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come to their residence to take measurements.
    The archbishop turned and scrutinised the priest's perfectly cut suit, silver cufflinks, and black silk shirt. "Listen, Quart," he said, and the name without a tide sounded harsh. "Pride is a sin to which we're not immune, but there's more to it than that. Over and above our personal weaknesses, you and I - and even Iwaszkiewicz and his sinister brotherhood, and the Holy Father with his maddening fundamentalism - we're all responsible for the faith of millions of people. Faith in a Church that is infallible and eternal. And that faith - which is sincere, whatever we cynical members of the Curia might think - is our only justification. It absolves us. Without it, you, I, Iwaszkiewicz, we'd all be hypocritical bastards. Do you understand what I'm trying to say?"
    Quart returned the Mastiff’s look evenly. "Perfectly, Monsignor," he said. Almost instinctively he had adopted the rigid stance of a Swiss Guard before an official: his arms at his sides, thumbs lined up with his trouser seams.
    Spada watched him a moment longer, then seemed to relax slightly. There was even a hint of a smile on his face.
    "I hope you do," he said, his smile widening. "Because when I stand at the gates of Heaven and the grumpy fisherman comes out to greet me, I'll say: Peter, be lenient with this old soldier of Christ who's worked so hard bailing out water from your ship. After all, even Moses had to resort to Joshua's sword. And you yourself stabbed Malchus to defend our Teacher."
    It was Quart's turn to laugh. "In that case I'd like to go first, Monsignor. I don't think they'll accept the same excuse twice."
    II
    Three Villains
    When I arrive in a city, I always ask who are the twelve most beautiful women, the twelve richest men, and the man who could have me hanged.
    Stendhal, Lucien Leuwen
    Celestino Peregil, personal assistant to Pencho Gavira the banker, flicked bad-temperedly through Q&S magazine. He was on his way to the Casa Cuesta Bar in the heart of Seville's Triana district. There were several reasons for Peregil's bad mood: his recalcitrant ulcer, the delicate mission that now took him across the Guadalquivir, and the cover of the magazine he was holding. Peregil was a squat, nervous man. To hide his premature baldness he combed his hair over his head from a parting on a level with his left ear. He was fond of white socks, loud silk ties, double-breasted jackets with gold buttons, and hookers in hostess bars. But above all, fond of the magical pattern of numbers on the gaming tables of any casino that still let him in. This, together with the appointment he was grudgingly keeping, was why the ulcer bothered him more than usual. And the cover of Q&S did nothing to improve his mood. Even a man as unfeeling as Celestino Peregil couldn't but be worried by a photograph of his boss's wife with another man. Especially if he'd tipped off the magazine himself.
    "The little tart," he said aloud, and a couple of passers-by turned to look at him.
    Then he remembered the purpose of the appointment. He took a mauve silk handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiped his forehead. Before his eyes the numbers 7 and 16 danced nightmarishly on a green baize background. If I get out of this mess, he said to himself, I swear it'll be the last time. I swear on the Virgin Mary.
    He threw the magazine into a dustbin. Then, turning the corner under a sign for Cruzcampo beer, he stopped at the door of the bar. He hated that kind of place, with its marble tables, tiled walls and shelves full of dusty bottles of Terry Centenario brandy. It stood for the Spain of castanets and guitars, stuffy, squalid and vulgar, so difficult to escape. He'd been a small-time private investigator specialising in sordid adultery and social security fraud until good luck brought him Pencho Gavira and the great bank. Now he hung out in fashionable bars drinking whisky on the rocks to ambient music; he frequented plush offices humming with