The Holy Bullet (33 page)

“What’s new?” Littel asked, putting an end to the formalities.

“We’ve found the van they used in a private residence in Clapham. The bodies that were missing were there, but not a sign of the woman or the—”

“And afterwards?” Littel interrupted.

“We investigated the identity of the owner of the house and discovered—”

“What?” Littel again interrupted.

“Are you going to be quiet and let me explain or do you want to find out everything on your own?” It was a warning.

“My apologies. It’s your investigation. Go on.” Littel was sincere.

“We’ve discovered that the house is listed in the name of a multinational branch of a telecommunications firm called Hollycom. It didn’t take much looking to find out the company doesn’t exist. It’s a cover for our friends in the Vatican.”

“The Vatican?” Wally Johnson asked. “What side are they on?”

Barnes ignored the question from the recent arrival.

“We did an investigation of the property registered in the name of the company and came up with a Volvo only three months old. We sent out an alert, and your associate Herbert’s men here have come across it.”

Barnes asked Littel to come to the window. Staughton, Thompson, and Herbert moved aside to make room. Barnes pointed at a car parked on the other side of the street, a Volvo.

“It’s that car.” He raised his hand toward the house in front. “And Sarah Monteiro lived in that house.”

“Then we’re on the right path.” Littel rubbed his hands. “Let’s finish this. I’ll inform the subdirector, and we’ll return home today.”

“He didn’t come?” Barnes asked.

“Bed’s a big adversary when you wake someone up at four in the morning. He wants to stay informed and trusts that I’m capable of resolving the problem. Which means I can’t screw up.”

“It’s always the same shit,” Barnes protested.

Littel agreed with a glance and turned to look at the house again.

“Is there movement?”

“Yes, especially on the ground floor.”

“Then let’s not delay. Order them to go in.” Littel dropped his eyes when Barnes looked at him from his full height.

“Whenever you want.”

Barnes brought his radio to his mouth and pressed one of the buttons.

“Attention, Alpha Leader. The commander authorizes you to go in. I repeat, authorization to advance.”

Several seconds later they began to hear over the radio the operation taking place. There were three teams, the Alpha Leader, the Beta, and the Gamma. Alpha would go in the front, Beta in back and from above, and Gamma remained in reserve in case they needed reinforcement. It was evident that this kind of operation didn’t follow the same rules as special forces, although in part the principle was the same. Let’s not forget we’re dealing with forced entry into a house in broad daylight by a foreign governmental service with no jurisdiction, authorization, or knowledge by the country they’re in. So what better disguise than city construction workers to attack the house from the front, the Alpha team, and electrical line workers to go over the roof and enter the back, team Beta? An operation organized in record time, without much analysis of the layout of the building, which was poor planning they’d have to ignore. They didn’t expect much resistance. Gamma team was scattered along the street inside cars, reading newspapers at the number 24 bus stop, a street sweeper cleaning the sidewalk, a mailman, tourists with suitcases and a map in hand looking for a hotel.

Barnes and the rest listened in suspense as the attack by the Alpha and Beta teams unfolded. They entered with no difficulty or alarm. Everything was over in a few minutes. While the teams searched the rooms, they alerted Barnes about the situation, offering the word “free” to signify there was no one there, the area was clean. They reported just one person in the living room.

“Arrest the suspect,” Barnes ordered.

Littel was present without interfering.

“Subject detained without resistance,” the agent announced a few seconds later. “He says he has a message for the commander.”

“Repeat, Alpha Leader,” Barnes said.

“The subject has a message for the commander.”

Barnes left the window and walked out of the room.

“Wait, Alpha Leader. I’m coming down.”

“Received,” the agent informed him.

Two minutes later Barnes was in the living room of Sarah Monteiro’s old house with the entire group who had filled the room in the hotel in front.

“Who are you?” he asked brusquely.

“My name’s Simon Lloyd. I’m a journalist for the
Times
, and my newspaper knows I’m here.”

