“Now I’m alone.”
Finally, the moment he’d anticipated for so many years had come. At last he was to meet the Grand Master, who must have already landed on American soil, on one of the runways here, at New York’s La Guardia Airport. This servant of his was waiting for him on the secluded tarmac, at the space assigned for the plane to stop. He brought a car befitting a dignitary of such stature. His smile concealed the nervousness eating him up. The Master was like a father to him. Though he didn’t know him personally, the man had given him all the benefits a real father provides for his children. A roof over his head, education, work, and encouragement. Although it had all been done long distance, maybe that was exactly why he had developed such great love and respect for the Master.
The plane was already on the runway. Once the engines were shut down and the door opened, the first person to appear was the man in an Armani suit whom he had met in Gdansk. This one waited to help the gentleman of advanced age coming behind him, leaning on a cane topped with a golden lion. He gripped the cane with one hand, and the assistant’s arm with the other. At last, all three of them were face-to-face. Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. The master, the servant, and the assistant.
In a scene worthy of bygone centuries, the Polish servant knelt before the Master and reverently bowed his head.
“Sir, I want you to know what an honor it is for me to finally meet you,” he said, eyes closed.
The old man placed his trembling hand on the servant’s head.
“Stand up, my son.”
The servant quickly complied. He wouldn’t dare look his master directly in the eye. The old man got into the car, and he shut the door.
“You have served me well. Always with great efficiency and dedication.”
“You can truly count on my total, absolute devotion,” he said with sincere reverence.
“I know it.”
“Where’s the target?” the assistant asked.
“Visiting a museum, right now.”
“He likes to cultivate his mind,” the man in black sneered.
“Where would you like to go, sir?” the Pole asked shyly.
“Let’s be tourists for a while,” the old man answered. “Take us for a drive.”
His words were orders.
A hushed exchange, not intended for the servant’s ears, was under way in the backseat.
Once this was over, the Master made a call and had to wait a few seconds for a response.
“At what point are we going to meet?” he asked directly, without any prior greeting. He listened to the response, and spoke in a curt tone. “Mr. Barnes, pay close attention to my orders.”
50
For a while now, the three occupants of the Volvo had remained silent, speeding along at nearly ninety miles an hour on the Lisbon access routes. Only at this hour was such speed possible on one of Europe’s most congested highways.
Sarah looked out, distracted. They went past farms, stadiums, business districts, cars, trucks, but she didn’t really see any of it. What schemes were being plotted right at this moment, she wondered, so that some people would control others, or certain countries would dominate weaker ones? She felt there were two types of politics, the kind offered for public consumption, a pure facade, and the other hidden, the truly decisive one.
“Are you all right, dear?” her father asked, turning his head.
“As well as you might expect.” Her response was distant, still absorbed in her thoughts. “I was thinking. The P2 killed the pope, and surely many other people. Who else have they disappeared?” She emphasized the last words, staring at Rafael, who sensed it, in spite of keeping his eyes on the road.
“It’s hard to know for sure. But you would probably find Olof Palme, the Swedish prime minister who was assassinated, among their victims.”
“Yes, it’s easy to see they don’t have any trouble doing away with whoever interferes with their plans.”
“That you can be sure of.”
“And why did they kill him?”
“Because he was impeding some of their major operations. Probably arms sales.”
“And what does the CIA have to do with all of this?”
“A lot. Those deaths occurred because they seemed convenient at the time.”
“Did the death of John Paul I interest them?”
“As allies of the P2, the CIA was interested, but it’s an unusual case, because the U.S. Justice Department had John Paul I as a collaborator. And his death did a lot of damage to the progress of their investigations.”
“So much confusion.”
Her father turned to Rafael.
“Which way from here?”
“South. We’ll cross the Twenty-fifth of April Bridge and then go straight to Madrid.”
“Sounds good to me,” Raul agreed.
“I just want to make sure they’re not following us.”
Sarah immediately became agitated. “How can we know?”
