ARRÁEZ AND HIS crew watched the trunk swaying in the breeze six metres above deck. Fumero emerged from the hold and put his dark glasses on again, smiling with satisfaction as he looked up towards the bridge, raising a hand to his head in a mock military salute.
“With your permission, Captain, we will now proceed to exterminate the rat you carried on board in the only way that is fully effective.”
Fumero signalled to the man operating the crane to lower the container a few metres until it was level with his face. “Your dying wish, or a few words of contrition?”
The crew gazed at the box in utter silence. The only sound that seemed to emerge from inside was a whimper, like the cry of a terrified small animal.
“Come on, don’t cry, it’s not that bad,” said Fumero. “Besides, you won’t be alone. You’ll be meeting up with a whole lot of friends who can’t wait to see you . . .”
The trunk rose in the air again, and the crane began to rotate towards the gunwale. When it was hanging about ten metres above sea level, Fumero turned towards the bridge again. Arráez was observing him with glazed eyes, muttering under his breath.
“Son of a bitch,” Fumero managed to lip-read.
Then he gave a nod, and the container, carrying two hundred kilos of rifles and just over fifty kilos of Fermín Romero de Torres, plunged into the icy dark waters of Barcelona’s port.