Hendaya took the piece of paper Fernandito was handing him. “Alberto García Santamaría, Calle Comercio number thirty-six, fifth floor, door one,” he read out. “What if some police officers come with you now?”

“If my father, who spends his nights awake looking out of the window and listening to the radio, sees me arriving with the police, he’ll throw me out, which I would deserve, and then he’d have a massive coronary.”

“And we don’t want that to happen.”

“No, sir.”

“So how do I know that if I let you go, you won’t go back to your old ways?”

Fernandito turned solemnly to face the official portrait of Franco hanging on the wall. “Because I’m going to swear to you before God and before the Generalissimo, cross my heart and hope to die.”

For a few moments Hendaya looked at him with curiosity and a pinch of sympathy. “I see you’re still standing, so you must be telling the truth.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Look here, Alberto. I like you, and the truth is that it’s very late, and I’m tired. I’m going to give you an opportunity and cut you loose. I shouldn’t, because rules are rules, but I’ve been a son too, and not always the best. You can go.”

Fernandito looked toward the office door in disbelief.

“Go on, before I change my mind.”

“A million thanks, sir.”

“Thank your father. And don’t do it again.”

Quick as a flash, Fernandito stood up and left the office, mopping the sweat off his brow. He walked unhurriedly through the long hall of the political police, and when he passed the two officers who were observing him in silence, he greeted them: “Have a good evening.”

As soon as he reached the corridor, he quickened his pace and hurried on toward the wide stairs leading to the ground floor. It wasn’t until he’d walked through the main door and was on Vía Layetana that he allowed himself a deep breath and blessed the heavens, hell, and everything in between for his good fortune.

* * *

Hendaya watched Fernandito cross Vía Layetana and set off down the road. Behind him, he heard the approaching footsteps of the two officers who had guarded the boy.

“I want to know who he is, where he lives, and who his friends are,” he said without turning around.

17

The mist flooding the streets of Vallvidrera left a trace of dew on Vargas’s clothes. He watched the taxi pull away and walked toward the lights of the bar next to the funicular station. The place was deserted at that time of night, and a closed notice hung on the door. Vargas looked through the glass front and scanned the interior. A waiter was drying glasses behind the counter, with only the radio and a mutt that a flea wouldn’t have touched to save its life for company. Vargas rapped on the glass with his knuckles. The waiter looked up from his boredom. He glanced at Vargas, then shook his head slowly. Vargas pulled out his badge and knocked again, louder. The waiter sighed and walked around the bar and over to the door. The dog, woken from its stupor, limped along, acting as his bodyguard.