As if he’d sniffed her in the air, he turned toward Alicia and smiled like a matinee idol. “Can I help you at all, miss?”

“I hope so. My name is Gris.”

“Gris? You’re Gris?”

“Alicia Gris. Of Leandro Montalvo’s unit. Gris. You must be Vargas.”

The man nodded vaguely. “They didn’t tell me—”

“Last-minute surprises,” she said quickly. “Do you need a few moments to recover?”

The policeman took a final drag of his cigarette and looked at her intently through the curtain of smoke he exhaled. “No.”

“Wonderful. Where do you want to begin?”

“They’re expecting us in the Somosaguas villa. If that’s all right with you.”

Alicia nodded. Vargas threw the cigarette stub onto the street and walked around the car while she installed herself in the passenger seat. He sat at the wheel, his eyes staring straight ahead, the car keys on his lap. “I’ve heard a lot about you. I didn’t think you were so . . . young.”

Alicia gave him an icy look.

“This is not going to be a problem, is it?” asked the policeman.

“A problem?”

“You and me.”

“I see no reason why it should be.”

He looked at her with more curiosity than suspicion. Alicia gave him one of those sweet, catlike smiles that irritated Leandro so much. Vargas chuckled and started the car, mumbling under his breath.

“Nice car,” Alicia remarked after a while.

“Courtesy of police headquarters. Consider it a sign that they’re taking this matter seriously. Do you drive?”

“I can barely open a bank account in this country without permission from a husband or father.”

“I see.”

“Allow me to doubt that.”

They drove on in silence for the next few minutes. Vargas kept looking at Alicia out of the corner of his eye. She pretended not to notice as through this methodical and intermittent observation the policeman x-rayed her by installments, making the most of red lights and pedestrian crossings. When they came to a halt in the middle of a traffic jam on Gran Via, Vargas pulled out an elegant silver cigarette case, opened it, and handed it to her. Virginia tobacco, imported. She declined. He put a cigarette to his lips and lit it with a gold-plated lighter, which Alicia could have sworn had the Dupont logo on it. Vargas liked beautiful, expensive things. While he lit his cigarette, Alicia noticed him glancing at her hands, clasped over her lap, perhaps searching for a wedding ring. Vargas himself sported a rather large one.

“Family?” asked the policeman.

Alicia shook her head. “You?”

“Married to Spain.”

“Very exemplary. And the ring?”

“Other times.”

“Aren’t you going to ask me what someone like me is doing working for Leandro?”

“Is it any business of mine?”

“No.”

“Well, then.”

As they left the city’s traffic behind them and headed toward Casa de Campo Park, the awkward silence returned. Vargas’s eyes continued to scrutinize her bit by bit. He had a cold, metallic gaze, his gray irises shining like freshly cut diamonds. Alicia wondered whether, before falling out of favor, her enforced partner had been an acolyte or merely a mercenary. The first of these infested every layer of the regime and multiplied like infected warts, safeguarded by flags and proclamations; the second remained silent and merely kept the machinery working. She wondered how many people he’d rubbed out throughout his career in the Force, whether he lived with the guilt or whether he’d already lost count. Perhaps, with his gray hair, his conscience had also grown, and this had ruined his ambitions.