Arráez’s eyes rested on the silhouette that had just stepped onto his deck. Wrapped in a black raincoat and sporting gloves and a fedora, he was the only one who didn’t seem armed. Arráez observed him as he walked slowly across the deck. His gait indicated a perfectly calculated calm and disinterest. His eyes, hidden behind dark lenses, skimmed across the faces of the crew, while his face was totally expressionless. At last he stopped in the middle of the deck, looked up toward the bridge, and uncovered his head to convey a greeting with his hat while he offered a reptilian smile.

“Fumero,” murmured the captain.

Bermejo, who was white as chalk and seemed to have shrunk at least ten centimeters since that individual had meandered across the deck, looked at the captain.

“Who?” he managed to articulate.

“Political police. Go down and tell the men they’re not to fool around. And then, as I said, radio the port.”

Bermejo nodded, but made no sign of moving. Arráez fixed his eyes on his. “Bermejo, I said go down. And make sure you don’t piss yourself, for God’s sake.”

“Yes, Captain.”

Arráez remained alone on the bridge for a few moments. It was a clear day, with crystal skies and clouds like fleeting brushstrokes that would have delighted a watercolorist. For a second he considered fetching the revolver he kept under lock and key in his cabin, but that naive idea brought a bitter smile to his lips. He took a deep breath and, buttoning up his frayed jacket, left the bridge and walked down the steps to the deck where his old acquaintance was waiting for him, holding a cigarette playfully between his fingers.

4

“Captain Arráez, welcome to Barcelona.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant.”

Fumero smiled. “Major, now.”

Arráez assented, holding the gaze of those two dark lenses behind which it was hard to guess where Fumero’s sharp eyes were looking. “Congratulations.”

Fumero offered him one of his cigarettes. “No, thank you,” said Arráez.

“Quality merchandise,” Fumero insisted. “American.”

Arráez accepted the cigarette and put it in his pocket. “Do you wish to inspect the papers and licenses, Major? Everything is up to date, with the permits and stamps of the Generalitat government.”

Fumero shrugged, coldly exhaling a puff of smoke and gazing at his cigarette ember with a hint of a smile. “I’m sure your papers are all in order. Tell me, what cargo are you carrying?”

“Supplies. Medicines, arms, and ammunition. And a few lots of confiscated property for auction. The inventory, with the government stamp from the Valencia delegation, is at your disposal.”

“I didn’t expect anything less from you, Captain. But that’s between you and the port and customs officers. I’m a simple servant of the people.”

Arráez nodded his head calmly, reminding himself not to take his eyes off those dark, impenetrable lenses for one second. “If you would be kind enough to tell me what you’re looking for, Major, it will be my pleasure . . .”