“Look at this,” said Vargas.

The folder he handed her was at least three centimeters thick. When she read the name of the file, she felt a shiver.

“Víctor Mataix . . . ,” she said, unable to suppress a smile.

“I’d say we have enough with this.”

Alicia was about to close the box when she noticed a yellowed envelope at the bottom. She picked it up and inspected it in the candlelight. It was a foolscap envelope, sealed with wax. She blew on the layer of dust covering it and read a word written in ink, the only word on the envelope.

Isabella

“We’re going to take all of this,” she said. “Close the boxes and try to leave them more or less as we found them. It might be days, if not weeks, before Brians has a new office and notices some of the dossiers are missing.”

Vargas nodded, but before he’d lifted the first box off the floor, he stopped dead and turned around.

Alicia had also heard it. Footsteps. The sound of footsteps on the layer of dust covering the enclosure. She blew out the candles, while Vargas pulled out his revolver.

A silhouette was outlined in the doorway: a man wearing a ragged uniform, watching them. He carried a lantern and a cudgel that shook so much it gave the poor man away: he was obviously more frightened than a warehouse mouse.

“What are you doing here?” the guard stammered. “You’re not allowed in after seven.”

Alicia straightened up slowly and smiled at him. Something in her expression must have made his blood freeze, because he took a step back and brandished his cudgel with a threatening gesture.

Vargas placed the barrel of the revolver against his temple. “Unless you’d like to use it as a suppository, please drop the stick.”

The guard dropped it and stood there, petrified. “Who are you?”

“Friends of the family,” said Alicia. “We’d forgotten some things. Is there anyone else here with you?”

“I cover all the bays. You’re not going to kill me, are you? I have a wife and children. Look, I’ve got a picture of them in my wallet . . .”

Vargas pulled the wallet out of the guard’s pocket. He removed the money, which he dropped on the floor, and put the wallet in his coat.

“What’s your name?” asked Alicia.

“Bartolomé.”

“I like your name. It’s very masculine.”

The guard was trembling.

“Look, Bartolomé, this is what we’re going to do. We’re going home, and you’re going to do the same thing. Tomorrow morning, before coming here, you’re going to buy a couple of new padlocks and substitute the one at the entrance and the one on this enclosure. And you’re going to forget that you saw us. What do you think of the deal?”

Vargas cocked the revolver.

Bartolomé gulped. “I think it’s good.”

“And just in case you suddenly feel bad about it, or someone questions you about it, remember—the salary they pay you wouldn’t be worth it, and your family needs you.”