The Holy Assassin

by Luís Miguel Rocha

  ‘Very well. Where are the corpses of the English couple?’ he asked.

  ‘They’ve been reclaimed. They’re on their way to London at this very moment.’

  ‘It’s not in the computer,’ Davids told him, surprised.

  ‘Because I haven’t put it in. I just did the transfer forty-five minutes ago.’

  ‘Who took the bodies?’ Barnes’s voice cut through sharply. Something had gotten away from him. What?

  ‘A family member.’

  ‘Name,’ Barnes demanded.

  ‘He knows perfectly well that the matter is under investigation and secret—’

  ‘The name.’ This time he shouted to leave no doubt about who was giving orders here.

  Dr. Vanderbilt went to the computer and entered several codes and other input. An instant later he turned the monitor so they could see the name. His face was unfriendly, but it didn’t matter. What was done was done.

  Barnes approached the monitor and read the information. Staughton and Thompson did the same.

  ‘What?’ an astonished Staughton exclaimed.

  ‘Son of a bitch,’ Geoffrey Barnes swore, not wanting to believe the name he read.

  18

  ‘God, whose only begotten Son, who with His life, death, and resurrection obtained for us the gift of eternal life, grant us, who celebrate these mysteries of the Holy Rosary, follow Him and attain what He promises. For Christ our Lord,’ the priest recited.

  ‘Amen,’ the believers responded.

  So the service was celebrated in the great chapel of the cathedral of Santiago de Compostela, where the largest incensory in the world, the botafumeiro, hangs motionless, without incense but commanding the greatest respect. For seven hundred years they have followed the tradition of using the great incensory, not this one, which is a little less than a hundred and fifty years old, but others, the idea being to purify the surroundings spiritually, although, in regard to smells, it was an effective means of repelling the odor that emanated from the pilgrims, after hundreds and thousands of miles of pilgrimage for their faith.

  Marius Ferris had spent the entire day here attending all the rituals of the daily liturgy. He had visited Jacob’s Crypt, where the remains of the apostle lie. He remained kneeling in prayer for more than an hour in the narrow place, ignoring the passersby who approached that place below the altar, with its entrance through a narrow door that opened onto some even narrower stairs. Marius Ferris had continued to pray to Santiago the Greater, kneeling on the prie-dieu, with his eyes shut, forehead contracted, feeling every word he offered. From time to time a tear formed under his eyelid and ran down his cheek to evaporate.

  Now he was sitting in the nave, listening to Father Clemente’s last words, while night had fallen for over an hour already. A few dozen faithful were scattered among the pews, old and bent over, just come from their jobs or business, grateful for the grace obtained or probably asking new favors or substituting more recent ones for old ones, like a service provided from above to someone who knows how to negotiate.

  In the last row sat a young man in a black suit, and anyone who had noticed him during the day would never guess Marius Ferris was the reason for his presence. Just the opposite. The way he walked around the cathedral, avoiding the crypt when the priest was praying earnestly, would have convinced the most suspicious that we were dealing with a historian or a passionate admirer of sacred art. He’d lingered in different corners, appreciating some of the relics open to view, not all, since a day, even a lifetime, wasn’t enough for that. He paid special attention to a gold crucifix, originally from the year 874, that contained, it was believed, a piece of the True Cross on which Christ was crucified. Is there really a piece of the wood in it? He had reflected on this for several long minutes for lack of any other interest and place to go, but had ended up concluding that, even if such provenance were confirmed, an object didn’t become holy merely because it subjected Christ to death, causing him pain, torturing him for hours until the last breath.

  Later he’d gone down into the crypt when it was empty and analyzed the narrow place. Three small, latticework doors, the middle one guarding the silver sarcophagus with the sacred relics, the bones of Jacob, at the end of a small passage with a floor covered in black-and-white mosaic. The other doors guarded the mortal remains of two of Santiago the Greater’s disciples, San Teodoro and San Atanasio, gathered together with those of their master in life and death.

  This personal pilgrimage over, done more out of obligation than to avoid the task assigned to him, he’d gone to sit in the last row where he had remained since Mass began.

