The Seville Communion (18 page)

. . . you and I and others like us have been removed too long from pastoral duty. We have lost touch with the people who keep us in touch with God. We have reduced the Faith to an intellectual conception, an arid assent of the will, because we have not seen it working in the lives of the common folk. We have lost pity and fear and love .... We work by canon, not by charity.

He put the novel back and checked the telephone. It had an old-fashioned, fixed connection. Nowhere to plug in a modem. He went out of the room, leaving the door exactly as he'd found it, at an angle of forty-five degrees, and walked along the passage to a bedroom he guessed was Father Ferro's. It smelled stale, like a priest's solitude. It was a simple room with a window looking on to the square. There was a metal bed with a crucifix on the wall above it, and a wardrobe with a mirror. He saw a book of prayers on the bedside table and, on the floor, an old pair of slippers and a chamber pot. He smiled. Inside the wardrobe he found a black suit, a cassock hardly in better condition than the one Father Ferro wore every day, a few shirts and some underwear. One of the only other personal possessions was a yellowish photograph in a wooden frame. It showed a man and a woman - they looked like peasants in their Sunday best - standing beside a priest.

Despite the black hair and grave young face, Quart easily recognised the priest of Our Lady of the Tears. The photograph was very old and stained. Quart guessed it must have been taken forty years ago. The look of solemn pride on the faces of the man and woman - on whose shoulders the young cleric was resting his hands - suggested that the snapshot had been taken to celebrate his recent ordination.

The other bedroom was without doubt Oscar Lobato's. On the wall was a lithograph of Jerusalem seen from the Mount of Olives, and an
Easy Rider
poster with Peter Fonda and Dennis Hopper on motorbikes. Quart also saw a tennis racket and a pair of trainers in a corner. There was nothing of interest in either the bedside table or the wardrobe, so he searched the desk at the window. He found various bits of paper, books on theology, on the history of the Church, Royo Marin's
Moral Doctrine
,
Altaner's
Patristics,
the five volumes of
Mysterium Salutis,
the lengthy essay
Clericsby
Eugen Drewermann, an electronic chess set, a guidebook to the Vatican, a small packet of antihistamine pills and an old copy of one of the adventures of Tintin,
The Sceptre of Ottokar
.
And in a drawer - a reward for Quart's patience -twenty pages on St. John of the Cross printed in New Courier font, and five plastic boxes each containing a dozen
3.5"
diskettes.

He might be Vespers or he might not. This was pretty slender proof; anway there was too much to go through then and there, Quart realised, annoyed, as he looked quickly through the boxes. He'd have to find a way to come back and copy the contents of the diskettes on to the hard disk of his laptop, to search them for clues later at his leisure. Copying the diskettes could take an hour, so he'd need to devise another excuse for getting the priests out of the way.

Quart could feel the heat of the sun through the curtains, and he was sweating beneath his lightweight black alpaca jacket. He mopped his forehead with a tissue, then rolled the tissue into a ball and put it in his pocket. He put the diskettes back and closed the drawer, wondering where Father Oscar kept his computer. The hacker would have needed a very powerful computer connected to an easily accessible telephone line, as well as additional equipment. Such facilities were not to be found in these quarters. Whether he was Oscar Lobato or someone else, Vespers obviously didn't work from here.

Quart looked round indecisively. It was time to leave. And at that moment, just as he glanced at his watch, he heard footsteps on the stairs. He realised that his problems had only just begun.

Peregil hung up and stared thoughtfully at the telephone. Don Ibrahim had just called from a bar near the church to give him the latest report on the movements of each of the characters in the story. The former bogus lawyer and his henchmen were taking their commission very seriously. Too seriously, in Peregil's view. He was fed up with receiving calls every half hour telling him that such-and-such a priest had just bought a newspaper, or that such-and-such a priest was sitting on the terrace of the Laredo Bar enjoying the evening air. So far, the only valuable information was that Macarena Bruner had met the envoy from Rome at the Dona Maria Hotel. Peregil reacted to this news with disbelief at first, then with a kind of expectant satisfaction. You could bet this would be interesting.

