The Holy Assassin

by Luís Miguel Rocha

  Once in the elevator, Littel swiped his card with level-two clearance and punched in the code assigned to him. The elevator read the order and began to descend to the second basement floor, buried well underground, where they waited for him. These clearances went from the lowest grade, six, to one, and controlled the security and information each individual could access inside the building and in other branches around the territory. The security system was able to monitor in detail the work of everyone associated with the agency. So, if it was necessary, it would be possible to consult the dates and know that Harvey Littel descended in elevator number twelve to the second basement floor at twenty-three hours, forty-five minutes, and twelve seconds today. The cards assigned to the employees not only cut off access to classified information, but also the entrance of all whose card didn’t permit access. If anyone inattentively tried to enter where he shouldn’t, he’d see the door stay closed, the elevator immobile, and would be called soon to Internal Security to explain himself.

  But these are the house rules, of little interest to most mortals, and only serve to entertain us while the elevator takes Harvey Littel to his floor.

  A soft braking came before a male voice announced the obvious, ‘Door opening.’ Harvey went down the dark hall, with hidden sensors that turned on fluorescent lights as he walked with a firm, energetic pace.

  After turning once to the left and twice to the right, he came out into another hallway, narrower, with a bluish light and a door at the end. Harvey swiped his card through the scanner on the wall and entered the code. Once he was on the other side, the door closed behind him, separating one world from another.

  The light created an eerie atmosphere, as if transporting the passersby to another dimension. Several doors ran along both sides, all closed. The one Harvey Littel wanted was the third on the right side. He passed his card through the scanner. It was surely one of the movements he performed most often during the day, facilitating access to places he wanted to go. The door opened as soon as he entered the code, and, taking a deep breath, he went in. There were seven people inside awaiting him.

  ‘Good evening, gentlemen,’ he greeted them, his tone appropriate to his professional role.

  Almost everyone got up from around the large rectangular table the participants barely filled. Only the old colonel, Stuart Garrison, didn’t. Not because of the born arrogance that made him insufferable but because of the wheelchair in which he sat. These were the wounds of war that remain for life, received, as he never tired of telling, in March of 2003, on the outskirts of Nasiriyah, during the second Gulf War, when the allied forces were marching at top speed through Iraqi territory on the way to Baghdad. A rocket launched by some Shiite fighter at the Humvee in which he was riding took away from him any capacity for movement from his waist down, affecting his sexual ability, as well, although nothing affected his strong character. That act of terrorism earned Colonel Stuart Garrison the Medal of Valor. In colorful terms the report said that Stuart Garrison, trapped in what remained of the frame of the twisted Humvee, was able to destroy the menacing fighter about to give the coup de grâce with another rocket. A sure shot to the head of the insurgent saved the lives of the six occupants of the vehicle, although one didn’t survive his wounds and died on the way to the field hospital, after waiting five hours for a rescue team. What the report didn’t mention was that the shot killed a teenager less than fifteen years old whose action was revenge for the allies annihilating his innocent family. These were the atrocities of war, implacable for both sides. Once removed from the battlefield, Stuart Garrison was invited to join the agency because of his privileged contacts in the Middle East, making him the most imbecilic, arrogant, and deficient man in the CIA – words not spoken out loud by those who knew him.

  Having explained the trivia of why some get promoted and others not, let’s move on to the rest of the group in hierarchical order. They were seated three on each side, leaving the head of the table for the assistant subdirector, Harvey Littel. If the subdirector or director had been here in person, they would have been at the head. On the right side, from the point of view of the assistant subdirector, we have Colonel Stuart Garrison, responsible for communications with the Middle East and Russia, followed by Wally Johnson, lieutenant colonel, liaison with the US army, intrepid and proud, some forty years old, although still in puberty in regard to military careers. Across from them, Sebastian Ford, diplomatic attaché, politician by profession, one of those who seem to have excellent judgment, but, when you squeeze their words, seem to have no juice, nothing there. He was the demagogue who connected the department with the president, always prepared to sacrifice anyone for the good of his career … and, of course, national security. The others were not important enough to name, since they have little relevance for the unfolding of our story. But let’s not forget the woman who wasn’t seated at the table. She was next to the wall, behind Harvey Littel with a notebook ready to take her frenetic notes. She was Priscilla Thomason, Harvey’s secretary.

