The Holy Assassin

by Luís Miguel Rocha

– FATHER JOHN DE MARCHI,

  The True Story of Fátima

  There was a certain urgency in the writing. The words surged forth, under pressure, hurled out by the ink of the pen, sliding in a precise, correct form, without unacceptable blots. These weren’t characters written with pleasure, elaborated or adorned in execution. It was work, a duty, an obligation. A copy of something already written by someone else. It lacked the spirit of her own creativity. The pages were white, unlined, some written on, others about to be. Those filled with the mother tongue, Portuguese, were separated into two piles, set on the left side. The reason for this separation was unknown, but it had an intrinsic curiosity that would call the attention of more perceptive persons, if there were any in the room. The pile on the right presented a beautiful handwriting, innocent, nothing scratched out, born of a pure hand, perhaps ingenuous, young. The other was like this page that was now being written, under pressure, captive to a vague obligation, as if she knew she shouldn’t transcribe those words that weren’t hers. The two stacks of manuscript pages were written in the same hand, but the difference between them stood out.

  Why?

  The same woman was writing them, seated in a dark wooden chair, bent over a small table, by the light of a candle, her head looking at the sheet of paper from a few inches away, though she didn’t see it clearly. Not that this was the reason for the difference in handwriting. The page at her right side was what needed to be copied in her hand.

  The emissary in a black cassock came into the narrow cell, silently, with quiet steps toward the woman and deposited another pile of pages on the right side.

  ‘These are the last, my daughter,’ he said in a low voice to avoid disturbing her.

  ‘You can leave them.’ The young woman stopped writing and gave the man a worried look. ‘Are you sure about this? It doesn’t seem right to me.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Lúcia. You are doing the right thing under God’s direction, through His intermediary, His Eminence Don Alves Correia da Silva.’

  ‘But I don’t understand this secrecy. Our Lady—’

  ‘Calm yourself,’ the emissary interrupted. ‘The faithful have to be led. We have to be very careful how we pass on the information so that we don’t risk ridicule, while we reach the most people.’

  ‘I don’t understand. You speak of secrets. Our Lady has never spoken of secrets.’

  ‘I am going to explain it to you again. The pope has decided to divide the revelations into three secrets. First, the vision of Inferno. Second, the end of World War One and the prophecy of World War Two, if we continue to offend God and Russia does not convert. Third, the secret we haven’t succeeded in interpreting. I ask you not to write about that one now.’

  ‘I understand. But Our Lady has never shown me any vision of Inferno, nor spoken about World War Two, nor of Russia’s reconversion …’

  ‘As I have told you, it is necessary to prepare the faithful. Trust the Holy Father. He knows what to do.’

  ‘I trust him,’ Lúcia declared.

  The emissary settled into a chair.

  ‘Has Our Lady appeared to you?’ he asked timidly.

  ‘Every month.’

  ‘Don’t forget to put down everything she tells you. It could be important.’

  ‘Everything Our Lady says is important,’ Lúcia muttered.

  ‘Of course … That’s what I meant to say,’ the man mumbled. ‘But the way the message is communicated to the world has to obey the orders of the pope. Only he knows how to divulge it to the faithful.’

  Lúcia agreed with a nod.

  ‘I shall follow the instructions of the Holy Father and the bishop. Please, tell them that which …’ She reflected. ‘That which they call the third part of the secret should be revealed no later than 1960.’

  ‘I’ll share that with the bishop,’ the emissary continued. ‘Everything Our Lady communicates should be put on paper and sent through me to the bishop of Leira, who will decide how to proceed.’

  Lúcia listened attentively. She understood nothing of the rules that regulated the Church. Things should be simpler. When Our Lady appeared to her, wrapped in an aura of peace and happiness, simplicity reigned. She didn’t ask for secrecy. In truth she didn’t ask for the Church’s direction. This happened on its own, since it was natural the clergy would want to be cautious. Still, she’d never thought the control would be so intense, guarding her from public life, alleging she needed protection, instructing her what she should say about herself and the Virgin. She had nothing against that, no criticism. She even liked the obsequious attention she was shown by the Church. They treated her like a fragile glass bubble that might break with the slightest touch. There were days, though, when she couldn’t avoid the feeling of being a prisoner, suffocated. It was the destiny God reserved for her and couldn’t be attained without sacrifice.

