“Hendaya?”

The policeman pulled out a cigarette and lit it. Valls got a whiff of tobacco, the first time he’d smelled it in what seemed like years. It was the most exquisite perfume he’d ever sniffed. He thought the cigarette was for him until he saw Hendaya put it between his lips and take a long drag.

“Hendaya, get me out of here,” he begged.

The policeman’s eyes shone through swirls of smoke rising between his fingers.

“Hendaya. It’s an order. Get me out of here.”

The other man smiled and took a couple more drags.

“You have bad friends,” he said at last.

“Where’s my daughter? What have you done to her?”

“Nothing, yet.”

Valls heard a voice rise into a desperate howl, not realizing it was his own. Hendaya threw the cigarette into the cell, at Valls’s feet. The policeman didn’t bat an eyelid when the prisoner, seeing him go back up the stairs, started to shout and bang the metal bars with his last remaining bit of strength.

Valls collapsed, exhausted, on his knees. The door at the top of the stairs sealed itself shut like a coffin. Darkness closed in on him again, colder than ever.

23

Among the many adventures hidden in the heart of Barcelona, there are unassailable sites, and forbidding chasms. But for the truly fearless, there’s the Civil Registry. Vargas faced the ancient structure, covered in soot, and sighed. Its veiled windows and its resemblance to a vast mausoleum seemed to warn the gullible not even to attempt the assault.

Once he’d negotiated the large oak door that kept mere mortals at bay, a heavy-looking counter loomed before him. Behind it, a little man with owlish eyes watched the world go by without even a hint of cordiality.

“Good morning,” was Vargas’s peace offering.

“It would be if these were opening hours. As the notice on the street clearly specifies, we open from eleven a.m. to one p.m. Tuesdays to Fridays. Today is Monday, and it’s eight thirteen in the morning. Can’t you read?”

Vargas, practiced in the art of dealing with this sort of petty tyrant—which many a public servant armed with an official stamp carries inside him—dropped his friendly expression and planted his badge two centimeters from the receptionist’s nose. “But no doubt you can read.”

The little man gulped, swallowing a month’s worth of saliva and his bad temper. “At your service, Captain. Please forgive this misunderstanding. How can I help you?”

“I’d like to speak to whoever is in charge here, if possible, not a cretin like you.”

The receptionist quickly picked up the phone and asked for someone called Señora Luisa. “I don’t care,” he murmured into the receiver. “Tell her to come out right now.”

He put down the receiver and straightened his jacket. Once he’d rearranged himself, he looked at Vargas.

“The director’s secretary will be with you right away.”

Vargas sat down on a wooden bench without taking his eyes off the receptionist. Two minutes later a small woman with penetrating eyes appeared. Her hair was tied back and she wore rimless glasses. She raised an eyebrow, clearly realizing what had just happened. “Don’t get angry with Carmona. He does his best. I’m Luisa Alcaine. How can I help you?”