"The press can be bought, Don Octavio. Or it can be fed more tasty morsels."

Machuca nodded. In fact Canovas had just put away in the briefcase an explosive dossier obtained by Gavira about irregularities in welfare payments by the Junta de Andalucia. The plan was to make it public at the same time as the deal went through, to act as a smoke screen.

"With no opposition from the city council," Gavira added, "and with the Heritage Department in our pocket, all we have to sort out is the ecclesiastical side of the matter." He paused, expecting some remark, but the old man said nothing. "As for the archbishop…"

He left the sentence hanging, giving Machuca the chance to respond. He needed some response – a hint or warning.

"The archbishop wants his share," Machuca said at last. "Render unto God the things that arc God's, you know what I mean."

"Of course," Gavira answered cautiously.

The old banker now turned to him. "Well, give him what he wants and get it over with."

He knew as well as Gavira that it wasn't as simple as that. The old bastard.

"I agree, Don Octavio," said Gavira. "So there's nothing more to discuss."

Machuca stirred his coffee and went back to regarding the PENABETICA sign. At the other table, unaware of the conversation, Peregil and the secretary were eyeing each other with hostility. Gavira chose his words and his tone carefully.

"With respect, Don Octavio, I think we do have more to discuss. This is the biggest development coup since Expo '92: three thousand square metres bang in the middle of Santa Cruz. And linked to it, the purchase of Puerto Targa by the Saudis. In other words, one hundred and eighty to two hundred million dollars. But you'll allow me to make the best deal we can." He sipped his beer, letting the word "deal" resonate. "I don't want to pay ten for something we could get for five. And the archbishop's started to ask for a fortune."

"We have to reward Monsignor Corvo somehow for washing his hands of the whole business." Machuca screwed up his eyes. "Or, as you'd put it, for facilitating the operation. It's not every day you can get an archbishop to agree to secularise a piece of land like this, evict the parish priest, and pull down the church… Is it?" He'd raised one of his bony hands to list the points and now let it fall to the table wearily. "It's a delicate manoeuvre."

"I'm aware of that. I've made plenty of personal sacrifices, if you'll permit me to say so."

"That's why you've got where you are today. Now pay the archbishop the compensation he's hinted he wants and have done with that side of things. After all, the money you're working with belongs to me."

"And the other shareholders, Don Octavio. That's my responsibility. If I've learned anything from you, it's to honour my commitments, but without paying too much."

The banker shrugged.

"Do what you like. It's your deal."

And so it was, for better or for worse. It was a warning, but it took more than that to unnerve Pencho Gavira. "Everything's under control," he said.

Old Machuca was as sharp as a razor. Gavira saw the predatory eyes go from the white-and-green PENABETICA sign to the facade of the Poniente Bank. The Santa Cruz and Puerto Targa operations were more than just profitable deals. Pulling them off meant for Gavira the difference between succeeding Machuca as chairman and standing defenceless before a board of directors who came from the "old money" of Seville and took a dim view of ambitious young lawyers on the make. Gavira felt five beats more at his wrist, under his gold Rolex.

"What about the priest?" asked the old man, with a flicker of interest. "I hear the archbishop still isn't sure he'll co-operate."

"Something like that." Gavira smiled reassuringly. "But we've taken steps to address the problem." He looked to the other table, at Peregil, and paused uncertainly. He felt he had to add something. "He's just a stubborn old man."

It was a mistake, and he knew it at once. With visible enjoyment, Machuca struck.

"That's unworthy of you," he said, looking straight into Gavira's eyes – a snake relishing its victim's terror. Gavira counted another ten beats at least. "I'm an old man too, Pencho. And you know better than anyone that I still have sharp teeth. It would be dangerous to forget that, wouldn't it?" He narrowed his eyes. "Just when you're so close to your goal."

"I never forget it." It's difficult to swallow imperceptibly, but Gavira managed it twice. "As for that priest, there's no comparison between you and him."

The banker shook his head reprovingly. "You're not in good form today, Pencho. You, resorting to flattery."

"You don't know me, Don Octavio."

"Don't be ridiculous. I know you very well, and that's why you've got where you are. And why you're about to go even further."

"I'm always frank with you. Even when you don't like it."

"I always appreciate your frankness, which is as calculated as everything else. Like your ambition and your patience…" The banker stared into his cup, as if he might find.there clues to Gavira's personality. "Maybe you're right. Maybe all that priest and I have in common is our age. I don't know, because I haven't met him. Now I'm going to give you some good advice, Pencho… You appreciate my advice, don't you?"

"You know I do, Don Octavio."

"Good, because this is some of my best. Always beware of an old man who clings to an idea. It's so rare to reach old age with any ideas one is passionate about. Only a lucky few won't have them snatched away." He stopped, as if he'd remembered something. "Anyway, haven't things become more complicated? A priest from Rome or something?"

Pencho Gavira's sigh sounded sincere. Maybe it was. "You keep up on developments, Don Octavio."

Machuca exchanged glances with his secretary, who sat motionless at the other table, saying and seeing nothing until further orders. Peregil, on the other hand, sitting opposite the secretary, fidgeted anxiously and glanced nervously at Gavira. The proximity of Don Octavio, his conversation with Gavira, and the imperturbable presence of Canovas all intimidated him.

"I don't know why that should surprise you. This is my town, Pencho," said Machuca.

Gavira took out a packet of cigarettes and lit one. The chairman didn't smoke, and Gavira was the only person allowed to do so in his presence. "Don't worry," Gavira said as he took his first puff. "Eveything's under control." He exhaled, calmer now. "No loose ends."

"I'm not worried." The banker shook his head, absently watching the passers-by. "As I said, it's your deal, Pencho. I'll be retiring in October. However this turns out, it won't make any difference to my life. But it might to yours."

With that the old man seemed to consider the matter closed. He drank the rest of his coffee, then turned back towards Gavira.

"By the way, have you heard from Macarena?" he asked.

It was a low blow. He'd obviously been saving it till the end. Gavira glanced at the newspaper kiosk and anger again knotted his stomach. It was also a rather unfortunate coincidence: just when he'd ordered Peregil to keep a discreet eye on his wife's adventures, the journalists from Q amp;S had caught her gallivanting with a bullfighter and got it all on film. Damn his luck and damn Seville.

In the three hundred metres from Casa Cuesta to the Triana Bridge there were exactly eleven bars. That meant an average of one bar every twenty-seven metres and twenty-seven centimetres, Don Ibrahim worked out in his head. He was more used to books and numbers than the other two, but any one of them could recite the entire list of bars forwards, backwards or in alphabetical order: La Trianera, Casa Manolo, La Marinera, Dulcinea, La Taberna del Altozano, Las Dos Hermanas, La Cinta, La Ibense, Los Parientes, El Bar Angeles, and the stand of Las Flores at the end, almost on the bank, by the tile showing the Virgen de la Esperanza and the bronze statue of the bullfighter Juan Belmonte. They had stopped at each and every one of the bars to discuss their strategy, and now crossed the bridge in a state of grace, not looking to their left, at the hideous modern buildings on the island of La Cartuja, and enjoying the view to their right, Seville as she had always been, beautiful Moorish queen, with her palm trees all along the other bank, the Torre del Oro, the Arenal and La Giralda. And only a stone's throw away, looking out over the Guadalquivir, was the Maestranza bullring: the cathedral of the universe where people went to pray to the brave men of La Nina's songs.