Gavira didn't, but it was the usual type of tourist boat: an upper deck with several rows of seats, a bridge in the bow, and, below deck, half a dozen cabins and an engine room. The boat had obviously been out of service for some time.

The ghosts that had troubled Quart over the last few hours gradually dispersed. The night, the boat in darkness, the imminent confrontation, all filled him with an almost childishly pleasant sense of anticipation. He was in control, back on familiar territory. He even discovered in Pencho Gavira an unexpected comrade in arms, and his dislike of the man diminished. No doubt the dislike would return tomorrow, but for tonight at least, the Knight Templar had an ally. Quart appreciated the fact that Gavira had come on foot, alone, and was now preparing to board the Lovely without superfluous words.

"Let's go," said Macarena impatiently. At that moment she couldn't have cared less about either man. Her only concern was the boat.

Gavira looked at Quart. His teeth shone white in the darkness. "After you, Father," he said.

They approached, careful not to make any noise. The boat was tied to the quay with two ropes, one to the bow and one to the stern. Crossing the gangway stealthily, they found a deck littered with coils of rope, old lifebelts, tyres, tables and chairs. Quart switched his wallet to his trouser pocket, removed his jacket, and left it folded on one of the seats. Gavira silently followed suit.

They crossed the upper deck. For a moment they thought they heard movement beneath their feet, and the quay became faintly illuminated, as if someone had opened a porthole to look out. Quart held his breath and trod softly. Blood pounded in his ears; he tried to calm himself so he could hear everything around him. He came to the bridge, where the helm and instruments were under canvas covers. Leaning against the bulkhead, he listened. The place smelled dirty and abandoned. Macarena and Gavira stood tense beside him. The banker looked questioningly at Quart. Macarena frowned; from the determination on her face, you'd have thought she'd been raiding boats in the middle of the night all her life. From behind the door came the muffled sound of a radio.

"If there's trouble, we take a man each," whispered Quart. "Macarena can see to Father Ferro."

"What about the woman?" asked Gavira.

"I don't know. We'll see if she does anything and deal with it then."

They discussed the situation in hushed voices. The banker said he would speak for Peregil and try to resolve things amicably. They quickly weighed pros and cons. The problem, of course, was that the kidnappers were expecting money and Gavira only had his credit cards. Regretting now that they hadn't called the police, Quart reviewed tactics. If they tried the friendly approach, there would be a lot of talking. A raid entailed speed, surprise, violence. The idea was not to give their opponents time to think, to stun them. And should the worst happen, he hoped that God – or whoever was on duty that night – would make sure there weren't any casualties.

"Let's go in."

This is ridiculous, he thought. Then he picked up a heavy metal bar, took a deep breath, and opened the door. He wondered whether he should also have made the sign of the Cross.

Don Ibrahim spilled his coffee down his trousers. The tall priest had materialised in the doorway, in shirtsleeves, with a nasty metal bar in his hand. Don Ibrahim struggled to his feet and now saw another man behind the priest, dark and good-looking, and he recognised the banker Gavira. Then the young duchess appeared.

"Please stay calm," said the tall priest. "We've come to talk."

Still in his vest, the Spanish Legion tattoo on his shoulder glossy with sweat, El Potro del Mantelete sat up in his bunk and put his bare feet on the floor. He looked at Don Ibrahim as if asking whether this visit was scheduled or not.

"Peregil sent us," announced Gavira. "Everything's in order."

If everything was in order, thought Don Ibrahim, they wouldn't have been there, Peregil would be putting four and a half million on the table, and the tall priest wouldn't be holding that metal bar. Something had gone wrong. He glanced over the shoulders of the three new arrivals, expecting the police to appear any moment.

"We need to talk," said the tall priest.

What Don Ibrahim, La Nina, and El Potro needed to do was get the hell out of there. But La Nina was next door with the old priest, and leaving wouldn't be that easy – because, among other things, three people were blocking the exit. Damn his luck, he thought. Damn it and all the Peregils and all the priests in the world. He knew getting involved with cassocks would bring bad luck. He was an idiot – it had been obvious from the start.

"There's been a misunderstanding," Don Ibrahim said, playing for time.

The priest's face was stony; with his dog collar, the metal bar in his hand was as incongruous as a couple of pistols in the hands of Jesus. Don Ibrahim leaned on the table, while El Potro watched him like a dog awaiting orders. If only he could protect La Nina, Don Ibrahim thought. And make sure she wasn't implicated if the worst happened.

Events made his decision for him. The young duchess looked around, her eyes flashing. "Where are you keeping him?" she demanded. Not waiting for an answer, she took a couple of steps to the closed door of the cabin. That young lady was certainly pretty mad, thought Don Ibrahim. Instinctively, El Potro stood up, blocking her way. He looked hesitantly at his colleague, but Don Ibrahim didn't know how to react. At that moment, the banker moved as if to defend the woman, and El Potro, more decisive with regard to an adult male, shot him a left hook that threw him against the bulkhead. After that things became complicated. As if a bell had rung somewhere in his battered memory, El Potro held up his fists and started to bounce around the cabin, striking out in all directions, ready to defend his bantamweight title. Gavira was flung against a cupboard full of tin cups that came crashing down, the young duchess ducked to avoid one of El Potro's right-handers and made for the cabin where the old priest was being held, and Don Ibrahim started shouting for everyone to calm down. Nobody listened.

La Nina, hearing the noise, came out to see what was going on and slammed into the young duchess, while Gavira, no doubt seeking revenge for El Potro's punch, advanced on Don Ibrahim, looking none too friendly. The tall priest looked hesitantly at the metal bar in his hand, threw it to the ground and stepped back to avoid El Potro, who was still striking out at anything that moved, including his own shadow.

"Stop!" pleaded Don Ibrahim. "Stop!"

La Nina became hysterical, pushed the young duchess, and rushed at the banker as if to scratch his eyes out. Gavira stopped her dead with a very ungentlemanly punch that flung her back into the cabin, flounces and polka dots flying, right at the feet of the old priest, who was blindfolded and tied to a chair. At this, Don Ibrahim forgot his conciliatory intentions. The former bogus lawyer overturned the table, lowered his head as Kid Tunero and Don Ernesto Hemingway had taught him in the Floridita Bar in Havana, and yelling "Viva Zapata!" – it was the first thing that entered his head – he flung his hundred and ten kilos at the banker, taking him crashing to the other side of the cabin. Just then, El Potro hit the priest in the face with a left hook, the priest grabbed the lamp to keep himself from falling, the electric cord sparked as it was pulled from the socket, and the boat was plunged into darkness.

"Nina! Potro!" shouted Don Ibrahim, gasping from the struggle and letting go of the banker.

Something shattered. The darkness was filled with cries and blows. Someone, perhaps the tall priest, fell on top of Don Ibrahim and elbowed him in the face so hard that he saw stars. The bastard wasn't turning the other cheek. With blood trickling from his nose, Don Ibrahim crawled away, dragging his belly. It was dreadfully hot and he could hardly breathe. El Potro appeared for a moment as a dark shadow in the doorway, still striking out to left and right, in a world of his own. More blows and curses came from various directions, and something broke with a great splintering of wood. A high-heeled shoe trod on Don Ibrahim's hand, and then a body fell on top of him. He immediately recognised the flouncy dress and fragrance of Maderas de Oriente.