  ‘Have we managed to connect already?’ Littel asked no one in particular.

  ‘Yes,’ someone responded.

  ‘Good. Barnes?’ He spoke into the phone in front of him. There was no answer.

  ‘Barnes?’ he tried again.

  The same response.

  Littel raised the earpiece to his ear. He dropped it immediately.

  ‘We’ve been disconnected. Put it through again,’ he ordered.

  He was surprised when no one moved.

  ‘Are you waiting for me to do it?’ He was irritated by such a lack of zeal and picked up the phone again.

  ‘Dr. Littel,’ Priscilla called from behind him, getting up. At least someone was attentive. ‘The connection has been made, but …’ She lowered her eyes.

  ‘But?’ Littel urged her.

  ‘He’s hung up.’ Stuart Garrison finished the sentence.

  ‘He’s hung up?’ His expression showed amazement. He thought for a few seconds. ‘And you’ve tried to reconnect?’

  ‘Several times,’ the assistant standing by his side told him. ‘He’s not answering.’

  Now Littel understood the pensive mood when he entered. His mind seethed with theories and possibilities. Barnes had disconnected the direct, secure line that connected London and Langley. This was a serious breach of protocol, with the risk of disciplinary action and possible dismissal, if it couldn’t be justified. Barnes lost his temper easily, nothing was ever good with him, but from that to jeopardizing his service record through his own actions was a big step. He was active, highly esteemed, a true pack mule who took on an entire continent and the outskirts of another two. This couldn’t be. Something must have happened to make Barnes disconnect. Something serious. Unless …

  ‘Has anyone called the Center of Operations?’ He assumed the attitude of a leader. There was hope.

  ‘No,’ Stuart replied.

  ‘It didn’t cross our minds. Geoffrey Barnes’s conduct is very serious,’ Sebastian Ford added. ‘I’ll have to tell the president about this.’ He seemed to have difficulty opening his mouth to utter these words. His hair plastered with gel, a pen in hand, held vertically, his back stiff, he seemed conscious of each gesture, each word as well. Everything was calculated. The politician in true form.

  ‘He wouldn’t be able to answer if the building has fallen on top of him, for example,’ Littel argued. ‘Call the Center of Operations.’

  The diplomatic attaché’s threat irritated him. He’d sold out, a self-proclaimed patriot who didn’t even know the story of the founding fathers. If there was anyone Littel would put his hand in the fire for, it was Barnes. He’d have a plausible justification … there was no doubt.

  Priscilla took the telephone and pressed four numbers. The beeps resounded in the office from the speaker, while everyone watched apprehensively. Finally they heard a static noise that preceded the connection and a nervous voice, probably because of where the call was coming from. They didn’t rec
eive a call from the ‘cave’ every day.

  ‘Staughton.’ More like a question than an identification.

  ‘Good evening, Agent Staughton,’ Littel greeted him affably. ‘This is Harvey Littel. I’m sure you’ve heard of me …’

  ‘Yes … yes, sir,’ Staughton replied quickly. His discomfort was audible.

  ‘I’m going to get directly to the point, Agent Staughton. I need to speak, urgently, with your superior, Geoffrey Barnes.’ His manner was serious now.

  ‘Well, I’m not with him, but …’ he stumbled, excusing himself.

  ‘Do me a favor. Look for him.’

  ‘Of course,’ Staughton answered respectfully. ‘I’ll call you back in five minutes.’ Again more question than statement.

  ‘No, no, Agent Staughton. You don’t understand me. I want you to look for him now. Now. Understood?’

  The silence proved that Staughton didn’t expect that order. If he had known the large audience listening to him, he would have buried his head in the sand. They all listened attentively to Staughton’s panting breath. If his eardrums weren’t ringing with the beating of his heart, he might have heard the sighs from thousands of miles away.

  ‘Agent Staughton, are you listening to me?’ Littel pressed on. Time was wasting.

  The answer came ten seconds later, when Littel was about to repeat the question.

  ‘The chief’s in the office.’

  Littel felt relief as if he were taking a cool shower. Wonderful.

  ‘Perfect, Agent Staughton. Please pass him the phone.’

  ‘Ah, that’s not going to be possible,’ Staughton refused.