  What bothered her wasn’t the control the Holy Father and bishop exerted over her visions, but the fictitious elements they attributed to Our Lady, which she never mentioned in her apparitions. The emissary’s explanation was satisfactory. They knew better than anyone how to spread Our Lady’s message.

  ‘Don’t forget. Never talk about this with anyone whatsoever. You’ll return to Portugal soon and enter the order of the Carmelite sisters. That’s the will of God and Our Lady.’

  She would obey the vow of silence. Meanwhile, she’d write what they asked her with the certainty that soon Our Lady would appear again, and she’d be able to put on paper the felicitous words the Virgin offered. Those were the happiest moments in her life.

  28

  The ferry ride was no added relief for James Phelps. Three and a half hours of travel had left his seat numb.

  The breeze was a little chilly, but that didn’t matter. The sky was clear and full of stars, which he admired, since people rarely look at the stars in the sky unless they are astronomers, amateur or professional. He’d felt absorbed into the forces of the universe for some time. Rafael was talking to the captain of the boat inside the tiny pilot-house. In the darkness he could make out the lights dotting the coast of Dover, the beginning of the British Empire. He had all the ingredients for feeling at peace with his God, but he was uneasy. Rafael was a man of mystery and didn’t confide in him; that was obvious. Otherwise he would have told him about the bodies they transported in the van. At least they sleep the sleep of the just.

  They hadn’t exchanged a word since the service station in Antwerp, but Phelps had worked out his own plot, hundreds of guesses and theories, trying to understand even the smallest part of the puzzle. Still, he only managed to feel his seat get more numb as each mile went by. They had entered France and covered the north coast to Calais at high speed, where this ferry waited for them. Everything very well organized and Phelps, as always, a spectator involved in the plot but completely outside the plan.

  ‘Enough,’ he heard himself say in the emptiness.

  He reached decisively into the inside pocket of his jacket and took out his cell phone. He had a right to have the latest technology, unless it was a corrupter. It had advantages when used with sense and moderation, like everything. He ran through the list of numbers for the name of the person he wanted to call. As soon as he found it, he pressed the green button that began the call. He glanced over at the bridge where Rafael continued a friendly conversation with the captain, who apparently was an acquaintance.

  ‘I’m still completely in the dark,’ he said the second someone answered the phone. ‘I don’t know anything. They ordered me to accompany him, but he doesn’t open his mouth about anything. It’s difficult like this. If he doesn’t talk, I think Monsignor has a duty to inform and alert me.’ He gave the said monsignor an opportunity to accept the suggestion. It might seem by the decisive tone of voice that Phelps had had enough, since it would never cross his mind to give orders to anyone, let alone a monsignor. ‘Yes, of course. I beg your pardon, but I’ve been in the dark since we left Rome.’ Pause. ‘It was not my intentio
n,’ he excused himself submissively. ‘I beg your pardon, but please understand, we are carrying corpses with us. You have to agree that is not normal. I’m not used to—’ He was interrupted on the other end of the line. ‘You heard right, Monsignor. Bodies. According to what I know, an English couple.’ A new pause. Surely he had pricked the curiosity of the prelate. ‘In the English Channel on the way to Dover.’

  He felt a painless pressure on the back of his hand that made him open it, involuntarily, and release the cell phone into another hand, Rafael’s. He hadn’t heard him come up.

  ‘How dare you?’ cried Phelps, reddening. He couldn’t tolerate this man anymore. He hadn’t the least respect for people or for age, which surely deserves dignity.

  Rafael threw the phone out in an arc that was lost in the darkness of the night. It fell into the waters of the Channel, causing an inaudible splash confused with the noise of water thrown up by the prow of the ferry.

  ‘Are you crazy? How dare you?’ Phelps was possessed, looking at the water where the voice of the monsignor had just drowned.