And speaking of betting. In the last twenty-four hours the gaming tables had brought him a few more problems. After paying Don Ibrahim and his companions the hundred-thousand-peseta advance on the three million promised for the entire job, Pencho Gavira's assistant gave in to temptation: he used the remaining two million nine hundred thousand to try to repair his dire financial situation. The idea had come to him in a flash, with the dangerous intuition that some days are special and that this was one of them. Also, a certain Moorish fatalism stirred in the man's Andalusian blood. Luck will not knock at the same door twice unless you do something to attract its attention. That was the only piece of advice his father gave him when he was little, the day before his father went out for cigarettes and ran off with the butcher's wife. So, as Peregil stood eating tapas at the bar, he suddenly realised, although he knew he was walking along the edge of a precipice, that if he didn't act on his instinct, he'd spend the rest of his life regretting what might have been. Because he, the sidekick of the strong man at the Cartujano Bank, could be many things: a scoundrel, a man ashamed of his baldness, or a gambler who would sell his old mother, his boss or his boss's ex-wife for the price of a bingo card; but just imagining the sound of a rolling roulette ball made him brave as a lion. So that evening Peregil put on a clean shirt and a tie with mauve and red flowers, and headed for the casino like a Greek on his way to Troy. He nearly pulled it off, and that said much for his intuition as an habitue of the gaming tables. But, as Seneca said, what isn't to be isn't to be. Or maybe he never said anything of the sort. The two million nine hundred thousand went the way of the other three million. So Celestino Peregil was without a cent, and the shadows of Mairena the Gypsy and El Polio Muelas hovered over him like a black cloud.

He got up and paced the cubbyhole, full of photocopiers and paper, that he occupied two floors below his boss, with views on the Arenal and the Guadalquivir. From here he could see the Torre del Oro, San Telmo Bridge and couples walking along the river. Even in his shirtsleeves and with the air-conditioning on, he couldn't breathe. So he went to get the bottle and some ice, and downed a glass of whisky in one. He wondered how long things could go on this way.

A tempting idea was taking shape in his mind. Nothing specific yet, but something that might provide him with a little liquidity and breathing space. He'd be playing with fire again, but the truth was he didn't have much choice. The main thing was to make sure that Pencho Gavira never found out that his assistant was playing a double game. As long as Peregil was discreet about leaking the story to the press, this business could bring him quite a bit more money. The tall priest was much more photogenic than Curro Maestral.

Slowly turning the idea over, he went to the desk in search of his address book. His finger paused over a telephone number he'd dialled before. Suddenly he slammed the address book shut, as if struggling against temptation. You're a low-down rat, he said to himself with an objectivity unusual in the type he was. But the former detective wasn't really that concerned about the state of his morals; he was worried that some remedies, if you overdid it, could kill you. But debts could also kill you, especially if they were owed to the most dangerous moneylender in Seville. So, after weighing things again, he opened the address book once more and found the number of
Q&S
magazine. What have I got to lose? he thought. Somebody once said that betrayal was just a matter of timing; and for Peregil time was running out. Anyway, calling it betrayal wasn't right. He was just trying to survive.

"What are you doing here?"

Father Oscar hadn't been detained at the archbishop's palace long enough. There he was in the corridor, blocking Quart's way out, and not looking too friendly. Quart smiled coldly, barely managing to conceal his annoyance and embarrassment.

"I was taking a look round," he said.

"So it would seem."

Oscar Lobato kept nodding, as if answering his own questions. He wore a black polo shirt, grey trousers and trainers. His skin was pale, although he was now flushed from having run up the stairs. He was considerably shorter than Quart and didn't look very strong - his appearance (from Father Oscar's CV, Quart knew he was twenty-six) indicated that he spent more time sitting over a book than doing physical exercise. But he looked furious, and Quart knew you should never underestimate a man in that state. His eyes were wild behind his glasses, his fair hair flopped untidily over his forehead and his fists were clenched.

