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officers. By commissioning a report they designated a scapegoat. Everyone would see Olmedo as the one whose hand had pressed the button. In spite of his discretion, news of the commission had begun to spread a little after his return from Afghanistan, and soon he started feeling the hostility of those who were against change. He’d pretended not to notice the reproachful looks, and once he even heard someone say they wished he’d been blown up by one of those bombs the Taliban planted by the side of the road and detonated at the passage of military vehicles.
    But he hadn’t been blown up, and this morning, in one hour and a half from now, he would conduct the last part of his job: the meeting with the bosses and officers where he would present the final conclusions of his analysis. Hence the uniform, for it would lend its presentation greater solemnity and authority.
    Before going to the headquarters he had to drop by his daughter’s house, to get her to sign some bank documents, and Marina didn’t mind seeing him dressed like that. One the contrary, she always said that in uniform he looked younger, more handsome, and that it reminded her of when she was a child.
    He went down to the garage, opened the gate with the remote control and started the car. Going out into the street as carefully as always, he saw Rosco, the road sweeper, cleaning the street with the large wire brush he always used. The effort showed in his face.
    ‘Good morning, Rosco,’ said Olmedo through the window.
    ‘Morning.’
    ‘Lots of work, right?’
    ‘Lots. These plane trees are always making a mess. In autumn, it’s the leaves. In spring, it’s the seed fluff blowing everywhere and clogging the drains. Too much work. Should cut them down.’
    ‘But the shade is nice,’ he said as he reached the street.
    The clock in the car read half past nine. He had more than enough time – the meeting was not supposed to start until eleven, after the officers had given instructions for the daily routines. Fifteen minutes later he parked by his daughter’s building and went upstairs.
    ‘I’ve been waiting for you,’ said Marina with the smile that had returned to her face in the last few months, since she’d started seeing Samuel. She’d already taken her elder child to the bus stop, and the little one, in his playpen, was chewing on a biscuit as he watched cartoons on the TV. ‘Coffee?’
    ‘Yes, please.’
    When she returned with a tray he’d already laid the application to change the titleholder of an investment fund on the table. Two hundred thousand euros, while not a fortune that would allow anyone to retire, was a considerable sum nonetheless, which needed looking after and might tempt greedy people. Before leaving for Afghanistan he’d put everything under both their names, so that if anything should happen to him, Marina could have direct access to the money without paying any inheritance tax. Back then, she was still married to Jaime, and that piece of information was in the files at the bank and might pose a problem. He hadn’t taken action in the last year, but now that Marina was getting divorced he needed to become the sole titleholder once again. For a few months at least only he would have access to that fund.
    ‘Do you think it’s necessary?’ she asked, sitting beside him.
    ‘It’s advisable.’
    ‘You and your military mind,’ she joked. ‘Always seeing problemswhere there aren’t any. Jaime would never dare claim any of that money. He knows it’s not his,’ she said, and further explained. ‘He knows it’s yours.’
    ‘Well, tomorrow when I take these papers to the bank there will be no point in speculating whether he’d claim it or not. He simply won’t be able to. Has he paid this month’s alimony, by the way?’
    ‘No. I’ve told you he’s had some trouble at the company.’
    ‘You not demanding what your children are entitled to won’t solve his problems.’
    ‘Your never liked Jaime, Dad,’