“By taking a narrow or a dead-end street. That way, if anyone’s behind us, he’ll give himself away.”
“But then we wouldn’t have any escape, either,” Sarah objected.
“True, but we would know whether they were following us. It’s a tactic drug traffickers use. That way they don’t risk getting caught in the act. If nobody is following them, they go on. Every so many miles they repeat the maneuver. If anybody’s watching them, they abort the operation. They get into a shooting match with the police, are trapped, and the drug kingpins are left untouched in their mansions, comfortably planning the next deal.”
Dazed, Sarah listened.
“I don’t have the slightest intention of getting into a shoot-out. The one yesterday was more than enough.”
“I said that’s what usually happens in these situations, not that we’re going to do it. There are other solutions.”
“Such as?”
Rafael stopped sharply in the middle of the road. There was a clamor of honks protesting his grossly irresponsible move.
“Are you nuts?” Sarah yelled.
“Calm down, Sarah,” her father said reassuringly. “He knows what he’s doing.”
Rafael looked back, but she was right behind him, her eyes blazing.
“Would you mind moving to one side?” he asked her.
Sarah glared at him. Rafael saw three cars at the edge of the highway, about sixty yards back. There was a continuing chorus of honks from those that barely avoided ramming the Volvo.
“Three cars,” Rafael announced.
“Maybe there was an accident,” Sarah suggested nervously.
Rafael turned around and put his seat belt back on.
“Please check to make sure you have your seat belts securely fastened.”
Sarah quickly obeyed, getting more and more alarmed. “My God, I don’t like this one bit.”
“Me neither, Sarah, but listen closely.” Rafael looked at her in the rearview mirror. “So you won’t tell me later that I didn’t warn you, we’re going into an urban zone at high speed. Try not to worry. Please hang on tight.”
The Volvo’s tires burned the asphalt and the motor roared menacingly. The brutal acceleration threw Sarah back into her seat. She looked behind and saw the three cars following them. The Volvo got off the highway and ran a red light. Weaving in and out, they dodged traffic at seventy, eighty miles an hour.
Rafael maneuvered the car with professional skill, Sarah noted. Looking at her father, she observed his apparent calm, reflecting on how little she knew him. Two strangers and, at the same time, so close to her. The captain gave precise feedback to Rafael concerning their pursuers, now openly chasing them. Like Rafael, they were speeding through central Lisbon, racing along the Avenue of the Republic.
Upon reaching Duke of Saldanha Square, they followed a long avenue toward the huge Marquis of Pombal Square. Red lights meant nothing to the four cars involved in the chase. Dozens of shouted insults and honking horns accompanied them. Rafael, ignoring all of this, continued at full speed.
“Hang on,” he warned. “Hang on tight.”
He had barely finished speaking when suddenly he braked, so that the pursuer on his tail almost rammed them. The two on both sides overtook them, and before they could reposition themselves next to the Volvo, Rafael made a fast left, crossing into oncoming traffic.
Her nerves frazzled, Sarah looked around her. They were moving against traffic on a one-way street. The approaching cars honked and, as best they could, dodged the Volvo and its pursuer.
“I think I’m going to throw up,” Sarah moaned.
After a crazed run, they came out on Commerce Square, still closely tailed by the other car. When they reached the east side of the plaza, the car got close to the Volvo. There was no option but an all-out race. Rafael accelerated to a suicidal speed as they entered 24th of July Avenue. The street was long and wide, but winding, forcing him to slow down and then speed up, over and over again.
The car behind them moved with equal dexterity, but the Volvo began gaining. Gaining too much.
“This doesn’t look good. They’re lagging too far behind.”
“Maybe they’re having some mechanical trouble.”
“Let’s hope that’s it.”
On Avenida da India an intense light from above encircled them. A helicopter beamed its spotlight onto the car.
“Now what?” Sarah asked, struggling to control her rising panic. “What are we going to do?”
