts with a gesture, a glance, a smile. Maybe Xenophon - he of the five hundred thousand - or Columbus, or Pizarro when he drew a line in the sand with his sword, maybe they too had experienced this feeling of having the ladder whipped away from under you and being left dangling cartoon-like from the ceiling.

Don Ibrahim looked tenderly at La Nina. The only thing that worried him about going to prison was that they would be apart. Who would look after her then? Without El Potro, without Don Ibrahim to go
oli
when she sang, to praise her cooking, to take her to the Maestranza bullring, to give her his arm when she'd had a bit too much to drink, the poor thing would die like a bird out of its cage. And what about the
tablao
they wanted to set up for her?

"Take over from El Potro, Nina."

She finished her Manzanilla, stood up, smoothed her polka-dot dress and looked through the porthole. Beyond the geraniums planted in old cans - wilting even though El Potro watered them every afternoon - she could see the old quay, a couple of tethered boats and, in the background, the Torre del Oro and San Telmo Bridge. "No Moors in sight," she said.

Taking her crocheting with her, she crossed the cabin, her starched flounces bouncing, and left behind a heady fragrance of Maderas de Oriente, which made Peregil visibly queasy. When she opened the cabin door, Don Ibrahim caught a glimpse of the priest: sitting on a chair, facing away, one of La Nina's silk scarves tied around his eyes, his wrists bound to the back of the chair with thick tape bought the previous afternoon from a pharmacy in the Calle Pureza. He was as they'd left him, unmoving, closed off, not saying a word except when asked if he wanted a sandwich, a little glass of something, or to take a piss. Then he would tell them to go to hell.

La Nina went in and El Potro came out, closing the door behind him.

"How's he doing?" asked Peregil. "Who?"

El Potro stopped by the table, looking perplexed, his eye the worse for wear after the trouble last night. His lean, hard pectorals, glossy with sweat, were outlined beneath his vest. His left forearm was still bandaged. On his right shoulder, next to the vaccination mark, he had a tattoo of a woman's head, in blue, with an illegible name beneath. Don Ibrahim had never asked if it was the name of the unfaithful one who caused his downfall, and El Potro had never referred to it. Maybe he didn't remember. Anyway, their private lives were their business.

"The priest," said Peregil faintly. "How's he doing?"

Frowning, the former bullfighter and boxer pondered the question. At last he looked at Don Ibrahim, like a hound who, receiving a command from a stranger, seeks confirmation from his master.

"Fine," he answered when he saw no objection in his boss's eyes. "Sits still and doesn't say a word."

"He hasn't asked any questions?"

El Potro rubbed his squashed nose, trying to remember. Perhaps the heat made it hard for him to think. "No," he said. "I unbuttoned his cassock a bit so he could breathe, but he didn't say anything."

"It's to be expected," put in Don Ibrahim. "He's a man of the church. This is an attack on his dignity." He shook ash from his shirt front, while El Potro nodded slowly, staring at the closed door as if he'd just resolved something that had been bothering him.

"I'm going," Peregil said, pale and sweaty. With the cigar smoke and the rocking, he couldn't take it any more. "Stick to my instructions." He started to get up, automatically smoothing his hair over his bald patch. At that moment, the
Lovely
rocked as another tourist boat went by, and Peregil obsessively watched the ray of sun enter the porthole, move from starboard to port, and return. He gasped for air, and turned to Don Ibrahim and El Potro with wild eyes. "Excuse me," he said in a stifled voice, then rushed for the door.

It was the worst lunch of his life. Gavira barely touched the cuttlefish with broad beans and the grilled salmon. He just managed to get to the dessert with his smile intact and without jumping up every five minutes to phone his secretary, who was desperately trying to get hold of Peregil. The banker lost the thread several times right in the middle of a sentence, with the board members of the Cartujano waiting for him to finish an explanation. Only with a tremendous effort of will was he able to get through the ordeal gracefully. He needed time to think, to devise plans and solutions to the problems raised by his henchman's absence; but there was no time. This meeting was crucial to his future; he couldn't neglect his lunch guests. He had to fight on two fronts, like Napoleon against the British and Prussian armies at Waterloo. He smiled, sipped his Rioja, presented his point of view, lit a cigarette, while his mind was working frantically. The board members were gradually coming over to his side, but he was growing seriously worried at the lack of news from Peregil. His assistant must have had something to do with the priest's disappearance and might also be involved in Bonafé's death. The thought made Gavira break into a cold sweat, but he put on a brave face. A lesser man would have sobbed on the tablecloth.

The head waiter made his way between the tables, and it was clear from his face that he was coming to tell Gavira something. Suppressing the urge to jump up from his chair, Gavira finished his sentence, stubbed out his cigarette, took a sip of water, wiped his mouth with a napkin, and only then stood up, saying to the board members with a smile, "Would you excuse me a moment?"

