“Everything all right, Don Mauricio?” asked Vicente.

“Leave me alone.”

Valls was still staring at the envelope. For a few seconds the bodyguard hesitated. “I’ll be outside if you need me,” he said at last.

Valls nodded. Vicente walked reluctantly toward the door. When he closed it behind him, the minister stood motionless in front of his desk, looking at that piece of parchment as if it were a viper about to leap at his neck.

He walked around the desk and sat in his chair, crossing his fists under his chin. Almost a minute went by before he placed his hand on the parcel. He felt the contents and then, his pulse racing, inserted his finger under the gummed flap and opened it. The strip was still moist, so it came unstuck easily. He picked the envelope up by one of its bottom corners and raised it. The contents slipped onto the desk. Valls closed his eyes and sighed.

The book was bound in black leather and had no title on the cover, only a design that suggested the image of a descending spiral staircase viewed from above.

Valls’s hand shook: he closed it into a fist, pressing hard. A note peeped out of the pages of the book, and he pulled it out. It was a yellowish piece of paper, torn out of a ledger, with two columns of red horizontal lines. In each column there was a list of numbers. At the bottom of the page, these words were written in red ink:

Your time is coming to an end.

You have one last chance.

At the entrance to the labyrinth.

Valls felt he needed air. Before he realized what he was doing, his hands were rummaging around in the main drawer of the desk, grabbing the revolver he kept there. He put the barrel into his mouth, his finger tensed on the trigger. The gun tasted of oil and gunpowder. A wave of nausea swept over him, but he held the revolver with both hands and kept his eyes closed to hold back the tears falling down his face. Then he heard her footsteps and her voice on the stairs. Mercedes was talking to Vicente by the office door. Valls put the revolver back in the drawer and dried his tears on the sleeve of his dinner jacket. Vicente tapped at the door with his knuckles. Valls took a deep breath and waited a moment. The bodyguard knocked again. “Don Mauricio?” he called. “It’s your daughter.”

“Let her in,” said Valls in a faltering voice.

The door opened and Mercedes came in, wearing her wine-colored dress and an enthralled smile that was wiped off her face the moment she saw her father. Vicente watched anxiously from the doorway. Valls gave him a nod and signaled for him to leave them alone.

“Are you all right, Daddy?”

Valls smiled broadly and stood up to embrace her. “Of course I’m all right. And all the better for seeing you.”