The Holy Bullet (39 page)

No reply was heard in the first seconds. Only the uncomfortable silence of uncertainty.

“Good work,” a man’s voice said at last. “The woman’s with me. Take care of the others.”

H
e knows.”

One of the crucial principles for secret services that claim to be competent and in the vanguard of technological development is the capacity to construct a command post wherever necessary. In spite of the fact that the enormous headquarters of the agency in Langley occupies tens of square miles and besides secret facilities spread all over the planet, each one with specialized functions, it’s common to see small units organized to respond to the demands of the world of espionage. Whether below water, above it, on land or in the air, the CIA is always prepared to act.

In this case the men under the supervision of Barnes and the astute gaze of Harvey Littel found themselves at forty thousand feet flying over Poland. And don’t anyone imagine they’re in their seats with their seat belts fastened. Here seat belts were only buckled during takeoff and the final stage of landing. The hurried activity was the same as that on land at the Center of Operations. Men and women concentrated on monitors and keyboards, listening devices in their ears, shouts, conversations, printers spewing information. This was a unique room. Organization was maintained, rigid and responsive, adapted to the reality of the space. The airplane in question was a Boeing 727 with the registration DC-1700WJY, plain white, belonging to the CIA, not registered with any airline whatsoever. Nor could it be. The American government wouldn’t permit it. Secrets of state must be guarded by the state. Besides the paraphernalia and technicians who occupied the part we’d call economy class, there was an office for Geoffrey Barnes in the business class section, strategically located next to the pilot’s door.

Here in that office, shielded from the Center of Operations, we find the same people as always. Barnes, seated in a chair identical to the one he has in London, reclining with his hands behind his head at a more modest desk. Harvey Littel, also seated in an armchair, legs crossed, a thoughtful look on his face. And the rest of the team, Thompson, Herbert, Priscilla, and Wally Johnson. Only Staughton was away, directing the work in the economy section of the plane.

“He knows,” Barnes repeated, more to himself than to those present in the small office.

“How can he know?” Herbert asked, irritated.

“He chose Moscow by chance? Coincidence?”

“Even if he does know, we can’t risk it,” Littel advised. “What do the Russians say?”

“They don’t say. They’ve decided not to cooperate,” Thompson reported. “If it were up to them, we wouldn’t have authorization to enter the country. Which still isn’t guaranteed. Oh, and they deny they’re in Russia.”

“Bastards,” Barnes swore.

“Shit,” Littel exclaimed. “Why have they changed their attitude now?”

“They always have a card up their sleeve. You can’t trust the Russians,” Barnes said.

“One thing is certain,” Thompson affirmed. “They’re better documented than us.”

“Could they have the Muslim?” Wally Johnson suggested.

“For our sake they better not,” Littel declared. “That would be terrible.”

“Why?” Thompson wanted to know.

“Because we’d have to rescue him,” Herbert explained. “And something would probably go wrong and they’d all die during the operation, the hostage included,” he added ironically.

“If it were up to you, even we’d be wrecked,” Barnes murmured just loud enough for Herbert to hear. The expression Herbert directed at Barnes in return confirmed the murmur had hit its mark.

Staughton entered suddenly, opening the door violently, something out of character for him.

“We have a problem,” he said.

“Another one,” Barnes exploded.

“The Russians won’t permit us to fly over their airspace. Much less land in their territory.”

“What?”

“Now this. Can’t you do something?” Herbert asked.

“Only if your commander has friends in Russia,” Barnes informed him. “And at the highest level.”

Littel looked at the floor, withdrawn, pensive.

“This is all very strange.”

Staughton left the door and put a file on the desk in front of Barnes.

“What’s that?” he asked, abandoning his restful position and bending over the report.

“The content of the CD.”

There were a few dozen pages inside the folder. A considerable pile.

“So much?” he protested.

“And I’ve selected only the most important.”

Barnes turned the pages with no desire to read them.

“Make a summary,” he ordered Staughton.

“I can’t.”

Barnes raised his eyes in amazement.

“Why can’t you?”

