The small stone church was open. There were two parishioners inside, a pair of fishermen, but not the priest.
“Sometimes he goes to the bay with his brother,” one of the fishermen told the women. The men told them where Adolfo lived and the route Father Alcazar usually took to get there. They got back in the car and headed north, María opening the window, lighting another cigarette, and puffing on it furiously.
“I hope this doesn’t bother you,” María said of the cigarette. “They say that the smoke is bad for others but I can assure you that it saves lives.”
“How do you figure that?” Aideen asked.
“It keeps me from getting too angry,” María replied. She did not appear to be joking.
They found Calle Okendo and drove two blocks to the southeast. The street was narrow; when they reached the two-story apartment building María had to park half on the sidewalk. Otherwise there wouldn’t have been room for another vehicle to get by. Aideen put her.38 into the pocket of her windbreaker before she slid from the car. María tossed her cigarette away and slid her gun into the rear waistband of her jeans.
The downstairs door did not have a lock on it and they entered. The dark stairwell smelled of a century of fishermen and dust, which tickled Aideen’s nose. The steps creaked like dry old trees in a wind and listed toward the dirty white wall. There were two apartments on the second floor. The door to one of them was slightly ajar. María gave it a push with her toe. It groaned as it opened.
They found Father Alcazar. He was kneeling beside the naked body of a man and weeping openly. His back was toward them. María stepped in and Aideen followed. If the priest heard them he made no indication of it.
“Father Alcazar?” María said softly.
The priest turned his head around. His red eyes were startling against his pale pink face. His collar was dark where it was stained with tears. He turned back to the body and then rose slowly. Backlit by the sharp morning light his black robe looked flat, like a silhouette. He walked toward them as though he were in a trance. Then he removed a jacket from a hook behind the door, went back to the dead man, and laid it across his body.
As he did, Aideen had a chance to study the body. The victim had been tortured, though not out of vengeance. There were no burn or knife marks on his torso. His eyes, ears, breast, and groin appeared to be intact; only his limbs had been worked over. He’d been tortured for information. And his windpipe had been smashed; to kill him slowly, as opposed to a blow to the head. Aideen had seen this before, in Mexico. It wasn’t pretty, but it was prettier than what the drug lords did to people they tortured for betraying them. Strangely enough, it never stopped other people from betraying the Mexican señoríos, as they called them. The dead men and women always believed that they were the ones who would never be caught.
The priest turned back toward the women. “I am Father Alcazar,” he said.
María stepped toward him. “My name is María,” she said. “I’m with Interpol.”
Aideen wasn’t surprised that María had told him who she really was. The killings were escalating. This wasn’t the time to go undercover.
“Did you know this man?” María asked.
The priest nodded. “He was my brother.”
“I see,” María said. “I’m sorry we couldn’t have gotten here sooner.”
Norberto Alcazar gestured weakly behind him as fresh tears spilled from his eyes. “I tried to help him. I should have tried harder. But Adolfo — he knew what he had gotten himself into.”
María stepped up to the priest. She stood as tall as he did and looked flush into his bloodshot eyes. “Father, please — help us. What had Adolfo gotten himself into?”
“I don’t know,” the priest said. “When I arrived here he was hurt and talking wildly.”
“He was still alive?” María asked. “You’ve got to try to remember, Father, what he said! Words, names, places — anything.”
“Something about the city,” Norberto said. “About a church. He said a place or a name — Amadori.”
María’s eyes burned into his. “General Amadori?”
“It could be,” Norberto said. “He… he did say something about a general. I don’t know. It was difficult to understand.”
“Of course,” María said. “Father, I know this is difficult. But it’s important. Do you have any idea who might have done this?”
He shook his head. “Adolfo was going to the radio station last night,” he sobbed. “That is all I know. I do not know what business he had there other than to deliver a tape recording. I came back this morning on my way to bless the waters. I wanted to see if he was all right. I found him like this.”
“You saw no one coming or leaving?”
“No one.”
María regarded him for a moment longer. Her brow was deeply knit, her eyes smouldering. “One question more, Father. Can you tell us where to find the Ramirez boatworks?”
“Ramirez,” the priest said. He took a long tremulous breath. “Dolfo mentioned him. My brother said that Ramirez and his friends were responsible for killing an American.”
“Yes,” said María. She cocked a thumb over her shoulder. “They killed this woman’s partner.”
“Oh — I’m so sorry,” Norberto said to Aideen. His eyes returned to María. “But Ramirez is dead. My brother — saw to that.”
“I know,” María said.
“What do you want with his people?”
“To talk to them,” María said. “To see if they were involved in this.” She nodded toward Adolfo. “To see if we can prevent more murders, stop the fighting from escalating.”
“Do you think that’s possible?”
“If we get to them in time,” María said. “If we learn what they know about Amadori and his people. But please, Father. We must hurry. Do you know where the factory is?”
Norberto took another deep breath. “It’s northeast along the shore. Let me come with you.”
“No,” said María.
“This is my parish—”
“That’s right,” she said, “and your parish desperately needs your help. I don’t. If the people panic, if their fear frightens away tourists, think what will happen to the region.”
Norberto bowed his forehead into his hand.
“This is a lot to ask of you now, I know,” María said. “But you have to do this. I’m going to go to the factory to talk with the workers. If what I think is happening is happening, then I know who the enemy is. And maybe it’s not too late to stop him.”
Norberto looked up. He pointed behind him without turning. “Dolfo thought he knew who the enemy was. He paid for that belief with his life. Perhaps with his soul.”
María locked her eyes on his and held them. “Thousands of others may join him if I don’t hurry. I’ll phone the local police from the car. They’ll take care of your brother.”
“I’ll stay with him until then.”
“Of course,” María said, turning toward Aideen.
“And I will pray for you both.”
“Thank you,” María said. She stopped and turned back. “While you’re at it, Father, pray for the one who needs it most. Pray for Spain.”
Less than two minutes later they were back in the car and heading northeast across the river.
“Are you really just going to talk to the factory workers?” Aideen asked.
María nodded once. “Do me a favor?” she said. “Call Luis. Autodial star-seven. Ask him to locate General Rafael Amadori. Tell him why.”
“No encryption?”
María shook her head. “If Amadori is listening somehow and comes after us, so much the better. It’ll save us the trouble of finding him.”