“We can’t run anymore,” Rafael explained matter-of-factly.
“It’s over?”
Rafael gave her a very sober look.
“It’s over.”
“They’re going to kill us,” Sarah said, deathly pale.
“Not yet. If they wanted to kill us, they would have already.” He turned to Raúl.
“What now, Captain?”
“Let them capture us.”
Still moving on the avenue, they now passed the majestic Belém Palace, official residence of the president of the republic. A bit farther on, Rafael glimpsed the lights of a vehicle barricade cutting off the street near the Jerónimos Monastery. There was no escape. The barricade was getting closer and closer.
Six hundred yards.
“Captain, I beg your forgiveness for having let you down.”
“Nothing to apologize for.”
Five hundred yards.
Four hundred.
“Stop the car,” said a voice coming from the helicopter. “Halt the vehicle immediately.”
“Captain, I need your decision,” Rafael repeated more forcefully.
Civilian vehicles, police cars, and vans were lined up to form the barricade, blocking the street. Various men were shielded behind the opened doors of the cars, guns in hand.
Two hundred yards.
Without prior warning, Rafael stopped the car in the middle of the street.
“This is it, Captain.”
Raul looked at his daughter.
“Give me the papers,” he said.
“What are you going to do with them?” Rafael asked. “They mustn’t end up in their hands.”
“Don’t worry. The glove compartment has a secret hiding place. They won’t find it easily, and that will earn us a little time. Give me the papers,” Raul repeated to his daughter.
It depends on the cards we get to play at a given moment, Sarah thought, now less tense.
“The papers?” Raul said again.
“I don’t have them. I only have copies,” Sarah answered, holding out two white sheets with a copy of the list.
“Where are they?”
“Stored in a safe place.”
Rafael cracked a half smile.
“Right. That being so, what do we do?” he asked Raul.
“Well, this changes things a bit.”
“It’s our trump card,” Sarah said.
“Without a doubt,” her father admitted.
A man left one of the vehicles and was walking, alone, toward the Volvo. His firm, decisive steps held up a mountain of flesh.
“Okay, the games are about to begin,” Rafael said, pointing at the man who was getting close.
The man reached the Volvo, approaching the driver’s window.
“Well, if it isn’t the famous Jack.”
“Geoffrey Barnes. We meet again.”
“Look around you, Jack,” Barnes ordered. “Everybody look. Look at all the work you made us do.”
Other agents came up to the car, opened the doors, and pulled Raul and Sarah out.
“Do you need help getting out of the car, Jack?” Barnes asked sarcastically.
Barnes’s men kept to their auxiliary roles, leaving the initiative to their boss.
Rafael opened the door and got out of the car, collected, never taking his eyes off the big man.
“Take the woman and her father away. Follow your orders.”
Several agents moved off with them, two staying with Barnes. Sarah was still looking back.
“Is that fat man going to kill Rafael?” It was strange how she worried more about him than about herself. The agents put the young woman and her father in separate vehicles.
Meanwhile, Barnes turned to Rafael.
“Jack, Jack, Jack,” he said caustically. “What a disappointment, what a tremendous disappointment.”
Without warning, the huge man punched Rafael in the stomach. He doubled over. A few seconds later, he straightened up, but Barnes punched him again, this time knocking him down.
“How could you do this to me? To the agency. You’ve betrayed all the values they instilled in us.”
Rafael tried to get up, but another kick in the stomach kept him down.
“You’re a bastard,” Barnes continued. “And an ungrateful wretch.”
Another kick.
“Take him away,” he ordered his agents. “We’re going for a walk. A long walk.”
51
This man, a true lover of the arts in all their forms, basked in a delicious afternoon at New York’s Museum of Modern Art. As he had so many other times, he loved contemplating the masterpieces on display there.
Usually a dedicated walker, he was now in a taxi on his way home. His age, combined with the extended tour of the museum, had left him over-tired. Through the car window, he peacefully watched city life.