“This is confidential information. There are people in the room not authorized to hear or read it,” he explained with authority, resorting to the laws that guide the agency and looking at Herbert.

“Okay, let’s read this carefully,” Littel confirmed. “Regarding the refusal to let us fly over and land . . .”

“We could try the diplomatic route,” Barnes suggested.

“No. They know something. They’re going to tie our hands and end up denying the authorization.”

“While we lose any trace of the woman and the others. They must already have them in custody,” Barnes said in a circumspect tone.

“But something intrigues me.”

“What?”

“He’s left a trail of bread crumbs so we can follow him. Why?”

“He hasn’t left the bread crumbs for us,” Herbert asserted.

“For who, then?” Barnes asked with no patience for the colleague butting in.

“For the mole.”

“The mole again?” Barnes shouted with irritation.

“There’s a mole among us,” Herbert insisted.

“Then leave me in peace,” Barnes answered, indicating the subject was closed.
I’m not going to let you bring this up again,
his tone suggested.

“We have a problem, gentlemen. We can’t enter Russia,” Barnes announced in a loud voice. “What do we do? Anyone have a suggestion?”

There was silence for a few moments. No one said anything.

“Think what this is costing the taxpayers. Everybody out,” Barnes ordered. “Out of my sight.”

Obviously the order didn’t pertain to Littel, since he remained in the same position he’d been in for a long time, seated, legs crossed.

The rest left the office silently, depressed, tired. It was the downside of this work. When you did well, no one appreciated it or said a word of encouragement, but if things went badly, the finger was pointed and the criticism never ended. In a short time only Littel and Barnes remained.

“We’re screwed,” the fat man said.

“No,” Littel considered. “We have people in Russia. We don’t need to go there personally.”

With a triumphant smile Littel went to the satellite phone on Barnes’s desk and dialed several numbers. He waited for the connection to be established, and the shining in his eyes redoubled when he heard a response. He placed the call over the loudspeaker.

“Colonel Garrison. It’s a pleasure to hear you.”

“The pleasure is mine.”

“Are you where we agreed?”

“I’m having a coffee precisely in Red Square.”

“Perfect. Start the operation.”

“I’ve already started it, my friend. I’ve already started it.”

A
year later the same fear has returned, panic, and the feeling of impotence. She remembered the abandoned warehouse in New York, the heavy chains that hung from the ceiling to which they fastened her wrists, along with the others. Rafael, who wouldn’t be quiet, trying to draw the torture to him, away from her father and the old priest. What was his name? Marius Ferris. That was it. She hadn’t thought of the pleasant old man, fragile, mistrustful, chained up the same way she was. Nor had she thought of their captors, Barnes and company, but who really dealt the cards was the man in the Armani suit, and the dark, icy stare, a killer without conscience, and his helper, a Pole of the same type. In charge of everyone, incontestable, untouchable, cruel, JC, the same person with whom she now collaborated and who, a year ago, wanted them all dead. There were no absolute truths, only the moment.

Inside the door of the Russian souvenir shop, she’d had a sudden impulse to call Simon to see how he was doing.
Matrioska
s, eggs imitating Fabergé creations, paintings, jars, ballpoints, postcards, jewelry, everything you could associate with a country. It’s unnecessary to add that not one of the offerings caught Sarah’s eye. She felt too tired, too worried, in a foreign country, in an exciting city, showy, but not at this moment for her. If she could have chosen, she’d have preferred to be at her parents’ estate in Trindade, without roads, flight, and persecution.

Instead of that, she heard a male voice behind her, very close to her ear. She could almost hear his breathing.

“Little Sarah Monteiro.” It was not a question. “Do me the favor of crossing the street and going into the barbershop. Calm and relaxed. Don’t try anything stupid. If you do, you’ll hurt yourself.”

Her heart almost jumped out of her mouth. No matter how many times we go through situations like that, nothing prepares us. Her first reaction had been a useless attempt to turn around and put a face on the voice of her captor, but he wouldn’t permit it.

“No, no, no. Look straight ahead. We don’t want to be run over, right?”