Barnes looked him over, and vice versa, evaluating the young man in front of him. He seemed nervous and rightly so. All attention focused on him, influential, powerful people, who with a gesture could end his life without thinking twice and later make up any reason to excuse it. Reality was a great fiction.

Simon tried not to show panic. This was the job given to him to carry out so Sarah and Rafael could complete their plan. Rafael reassured him everything would go well, but now, under so many hostile stares, he wasn’t so sure. Perhaps it was just an excuse to convince him. Sarah had warned him how manipulative these people could be. Let them be. The job would be finished.

“What’s the message?” the fat American asked unpleasantly.

Simon handed over a disc the size of a button to him.

“What’s this?” Barnes asked, looking at the object.

“I don’t know, but Jack Payne told me to tell you he’d meet you there.” Job over.

Barnes’s eyes filled with hate as he looked at the small disc.

T
he vehicle moved over the rough ground at a moderate speed to avoid disturbing the occupants. There were still a few miles to go on this side road until they reached the national expressway, then turned right and continued straight. Fifty-three miles on the expressway would bring them to Lisbon; in two and a half hours they’d be at the airbase of Figo Maduro, where a private Learjet was waiting for them.

Inside the car we find JC in the backseat with Elizabeth beside him, Captain Raul Brandão Monteiro in the front passenger seat, and the cripple driving, as befits an assistant.

“I don’t understand why we have to go with you,” Elizabeth protested.

“My dear, you can’t stay because you cannot be protected. If you were caught, you could be used as a bargaining chip to blackmail your daughter. That would give them an advantage over us. Unacceptable. Unacceptable. The enemy must negotiate with the weapons they have, not with weapons we give them.”

“But you spent the night in my house. There was no problem,” Elizabeth argued insistently.

“Have you heard of fugitives from the law who never sleep in the same place twice?” He waited for her to confirm. “That’s our case at the moment. Being in one place and predictable is the enemy of strategy. We have to stay moving.”

“Where are we going?” the captain wanted to know, turning toward the back.

“You’ll soon see.”

The car traveled a few miles without a word being said. They were still in familiar territory for Raul and Elizabeth. Each one thought about his life and the common purpose the present moment required of them. Except for the cripple, who still hadn’t gotten over his anger at having Rafael on the same side and was still slowly fuming over it.

Raul prayed his daughter and Rafael would arrive on time safe and sound. That was the most important thing.

“So what does all this have to do with John Paul the Second? He is dead, poor man. He suffered miserably,” Raul said, bringing up the subject of the night before.

“Haven’t you heard it said that we suffer in proportion to the evil we do? Karma is something like that. Not that I believe in that, obviously.”

“The man was a saint.” Elizabeth was offended.

“A man can be a saint and a sinner. Sin doesn’t invalidate his holiness. There are thousands of examples in the Church.”

“But what’s the connection with him?” Raul insisted.

JC adjusted himself in the seat. The rough ground had been left behind, and now there was a good road to Lisbon, straight all the way that could be seen.

“Let’s say we had an agreement.”

“You and he?”

“He and I.”

“What sort of agreement?” Elizabeth asked.

“That’s a long story.”

“We don’t have to be anywhere,” Raul argued. “We’re in your hands. Time is something we have plenty of.”

JC half looked at the green landscape, yellowed by the late afternoon light that spread over the road. The immensity of Alentejo, filled with black poplars, vineyards, and endless fields of rye. The beauty of nature, untouched in some parts.

“Wojtyla got caught in a great net when he was elected pope. The Church was coming out of a traumatic event from which it took many years to recuperate.” He looked Raul in the eye without contrition. They both knew what the trauma referred to; nevertheless, JC was an excellent judge of people and confident, just by a glance, that Elizabeth didn’t know the twists and turns of the situation. “Of course he didn’t know what had to come. He even paid homage to his predecessor, taking his name. John Paul the Second,” he proclaimed triumphantly. “He could little imagine that his beloved Church would decide to run no more risks with JP the First. You know that certain . . . let me find the right word . . . certain
obsessions
overcome the chosen one after the canonic election. They come from a vague holiness.

