He was panting and covered with sweat after his mad rush from the residence of the parish priest, Padre Pablo—a simple enough name for a priest who didn’t particularly wish to be identified. At that moment, the cathedral was closed to the public, but the priest knelt at the foot of the altar, hands joined in prayer.

Then he noticed the young man, who usually stood back a few steps, waiting for the priest to finish his prayers. On this occasion there didn’t seem to be enough time.

After crossing himself, the parish priest got up and turned to the youth.

“What’s wrong, son? Were you looking for me? Did something happen?”

“No, padre. A man . . . knocked on your door . . . looking for you.”

Padre Pablo noticed how flushed the young man was.

“Manuel, you’re dripping with sweat. Did you run all the way here?”

“Yes, padre.”

The aging priest put his hand on his visitor’s arm.

“Come sit with me. Calm down, and tell me what happened. Who was this man? What did he do to get you in such a state?”

“I don’t know him. He seemed to be from Europe, Eastern Europe.”

The priest became agitated, as if suddenly remembering something, and then he, too, started to perspire.

“What did he want from me?”

“To see you right away. I told him that was impossible. Then he said that everything was possible in the eyes of the Lord. But the worst thing was—”

“The worst—did he do anything to harm you?”

“No, padre, but I could tell he was bad.” Then, lowering his voice, he added, “He had a gun.”

Pablo wiped the perspiration off his brow with his handkerchief. He closed his eyes and remained quiet for a few moments, without saying a word. He opened them again, and in an exercise of self-control, slowed his breath. “What did you tell him?”

“That you’d gone to the hospital to visit a friend.”

“Why did you lie, Manuel?”

“Forgive me, Padre Pablo, but I couldn’t think of anything else. The man looked evil—he had a tattoo on his left arm, of a serpent.”

“Did he try to get into my house?”

The boy, still upset, hesitated before answering. A gun was not something he saw every day, much less when talking to a complete stranger.

“No, padre,” he said finally.

“It’s okay, Manuel. Go back and take care of your things.”

Now calmer, the young man stood up, kissed the priest’s hand, and walked to the center aisle, crossing himself.

“Manuel . . .”

”Yes, Padre Pablo?”

“Did you see that man again on your way here?”

“No, no. I was so upset that as soon as he left, I came to tell you. I didn’t see anything and didn’t look. I started running like crazy.”

“Fine, Manuel. You may go. God bless you, and keep your faith in Him.”

Father Pablo quietly knelt and started praying devotedly even before the boy had gone.

He heard footsteps, not the boy’s, but someone else’s, someone with a decisive stride. Padre Pablo felt something on his shoulder, but rather than a hand, it was cold metal.

“I was expecting you,” the priest said.

“I’m not surprised. Some people have very strong instincts. Were you expecting something in particular?”

Padre Pablo crossed himself and got up, eyes fixed on the man. “My future is in God’s hands, the same as yours and everybody else’s. What is mine is well kept, don’t you worry. You didn’t come to give me anything that wasn’t already rightfully mine.”

“Maybe I came to take something away.”

“That would depend on how each of us sees things.”

“Where are they?”

“Buenos Aires, New York, Paris, Madrid, Warsaw, Geneva. There are so many places in the world.”

There was a pop, and the priest tumbled over the pews. The man with the serpent tattoo was the same one seen in Rome, with a foreign accent, probably from Eastern Europe. He stood closer to Padre Pablo, who was bleeding profusely from his right side and trying to cover his wound with a bloody hand.

“God is not here to save you, my dear sir. You’d be better off telling me where they are.”

“God has saved me already. You will never find them.”

The man leaned over Padre Pablo and spoke in a confidential tone .“You know, padre, an assistant is good precisely because he helps do what one has to do, such as finding things. The most inexperienced and anxious are best. You can’t imagine the amount of information they are able to gather. I didn’t find them and I know you’re not going to tell me where they are, but with a clue here and another there, a letter, a note, an e-mail, a photo . . .”

The dice were cast for a new game, one in which the priest would not take part, since he was about to abandon all games. Padre Pablo could only hope that the man with the serpent tattoo on his wrist knew a good deal less than he pretended to.

Showing the priest a photo, the man said, “I’m sure he’ll be more willing to cooperate. I’ll give him your regards.” Then he fired a second shot, this time to the head. He calmly walked to the center aisle, crossed himself, and left by a side door.