"I'm aware of that. I've made plenty of personal sacrifices, if you'll permit me to say so."

"That's why you've got where you are today. Now pay the archbishop the compensation he's hinted he wants and have done with that side of things. After all, the money you're working with belongs to me."

"And the other shareholders, Don Octavio. That's my responsibility. If I've learned anything from you, it's to honour my commitments, but without paying too much."

The banker shrugged.

"Do what you like. It's your deal."

And so it was, for better or for worse. It was a warning, but it took more than that to unnerve Pencho Gavira. "Everything's under control," he said.

Old Machuca was as sharp as a razor. Gavira saw the predatory eyes go from the white-and-green PENABETICA sign to the facade of the Poniente Bank. The Santa Cruz and Puerto Targa operations were more than just profitable deals. Pulling them off meant for Gavira the difference between succeeding Machuca as chairman and standing defenceless before a board of directors who came from the "old money" of Seville and took a dim view of ambitious young lawyers on the make. Gavira felt five beats more at his wrist, under his gold Rolex.

"What about the priest?" asked the old man, with a flicker of interest. "I hear the archbishop still isn't sure he'll co-operate."

"Something like that." Gavira smiled reassuringly. "But we've taken steps to address the problem." He looked to the other table, at Peregil, and paused uncertainly. He felt he had to add something. "He's just a stubborn old man."

It was a mistake, and he knew it at once. With visible enjoyment, Machuca struck.

"That's unworthy of you," he said, looking straight into Gavira's eyes – a snake relishing its victim's terror. Gavira counted another ten beats at least. "I'm an old man too, Pencho. And you know better than anyone that I still have sharp teeth. It would be dangerous to forget that, wouldn't it?" He narrowed his eyes. "Just when you're so close to your goal."