“Well, Wojtyla was in an exceptional situation. Pope Luciani didn’t even warm the seat.” A new exchange of looks with Raul. “For that reason remembering and paying homage to him benefited his image.”

“Are you accusing him of taking advantage of John Paul the First?” Elizabeth was frightened.

“I’m only mentioning the credit and the debt. Whether good or bad, it was well done and useful for him. The Pole was a dynamic man, taking charge, prepared to work, to fight.” A sarcastic smile came over his face as he remembered. “He didn’t know what was coming. He made the same mistake as his predecessor.”

“What?” Raul was totally caught up in the story.

“He got mixed up with Marcinkus.”

“Marcinkus?” Elizabeth interrupted. “Who’s Marcinkus?”

“He was the director of the IWR, the Vatican bank, at that time and remained so for many years during Wojtyla’s papacy. An American bishop John Paul promoted to archbishop, but never to cardinal, not that that would have been accepted. He only looked out for his own interests and never for others, but who am I to accuse?” He paused for a few seconds to let what he’d said sink in. “He certainly wanted the promotion. Imagine, Cardinal Marcinkus. Your God would have a lot of trouble just removing the pride from his face.”

“And what else?” Elizabeth urged him to continue.

“And then we come to 1989. The Pole had postponed the so-desired promotion time and time again. He couldn’t keep doing it. For complicated reasons, which I’ll summarize if you’re interested, Marcinkus had a good hold on him . . . or at least I believe he did.”

“The pope?” Elizabeth was scandalized. It was a scenario hard to conceive. She didn’t know about the political games behind the scenes in the Church. Fighting for power, control, just like your own country and all other politicians. To think that the Vatican, a symbol of faith, was immune to these vices . . . was deceiving oneself.

“Yes,” the narrator confirmed.

“This man who, if he put one foot out of the Vatican, even a toe, would be immediately arrested by the Italian authorities, who considered him a criminal . . . was he going to be a cardinal?” It was Raul’s moment to try to comprehend the scale of imperfection of political systems.

“In politics, as in everything else in life, what counts is to have the advantage. Your prime minister has to dance to the tune of whoever discovered that he flunked out of his last year of college. The American president is obliged to invade Iraq because his patrons are pressuring him . . . the Saudis, who, to avoid attention, refused to let the attack proceed from their country. We’re all compromised by someone, and we’re always subject to someone’s advantage over us.”

“What was Marcinkus’s trump card?” Raul wanted to know.

“Wojtyla’s life,” was all JC said.

Neither Raul nor Elizabeth expected that comment. How could someone control the life of a pope? There might have been other trump cards, but never one so decisive.

“How can that be? A man who has hundreds of people guarding his security,” Elizabeth questioned.

The setting sun poured into the interior of the car, the last gleam of the reigning star before submerging itself in the horizon, the darkness of night extending through the Alentejano plains until they were covered in blackness. Astronomical, scientific explanations disprove the idea that the sun sinks, since it’s the center of our solar system. The universe is like religion; metaphor is always more beautiful. What matters is belief.

“The attempt of 1981 was threat enough,” JC said.

“What do you mean by that?”

“Think back. Marcinkus lost one of his right-hand men inside the Vatican with the death of the secretary of state, Cardinal Jean Villot, who died in March of 1979. In itself this was an enormous loss for someone trying to manipulate the pope. One day he received a visit from the German cardinal, part of the inner circle the Pole confided in, who told him his work was being investigated closely—”

“What work?” Elizabeth interrupted. “Wasn’t he the director of the Vatican bank? He wasn’t dealing honestly?”

Raul and JC looked at each other, Raul a little uneasy.

“Of course not. Do you know any bank that doesn’t pursue its own profit?”

“Banks should pursue an honest profit. But surely this Marcinkus must have had to account to someone. The pope, for example?”