  ‘In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit,’ Father Clemente intoned, raising his right hand over his head when he said ‘Father’ and over each shoulder when he said ‘Son’ and ‘Holy Spirit.’ ‘Go in peace, and may the Lord be with you.’

  Another celebration of the Eucharist was over, the fifth he’d attended today. It was time to end his martyrdom and begin that of others. Things were going well on the various fronts of the operation.

  He saw Marius Ferris walking toward the priest, who was heading toward the sacristy, but didn’t attempt to get up. It wasn’t time. His instructions were specific.

  ‘Don Clemente,’ Marius Ferris greeted him in a quiet voice, in accord with the sacred place.

  The other, also with white hair, stopped and examined him. That face was not unfamiliar. But the white hair …

  ‘Marius?’ he asked a little doubtfully.

  ‘You still remember me,’ the other replied.

  ‘Oh, Marius.’

  The two men of the Church embraced, gathering together all the years of separation in that gesture.

  ‘How many years has it been?’ Don Clemente finally asked, astonished to see his friend and countryman again.

  ‘Many,’ Marius Ferris answered. ‘It doesn’t matter. How are you?’

  ‘As you see,’ the other replied. ‘In the Grace of the Lord. I wasn’t expecting to see you again. How are you? What have you been doing?’

  ‘I’ve returned,’ Marius Ferris informed him, adding no more than he had to. Enough was enough.

  ‘I heard you were in New York.’

  ‘Yes, it’s true,’ he answered evasively.

  ‘And now, have you returned for good?’

  ‘Almost,’ Marius Ferris said. ‘I still have one last journey. But I wanted to begin here first.’

  ‘Of course, of course,’ Don Clemente added. ‘First those closest to us.’

  ‘Naturally. I’ve spent many years away from my homeland.’ These last words were pronounced with a certain melancholy and an empty stare. Time passes through its orbit, without mercy, what goes, goes, is ended, is past, and will not return to the present, ever, for all that he mourned. It was a sorrow that overcame him when he recalled the time that he had lost. But a life dedicated to the ideals of the Church was not to be regretted, much less by a person in Marius Ferris’s position. He could feel pain for a life far from home, for the heart that remained behind when he went away twenty years ago, but not for the deeds and essentials, for the propagation of God’s Word and for his word, he being the Shepherd of Shepherds, His Holiness the pope, the many whom he had served all this time. ‘I will also go to Fátima, Lourdes, and visit the Holy See. Only then will I come back for good,’ he concluded.

  ‘A truly personal pilgrimage,’ said Don Clemente, admiring him.

  ‘I’ve needed this for a long time.’

  ‘I believe it. I believe it,’ the priest said. ‘I’ll be waiting here for you when you return. You always know where you can find me.’

  He laid a hand on Marius Ferris’s shoulder in a gesture of affection and then continued walking to the sacristy.

  ‘Actually,’ Marius Ferris began, interrupting Don Clemente’s steps, ‘I’ve come here for another reason, as well.’ His expression was serious.

  ‘Oh, really?’ He waited for his friend Marius to explain, but he sai
d nothing further, only continued to look serious. ‘All right. What is it?’

  ‘I want to make a confession.’

  The oppressive tension Marius had created was cut off by Don Clemente’s strident laugh.

  ‘Is that all?’ Don Clemente asked, while wiping his tears on the sleeve of his cassock. ‘For a moment I thought you were going to ask me for money.’

  It was Marius Ferris’s turn to smile.

  ‘No, I only want confession.’

  ‘Very well.’

  Silence extended through the whole, practically empty, cathedral. Only one person strolled through the Pórtico de la Gloria, absorbed in the magnificence of the place. Marius continued looking at his friend.

  ‘Now?’ Don Clemente asked. He hadn’t realized the request was for immediate action.

  ‘Yes,’ the other confirmed.

  Don Clemente consulted his watch. He frowned and looked at the great door of the cathedral.

  ‘Wait for me here. I’ll be right back,’ he decided.

