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Mr. Bocanegra gives Lucas Giraut a sign to turn on his slide projector. Giraut pushes a button on some sort of little switch he has in his hand, which is connected to the slide projector. The machine makes a click similar to the sound of someone cocking a pistol and the three seated men look up, startled.

On one of the white walls the image of a business property appears.

“This is Hannah Linus's gallery,” says Giraut. “The most important gallerist in the country for Renaissance and Baroque art. I myself have lost some important clients to her.” He presses the little switch in his hand again, causing the same vaguely ballistic sound, and on the wall the image of a young blond woman walking down a street with a cell phone at her ear appears. “Miss Linus is a woman with an impressive career. She worked at Sotheby's until some people got upset by how quickly she was getting promoted and then she left to set up her own business. Taking with her one of the world's most important group of collectors.”

The three men seated at the table look at the image of the woman with feigned disinterest. Although it is hard to tell because of the cloud of cigarette smoke that surrounds his head, it seems that Eric Yanel could have a long dark bruise on one side of his face. Right below the idiosyncratically French wave of his blond hair. Standing in front of the large window in a somewhat Shakespearean stance, Bocanegra observes how one of the windows of the unmarked police car lowers and a hand throws a cigarette butt onto the sidewalk.

“In two weeks,” continues Giraut, “Miss Linus will display in her Barcelona gallery a batch of objects that come from Celtic monasteries in Ireland. Nothing of great value, except for four paintings on wood from St. Kieran's church in County Limerick. Experts call them the St. Kieran Panels, and their value stems from their history and their rare subject matter. They are depictions of the Black Sun. A subject associated with the book of the Apocalypse. They are usually attributed to Brother Samhael Finnegan, nicknamed the Crazy Monk of Limerick.”

Several vaguely ballistic clicks punctuate the silence of the room. Images of paintings parade across the wall, and the assembled contemplate them with expressions ranging from skepticism to uncertainty. The various images are very dark and most appear to depict scenes associated with natural disasters. Some are so dark that it's hard to see what's going on in them. In general it seems to be fires and hordes of demons invading the Earth. The sky is invariably black. The human figures in the paintings seem to always be fleeing with their arms held high and their faces shaken with fear. After a minute, Giraut stops the slide show on an image that's slightly different from the rest. It's also a dark scene filled with terrified people, but at the same time it's somehow simpler and more impressive. Its simplicity somehow makes it more disheartening. And at the same time more appealing. A mountainous landscape collapsing into hundreds of cracks and bottomless abysses. As if the entire world were experiencing an earthquake of apocalyptic dimensions.

“This is the first of the St. Kieran Panels,” says Giraut. “The only one that I was able to find a slide of. The title by which it is traditionally known is a Latin phrase that means 'And, behold, there was a great earthquake.' Which is a verse from the Book of the Apocalypse. The expressiveness of the forms is stunning,” he adds, pointing with his head to the human figures in the painting, most of which are falling through the cracks in the ground and going over rocky cliffs. Frozen by the magic of art in free fall toward the center of the Earth.

There is a moment of silence as they all look at the painting. Saudade turns his head to look at a part of the image that's upside down. Aníbal Manta raises a hand.

“What does it mean?” he says. Fondling his hoop earring absentmindedly. “I don't much get art. Though I do like comic books.”

Lucas Giraut half turns so he can look at the slide of the painting. With a surprised expression. As if he had never thought of the question.

“I don't know exactly,” he says finally. “But I guess it means that everything is going wrong.”

“It's like that movie,” says Saudade. He starts snapping the fingers of one hand. “I don't remember the name.”

Bocanegra takes a pensive pull on his cigar while watching as an employee of the billboard rental company equipped with a harness and climbing gear hangs over one of the gigantic billboards on Diagonal Avenue. Changing the advertising message on the billboard. The new message that the employee with the harness is pasting onto the billboard of Diagonal Avenue, sector by sector, says the following: “ONLY SEVENTEEN DAYS UNTIL THE WORLDWIDE RELEASE OF STEPHEN KING'S NEW NOVEL.”

