If there were anyone who was useless, it was El Vicario. But the man had advanced beyond the symmetry of a chess board and laid out in lime and soot a silhouette of Cabo Desierto, at once recognisable from the exaggeration of the tank farm, the refinery and the Three Sentinels. Such humanity disarmed the gun that wasn’t there. He must have had long practice in cell art. ‘Any time you want to get rid of me, mate,’ he said, ‘I would prefer some other death to starvation.’ ‘You think this is a restaurant?’ ‘If it is, it’s a long way from the kitchen.’ Uriarte had concealed a fresh loaf and slices of meat in a locker. Rafael tossed them down to his prisoner and sat on the edge of the hatch silently watching him eat. ‘You are not careful enough,’ El Vicario said with his mouth full. ‘One jump and I could catch your feet and pull you down.’ ‘A lot of good that would do you!’ ‘One never knows. Something might present itself.
