When they reached La Barceloneta, the first drops were falling. Thick, isolated drops, like bullets of water that burst on the cobbles and machine-gunned the trams sliding down the avenue along the docks. A jumble of narrow streets stretched out before them, covering a neck of land in a grid that reminded Vargas of a large cemetery. “It looks like an island,” he remarked.

“You’re not far off. Now it’s the fishermen’s quarter.”

“And before?”

“Do you want a history lesson?”

“As an appetizer for your bombs . . .”

“Centuries ago, all you could see here was sea,” Alicia explained. “Eventually the beginning of the breakwater was built, and slowly the sediment dragged in by the sea against the dike formed an island.”

“How do you know all these things?”

“Because I read. Try it sometime. During the War of Succession, Philip V’s troops demolished a substantial part of the Ribera quarter to build the Ciudadela fortress. After the war, many of the people who had lost their homes moved here.”

“Is that why you Barcelonians are such monarchists?”

“For that reason, and just to be contrarian. It improves one’s circulation.”

The first downpour chased them furiously until they reached an alleyway. Before them rose a facade that at first glance looked like a cross between a portside tavern and a roadside bar. It would not have won any design competition, but the aroma coming from it made Vargas’s stomach rumble. The sign above the door read la bombeta.

A group of locals who were battling over a card game raised their eyebrows slightly when they saw Vargas and Alicia come in. Vargas realized that they had identified him as a cop the moment he set foot in the place. A rough-mannered waiter glared at them from behind the bar and pointed to a table in a corner, far from the local clientele.

“It doesn’t look like one of your places, Alicia.”

“One comes here not for the sights but for the bombs.”

“And, I suspect, for something else.”

“Well, it’s not far.”

“Far from where?”

Alicia pulled a piece of paper out of her pocket and set it on the table. Vargas recognized the tag Alicia had pulled off one of the movers’ boxes outside the lawyer’s office that morning.

“From the warehouse where Brians has temporarily stored all his papers and files,” she said.

Vargas rolled his eyes.

“Don’t play hard to get, Vargas. You’re not expecting to have everything handed to us on a silver platter, are you?”

“I was hoping I wouldn’t have to break the law.”

The rude waiter planted himself in front of them with a questioning look.

“Bring us four bombs and two beers,” Alicia instructed, without taking her eyes off Vargas.

“Estrella or draft beer?”

“Estrella.”

“Bread with oil and tomato?”

“A couple of slices. Toasted.”

The waiter nodded and walked off without more ado.

“I’ve always wondered why you Catalans rub tomato on the bread,” said Vargas.

“And I’ve always wondered why nobody else does.”