The peculiar texture of the stranger’s face gave him away. He was already on the other side of the street, walking toward a car parked on the corner of Calle Vergara. Vargas tried to cross, but the mass of vehicles pushed him back to the pavement amid a bellow of horns. On the other side the stranger was getting into the car—a Mercedes-Benz, at least fifteen or twenty years old.

By the time the traffic lights changed, the car was already driving away. Vargas ran after it and managed to get a good look before it was swallowed by the river of traffic. On his way back toward the mouth of the metro station, he walked past a local policeman, who gave him a disapproving look; he must have seen Vargas try to cross the street against a red light and dive in among the cars. Vargas nodded meekly and raised a hand in apology.

Alicia was waiting expectantly on the pavement.

“How are you feeling?” Vargas asked.

She ignored his question and shook her head impatiently.

“I managed to see him get into a car. A black Mercedes,” said Vargas.

“Plate number?”

He nodded.

23

They took shelter in Café Nuria at the top of the Ramblas, sitting by the window. Alicia asked for a glass of white wine, the second one that day. She lit a cigarette and let her eyes roam through the mass of people flowing down the Ramblas, as if she was gazing at the largest aquarium in the world. Vargas watched her raise her glass with trembling fingers and draw it to her lips.

“No lecture?” she asked, not looking away from the window.

“To your health.”

“You didn’t say anything about the guy with the mask. Are you thinking the same thing as me?”

He shrugged doubtfully.

“The report concerning the alleged attack on Valls in the Círculo de Bellas Artes mentioned a man with a covered face,” she said.

“It could be,” Vargas conceded. “I’m going to make a few calls.”

Once alone, Alicia let out a sigh of pain and pressed her hand against her hip. She thought about taking half a tablet but decided against it. Making the most of the fact that Vargas was using the phone at the far end of the coffee shop, she signaled to the waiter to bring her another glass and take away the first, which she polished off in one gulp.

Vargas returned a quarter of an hour later, his little notebook in his hand. The glow in his eyes foretold news. “We’re in luck. The car is under the name of Metrobarna S.L. It’s a property investment company, or at least that’s how it’s registered. The main office is here, in Barcelona. Paseo de Gracia, number six.”

“That’s just around the corner. Give me a couple of minutes to recover, and we’ll go there.”

“Why don’t you leave this one to me, Alicia, and go home to rest for a while? I’ll come by later and tell you what I’ve found out.”