“Someone with no professional prospects when people stop using their brain and start thinking with their ass, for want of a better expression.”

“You see? Even when it comes to sarcasm, you have a touch of elegance.”

“Why don’t you stop beating around the bush, Señor Brians.”

“My client couldn’t have put it better.”

“While we’re in the mood for sarcasm, if your client is so important and powerful, aren’t you a somewhat low-profile lawyer to represent him? No offense.”

“None taken. In fact, you’re absolutely right. I’m representing someone through a third party.”

“Please explain,” said Mataix.

“My services have been requested by a prestigious firm that acts for the client.”

“Lucky you. And why doesn’t some member of this top-notch firm make an appearance around here?”

“Because they’re in the Nacionales’ zone. Technically speaking, of course. The client himself is in Switzerland, I believe.”

“Excuse me?”

“My client and his lawyers are under the auspices and protection of General Franco,” Brians explained.

Mataix checked the surrounding tables apprehensively. Nobody seemed to be paying any attention, but those were times when even walls had sharp ears. “This must be a joke,” he said, lowering his voice.

“I can assure you it isn’t.”

“Please get up and get the hell out of here. I’ll pretend I haven’t seen you or listened to you.”

“Believe me, Señor Mataix, I understand you perfectly. But I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“Because if I go out through that door without having secured your services, I don’t think I’ll be alive tomorrow. Nor will you and your family, either.”

There was a long silence. Mataix grabbed Brians by his lapels. The lawyer looked at him with infinite sadness.

“You’re telling the truth . . . ,” Mataix murmured, more to himself than to the lawyer.

Brians nodded.

Mataix let go of him. “Why me?”

“The client’s wife reads all your books. She says she likes the way you write. Especially your love stories. The others, not so much.”

The writer covered his face with his hands.

“If it’s any consolation, the salary is unbeatable.”

Mataix looked at Brians through his fingers. “And what do they pay you?”

“They let me go on breathing and they take care of my debts, which are not small. But only if you agree.”

“And if I don’t?”

Brians shrugged. “I’m told that hired assassins are very affordable in Barcelona these days.”

“How do I know . . . how do you know that these threats are believable?”

Brians looked down. “When I asked that question, they sent me a parcel containing the left ear of my office partner, Jusid. They tell me that every day that goes by without a reply, they’ll send me another parcel. As I said, hired guns come cheap in Barcelona.”

“What’s your client’s name?” inquired Mataix.

“I don’t know.”

“Then what, in fact, do you know?”

“That the people who work for him don’t mess around.”

“What about him?”

“I know he’s a banker. Important. I know, or sense, that he’s one of the two or three bankers financing General Franco’s army. I know, or it has been implied to me, that he’s a vain man, very sensitive to the way history might judge him, and that his wife—as I said, a devoted reader of your work—has convinced her husband that he needs a biography that reflects his achievements, his magnificence, and his prodigious contribution to the good of Spain and the world.”