The Angel's Game (The Cemetery of Forgotten 2)

In the pale light of evening all I could see was a defeated old man, sick with memories and guilt, a man who had never believed and whose only balm now was to believe.

“I wish I’d been a better friend to you, David.”

“You’ve been the best of friends, Don Pedro. You’ve been much more than that.”

Vidal stretched out his arm and took my hand. He was trembling.

“Grandes spoke to me about that man, the one you call the boss. He says you are in debt to him and you think the only way of paying him back is by giving him a pure soul …”

“That’s nonsense, Don Pedro. Don’t pay any attention.”

“Would a dirty, tired soul like mine be of any use to you?”

“I know of no purer soul than yours, Don Pedro.”

Vidal smiled.

“If I could have changed places with your father, I would have, David.”

“I know.”

He stood up and gazed at the evening swooping over the city.

“You should be on your way,” he said. “Go to the garage and take a car. Whichever you like. I’ll see if I have some cash.”

I picked up the coat and went out into the garden and over to the coach house. The Villa Helius garage was home to two automobiles that gleamed like royal carriages. I chose the smaller, more discreet car, a black Hispano-Suiza that looked as if it had not been used more than two or three times and still smelled new. I sat at the steering wheel and started the engine, then drove the car out of the garage and waited in the yard. A minute went by, and still Vidal hadn’t come out. I got out of the car, leaving the engine running. I went back into the house to say goodbye to him and tell him not to worry about the money, I would manage. As I walked across the entrance hall I remembered I’d left the gun on the table. When I went to pick it up it wasn’t there.

“Don Pedro?”

The door to the sitting room was ajar. I looked in and could see him standing in the middle of the room. He raised my father’s revolver to his chest, placing the barrel at his heart. I rushed toward him but the roar of the shot drowned my shouts. The weapon fell from his hands. His body slumped over and he fell to the floor, leaving a scarlet trail on the marble tiles. I dropped to my knees beside him and supported him in my arms. Dark, thick blood gushed from the hole where the bullet had pierced his clothes. Don Pedro’s eyes locked on mine while his smile filled with blood, and his body stopped trembling, and he collapsed. The room was filled with the scent of gunpowder and misery.

23

I returned to the car and sat in it, my bloodstained hands on the steering wheel. I could hardly breathe. I waited a minute before releasing the hand brake. The lights of the city throbbed under the shroud of the evening sky. I set off down the street, leaving the silhouette of Villa Helius behind me. When I reached Avenida Pearson I stopped and looked through the rearview mirror. A car had just turned into the street from a hidden alleyway and positioned itself some fifty meters behind me. Its lights were not on. Víctor Grandes.

I continued down Avenida de Pedralbes until I passed the large wrought-iron dragon guarding the entrance to Finca Güell. Inspector Grandes’s car was still tailing about a hundred meters behind. When I reached Avenida Diagonal I turned left toward the center of town. There were barely any cars around so Grandes had no difficulty following me until I decided to turn right, hoping to lose him through the narrow streets of Las Corts. By then the inspector was aware that his presence was no secret and had turned on his headlights. For about twenty minutes we dodged through a knot of streets and trams. I slipped between omnibuses and carts, with Grandes’s headlights relentlessly at my back. After a while the hill of Montjuïc rose before me. The large palace of the International Exhibition and the remains of the other pavilions had been closed for just two weeks, but in the twilight mist they looked like the ruins of some great, forgotten civilization. I took the large avenue to the cascade of ghostly lights that illuminated the exhibition fountains, accelerating as quickly as the engine would allow. As we ascended the road that snaked its way up the mountain toward the Great Stadium, Grandes was gaining ground until I could clearly distinguish his face in the rearview mirror. For a moment I was tempted to take the road leading to the military fortress on the summit, but I knew that if there was one place with no way out, it was there. My only hope was to make it to the other side of the mountain, the side that looked down onto the sea, and disappear into one of the docks at the port. To do that I needed to put some time between us, but the inspector was now about fifteen meters behind me. The large balustrades of Miramar opened up before us, with the city spread out below. I pulled at the hand brake with all my strength and let Grandes smash into the Hispano-Suiza. The impact pushed us both along almost twenty meters, raising a spray of sparks across the road. I let go of the brake and went forward a short distance while Grandes was still struggling to regain control, then I put my car into reverse and accelerated hard.

By the time Grandes realized what I was doing it was too late. Thanks to one of the most select makes of car in town, I charged at him with a chassis and an engine that were far more robust than those protecting him. The force of the crash hurled Grandes from his seat and his head struck the windshield, shattering it. Steam surged from the hood of his car and the headlights went out. I put my car into gear and accelerated away, heading for the Miramar viewing post. After a few seconds I realized that in the collision the back fender had been crushed against one tire, which now scraped on the metal as it turned. The smell of burning rubber filled the car. Twenty meters farther on the tire blew and the car began to zigzag until it came to a halt, wreathed in a cloud of black smoke. I abandoned the Hispano-Suiza and glanced back at where Grandes’s car still sat—the inspector was dragging himself out of the driver’s seat. I looked around me. The stop for the cable cars that crossed over the port and the town from Montjuïc to the tower of San Sebastián was about fifty meters away. I could make out the shape of the cars dangling from their wires as they slid through the dusk, and I ran toward them.

One of the staff was getting ready to close the doors to the building when he saw me hurrying up the road. He held the door open and pointed inside.

“Last trip of the evening,” he warned. “You’d better hurry.”

The ticket office was about to close but I scurried in, bought the last ticket on sale, and rushed over to join a group of four people waiting by the cabin. I didn’t notice their clothes until the employee opened the door. Priests.

“The cable railway was built for the International Exhibition and is equipped with the latest technology. Its safety is guaranteed at all times. From the start of the journey this security door, which can be opened only from the outside, will remain locked to avoid accidents or, heaven forbid, a suicide attempt. Of course, with Your Eminences on board, there is no danger of—”

“Young man,” I interrupted. “Can you speed up the ceremony? It’s getting late.”

The employee threw me a hostile glance. One of the priests noticed my bloodstained hands and crossed himself. The young man continued with his long-winded speech.

“You’ll be traveling through the Barcelona sky at a height of some seventy meters above the waters of the port, enjoying spectacular views of the city until now available only to swallows, seagulls, and other creatures endowed with feathers by the Almighty. The trip lasts ten minutes and makes two stops, the first at the central tower in the port, or, as I like to call it, Barcelona’s Eiffel Tower, the tower of San Jaime, and the second and last at the tower of San Sebastián. Without further delay, I wish Your Eminences a happy journey, and on behalf of the company I hope we will see you again on board the Port of Barcelona Cable Railway in the not-too-distant future.”

I was the first person to enter the cable car. The employee held out his hand as the four priests went by, hoping for a tip that never graced his fingertips. Visibly disappointed, he slammed the door shut and turned round, ready to operate the lever. Inspector Víctor Grandes was waiting there for him, in a sorry state but smiling and holding out his badge. The employee opened the door and Grandes strode into the cable car, greeting the priests with a nod and winking at me. Seconds later we were floating out into the void.

…

The cabin lifted off from the terminal toward the