With the air-conditioning on, the temperature inside the Mercedes was perfect. More relaxed now, Gavira sank back in the black leather seat and considered himself in the rear-view mirror. Maybe it hadn't been such a bad day after all. The Shark smiled as he dialled the number of the Casa del Postigo.

Macarena looked at Quart as she hung up the phone. She fell into thought, resting an elbow on the table covered with books and papers in a corner of the room she used as a study. They were on the top floor. There were tiles decorated with flowers, leaves and Maltese crosses, dark beams on the ceiling, and a large black marble fireplace. Signs of Macarena were everywhere: a television, a VCR, a small hi-fi, books on art and history, ancient bronze ashtrays, comfortable armchairs upholstered in dark corduroy, embroidered cushions. A large cupboard contained a jumble of ancient manuscripts, volumes with yellow parchment bindings and video tapes, and a couple of good paintings were hung on the walls: a Saint Peter by Alonso Vazquez, and a painting of the Battle of Lepanto by an unknown artist. Near the window, under a bell jar, a frowning archangel held his sword aloft.

"That's it," said Macarena.

Quart stood up, but she didn't move.

"There's been a mistake, and he apologises," she said. "He swears he had nothing to do with it. The people who work for him did it on their own initiative."

Quart didn't care. There would be time later to establish who was responsible. The main thing was to get to Father Ferro before the police did. Guilty or not, he was still a priest: the Church couldn't stand by with hands folded.

"Where are they holding him?" he asked.

"He's safe, on a boat moored to the old quay by the Arenal. Pencho will call when he's sorted it out." She crossed the room, picked up a cigarette from her desk, and took her lighter from under her bra strap. "He offers to return him to me rather than to the police, in exchange for a truce. Although his mentioning the police is just a bluff."

Quart exhaled, relieved. At least that part of the problem was solved. "Will you tell your mother?" he asked.

"No. It's better if she doesn't find out until everything's settled. This news could kill her." She was upset. She had forgotten to light her cigarette. "You should have heard Pencho," she added. "Attentive, charming, at my disposal. He knows he's about to win and he's selling us a non-existent alternative. Don Priamo can't escape when they let him go."

She said it coldly, and the coldness filled Quart. Each time one of her gestures awakened a recent memory, he felt a great sadness. Having got so close to him and taken him to a place where the edges were blurred and solitude and tenderness were shared, she had moved away again. It was too soon to know what the priest would be losing and gaining in the woman's warm flesh; but the image of the betrayed Knight Templar tormented him. Seville had taken too much from Quart in too short a time, giving him nothing in return save a painful self-awareness. He wished for a call to battle; it would restore his tranquillity.

Macarena's dark eyes were on him, but she wasn't thinking about him. There were no honey-coloured glints, no moon casting shadows of bougainvillea and orange tree leaves. For an instant, the IEA agent wondered what the hell he was doing there. "I don't see why Father Ferro should run," he said, with effort. "If he disappeared because he was kidnapped, then he's less of a suspect."

She wasn't reassured. "That changes nothing. They'll say he locked the church with the dead man inside."

"Yes. But maybe, as Gris said, he can prove he didn't see Bonafe. It would be good for everyone if he explained himself at last. Good for you and me. And for him."

She shook her head and said, "I must talk to Don Priamo before the police do." She went over to the window and leaned against the frame, looking down at the courtyard.

"So must I," said Quart, moving closer. "It would be better if he turned himself in, with me and the lawyer I've summoned from Madrid." He looked at his watch. "Who must now be with Gris at police headquarters."

"She'd never accuse Don Priamo."

"Of course not."

Macarena turned to Quart, anxiety in her eyes. "They're going to arrest him, aren't they?"

How absurd to be jealous of a small, dishevelled old priest, but Quart couldn't deny it. "I don't know," he said. In a rocking chair beside the tiled fountain in the courtyard below, oblivious to all that was going on around her, Cruz Bruner sat fanning herself and reading peacefully. "But from what I saw at the church, I'm afraid they will."

"You think he did it, don't you?" Macarena looked very sad, contemplating her mother. "Even though he didn't disappear of his own free will, you still believe he did it."

"I don't believe anything," snapped Quart. "It's not my job to believe." He thought of Uzzah in the Bible, who "put forth his hand to the ark of God, and took hold of it… And the anger of the Lord was kindled against Uzzah; and God smote him there for his error; and there he died by the ark of God."

Macarena crumbled the unlit cigarette between her fingers, and shreds of tobacco fell at her feet. "Don Priamo is no murderer."

Quart said nothing. He thought of Honorato Bonafe lying dead in the confessional, struck down by the implacable fury of the Almighty. He could see Father Ferro as a murderer.

A quarter to eleven. Leaning against a lamppost beneath Triana Bridge, Celestino Peregil heard the clock strike as he watched glittering reflections in the black waters of the river. The headlights of cars crossing the bridge slid along the iron railing, above the arches and stone pillars, and also beyond the parapet of gardens and terraces rising from the Paseo de Cristobal Colon, by the Maestranza. But below, all was still.

He set off along the esplanade beneath the bridge, towards the old quays of the Arenal. The breeze from Sanlucar rose, gently rippling the dark surface of the Guadalquivir and lifting the henchman's spirits. After the high emotion of the last few hours, everything was returning to normal. Even his ulcer was letting up. The appointment was for eleven o'clock by the boat, where Don Ibrahim and his colleagues would be waiting. Gavira had given Peregil full instructions so that no mistakes would be made: the lady and the tall priest would arrive to collect Father Ferro, and all Peregil had to do was make sure that everything went without a hitch. The parish priest was to be led off the boat and the handover would take place in one of the old warehouses on the quay. Peregil had the key to the warehouse in his pocket. As for the money for the three scoundrels, the assistant had had a lot of trouble convincing his boss to pay; but the urgency of the situation and the banker's desire to rid himself of the parish priest helped things along. Peregil patted his belly lovingly: he was carrying the four and a half million in notes of ten thousand hidden under his shirt, tucked into the waistband of his shorts. He had another five hundred thousand at home that he got out of his boss at the last minute, under the pretext of expenses vital to the successful completion of the operation. All that cash in his pants made him walk stiffly, as if he were wearing a corset.

He began to whistle optimistically. Other than a few fishermen or dating couples, the place was deserted. Peregil listened with pleasure to the frogs croaking among the reeds. The moon was rising over Triana and all was right with the world. Five minutes to eleven. He quickened his pace. He was dying to get this over with so he could head straight for the Casino, to see if the half a million yielded anything good. Making sure he kept twenty-five thousand back for an encounter with Dolores la Negra. "Ah, Peregil, this is a surprise."