The Seville Communion (46 page)

Quart hesitated only a moment. He didn't like the idea of the old priest's going from the hands of the kidnappers straight into the hands of Deputy Superintendent Navajo. Quart had to talk to him first. "We should go in," he said, nodding at the
Lovely.

"Let's do it, then," said Macarena, resolute.

"One moment," said Quart. "We need to know first what we'll find there."

Gavira told him. According to Peregil's reports, there were three. A fat man of about fifty was the boss. There was also a woman and a former boxer. The boxer might be dangerous.

"Do you know the layout of the boat?"

Gavira didn't, but it was the usual type of tourist boat: an upper deck with several rows of seats, a bridge in the bow, and, below deck, half a dozen cabins and an engine room. The boat had obviously been out of service for some time.

The ghosts that had troubled Quart over the last few hours gradually dispersed. The night, the boat in darkness, the imminent confrontation, all filled him with an almost childishly pleasant sense of anticipation. He was in control, back on familiar territory. He even discovered in Pencho Gavira an unexpected comrade in arms, and his dislike of the man diminished. No doubt the dislike would return tomorrow, but for tonight at least, the Knight Templar had an ally. Quart appreciated the fact that Gavira had come on foot, alone, and was now preparing to board the
Lovely
without superfluous words.

"Let's go," said Macarena impatiently. At that moment she couldn't have cared less about either man. Her only concern was the boat.

Gavira looked at Quart. His teeth shone white in the darkness. "After you, Father," he said.

They approached, careful not to make any noise. The boat was tied to the quay with two ropes, one to the bow and one to the stern. Crossing the gangway stealthily, they found a deck littered with coils of rope, old lifebelts, tyres, tables and chairs. Quart switched his wallet to his trouser pocket, removed his jacket, and left it folded on one of the seats. Gavira silently followed suit.

They crossed the upper deck. For a moment they thought they heard movement beneath their feet, and the quay became faintly illuminated, as if someone had opened a porthole to look out. Quart held his breath and trod softly. Blood pounded in his ears; he tried to calm himself so he could hear everything around him. He came to the bridge, where the helm and instruments were under canvas covers. Leaning against the bulkhead, he listened. The place smelled dirty and abandoned. Macarena and Gavira stood tense beside him. The banker looked questioningly at Quart. Macarena frowned; from the determination on her face, you'd have thought she'd been raiding boats in the middle of the night all her life. From behind the door came the muffled sound of a radio.

"If there's trouble, we take a man each," whispered Quart. "Macarena can see to Father Ferro."

"What about the woman?" asked Gavira.

"I don't know. We'll see if she does anything and deal with it then."

They discussed the situation in hushed voices. The banker said he would speak for Peregil and try to resolve things amicably. They quickly weighed pros and cons. The problem, of course, was that the kidnappers were expecting money and Gavira only had his credit cards. Regretting now that they hadn't called the police, Quart reviewed tactics. If they tried the friendly approach, there would be a lot of talking. A raid entailed speed, surprise, violence. The idea was not to give their opponents time to think, to stun them. And should the worst happen, he hoped that God - or whoever was on duty that night - would make sure there weren't any casualties.

"Let's go in."

This is ridiculous, he thought. Then he picked up a heavy metal bar, took a deep breath, and opened the door. He wondered whether he should also have made the sign of the Cross.

Don Ibrahim spilled his coffee down his trousers. The tall priest had materialised in the doorway, in shirtsleeves, with a nasty metal bar in his hand. Don Ibrahim struggled to his feet and now saw another man behind the priest, dark and good-looking, and he recognised the banker Gavira. Then the young duchess appeared.

"Please stay calm," said the tall priest. "We've come to talk."

Still in his vest, the Spanish Legion tattoo on his shoulder glossy with sweat, El Potro del Mantelete sat up in his bunk and put his bare feet on the floor. He looked at Don Ibrahim as if asking whether this visit was scheduled or not.

"Peregil sent us," announced Gavira. "Everything's in order."

If everything was in order, thought Don Ibrahim, they wouldn't have been there, Peregil would be putting four and a half million on the table, and the tall priest wouldn't be holding that metal bar. Something had gone wrong. He glanced over the shoulders of the three new arrivals, expecting the police to appear any moment.