  Rafael looked at him with that indifference characteristic of his style. He said nothing, unaffected by his companion’s anger.

  ‘I … I … I …’ Phelps insisted in his shocked litany.

  He regained his customary calmness. His reproaches dried up quickly before his tongue was tired. The flush of fury would certainly have been worth seeing, if the light had been favorable, since even a gentleman like Phelps had the right to be carried away by passion by an insult like this. Or no? It was a cell phone, his own, and he was in the middle of a conversation. There could be no greater insult.

  Rafael put a hand on Phelps’s shoulder and looked him in the eye seriously. ‘Turn the other cheek,’ he said. ‘Turn the other cheek.’ He returned to the bridge to resume his conversation with the captain.

  Exactly fourteen minutes later, Rafael was sitting behind the wheel of the Mercedes van again, and Phelps, silent, in the passenger seat, prepared to continue on to the unknown destination, unknown at least to all the Phelpses of the world.

  Phelps consulted his watch, which Rafael hadn’t yet thrown overboard, or in this case out the window. It was still on Roman time, an hour ahead of old Albion, an easy calculation. It was 3:03 in the morning. The night was half over, as was his anger. If things continued like this, he was going to lose respect for his calling, dishonor Almighty God the Father, and slap this Rafael in the face … or maybe it would be better not to start down that road. Surreptitiously he prayed his bad thoughts away. It was incredible what this man managed to arouse in him. The road in front was deserted, marked by the light poles on the sides. Only the noise of the van’s engine disturbed the harmony of the night.

  ‘When are you going to stop treating me like a puppet?’ he asked finally in a calm tone to try to get some information in another way, although it was clear nothing mattered to this man driving the Mercedes.

  ‘I’m not treating you like a puppet,’ Rafael answered without taking his eyes off the road.

  ‘No?’ For a moment he lost his self-control, and this negative reply left his lips louder than he intended. He continued to appeal to calm to reunite his efforts and take back control of his body and spirit. ‘I don’t know where we’re going or who the corpses are we’re transporting or what’s going to happen to them. It’s a sacrilege, you ought to know, to profane corpses in this way. They deserve eternal rest.’ He enumerated with his fingers, remembering not to raise his voice. How could Rafael maintain that cool posture? That was another thought that went through his mind and upset his serenity. It was irritating. ‘You had the gall to throw my phone in the Channel.’ Here his voice began to change. Simply remembering brought back his anger. ‘I can’t tolerate this situation any longer.’ He vented his feelings. ‘I feel lost, I don’t know what I’m doing here … I want to help, don’t get me wrong, but I don’t know how.’ He sighed. ‘If you want to know the truth, I feel like a prisoner. I’m in your custody, and I don’t know why, or what punishment awaits me.’

  A sudden slamming on of brakes scared away Phelps’s thoughts and left him shaking with anxiety. The van stayed perfectly stopped in place.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Phelps asked, his instincts awake, looking around on all sides.

  Rafael was imperturbable and calm.

  ‘Is something happening?’ Phelps wanted to know, unable to make out anything out of the normal.

  ‘I’m waiting,’ Rafael declared.

  ‘Waiting for what?’

  ‘For you to get out of the van.’

  Phelps stared at Rafael in astonishment.

  ‘You want me to get out of the van?’

  ‘No. It’s you who feels like a prisoner. I’m showing you that you can go whenever you consider it convenient.’

  The two men looked at each other in silence for a few moments. Rafael was not a man to leave things unresolved. When there were doubts, he preferred to clarify some and leave others to develop further. The message he wanted Phelps to get was that this mission would go on with or without him.

  ‘Keep going,’ Phelps decided.

  ‘Is that your wish?’ Rafael pressured him, since that would ensure that the problem remained resolved.

  ‘Go on,’ Phelps repeated.

  The Mercedes accelerated in the direction of London. The tension in the cab of the van had disappeared.

  ‘You’ll know at the proper time why you’re with me. Only then will I tell you what you have to do. As far as the rest, it’s better you don’t know, for your own safety.’

  ‘Why so much secrecy?’

