She noticed his look and raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“Nothing.”

Alicia raised the glass. “Do you disapprove?”

“God forbid.”

Alicia was downing the last drop of wine when the figure of the lawyer sped past the bar’s front window. Swapping a quick glance, Alicia and Vargas dropped a few coins on the bar and left the place without a word.

22

It was well known to everyone in the Force that when it came to the art of following or even chasing citizens—whether or not they were suspects—Vargas was unequaled. When asked what his secret was he would say that what mattered, more than discretion, was knowing how to make good use of the lay of the land. What was essential, he argued, was not what the pursuer could see or guess, but what was within range of the pursued person’s vision. That and good legs. As soon as they began to follow the lawyer, Vargas realized that Alicia had not only mastered the discipline to perfection but even raised it to a fine art. Her exhaustive knowledge of the old town’s mesh of narrow streets and alleyways allowed her to follow Brians unnoticed.

Alicia walked more confidently than the day before. Vargas supposed she must be wearing the girdle the taxidermist had told him about. The way she moved her hips was different, and she seemed more upright. She led him through that maze, indicating pauses, taking shelter in blind spots, and following Brians’s route without the lawyer realizing what she was doing. For almost twenty minutes they trailed the lawyer through the dense grid of passageways that rose from the port to the town center. More than once they caught a glimpse of him stopping at an intersection, looking back to make sure nobody was following him. His only mistake was to look the wrong way. Finally they saw him turn into Calle Canuda and head for the Ramblas, mixing with the crowd that already filled the central boulevard. Only then did Alicia stop for a few seconds.

“He’s going to the metro,” she murmured, holding Vargas back with her arm.

Mingling with the surge of people along the Ramblas, keeping about ten meters back, Alicia and Vargas followed Brians to the metro entrance next to the Canaletas fountain. The lawyer rushed down the stairs and into the web of tunnels that led to the so-called Avenida de la Luz.

More like a boulevard of darkness and sorrow than an avenue of light, this extravagant and ghostly mall had been designed by some enlightened soul who hoped to create an underground Barcelona by gaslight. The project, however, had never come close to fulfilling that vision. A budding graveyard through which gusts of air coughed up the scent of charcoal and electricity from the metro tunnels, Avenida de la Luz had become a refuge for those who shunned the surface and the sun.

Vargas scanned the long, gloomy line of mock-marble columns that bordered the shoddy bazaars and dimly lit cafés, then turned to Alicia. “The city of vampires?”