At the foot of the spiral staircase leading up to the office in the tower, Doña Mariana took an oil lamp hanging on the wall and adjusted the intensity of the flame. They ascended, enveloped in a bubble of amber light that dragged their shadows along the walls. When they reached the office door, the secretary turned, for once ignoring Vargas as she fixed Alicia with her poisonous stare. Smiling calmly, Alicia stretched out an open palm.

Doña Mariana handed her the key, her lips tightly pressed together. “Don’t touch anything. Leave everything just as you found it. And when you’ve finished, return the key to the butler before you leave.”

“Thank you so much, Doña—” said Vargas.

Doña Mariana turned and set off down the stairs without replying, taking the lamp with her and leaving them in the semidarkness of the landing.

“It couldn’t have gone better,” Vargas said dryly. “Let’s see how long it takes Doña Mariana to get on the phone to García Novales and tear us to pieces. Especially you.”

“Under a minute,” Alicia agreed.

“Something tells me that working with you is going to be a treat.”

“Light?”

Vargas pulled out his lighter and brought the flame to the keyhole so that Alicia could insert the key. The doorknob let out a metallic groan as it turned.

“It sounds like a rat trap,” Vargas said.

Alicia gave him a cunning smile in the light of the flame, which Vargas would have preferred not to see.

Vargas blew out the flame and pushed the door inward. “Abandon all hope ye who enter here.”

8

Alicia and Vargas stepped into what felt like the main cabin in a luxury yacht. An aura of gray light hovered in the air. Leaden skies and tears of rain sealed the windows.

The office was oval in shape. A large desk of fine wood stood at its center. Around it, most of the wall space was lined with spiraling bookshelves that seemed to form a bow as they rose toward the glass lantern at the top of the tower. Only one section was clear of books: it resembled a mural but was made up of dozens of small framed photographs packed together on the wall directly across from the desk. Alicia and Vargas walked over to examine it. All the images were of the same face and traced a photographic biography. A pale-faced girl with fair hair grew up before the eyes of the observer, from childhood to adolescence and first youth—the trail of a life in a hundred snapshots.

“It looks like the minister loves someone even more than he loves himself,” said Alicia.

Vargas stayed on another moment or two, gazing at the portrait gallery, while Alicia went over to Valls’s desk. She pulled out the admiral’s chair and sat down on it, then placed her hands on the sheet of leather covering the table and glanced around the room.

“How does the world look from there?” asked Vargas.