There was nothing Quart could say to get out of this mess, so he raised a hand, requesting calm,-and turned sideways, as if to go out into the narrow corridor. But Father Oscar moved to the left, blocking him. The envoy from Rome realised that things were going to go further than he had bargained for.

"Don't be stupid," he said, undoing the button on his jacket.

Even before Quart finished the sentence, Father Oscar struck, blindly, furiously, dispensing with priestly meekness. But Quart stepped back quickly, and the punch missed.

"This is ridiculous," Quart protested.

It was true. None of this was worth a fight. Quart raised both hands to placate. But his opponent, still in a rage, tried again to hit him. This time the blow glanced off his jaw. It was a feeble haymaker, but Quart was now angry. The assistant priest seemed to believe that people went at each other in real life as they did in films. Not that Quart was an expert at this sort of thing; but during the course of his work he had acquired a few skills unusual for a priest. Nothing spectacular, just half a dozen tricks to get him out of tight spots. Quart kicked the flushed, panting young man in the groin.

Father Oscar stopped dead, a look of astonishment on his face. Quart knew that it would take about five seconds for the kick to have its full impact, so he also punched him behind the ear, not too hard, to make sure he didn't strike out again. The assistant priest fell to his knees, his head and right shoulder against the wall, and stared fixedly at his glasses lying undamaged on the tiled floor.

"I'm sorry
,"
said Quart, rubbing his sore knuckles.

He really was sorry - and embarrassed that he hadn't been able to prevent this ridiculous scene: two priests fighting like a couple of louts. His opponent's youth only added to his discomfort.

Father Oscar didn't move. Red in the face and gasping for breath, he was still staring myopically at his glasses on the floor. Quart picked them up and handed them to him, then put an arm under his shoulders and stood him on his feet. After Quart helped him to the sitting room, the assistant priest, still doubled up in pain, collapsed into a plastic sofa on top of a pile of
New Life
magazines. Quart brought him a glass of water from the kitchen and Father Oscar gulped it down. He put his glasses back on. One of the lenses was smudged. Sweat plastered his fair hair to his forehead.

"I'm sorry,” Quart said again.

The assistant priest nodded weakly, staring at a vague point in space. He brushed his hair off his forehead. He looked truly pathetic. His glasses had slipped down his nose and he was very pale. He must have been under a lot of pressure to have lost control like that.

"I was just doing my job," Quart said, as gently as he could, leaning over the table. "There's nothing personal about it."

Father Oscar nodded again, avoiding his eyes. "I lost my head," he said, subdued.

"We both did," Quart said with a smile, trying to soothe the young man's wounded pride. "But I'd like to make one thing very clear: I didn't come here to persecute anyone. I'm just trying to understand."

Still avoiding Quart's eye and with his hand on his forehead, Father Oscar asked what the hell Quart thought he'd understand by going through other people's belongings.

Trying to sound as friendly as he could, Quart told Father Oscar about the hacker and the message to Rome. As he talked, he paced.

Then he stopped in front of the young priest. "Some believe," he said, in a tone that implied that
he
didn't believe it, "that you're Vespers." "That's absurd."

"But your age, qualifications, interests, they all fit the profile . . ." He leaned on the table again. "How much do you know about computers?"

"The same as everyone."

"What about these boxes of diskettes?"

The assistant priest blinked. "That's private. You have no right." "Of course not" - Quart held up his palms to placate - "but could you tell me where your computer is?" "That's not important." "I think it is."

Father Oscar looked more resolute now, and less like a humiliated young man. "Listen," he said, "there's a war going on here, and I've chosen which side I'm on." He sat up straight and looked Quart in the eye. "Don Priamo is a good and honourable man. The others aren't. That's all I have to say."

"Who are the others?"

"Everyone. From the people at the bank to the archbishop." He smiled for the first time. A smile of anger. "And I include those who sent you from Rome."

Quart couldn't have cared less; he wasn't bothered by insults to his team. Assuming that Rome was his team. "All right," he said neutrally. "I'll put all this down to your youth. At your age, life is much more dramatic. Ideas and lost causes carry you away."