Barnes approached the monitor and read the information. Staughton and Thompson did the same.

“What?” an astonished Staughton exclaimed.

“Son of a bitch,” Geoffrey Barnes swore, not wanting to believe the name he read.

God, whose only begotten Son, who with his life, death, and resurrection obtained for us the gift of eternal life, grant us, who celebrate these mysteries of the Holy Rosary, follow Him and attain what He promises. For Christ our Lord,” the priest recited.

“Amen,” the believers responded.

So the service was celebrated in the great chapel of the cathedral of Santiago de Compostela, where the largest incensory in the world, the botafumeiro, hangs motionless, without incense but commanding the greatest respect. For seven hundred years they have followed the tradition of using the great incensory, not this one, which is a little less than a hundred and fifty years old, but others, the idea being to purify the surroundings spiritually, although, in regard to smells, it was an effective means of repelling the odor that emanated from the pilgrims, after hundreds and thousands of miles of pilgrimage for their faith.

Marius Ferris had spent the entire day here attending all the rituals of the daily liturgy. He had visited Jacob’s Crypt, where the remains of the apostle lie. He remained kneeling in prayer for more than an hour in the narrow place, ignoring the passersby who approached that place below the altar, with its entrance through a narrow door that opened onto some even narrower stairs. Marius Ferris had continued to pray to Santiago the Greater, kneeling on the prie-dieu, with his eyes shut, forehead contracted, feeling every word he offered. From time to time a tear formed under his eyelid and ran down his cheek to evaporate.

Now he was sitting in the nave, listening to Father Clemente’s last words, while night had fallen for over an hour already. A few dozen faithful were scattered among the pews, old and bent over, just come from their jobs or business, grateful for the grace obtained or probably asking new favors or substituting more recent ones for old ones, like a service provided from above to someone who knows how to negotiate.

In the last row sat a young man in a black suit, and anyone who had noticed him during the day would never guess Marius Ferris was the reason for his presence. Just the opposite. The way he walked around the cathedral, avoiding the crypt when the priest was praying earnestly, would have convinced the most suspicious that we were dealing with a historian or a passionate admirer of sacred art. He’d lingered in different corners, appreciating some of the relics open to view, not all, since a day, even a lifetime, wasn’t enough for that. He paid special attention to a gold crucifix, originally from the year 874, that contained, it was believed, a piece of the True Cross on which Christ was crucified. Is there really a piece of the wood in it? He had reflected on this for several long minutes for lack of any other interest and place to go, but had ended up concluding that, even if such provenance were confirmed, an object didn’t become holy merely because it subjected Christ to death, causing him pain, torturing him for hours until the last breath.

Later he’d gone down into the crypt when it was empty and analyzed the narrow place. Three small, latticework doors, the middle one guarding the silver sarcophagus with the sacred relics, the bones of Jacob, at the end of a small passage with a floor covered in black-and-white mosaic. The other doors guarded the mortal remains of two of Santiago the Greater’s disciples, San Teodoro and San Atanasio, gathered together with those of their master in life and death.

This personal pilgrimage over, done more out of obligation than to avoid the task assigned to him, he’d gone to sit in the last row where he had remained since Mass began.

“In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit,” Father Clemente intoned, raising his right hand over his head when he said “Father” and over each shoulder when he said “Son” and “Holy Spirit.” “Go in peace, and may the Lord be with you.”

Another celebration of the Eucharist was over, the fifth he’d attended today. It was time to end his martyrdom and begin that of others. Things were going well on the various fronts of the operation.

He saw Marius Ferris walking toward the priest, who was heading toward the sacristy, but didn’t attempt to get up. It wasn’t time. His instructions were specific.

“Don Clemente,” Marius Ferris greeted him in a quiet voice, in accord with the sacred place.

The other, also with white hair, stopped and examined him. That face was not unfamiliar. But the white hair…

“Marius?” he asked a little doubtfully.

“You still remember me,” the other replied.

“Oh, Marius.”

The two men of the Church embraced, gathering together all the years of separation in that gesture.

“How many years has it been?” Don Clemente finally asked, astonished to see his friend and countryman again.

“Many,” Marius Ferris answered. “It doesn’t matter. How are you?”

“As you see,” the other replied. “In the Grace of the Lord. I wasn’t expecting to see you again. How are you? What have you been doing?”

“I’ve returned,” Marius Ferris informed him, adding no more than he had to. Enough was enough.

“I heard you were in New York.”

“Yes, it’s true,” he answered evasively.

“And now, have you returned for good?”

“Almost,” Marius Ferris said. “I still have one last journey. But I wanted to begin here first.”

“Of course, of course,” Don Clemente added. “First those closest to us.”

“Naturally. I’ve spent many years away from my homeland.” These last words were pronounced with a certain melancholy and an empty stare. Time passes through its orbit, without mercy, what goes, goes, is ended, is past, and will not return to the present, ever, for all that he mourned. It was a sorrow that overcame him when he recalled the time that he had lost. But a life dedicated to the ideals of the Church was not to be regretted, much less by a person in Marius Ferris’s position. He could feel pain for a life far from home, for the heart that remained behind when he went away twenty years ago, but not for the deeds and essentials, for the propagation of God’s Word and for his word, he being the Shepherd of Shepherds, His Holiness the pope, the many whom he had served all this time. “I will also go to Fátima, Lourdes, and visit the Holy See. Only then will I come back for good,” he concluded.

“A truly personal pilgrimage,” said Don Clemente, admiring him.

“I’ve needed this for a long time.”

“I believe it. I believe it,” the priest said. “I’ll be waiting here for you when you return. You always know where you can find me.”

He laid a hand on Marius Ferris’s shoulder in a gesture of affection and then continued walking to the sacristy.

“Actually,” Marius Ferris began, interrupting Don Clemente’s steps, “I’ve come here for another reason, as well.” His expression was serious.

“Oh, really?” He waited for his friend Marius to explain, but he said nothing further, only continued to look serious. “All right. What is it?”

“I want to make a confession.”

The oppressive tension Marius had created was cut off by Don Clemente’s strident laugh.

“Is that all?” Don Clemente asked, while wiping his tears on the sleeve of his cassock. “For a moment I thought you were going to ask me for money.”

It was Marius Ferris’s turn to smile.

“No, I only want confession.”

“Very well.”

Silence extended through the whole, practically empty, cathedral. Only one person strolled through the Pórtico de la Gloria, absorbed in the magnificence of the place. Marius continued looking at his friend.