“Our plan is a masterpiece of planning, of course.” Bocanegra puts his hands on his hips and grabs the cigar with his teeth in a toothy grimace that momentarily intensifies the elements of cruelty in his already cruel facial expression. “As usual. As usually happens when I'm in charge. We have a three-week window of operations while the paintings are in the gallery. There will be a team of experts that will inspect them when they arrive, to reassure the buyers and all that. But no one is going to inspect them when the three weeks are over. And that's where we come in.” He makes a broad gesture toward the Meeting Room. Which, just like the rest of the Upper Level of The Dark Side of the Moon, is decorated with Persian rugs and fine wood and has special niches in the walls for statues. “Because the sucker who takes those paintings home and hangs them in his living room will be hanging the copies that we've had made and switched with the real paintings. Oh, they'll figure it out, sure. As soon as that sucker has them appraised or whatever. But by then we'll already have taken the real paintings out of the country, and we'll have sold them, and we'll have the money well stashed underneath our mattresses.”

There is a sudden noise at the end of the long table covered with small bottles of water. Similar to the sound of someone punching the table, followed by the damp, snotty sounds of someone bursting into tears inconsolably. Bocanegra turns toward the sound. Several faces now study the origin of the sound. Eric Yanel's ashtray brimming with smashed cigarette butts is now on the carpet. Eric Yanel is sobbing with his face buried in his arms. Amid his own cloud of cigarette smoke.

“Of course,” continues Bocanegra with a frown, “the plan wouldn't be a masterpiece of planning without someone able to make copies perfect enough to hang in the gallery for the necessary time without raising any suspicion. And I have to say that we have nothing to worry about in that arena. Because we have the best specialist in the field. Better than the best. We have the master. The guy who's taught everything to the current generation. The guy that's tricked half the experts at Sotheby's and Christie's. So good at what he does and so absolutely legendary that he's on Interpol's list of the hundred most wanted men. Well.” He shrugs his shoulders. His gesture introduces an element of uncertainty that's unable to completely superimpose itself over the backdrop of cruelty. “We don't exactly have him. He isn't the kind of person who advertises in the yellow pages. We know that he lives under various false identities and moves constantly among several European capitals. Where he has people who hide him. And I can't say that he's exactly agreed to work with us. But I can say”—his smile seems to make his mustache come to life—“that we know where he'll be in a few days. Thanks to certain contacts that have supplied me with an address and a couple of dates on the calendar. In exchange for certain past favors. His name is Raymond Panakian. Or at least that's what the people who sometimes need his services usually call him. And you”—he points with the incandescent end of the cigar toward the three men seated at the table. One of which continues crying with his head sunk between his arms and irregular columns of smoke rising around him—“you are going to have to convince him to come work with us. That it's worth it to come and work with us because we are fabulous people who are worth working with.”

Lucas Giraut still has the slide projector switch in his hand, but now it seems that the focus of his attention has moved elsewhere. Now he seems to be watching something located on the other side of the large windows. Far below the Meeting Room where the meeting is taking place. With a slight frown.

“I'm good at convincing people,” says Saudade in a tone completely devoid of irony. While he examines the residue beneath one fingernail with his brow gathered. All his fingers seem to have the same uniform amount of dark residual material beneath the nails. “I always end up completely convincing 'em.”

“There's a car out front that seems to be watching us.” Lucas Giraut points with his head at Commissioner Farina's lackeys' car that is parked across the street. “They have cameras. And it looks like they're watching us.”