"We need to talk," said the tall priest.

What Don Ibrahim, La Nina, and El Potro needed to do was get the hell out of there. But La Nina was next door with the old priest, and leaving wouldn't be that easy - because, among other things, three people were blocking the exit. Damn his luck, he thought. Damn it and all the Peregils and all the priests in the world. He knew getting involved with cassocks would bring bad luck. He was an idiot - it had been obvious from the start.

"There's been a misunderstanding," Don Ibrahim said, playing for time.

The priest's face was stony; with his dog collar, the metal bar in his hand was as incongruous as a couple of pistols in the hands of Jesus. Don Ibrahim leaned on the table, while El Potro watched him like a dog awaiting orders. If only he could protect La Nina, Don Ibrahim thought. And make sure she wasn't implicated if the worst happened.

Events made his decision for him. The young duchess looked around, her eyes flashing. "Where are you keeping him?" she demanded. Not waiting for an answer, she took a couple of steps to the closed door of the cabin. That young lady was certainly pretty mad, thought Don Ibrahim. Instinctively, El Potro stood up, blocking her way. He looked hesitantly at his colleague, but Don Ibrahim didn't know how to react. At that moment, the banker moved as if to defend the woman, and El Potro, more decisive with regard to an adult male, shot him a left hook that threw him against the bulkhead. After that things became complicated. As if a bell had rung somewhere in his battered memory, El Potro held up his fists and started to bounce around the cabin, striking out in all directions, ready to defend his bantamweight title. Gavira was flung against a cupboard full of tin cups that came crashing down, the young duchess ducked to avoid one of El Potro's right-handers and made for the cabin where the old priest was being held, and Don Ibrahim started shouting for everyone to calm down. Nobody listened.

La Nina, hearing the noise, came out to see what was going on and slammed into the young duchess, while Gavira, no doubt seeking revenge for El Potro's punch, advanced on Don Ibrahim, looking none too friendly. The tall priest looked hesitantly at the metal bar in his hand, threw it to the ground and stepped back to avoid El Potro, who was still striking out at anything that moved, including his own shadow.

"Stop!" pleaded Don Ibrahim. "Stop!"

La Nina became hysterical, pushed the young duchess, and rushed at the banker as if to scratch his eyes out. Gavira stopped her dead with a very ungentlemanly punch that flung her back into the cabin, flounces and polka dots flying, right at the feet of the old priest, who was blindfolded and tied to a chair. At this, Don Ibrahim forgot his conciliatory intentions. The former bogus lawyer overturned the table, lowered his head as Kid Tunero and Don Ernesto Hemingway had taught him in the Floridita Bar in Havana, and yelling "Viva Zapata!" - it was the first thing that entered his head - he flung his hundred and ten kilos at the banker, taking him crashing to the other side of the cabin. Just then, El Potro hit the priest in the face with a left hook, the priest grabbed the lamp to keep himself from falling, the electric cord sparked as it was pulled from the socket, and the boat was plunged into darkness.

"Nina! Potro!" shouted Don Ibrahim, gasping from the struggle and letting go of the banker.

Something shattered. The darkness was filled with cries and blows. Someone, perhaps the tall priest, fell on top of Don Ibrahim and elbowed him in the face so hard that he saw stars. The bastard wasn't turning the other cheek. With blood trickling from his nose, Don Ibrahim crawled away, dragging his belly. It was dreadfully hot and he could hardly breathe. El Potro appeared for a moment as a dark shadow in the doorway, still striking out to left and right, in a world of his own. More blows and curses came from various directions, and something broke with a great splintering of wood. A high-heeled shoe trod on Don Ibrahim's hand, and then a body fell on top of him. He immediately recognised the flouncy dress and fragrance of Maderas de Oriente.

"The door, Nina! Run to the door!"

He struggled to his feet, let loose a punch - missing - at someone who got in his way, grabbed La Nina by the hand, and dragged her up on deck. El Potro was already out there, bouncing around the helm. Don Ibrahim, heart pounding, exhausted, certain he would have a coronary at any moment, took El Potro by the arm and, still gripping La Nina's hand, pulled them both to the ladder and dry land. There, pushing them ahead of him, he managed to steer them along the quay. La Nina was weeping. Beside her, his head down and breathing through his nose - left, right - El Potro del Mantelete did battle with the shadows.