He mixed a certain pleasure and sense of responsibility in his words. He spoke English with a heavy accent. Russian, probably.

“Who are you?” the journalist asked when she’d recovered her faculties.

“That’s not important. Let’s go. Hurry.”

They crossed the street in the middle of traffic, making some cars honk in protest. At some moment Sarah had mentioned stopping, but something circular and cold poked her in the ribs and convinced her of the contrary.

A dissonant voice woke up the radio the man had fastened to his belt. He brought it to his mouth and answered something in Russian. The bright sun had faded as Sarah and the unknown man entered the barbershop. Her eyes were slow in adapting to the new conditions. Several barbers dressed in black were cutting hair. If she’d had doubts, they’d dissipated since Sarah could see she was really in a barbershop. Again she felt the cold barrel pushing her forward. No one looked at her, even with so many mirrors. The customers concentrated on their newspapers or admired their own faces reflected in the mirror, or watched the plasma televisions set above each mirror in front of every barber chair. All of them were indifferent to Sarah Monteiro and the man shoving her. In the back she saw an elevator. To the left, stairs going down.

“Go down the stairs,” the man ordered.

Step by step she went down into the deep darkness. She felt danger. She saw nothing. She only felt the cylinder stuck in her ribs. Was he going to kill her? But why? Who was he? It had been stupid to stay in the street alone. Where were Rafael and Phelps?

“Wait,” the man ordered her again. “Put these on.”

He gave her something she couldn’t identify immediately.

“What is it?”

“Goggles. Put them on.”

What you don’t see, you don’t know. She followed his order and immediately understood why the object had seemed strange. They were, in fact, night vision goggles. The flight of stairs ended there. Another step and she would have walked into the wall. A greenish image made everything clearer. A landing supported another flight of steps that descended lower into the Russian earth. A new landing, a new flight of stairs, with many slippery steps.

“What is this place?” Sarah asked with more fear than she wanted to show.

“The stairway to hell. Isn’t it pretty?” the other responded sarcastically.

Sarah regretted asking. What was certain was that in all the way they’d come there was no lamp, light, or even a candle or place for it. The place had really been designed to have no light. A shiver ran up her spine.

“Stop. Give me the goggles.”

Sarah had no choice but to obey. She found herself immersed in the darkness of the stairwell. She heard some noises to the side.

“What’s that?”

Silence.

A new sound, like something dragging itself along.

“What’s that?”

“Be very quiet,” the man said with a panting sound indicating physical effort. The voice came from in front. “It’s only a little way.”

The little way had been long, or seemed so. She heard the man’s voice behind her again.

“Now take a step forward.”

A step forward.

“Another.”

Another step ahead.

“Now relax. Stay quiet.”

Sarah complied and again heard the sounds of dragging repeated.

Suddenly a white fluorescent light came on, illuminating an empty hallway. The man, almost sixty years old, was in front of her with a slightly mocking smile on his face.

“We’ve arrived. You can go on,” the unknown man said. “Keep going straight. You can’t get lost.”

The hallway had doors on only one side. They went in the second.

“Stay here a minute. I’m going to urinate.”

The man closed the door, but there was no sound of a key turning in the lock.

Strange
, Sarah thought. Could it be he didn’t lock it? After a staircase in which special goggles were required to go down, this seemed amateurish. Maybe the door could only be opened from outside. That was it. That had to be it.

Spurred on by curiosity, Sarah tried to turn the doorknob, sure it wouldn’t open.

She was wrong.

She spied the hallway. Not a living thing. She started to walk down it, step by step, not knowing what to look for. An exit? Only if there were a different one, because the stairs were impossible. There was no light. She had no idea where she was. The grated door of the elevator was closed and the elevator itself empty. No alarm button was visible. She tried the doors fearfully, always alert for a sound that would indicate the return of the unknown man. She turned the knobs carefully. Two were locked. She didn’t need to check the one she’d left. The door at the side was ajar. She opened it slightly and saw Phelps and Rafael seated on chairs face downward on a square table. Red stains on the floor made a shiver run down her spine.