He went to the lobby, his hands in his pockets to stop their trembling. His stomach lurched when he caught sight of Peregil, whose hair was in disarray and who was wearing a horrendous tie.

"I've got good news," said the henchman.

They were alone. Gavira husded him into the gents, locking the door behind them when he was sure there was no one else there. "Where have you been? he said.

"Making sure there's no Mass tomorrow," said Peregil, with a smug smile.

Gavira could have killed his assistant then and there, with his bare hands. "What have you done, you bastard?"

Peregil’s smile faded. He blinked. "What do you think?" he stammered. "I did what you told me. I neutralised the priest."

"The priest?"

In the neon light, Peregil’s bald head shone beneath the scraggly strands of hair. "Yes," he said. "Some friends of mine have put him out of circulation until the day after tomorrow. He's perfectly safe." He stared at his boss, bewildered.

"When was this?" Gavira asked.

"Last night," Peregil answered, hazarding a timid smile. "He's in a safe place and being treated well. They'll let him go on Friday, and that'll be that."

"What about the other one?"

"What other one?"

"Bonafé. The journalist."

"Oh, that one." Peregil flushed, and looked shaken. "Look, I can explain. It's a complicated story, but I can explain everything, I swear."

Gavira felt a wave of panic. If his assistant was involved in Honorato Bonafé's death, Gavira's problems were only just beginning. He paced about, trying to think. But the white tiles made his mind go blank. He turned to Peregil and said, "Well, it had better be good. The police are looking for the priest."

Oddly, Peregil didn't seem particularly surprised. In fact, he looked relieved. "They're quick," he said. "But don't you worry."

Gavira couldn't believe what he'd just heard. "Not worry?"

"No. It'll only cost five or six million more."

Gavira pushed his henchman against the washbasin. He didn't know whether to punch his face or ask him another question. Controlling himself, he said, "Are you serious, Peregil?"

"Yes. You have nothing to worry about." "You're joking, aren't you?"

"I wouldn't joke with you, boss. I'd never do that."

Gavira closed his eyes. "You come and tell me that you've kidnapped a priest who's wanted for murder and I'm not to worry?"

"What do you mean, wanted for murder?" asked Peregil, suddenly quiet.

"Just what I said."

The henchman looked around and checked that the door was locked. Again he asked Gavira, "What murder?"

"A murder in the church, and your damn priest is the prime suspect."

Peregil gave a short, desperate laugh. "Don't joke like that, boss."

Gavira came so close that Peregil almost had to sit in the washbasin. "Look at me. Do I look like I'm joking?"

Peregil was now as white as the tiles. "A murder?" he asked.

"That's right. And they think the priest did it."

"Before or after we nabbed him?"

"How the hell should I know? Before, I suppose."

Peregil swallowed with difficulty. "I haven't quite got this clear, boss. Who was murdered?"

Gavira left Peregil throwing up in the gents. He took his leave of the board members and climbed into his Mercedes. He told the chauffeur to turn on the air-conditioning and go and get himself a drink. Cellular phone in hand, he tried to think. He was sure his assistant had told him the truth. Now that his initial panic was over, he could see new problems. He didn't know if it was a series of coincidences or whether Peregil’s people had really happened to kidnap the priest shortly after he did away with the journalist. The fact that the police had established that the hour of death had been early evening and that the priest hadn't been kidnapped - according to Macarena and the priest from Rome -until after midnight left Priamo Ferro without an alibi. This changed everything. Guilty or not, the priest was a suspect, and the police were looking for him. Holding on to him, therefore, was risky. Gavira was sure the priest could be set free without jeopardising his own plans. In fact, it suited him rather well: Father Ferro would be kept pretty busy with the interrogation. If Gavira's men let him go this evening, it was a sure thing there wouldn't be Mass at Our Lady of the Tears the following day. The trick would be returning the priest to public life cleanly, without a scandal. Whether the priest fled or turned himself in after that, Gavira didn't care. One way or another, Priamo Ferro would be out of circulation for a while. An anonymous call might help. The archbishop of Seville wouldn't be in a hurry to find a replacement. As for Don Octavio, it would be all the same to him.

The question of Macarena still had to be resolved, but Gavira could benefit from the new situation. It would be perfect if he could convince her that he'd had the priest set free as a favour to her, that Peregil had got a bit carried away in kidnapping the old man but that Gavira himself had had nothing to do with it. With the matter of Bonafé hanging over them all, and in particular over her dear Don Priamo, she would be careful to be discreet. There might even be some sort of reconciliation between them. Macarena and the priest from Rome could take charge of the parish priest with or without the police. Gavira didn't really have anything against the old man, but with a bit of luck, he was now as doomed as his church.