Fermín then realized that the box was moving, that it was being pushed and shoved across the floor, and that, following Fumero’s orders, a few members of the crew were coming down to the hold. He could imagine the rest. He felt about a dozen men lifting the box with levers and heard the canvas straps encircle the wood. He also heard the rattling of chains and felt the sudden upward pull of the crane.

6

Arráez and his crew watched the trunk swaying in the breeze six meters above deck. Fumero emerged from the hold and put his dark glasses on again, smiling with satisfaction as he looked up toward the bridge, raising a hand to his head in a mock military salute.

“With your permission, Captain, we will now proceed to exterminate the rat you carried on board in the only way that is fully effective.”

Fumero signaled to the man operating the crane to lower the container a few meters until it was level with his face. “Your dying wish, or a few words of contrition?”

The crew gazed at the box in utter silence. The only sound that seemed to emerge from inside was a whimper, like the cry of a terrified small animal.

“Come on, don’t cry, it’s not that bad,” said Fumero. “Besides, you won’t be alone. You’ll be meeting up with a whole lot of friends who can’t wait to see you . . .”

The trunk rose in the air again, and the crane began to rotate toward the gunwale. When it was hanging about ten meters above sea level, Fumero turned toward the bridge again. Arráez was observing him with glazed eyes, muttering under his breath.

“Son of a bitch,” Fumero managed to lip-read.

Then he gave a nod, and the container, carrying two hundred kilos of rifles and just over fifty kilos of Fermín Romero de Torres, plunged into the icy dark waters of Barcelona’s port.