“That car belongs to Commissioner Farina's lackeys,” says Mr. Bocanegra. Without looking at where Lucas Giraut is pointing. “The guy that put your father in jail. And who's been on my ass since the late seventies. A real psychopath. One of those cops, you know. Loves car chases. But you have nothing to worry about.” His tone is not reassuring in any kind or quasi-paternal way. It is a tone that mixes elements of quasi-paternal advice with a veiled threat. “That's all you need to know for now. In the next few days I'll give you all instructions and blueprints. Guidelines. The details of my plan. The fee is the usual one for this kind of job. In other words, a ton of money. So you can have some more fun and get yourselves in some more trouble. Except for Mr. Yanel, who has been so kind as to renounce his share in exchange for my taking lightly certain matters that he and I have pending.” He expels a puff of thick smelly cigar smoke and looks at the twisting distorted images of the faces of the four members of his audience through the cigar smoke. “Now is the moment where you ask all the questions you need to. And I hope that they'll be relevant and intelligent questions and that none of them will be too long or complicated, because it turns out that tonight I am having dinner with my nieces and nephews. The people I love most in the world. And I don't want to show up late for my dinner with them. So go ahead.” He makes a gesture slightly similar to the gesture one makes when, in a fistfight, they want to indicate to their opponent to come closer so they can give them a good slug. “Ask me your relevant and intelligent questions.”

There is a moment of silence. Lucas Giraut has never heard of anyone named Commissioner Farina. Not in relation to his father or his father's arrest. The silence that has fallen over the Meeting Room allows the amalgam of female laughter and dance music to filter through from the Main Floor of The Dark Side of the Moon.

“Where's Bob Marley?” asks Aníbal Manta finally, his enormous arms crossed over the front of his suit and his eyes a bit squinted. In that way that Aníbal Manta squints his eyes and gathers his features together slightly when he is dealing with matters that challenge his ability to obtain a good perspective on what is going on around him. “Did they really nab him?”

Mr. Bocanegra stares at Aníbal Manta with an expression that seems to suggest that he's trying to decide if Manta's question meets the requirements he has just put forward.

“It seems,” he says, “that Bob Marley has had a small streak of bad luck. And it's quite possible that he's going to have another streak of bad luck when I catch up with him. Then he may join our mission. If there's anything left of him, of course. More questions?”

Saudade raises his hand. Bocanegra's face reflects a certain degree of surprise.

“I don't mind working with Russians,” says Saudade with a frown, and crosses his arms in a way that perhaps unconsciously and perhaps not imitates the way Aníbal Manta's arms are crossed. Manta is seated behind and definitely falls outside of his visual field. “Or with any kind of strange people. But I don't like working with Piece of Shit Rich Kids that don't know how to tie their own shoes. I'm talking about Mr. Rich Kid Esquire.” He makes a gesture with his eyebrows raised in Lucas Giraut's direction. “I mean, I don't know who you are, Sir Mr. Rich Kid Esquire, but to tell you the truth, I get the impression that you're a shit-for-brains rich kid who has no fucking idea of how people like us do things. And that you're gonna shit your pants when the going gets rough.” He looks at Aníbal Manta. Aníbal Manta looks away. “You all know what I'm talking about.”

There is a long moment of silence. Bocanegra's expression seems to indicate that Saudade's question definitely does not meet with the previously established requirements of relevance and intelligence.

CHAPTER 10. Italian Academy Basketball Club

“My mother embarrasses me,” says Valentina Parini, seated in a genuinely prepubescent posture on the bench of the basketball court of Barcelona's Italian Academy. She isn't seated with her back erect in the modest and elegant carriage of a postpubescent girl. Instead her legs hang down and her body leans slightly forward and she grabs the edge of the bench with her hands. “I mean when she's looking for a boyfriend to marry her. People can't tell, but I can. I can always tell.” She turns to look at Lucas Giraut, who is standing with his hands in his pockets a few steps behind the basketball court bench. Dressed in a burgundy herringbone stitch Lino Rossi suit. In addition to Valentina Parini, there are three other girls sitting on the bench. Alternately paying attention to the game that is taking place on the basketball court and the conversation that Valentina is having with Lucas. “Like the other night. Sometimes she embarrasses me so much it makes me want to punch her.”

Lucas Giraut nods. Marcia Parini's behavior during the last part of Fanny Giraut's Unnumbered Birthday party was pretty much the same as it always is toward the end of every Giraut family party she's ever been invited to. Rubbing rounded parts of her anatomy against the anatomy of various male guests, hanging with both arms from the neck of said guests and speaking into their ears while kissing them on the cheeks.