“Why do I get the feeling that you’re not telling me everything?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think I’ve left out anything relevant.”

“To conclude, the search of the car that was allegedly used for—let’s call it the getaway—provides no final evidence beyond a few signs of nonfatal violence and a supposed list of numbers that we can’t link to anything and that possibly has no connection with the case. On the other hand, we continue with your insistence on the matter of the book by this man called Mataix, a line of inquiry that I worry will lead only to a series of fascinating bibliographical mysteries of zero use in finding Mauricio Valls.”

“Any news about the official police investigation?” asked Alicia, hoping to shift the course of the conversation.

“There’s no relevant news, and there isn’t expected to be any. Suffice it to say that some don’t look kindly on the fact that we’ve been invited to the party, even if it was through the back door.”

“Is that why I’m being watched?”

“For that reason, and because they probably can’t believe that we will, of course, be pleased to see our friends in the police take all the glory and medals the day we find the minister safe and sound, and hand him over to them, tied up with a red bow.”

“If we find him, that is.”

“Is your lack of faith a simple affectation, or have you kept something from me?”

“I only meant that it’s difficult to find someone who might not want to be found.”

“Let’s give ourselves the benefit of the doubt and set aside the possible wishes of the minister. Or those of our colleagues at police headquarters. That’s why I recommend a certain amount of prudence when it comes to Vargas. Loyalty is a habit that doesn’t change in one day.”

“We can trust Vargas.”

“Said the woman who doesn’t even trust herself. I’m not saying anything that you don’t already know.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll be careful. Anything else?”

“Call me.”

Alicia was about to wish Leandro a good night when she realized that, once again, he had already hung up.

19

The candlelight fades into a tiny pale-blue flame, floating on a pool of wax. Valls draws the hand he no longer feels into the aura of brightness. His skin has a purplish color, almost black. His fingers are swollen, and his nails, beneath which flows a gelatinous liquid with an indescribable stench, are beginning to fall off. Valls tries to move the fingers, but his hand doesn’t respond. It’s just a piece of dead flesh stuck to his body, beginning to send black lines up his arm. He can feel the rotten blood in his veins clouding his thoughts, dragging him into a dark, feverish sleep. He knows that if he waits a few more hours, he will lose consciousness. He will die in the narcotic sleep of gangrene, his body just a tangle of carrion that will never see the sunlight again.