5

After days of being confined to the hold, breathing the same stuffy air, Fermín noticed the aroma of a fresh breeze coming in through the hatch and filtering through the cracks in the crate of weapons. He tilted his head to one side and through the narrow chink between the lid and the edge of the box managed to see an array of dusty light beams sweeping the hold. Flashlights.

The white, hazy light caressed the shapes of the cargo, revealing transparencies in the cloths covering the cars and works of art. The sound of footsteps and the metallic echo resounding in the bilge slowly drew closer. Fermín gritted his teeth and mentally went over all the steps he’d taken before he returned to his hiding place. The sacks, the candles, the bits of food or footprints he might have left throughout the cargo area. He didn’t think he’d forgotten anything. They’d never find him there, he told himself. Never.

It was then that Fermín heard that harsh, familiar voice saying his name in a soft singsong tone, and his knees turned to jelly.

Fumero.

The voice, and the footsteps, sounded very close. Fermín shut his eyes like a child terrorized by a strange sound in the darkness of his room. Not because he thinks this is going to protect him, but because he doesn’t dare acknowledge the silhouette towering by his bedside, bending over him. At that very moment Fermín heard the slow footsteps only centimeters away. Gloved fingers caressed the lid of the box like a snake slithering over the surface. Fumero was whistling a tune. Fermín held his breath and kept his eyes closed. Drops of cold sweat slid down his forehead, and he had to clench his fists to stop the trembling in his hands. He dared not move a single muscle, fearing that the mere touch of his body against the bags of rifles might produce an infinitesimal sound.

Perhaps he’d been mistaken. Perhaps they would find him. Perhaps there was no corner in the world where he could hide and live one more day to tell the tale. Perhaps, after all, that day was as good as any other to leave the show. Come to think of it, nothing stopped him kicking open that box and confronting Fumero, brandishing one of those rifles on which he was lying. Better to die riddled with bullets in two seconds flat than at the hands of Fumero and his toys, after two weeks hanging from the ceiling of a dungeon in Montjuïc Castle.

He felt the outline of one of the guns, searching for the trigger, and clutched it firmly. Until then it hadn’t occurred to him that in all probability it wasn’t loaded. What did it matter? With his marksmanship, he was as likely to shoot himself in the foot as to hit Columbus’s eye on his monument. He smiled at the thought and held the rifle with both hands over his chest, looking for the hammer. He’d never before fired a gun, but he told himself that good luck is always on the side of beginners. It was at least worth a try. He tightened the hammer and prepared to blow off Francisco Javier Fumero’s head on his way to heaven or hell.