The traffic was slow in the rain. The radio news commented on the successful parading of the Virgin of Rocio, which had taken place that day. Falcon crossed the river and joined the metal snake heading north. He sat at the traffic lights and scribbled a note without thinking before filtering right down Calle Reyes Catolicos. From there he drove into the maze of streets where he lived in the massive, rambling house he'd inherited six years ago. He parked up between the orange trees that led to the entrance of the house on Calle Bailen but didn't get out. He was wrestling with his uneasiness again and this time it was to do with Consuelo-what he'd seen in her face that morning. They'd both been startled, but it hadn't just been shock that had registered in her eyes. It was anguish.
He got out of the car, opened the smaller door within the brass-studded oak portal and went through to the patio, where the marble flags still glistened from the rain. A blinking light beyond the glass door to his study told him that he had two phone messages. He hit the button and stood in the dark looking out through the cloister at the bronze running boy in the fountain. The voice of his Moroccan friend, Yacoub Diouri, filled the room. He greeted Javier in Arabic and then slipped into perfect Spanish. He was flying to Madrid on his way to Paris next weekend and wondered if they could meet up. Was that coincidence or synchronicity? The only reason he'd met Yacoub Diouri, one of the few men he'd become close to, was because of Consuelo Jimenez. That was the thing about intuition, you began to believe that everything had significance.