  And with these words he turned his back and walked off. Marius Ferris sat down in one of the pews looking at the altar.

  Normally, a priest never makes confession in a confessional. It is said and known that one of the privileges of his office, if one wants to consider it such, is never to have to enter the claustrophobic cubicle to bare the soul, murmuring through the screen to the priest on the other side. When a priest confesses to another, he does it face to face, eye to eye, unburdening himself of past sins, purifying his spirit, in whatever way possible. The disadvantage, if there is one, is that, contrary to common belief, a colleague in office can’t tell another his most profound secrets. It’s not that there’s an exception for priests; confession functions the same way – closed, inviolable, not transmissible. Every word spoken can never be told to a third person. The problem is that the sinner is a priest, as is the confessor, and for one to have to guard the secrets of another son of the Holy Roman Catholic Church, depending on the secret and the sin, might give one man an advantage over the other. Everything depends on the other’s character. For this reason, when a priest confesses, he has to be very careful.

  Don Clemente returned a little later dressed for the occasion with his clerical collar under the shirt signifying his calling. He sat in the pew and waited for Marius Ferris to approach.

  ‘Tell me, Marius,’ he asked. ‘Purify your soul.’

  Marius Ferris came closer to his friend and looked at him for several moments, eyes moist with emotion. What he wanted to come out would be the total truth, without evasion, today, right now. Marius Ferris was going to open his heart without weighing his words. There would be nothing held back, no secrets.

  ‘You’ve known me for many years, Clemente,’ Marius Ferris began. ‘You know I was always devoted to the Lord, always followed His teachings, in His infinite wisdom, without any doubting.’

  Don Clemente nodded in confirmation.

  ‘I have done all I ought to have done, according to what was demanded of me, within my capabilities and values, sometimes with much sweat and sacrifice. Not everyone understands the paths of God as you and I do, you know that well.’

  The confessor listened with his eyes fixed on the speaker, showing no judgment about what he was hearing.

  ‘I can’t complain about anything. Leaving Compostela twenty years ago was probably my greatest test. Galicia robs the soul, holds on to us with claws and teeth and doesn’t let us forget her. There were many nights when I cried over being away from her and not seeing the cathedral or eating navajas at Don Gaiferos. I wept, yes, but in the room of my luxurious apartment on Seventh Avenue a few blocks from Central Park. I celebrated Mass in the comfort of my home in a room set up for that service for only a few well-to-do friends who had that privilege. I amassed a lot of money for God’s work.’ He spoke in a restrained tone, appropriate for the atmosphere of the cathedral; for all that, there was a noticeable harshness in his voice. ‘Last year some things started happening that made me anxious.’

  ‘What were these things?’ Don Clemente asked, caught up in the story.

  ‘I received some documents from a Portuguese Monsignor Firenzi. Have you heard of him?’

  ‘I recognize the name,’ Don Clemente answered, settling himself on the pew, ‘but I don’t think I know him personally.’

  ‘You may have heard about him when they published the notification of his death,’ Marius Ferris explained.

  ‘Perhaps,’ the other acknowledged with that thoughtful air of someone searching his memory for a name or event. ‘Of course,’ he remembered now. ‘They found him in the Tiber last year.’

  ‘Correct,’ Marius Ferris agreed. ‘Valdemar Firenzi was murdered because of those documents. He was the one who sent them to me to hide in a secure place.’

  ‘And what documents are those?’ Don Clemente’s avid curiosity was well known.

  Marius Ferris was silent for a minute, which further encouraged Don Clemente’s gossipy tendencies. The former was organizing his ideas, but not weighing his words. Everything had to be said.

  ‘Documents written in the hand of Pope John Paul the First, which disappeared the night of his death,’ he concluded.

  Don Clemente stared openmouthed, but soon recovered his senses.

  ‘But … but … what documents are those? Where are they? Isn’t that a myth?’

  ‘No, I’ve seen them. I’ve had them in my hands and read them. Apparently Valdemar found them by chance in the Secret Archives of the Vatican, where they had been for twenty years. Apparently it was the murderer himself who put them there.’

