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thigh, and self-mortification with the lash was for other people, not them. They no longer slept on the floor, didn’t spray their bed with holy water, took warm showers and limited their “daily obligations” to the recitation of 150 Ave Marias, the celebration of Mass (for van Reyn only) and a half-hour meditation on one of the Sayings. They were relieved de facto of the obligation to do public penance (van Reyn as priest, Navarro Valls as senior numerary), their letters were left unopened, and the only obligation they were unable to avoid was weekly confession. “Confessional tourism” was not permitted, however, and both men were required to confess to a “Company” priest.
    Baron Hervé van Reyn had advanced through the Opus Dei ranks at lightning speed, and by pure accident. His family happened to be related to Monsignor Papejaens, Professor of Canon Law at the Catholic University of Leuven in the 1970s, and appointed secretary by Pope Paul VI of a council of ninety-eight consultants from every part of the globe, charged with the task of adapting the Code of Canon Law to modern times. The professor, who enjoyed good food and wine, was fêted by the prelature of Opus Dei in the best restaurants in the country. Papejaens was a human being, of course, and the prelature’s strategy enjoyed considerable success. The Codex Juris Canonici, drafted in 1978 and promulgated in 1984, clearly bore the signature of Opus Dei. “Dinner table diplomacy”, much praised by El Padre, had proven its worth yet again.
    A broad toothy grin took hold of his face as the fax machine buzzed into action. He closed the small leather notebook, stuffed it into his inside pocket, and called a number on his mobile. He never made such calls via the central switchboard. He trusted the secretary one-hundred per cent, but he considered a degree of suspicion justifiable, under the circumstances. He thought for a moment of using the public phone on the corner of Avenue de Floride and Avenue Montjoie, but someone from Belgacom had once assured him (incorrectly) that a mobile could not be tapped.
    “Marlowe et Compagnie,” said a gravelly male voice.
    “ Bonjour ,” van Reyn replied in true managerial style, “may I have a word with the director?”
    “Who can I say is calling?”
    “I prefer not to mention my name.”
    The call was transferred without further comment.
    “Hello…” The voice seemed at first to come from a distance, but after a click it became clear. A sign that the conversation was being recorded, he thought, but took it as a mark of efficiency and nothing more.
    “Am I speaking to the director?”
    “Yes. With whom do I have the honour?”
    “A client who used your services in the past, much to his satisfaction I might add.”
    “Thank you. How can I be of service?”
    “I would like to pass on the assignment by phone as I did before.”
    “Quite acceptable, monsieur .”
    “I still have your bank account number, if I’m not mistaken.”
    “I understand, sir. How can I be of assistance?”
    “We would like to have someone tailed.”
    “No problem, sir. Do you have the coordinates?”
    “It’s Public Prosecutor General Savelkoul in Antwerp.”
    “Mm. Do you have an address?”
    “Amerikalei 124A… in Antwerp, naturally.”
    “Is it a house or an apartment building?”
    “A house.”
    “What would you like us to do?”
    “Tail him. He’s said to be having a relationship with another woman.”
    “Would you like photographs?’
    “If possible, yes.”
    “I think it would be best to begin by stationing a decoy car with one-way glass in front of this house. But that costs 5,000 francs per hour.”
    “Did you have problems with payment on the last occasion? If I’m not mistaken, we even agreed to an advance of two hundred thousand. We can do the same this time.”
    “With whom exactly do I have the honour?”
    “It doesn’t matter. The advance will be transferred into your account in half an