  ‘It’s not my part to explain all the ins and outs of the operation.’

  ‘But what’s all this for? Are we following something or someone?’

  Rafael left Phelps’s question hanging, a suspenseful pause to arouse his curiosity, common to all master manipulators.

  A phone call broke the silence. It could only be Rafael’s cell phone, since Phelps’s lay on the bottom of the Channel. Rafael looked at his watch, and, for the first time, Phelps saw him show doubt. Whoever it was had some effect on him.

  ‘Yes.’ He finally paid attention.

  Sixty-one seconds passed in which he didn’t pronounce one word, but his indifferent attitude abandoned him. His frown revealed his tension. He’s human after all, Phelps thought.

  ‘You don’t have more information?’ Rafael asked over the phone. He listened to the reply. ‘I know who can help us. I’ll take care of it … if we’re still on time.’ He disconnected the phone. Phone conversations between people like this are always as brief as possible.

  Something had disturbed Rafael; his indifference seemed to have vanished. His mind was an engine working at high speed. Even Phelps could understand that.

  ‘You didn’t finish telling me,’ Phelps interrupted when he thought enough time had passed. ‘Are we following someone?’

  ‘John Paul the Second,’ Rafael answered dryly.

  ‘What?’

  29

  This bedroom community on the outskirts of Washington, DC, can influence everything that happens in the world. It’s like a vital organ of society that, if functioning badly, can cause great problems. We are speaking of Langley, Virginia, the headquarters of the Central Intelligence Agency. Here is where intelligence information is gathered from all over the world and presented to the political powers of Washington, when justified.

  Invented or trustworthy, fictional or real, the truth is that the confidential reports that go out from here have the power to start wars where they don’t yet exist, suppress any political movement, here or on foreign soil, or modify the routine of thousands of people at a specific point on the globe, only because, according to preliminary studies, it could benefit the American economy.

  Nevertheless, after sixty years, the company was beginning a new era. Other institutions, in particular the NSA, the National Security Agency, for many years called the No Such Agency, uses tec
hnology that always reaches farther and faster than the human resources the CIA relies on, contributing to its decline and even discredit. Besides, machines are always more trustworthy. The age of spies has changed suddenly and without warning.

  The night shift has just come on, and that irritated the assistant subdirector since it meant extra hours, the sacrifice of family time again, the third time that week. For Harvey Littel, country came before anything else, and perhaps this explained the elevated rate of divorce among those working in this branch, though not yet in his case.

  He’d covered a lot of miles through these corridors. He punched in at seven in the morning. The sun hadn’t yet risen, and now he returned crossing them toward the elevator to the east wing. His thirty-minute run every morning before coming to work gave him an enviable physique that enabled him, at fifty-three, to endure the daily pressure to which he was subjected as assistant subdirector.

  Harvey Littel’s function could be explained fairly simply. He carried out all the dirty work for the subdirector, who could present it to the director as his own work, or, if Harvey Littel, by some chance, screwed up, everything could go to hell, but only one head would roll … his.

  He glanced at the windows that reflected the darkness of the night, noting how he’d spent one more day unable to take advantage of the sun. At five in the afternoon, he’d told his wife, Lindy, not to count on him for supper.

  ‘Harvey, it’s the third time this week,’ she complained as soon as she was able to get to the phone, out of breath. Harvey didn’t even need to tell her why he was calling. ‘See if your boss will let you off. This is what happens when your husband does more than everyone else.’ She continued to complain, more with herself than with him, speaking faster. She was a lonely woman, now that the children had gone their own ways. She believed her husband was too busy with his work in the computer store where he was head of the sales department. Lindy couldn’t figure out why her husband thought he was saving the world every day. Nor did Harvey imagine that her protests over his not showing up for dinner were made from on top of the bed, his bed, where she’d been romping at five in the afternoon with her lover, Stephen Baldwin, who, by chance, happened to look like the famous one, and who, by another coincidence, also worked at the agency, in the commissary. Stephen Baldwin was at Harvey Littel’s house at five in the afternoon every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, without realizing that Lindy’s husband was the assistant subdirector of the CIA.