  ‘But how? Is he one of us? How is it that you have access to all that information? Is it reliable?’ The torrent of urgent questions that burst from Don Clemente didn’t appear to bother his colleague or friend or whatever they were after twenty years of not seeing each other.

  ‘I had the misfortune of finding out about him last year.’

  ‘Who? The murderer of Pope Luciani?’

  Marius Ferris made an affirmative gesture.

  ‘Marius …’ Don Clemente stared at him in astonishment. ‘Do you realize what you’re saying?’

  ‘It’s the truth, Clemente. Completely true. He found out that I was guarding the papers and found me. I barely escaped.’

  This confession began to become more of a conversation, a revelation, than an actual explication of worldly sins committed by the faithful Marius Ferris, follower of Christ.

  ‘Go on,’ Don Clemente told him. ‘If I keep interrupting you, you’ll never finish.’

  ‘I was captured and held with a group of people who in one way or another also knew about the papers written by the pope. There were four of us. The only ones left. The others had already been murdered. The worst was awaiting us. But thanks to an emissary from the Vatican and a Portuguese journalist who forced an agreement, we all managed to escape, some more wounded than others. Thanks to the Good Lord, I got out unharmed. The papers I am telling you about are valuable only for historical reasons. They contain no information capable of shaking the foundations of our beloved Church. They are the thoughts of a liberal man already dead now. Nothing more. We are all free to think.’

  ‘What you’re telling me is dreadful,’ Don Clemente added, still astonished. ‘Nevertheless, I still haven’t heard a single sin in anything you’ve told me.’ A smile spread good-naturedly over his features. ‘Incidents of destiny, yes. Imponderables of life, also, things that escape our control. But not one sin.’

  ‘Now we’re getting there,’ Marius Ferris warned him. ‘Now,’ he repeated.

  Don Clemente took the opportunity to rearrange his obese body on the pew, while his friend organized his thoughts.

  ‘During this last year, I’ve done a lot of thinking. I’ve analyzed all my years of work and devotion, as well as those of others. I’ve discovered that there are many people taking advantage of the Church for their own gain, Clemente.’

  ‘I know that well, Mariu
s. But what can one do?’

  ‘Many things. One can change everything.’ Visibly irritated with his friend’s resigned attitude, Marius Ferris reproved him. ‘The work of God has to continue.’

  ‘The work of God serves only the interests of a few.’

  ‘How can you dare say such a thing?’ The heat of anger spread over his face. ‘Over the years I have heard slander, but I never expected to hear it from an intelligent person like you.’

  ‘Marius. You know what is true. You may be well intentioned, Marius. I don’t have any doubt about that, but you yourself said the same thing a little while ago. You celebrate the Eucharist in the comfort of your apartment for a few privileged people.’

  ‘Don’t you understand, Clemente?’ He looked hard at him. ‘Don’t you understand that the soldiers of Christ have to reach every level of society?’ He looked around the majestic nave of the cathedral. ‘Your purpose is to win the poorest. Mine, the richest.’

  ‘Soldiers? Conquer? This isn’t a war, Marius.’ His reserved tone reflected an attempt to calm the troubled waters of the conversation.

  ‘There you’re deceived. This is a war. A strategic war. We have enemies outside and inside the Church. And we have to eliminate them all.’

  ‘Listen to yourself, Marius.’ The attempt to calm him had not worked. The dialogue had broken down in this confessional conversation. ‘War? Eliminate enemies?’

  ‘The experience of the last year has made me realize that there are other groups operating in the inner halls of the Vatican. Our Holy See is scheming with these people. And what do they offer us? Nothing. They are not even believers. They only want the money and power they gain from this collaboration.’

  ‘Very well, Marius. You are here to confess, not to complain. Go on, please.’ Don Clemente offered these words coolly. No one changes anyone, he thought. As much as you might think the contrary.

  Marius Ferris continued, irritated with not having been understood.

  ‘Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,’ he said coldly.

  ‘Tell me that sin,’ the other said.