THAT SAME AFTERNOON, far from Madrid, the person chosen to keep the shop's secret went up the stairs of the parking lot of the Glorieta de España, carrying the laptop under his arm. It was windy outside.
The air smelled of mud, coming from the river, and that pestilent wave seemed to incite the pigeons to defecate without any consideration on the bronze skullcap of the statue of Cardinal Belluga. The people around him were hurrying to get to their destinations as quickly as possible, oblivious to the presence of that man.
He took advantage of his social invisibility to blend in with them. No one noticed that gray-haired man with a learned air, who, with slow steps, walked towards the Arenal alley, which, in turn, led precisely to the Plaza Cardinal Belluga.
He sat down at one of the tables lined up on the terrace of a café, near the cathedral. From where he was, he could see, in detail, the baroque carvings that combined the exaltation of the Virgin Mary with the glorification of the Holy Mother of the Roman Catholic Apostolic Church.
The iconography of the main façade seemed too secular for his taste. It was no coincidence that it was a style that came after the Gothic, when the builders of cathedrals stopped doing this job and became simple stone craftsmen, careless workers in the service of kings who valued aesthetics more than the arcane wisdom of the ashlars. As a result, the magic that the temples radiated in the past ended up transforming into a crude imitation of the primitive ingenuity of the great masters.
— Excuse me, sir... Would you like something to drink?
The waiter's expressionless voice caught his attention.
— A coffee with milk and a sparkling water, please — he replied kindly. The young man wrote down the order on his pad and left, after clearing the table.
Alone again, he pondered what had happened in Madrid. He recognized that his work was not exactly pleasant, but it was part of the cross that the Council had imposed on him: and, as a secrecy-keeper, he was allowed to act without any moral restrictions or scruples of conscience. It was one of the golden rules of the lodge: to prevent the spread of what had remained hidden for so long, even if, to do so, it was necessary to tear out the tongues of all those who dared to break the oath of absolute fidelity and strict conduct.
The appointment had been scheduled for seven-thirty and it was already five minutes past the hour, so his contact was about to arrive. He glanced around absently, hoping to spot the person he was supposed to meet in the crowd. Wandering around the square, he saw a group of tourists who were taking photographs, with an almost religious fervor, of the central niche of the coronation of the Virgin, the figures of the four saints of Cartagena and the statue of Ferdinand III.
Downstairs, next to one of the entrance doors, a young woman was playing the cello while her companion, a young man with a beard and long hair, was trying hard to play the most delicate and melodious notes on his splendid double bass. Someone approached them to leave some coins in the wicker basket on the floor. It was a young woman with short hair, an aquiline nose and an athletic build. She was wearing a leather jacket that covered her body down to her knees.
After making that public and supportive gesture, she turned around. Her eyes searched the crowd for someone in particular, while she put on black gloves.
The man immediately recognized her. Her image fit the profile that the men at the agency had described to her: a Caucasian woman of about twenty-four years of age, blonde, with an icy, lugubrious and hostile appearance, as if she had been taken from a Cold War manual.
To get her attention, and risking being considered crazy by the people around him, he drew a spiral in the air with his index finger, finishing the gesture with a vertical line. It was the sign of the abacus, the emblem of master builders. The young woman approached, without taking her eyes off him.
— Herr, the master? — she asked, when she was already standing in front of him.
The gentleman in the gray suit silently affirmed that he recognized the mission and the identity of the young woman, without being surprised by the German accent that his tone of voice betrayed. Then he pointed to the metal chair at the other end of the table. The girl sat down, accepting the invitation.
— I thought you were a few years younger — she admitted without beating around the bush.
— The agency told me that you dedicate yourself to speleology in your free time.
— Yes, that's right — said the master, boastfully —, because the interior of the Earth is fascinating..., but let me tell you something. Confidence for confidence, you know?... I also expected you to be a little older and, above all, I thought they would assign a man, not a girl, for this job.
The young woman was not very bothered by the observation. She simply made an indecipherable expression.
— Believe that a man would have done better?
— I am not questioning your competence, especially since you have proven yourself to be impeccable. It was just a comment, miss...
— You can call me Sephy.
— Sephy... — repeated the old man, emphasizing each syllable. — Very appropriate, in my opinion.
There was something about that young woman that bordered on hostility, perhaps her disciplined features, devoid of any emotion, evidencing a tortuous past. Hired killers usually had, almost all of them, a similar appearance: the mark of a monster without feelings.
— Very good! — he exclaimed, icy. — Now that we know each other, it will be easier to ask if the rest of the money has been transferred.
— She was referring to her fees for the murder of Jorge Viana.
The master opened the notebook, left on the table, immediately showing a tolerant smile, which gave access to the second part of the negotiation. He typed with ease for a few seconds. Then he turned the device and gently pushed it towards Sephy.
— You just have to enter the secret password for your Swiss account and press enter. Your 300,000 euros will be transferred automatically. As you can see, money is not exactly our Achilles heel.
— Do you give so little value to material things that you think you're going to pay me double what was agreed? — She asked, perplexed. She knew very well that this was not a mistake and immediately sensed that they were going to ask for a new job.
— There is another person you have to eliminate... — His words confirmed Sephy's suspicions — Well... actually, there should be two, but I thought I need one of them alive.
— May I ask why?
— No.
The harshness of his reaction did not leave room for reply.
— Should I follow the same procedure as the other one?
— Yes, indeed — he answered immediately. — You must rip out the person's tongue from under the chin, write the warning in a visible place and sign it as The Widow's Children — he said, clearing his voice —, unless you prefer to follow the old model of punishment.
— Which is... — the young woman waited for the master to tell her.
— Rip out the heart, while still alive, cut off the head and throw the body into the sea... It's up to you.
Sephy thought he had underestimated his client. That damned bricklayer was perhaps as fanatical as any mercenary from the Death Squad in Brazil who cut off people's heads with a dull knife to make the martyrdom last longer, earning the name Highlanders.
— I suppose you brought information about the new victim with you — he simply said.
The master took an envelope from inside his jacket, extending his left hand to offer it to the young woman.
— It's all in there: photos, addresses of your home and work, make, model, color and license plate of your car, places you usually go... In short, your personal life.
— And how can you be sure that I won't disappear after transferring the advance money?
— Because we believe that you are intelligent enough not to make such a mistake.
Sephy decided not to test the client's patience. At the agency, they might consider his sense of humor as a lack of professionalism. Without wasting any more time, he entered the password. And then pressed enter.
— It's done! — He closed the notebook, putting the envelope in one of the pockets of his coat. All that's left for me to tell you is that we won't meet again. I'll leave the country as soon as I finish the job... And another thing... I don't usually return to the same city twice.
He smiled nonchalantly.
— Now you'll have to do that, my dear. Your work is in Madrid — he stated coldly.
The young woman thought for a few seconds.
— As I always say: never bite the hand that feeds you... — he winked and gave him a pleasant smile in farewell.
— It's just a small detail, failing to follow your principles for my benefit.
Having said that, he immediately stood up, just as the waiter approached with the intention of doing his job. As a result, they both collided loudly, without either of them being able to avoid the encounter. The boy politely apologized, to which Sephy responded with an oath in his language, an expression of Teutonic slang incomprehensible to the other.
The boy looked at the master, looking for a certain complicity. The latter supported him with a very characteristic aphorism, while shrugging his shoulders:
— Women...! — he exclaimed, raising his eyebrows.