Frowning, the former bullfighter and boxer pondered the question. At last he looked at Don Ibrahim, like a hound who, receiving a command from a stranger, seeks confirmation from his master.

"Fine," he answered when he saw no objection in his boss's eyes. "Sits still and doesn't say a word."

"He hasn't asked any questions?"

El Potro rubbed his squashed nose, trying to remember. Perhaps the heat made it hard for him to think. "No," he said. "I unbuttoned his cassock a bit so he could breathe, but he didn't say anything."

"It's to be expected," put in Don Ibrahim. "He's a man of the church. This is an attack on his dignity." He shook ash from his shirt front, while El Potro nodded slowly, staring at the closed door as if he'd just resolved something that had been bothering him.

"I'm going," Peregil said, pale and sweaty. With the cigar smoke and the rocking, he couldn't take it any more. "Stick to my instructions." He started to get up, automatically smoothing his hair over his bald patch. At that moment, the Lovely rocked as another tourist boat went by, and Peregil obsessively watched the ray of sun enter the porthole, move from starboard to port, and return. He gasped for air, and turned to Don Ibrahim and El Potro with wild eyes. "Excuse me," he said in a stifled voice, then rushed for the door.

It was the worst lunch of his life. Gavira barely touched the cuttlefish with broad beans and the grilled salmon. He just managed to get to the dessert with his smile intact and without jumping up every five minutes to phone his secretary, who was desperately trying to get hold of Peregil. The banker lost the thread several times right in the middle of a sentence, with the board members of the Cartujano waiting for him to finish an explanation. Only with a tremendous effort of will was he able to get through the ordeal gracefully. He needed time to think, to devise plans and solutions to the problems raised by his henchman's absence; but there was no time. This meeting was crucial to his future; he couldn't neglect his lunch guests. He had to fight on two fronts, like Napoleon against the British and Prussian armies at Waterloo. He smiled, sipped his Rioja, presented his point of view, lit a cigarette, while his mind was working frantically. The board members were gradually coming over to his side, but he was growing seriously worried at the lack of news from Peregil. His assistant must have had something to do with the priest's disappearance and might also be involved in Bonafe's death. The thought made Gavira break into a cold sweat, but he put on a brave face. A lesser man would have sobbed on the tablecloth.

The head waiter made his way between the tables, and it was clear from his face that he was coming to tell Gavira something. Suppressing the urge to jump up from his chair, Gavira finished his sentence, stubbed out his cigarette, took a sip of water, wiped his mouth with a napkin, and only then stood up, saying to the board members with a smile, "Would you excuse me a moment?"

He went to the lobby, his hands in his pockets to stop their trembling. His stomach lurched when he caught sight of Peregil, whose hair was in disarray and who was wearing a horrendous tie.

"I've got good news," said the henchman.

They were alone. Gavira husded him into the gents, locking the door behind them when he was sure there was no one else there. "Where have you been? he said.

"Making sure there's no Mass tomorrow," said Peregil, with a smug smile.

Gavira could have killed his assistant then and there, with his bare hands. "What have you done, you bastard?"

Peregil's smile faded. He blinked. "What do you think?" he stammered. "I did what you told me. I neutralised the priest."

"The priest?"

In the neon light, Peregil's bald head shone beneath the scraggly strands of hair. "Yes," he said. "Some friends of mine have put him out of circulation until the day after tomorrow. He's perfectly safe." He stared at his boss, bewildered.

"When was this?" Gavira asked.

"Last night," Peregil answered, hazarding a timid smile. "He's in a safe place and being treated well. They'll let him go on Friday, and that'll be that."

"What about the other one?"

"What other one?"

"Bonafe. The journalist."

"Oh, that one." Peregil flushed, and looked shaken. "Look, I can explain. It's a complicated story, but I can explain everything, I swear."

Gavira felt a wave of panic. If his assistant was involved in Honorato Bonafe's death, Gavira's problems were only just beginning. He paced about, trying to think. But the white tiles made his mind go blank. He turned to Peregil and said, "Well, it had better be good. The police are looking for the priest."

Oddly, Peregil didn't seem particularly surprised. In fact, he looked relieved. "They're quick," he said. "But don't you worry."

Gavira couldn't believe what he'd just heard. "Not worry?"

"No. It'll only cost five or six million more."

Gavira pushed his henchman against the washbasin. He didn't know whether to punch his face or ask him another question. Controlling himself, he said, "Are you serious, Peregil?"

"Yes. You have nothing to worry about." "You're joking, aren't you?"

"I wouldn't joke with you, boss. I'd never do that."

Gavira closed his eyes. "You come and tell me that you've kidnapped a priest who's wanted for murder and I'm not to worry?"

"What do you mean, wanted for murder?" asked Peregil, suddenly quiet.

"Just what I said."

The henchman looked around and checked that the door was locked. Again he asked Gavira, "What murder?"

"A murder in the church, and your damn priest is the prime suspect."

Peregil gave a short, desperate laugh. "Don't joke like that, boss."

Gavira came so close that Peregil almost had to sit in the washbasin. "Look at me. Do I look like I'm joking?"

Peregil was now as white as the tiles. "A murder?" he asked.

"That's right. And they think the priest did it."

"Before or after we nabbed him?"

"How the hell should I know? Before, I suppose."

Peregil swallowed with difficulty. "I haven't quite got this clear, boss. Who was murdered?"

Gavira left Peregil throwing up in the gents. He took his leave of the board members and climbed into his Mercedes. He told the chauffeur to turn on the air-conditioning and go and get himself a drink. Cellular phone in hand, he tried to think. He was sure his assistant had told him the truth. Now that his initial panic was over, he could see new problems. He didn't know if it was a series of coincidences or whether Peregil's people had really happened to kidnap the priest shortly after he did away with the journalist. The fact that the police had established that the hour of death had been early evening and that the priest hadn't been kidnapped – according to Macarena and the priest from Rome -until after midnight left Priamo Ferro without an alibi. This changed everything. Guilty or not, the priest was a suspect, and the police were looking for him. Holding on to him, therefore, was risky. Gavira was sure the priest could be set free without jeopardising his own plans. In fact, it suited him rather well: Father Ferro would be kept pretty busy with the interrogation. If Gavira's men let him go this evening, it was a sure thing there wouldn't be Mass at Our Lady of the Tears the following day. The trick would be returning the priest to public life cleanly, without a scandal. Whether the priest fled or turned himself in after that, Gavira didn't care. One way or another, Priamo Ferro would be out of circulation for a while. An anonymous call might help. The archbishop of Seville wouldn't be in a hurry to find a replacement. As for Don Octavio, it would be all the same to him.

The question of Macarena still had to be resolved, but Gavira could benefit from the new situation. It would be perfect if he could convince her that he'd had the priest set free as a favour to her, that Peregil had got a bit carried away in kidnapping the old man but that Gavira himself had had nothing to do with it. With the matter of Bonafe hanging over them all, and in particular over her dear Don Priamo, she would be careful to be discreet. There might even be some sort of reconciliation between them. Macarena and the priest from Rome could take charge of the parish priest with or without the police. Gavira didn't really have anything against the old man, but with a bit of luck, he was now as doomed as his church.