They took Father Ferro up on deck and sat there, enjoying the cool evening air after their skirmish. With the torch they'd found, Quart could see Gavira's swollen cheek and right eye almost closed, Macarena's dirty face with a scratch on her forehead, and the scruffy figure of the old priest, his cassock wrongly buttoned and two days of stubble covering his scarred face. Quart himself wasn't in much better shape: the man who looked like a boxer had got in a good punch just before the lamp went out. Quart's jaw was now stiff, and his ears buzzed. He prodded a tooth with the tip of his tongue and thought he could feel it move.

It was a strange situation: the deck of the
Lovely
littered with broken seats, the lights of the Arenal above the parapet, the Torre del Oro illuminated beyond the acacias downriver. And Gavira, Macarena and he in a semicircle around Father Ferro, who had not said a single word. The old priest stared at the black river, as if he were far away.

Gavira was the first to speak. Precise and calm, he put his jacket round his shoulders. Without denying that he was responsible, he said that Peregil had misunderstood his instructions. That was why he was here now, trying to set things right if he could. He was prepared to offer the old priest compensation, which included tearing Peregil to shreds when he laid hands on him; but he made it clear that this didn't change his attitude towards the church. The two matters were completely separate. He paused to feel his swollen cheek and light a cigarette. "In which case," he added after a moment's thought, "I'm no longer involved in this." That was all he said.

Macarena spoke next, giving the old priest a detailed account of everything that had happened since his disappearance. Father Ferro listened without any sign of emotion, even when she told him that Honorato Bonafé was dead and the police suspected Father Ferro of the murder. This was Quart's area. Father Ferro turned to him and waited.

"The problem is," said Quart, "you have no alibi."

By the light of the torch, the old priest's eyes were sunken and inscrutable. "Why should I need an alibi?" he asked.

"Well," said Quart, leaning forwards, his elbows on his knees, "there's a crucial period, between seven or seven thirty in the evening until about nine o'clock. It depends what time you closed the church. If you had any witnesses to what you were doing during that time, it would be wonderful." He waited for the priest to answer, observing how hard the old man's face looked.

"There are no witnesses," said Father Ferro.

He seemed not to care. Quart and Gavira exchanged a glance. The banker remained silent. Quart sighed.

"This makes things difficult," he said. "Macarena and I can testify that you arrived at the Casa del Postigo shortly after eleven, and that there was absolutely nothing suspicious in your behaviour. Gris Marsala can confirm that everything happened as usual until seven thirty. I assume that the first thing the police will ask you is how you could have failed to notice Bonafé in the confessional. But you didn't go into the church, did you? That's the most logical explanation. We have a lawyer for you, and I assume he'll ask you to confirm that point." "Why should I?"

Quart looked at him with exasperation. "What can I say? It's the most credible version. It'll be harder to assert your innocence if you tell them you locked the church knowing there was a dead man inside."

Father Ferro remained impassive, as if it had nothing to do with him. Quart went on to remind him that the days were long gone when the authorities accepted the word of a priest as gospel. Particularly when corpses turned up in his church. But the old man paid no attention, glancing at Macarena or staring silently at the black river.

"Tell me. What would suit Rome?" Father Ferro said at last.

This was the last thing Quart expected to hear. He became impatient. "Forget Rome. You're not that important. There will be a scandal anyway. Imagine, a priest accused of murder, and in his own church."

Father Ferro scratched his chin. He seemed almost amused. "Good," he said at last. "Then what has happened suits everyone. You get rid of the church," he said to Gavira, "and you and Rome" - to Quart - "get rid of me."

Macarena stood up. "Please don't say that, Don Priamo," she said. "There are people who need that church, and who need you. I need you. And so does the duchess." She stared defiantly at her husband. "And tomorrow's Thursday."

For a moment Father Ferro's face softened. "I know," he replied. "But things are out of my hands now. Tell me one thing, Father Quart. Do you believe I'm innocent?"