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two other young priests.
    ‘At the end of the seventies, Fowler became a full-time agent for the Company. He retains his status as military chaplain and travels to a number of Armed Forces bases all over the world. The information I’ve given you so far could have been obtained from any number of agencies, but what I’m going to tell you next is top secret and was very difficult to come by.’
    The screen went blank. In the light from the projector Orville was just about able to make out an easy chair with someone sitting in it. He made an effort not to look directly at the figure.
    ‘Fowler is an agent for the Holy Alliance, the Vatican’s secret service. It’s a small outfit, generally unknown to the public, but active. One of its accomplishments is having saved the life of former Israeli president, Golda Meir, when Islamic terrorists came close to blowing up her plane during a visit to Rome. The medals were awarded to Mossad, but the Holy Alliance didn’t care. They take the phrase ‘secret service’ literally. Only the Pope and a handful of cardinals are officially informed of their work. Among the international intelligence community, the Alliance is respected and feared. Unfortunately, I have little to add about Fowler’s history with this institution. As for his work with the CIA, my professional ethics and my contract with the Company don’t allow me to reveal anything further, Mr Kayn.’
    Orville cleared his throat. Even though he didn’t expect an answer from the figure sitting at the end of the room, he paused.
    Not a word.
    ‘As to your second question, Mr Kayn . . .’
    Orville wondered for a moment if he should reveal that Netcatch was not responsible for finding this particular piece of information. That it had come to his office in a sealed envelope from an anonymous source. And that there were other interests involved who clearly wanted Kayn Industries to have it. But then he recalled the humiliating spray of mentholated mist and simply went on talking.
    On the screen a young woman appeared with blue eyes and copper-coloured hair.
    ‘This is a young journalist named . . .’

7
    EDITORIAL OFFICES OF EL GLOBO
    MADRID, SPAIN
     
    Thursday, 6 July 2006. 8:29 p.m.
     
    ‘Andrea! Andrea Otero! Where the hell are you?’
    To say that the newsroom fell silent at the sound of the Editor-in-Chief’s shouts would not be entirely accurate, for the newsroom of a daily paper is never quiet one hour before going to press. But there were no voices, which made the background noise of telephones, radios, televisions, fax machines and printers seem like an uneasy kind of silence. The Chief was carrying a suitcase in each hand, and had a newspaper tucked under one arm. He dropped the suitcases at the entrance to the newsroom and walked straight over to the International section, to the only empty desk. He banged his fist on it angrily.
    ‘You can come out now. I saw you duck under there.’
    Slowly a mane of coppery-blonde hair and the face of a young blue-eyed woman emerged from beneath the desk. She tried to act nonchalantly, but her face was tense.
    ‘Hey there, Chief. I just dropped my pen.’
    The veteran newsman reached up and adjusted his wig. The issue of the Editor-in-Chief’s baldness was taboo, so it certainly wouldn’t help Andrea Otero that she had just witnessed this manoeuvre.
    ‘I’m not happy, Otero. Not happy at all. Can you tell me what the hell’s going on?’
    ‘What do you mean, Chief?’
    ‘Do you have fourteen million euros in the bank, Otero?’
    ‘Not the last time I looked.’
    In fact, the last time she checked, her five credit cards were seriously overdrawn, thanks to her insane addiction to Hermes bags and Manolo Blahnik shoes. She was thinking of asking the accounts department for an advance on her Christmas bonus. For the next three years.
    ‘You’d better have a rich aunt who’s about to pop her clogs, because that’s how much you’re going to cost me,