  ‘Why not? Do what I tell you.’ Although he was being rude, Littel knew why Staughton couldn’t pass him the phone. Barnes had another priority.

  ‘What petulance,’ Colonel Garrison muttered.

  Littel got up and raised his hand for silence.

  ‘It’s just … it’s that …’ Staughton stammered.

  ‘It’s what, man? Spit it out.’

  Except for Littel, everyone in the room was holding his breath. What the hell could Barnes be doing that his agent couldn’t pass him the telephone?

  ‘He’s on the direct line with the White House.’

  Everyone turned red except Littel, who saw his thinking rewarded. He looked at Sebastian Ford, careful not to let his inner smile show. It was always good to see those who think the worst of others have to retreat with their tails between their legs and eat their words.

  ‘Excellent, Agent Staughton,’ Littel continued. ‘Tell your superior to call me as soon as the call from the White House is over.’

  ‘Okay, sir.’ Staughton’s voice recovered its confidence. Maybe someday he’d even get used to receiving these calls.

  The call ended on the American side, leaving a heavy silence in the air. Everyone chose a neutral or indistinct point on which to fix his eyes. Most preferred the mahogany table, the phone in second place. Littel was the first to stir the waters, as he ought to be. The time for thinking was past.

  ‘It’s obvious the situation has escaped our control,’ he asserted sadly.

  ‘In an alarming way,’ Wally Johnson concluded.

  ‘Sebastian,’ Littel said. ‘Prepare the crisis committee.’

  ‘When?’

  These politicos could only deal with appointments and schedules.

  ‘Within a half-hour,’ Littel answered curtly.

  Ford went out with his two assistants, who’d been seated at his side.

  ‘Colonel?’ Littel turned to Garrison this time. ‘Who do we have in Russia?’

  ‘Nestov and Litvinenko.’

  ‘Didn’t Litvinenko die of poisoning?’ Wally Johnson was astonished.

  The colonel and Littel looked at him with disdain.

  ‘There is more than one Litvinenko in the RSS,’ the old soldier explained.

  ‘Try to contact them. This is going to get hot, and we have to be prepared.’

  The colonel wheeled himself back and then was helped by an assistant around the table and into the hallway. Littel, Priscilla, and Wally Johnson remained. Littel and Johnson exchanged looks silently, and immediately burst into laughter, leaving Priscilla astonished.

  ‘Get us two coffees, please, Cil,’ Littel asked, wiping his eyes from laughing. ‘It’s going to be a long night.’

  Priscilla went out to fulfill their request, leaving the two men alone.

  Wally was the first to break the silence.

  ‘What do you think the president wants with Barnes?’

  ‘A recipe for cod in sauce,’ Littel responded seriously, provoking a laugh from the soldier.

  ‘How does it happen that that son of a bitch Keys gets himself killed so far away and in a bathroom?’ Wally Johnson wanted to know.

  ‘That is what we have to find out. The idea of collateral damage doesn’t convince me.’

  ‘Do you think anyone suspects?’

  ‘No,’ Littel answered, without a shadow of doubt. ‘It’s going to be a bombshell.’

  30

  A door saved Simon Lloyd from certain death. That irony was lost on those whose steps echoed in the dark hallway, disturbing the silence that had fallen since night began. This was the orthopedic wing of the Chelsea and Westminster Hospital, and moans caused by iron staples that pierced the flesh and fixed the bones couldn’t be heard only because the doors were reinforced and closed. So Sarah’s loud footsteps and John Fox’s quieter ones at her side left no impression on the patients stretched out on beds who could be seen inside the rooms, where they tried to endure another night of pain, hoping for a better day soon.

  Sarah avoided showing the weakness she felt. It wasn’t a good time, walking next to an SIS agent, although John Fox acted reasonably friendly. Simon Templar preferred to stay in the car, thus his absence – better to stare at the steering wheel than serve as a lady-in-waiting for the Portuguese woman.

  As soon as the coroner had taken Grigori Nestov’s body out of the ruins of Sarah’s house, Agent John Fox had tried to excuse her. Enough things had happened, enough surprises, for one day. They could call her if they needed to make further contact. Conscious that the orders she’d received from JC were very explicit, she decided to go to Waterloo International, the train station, and catch the first Eurostar for Paris. Once there she would call her father. She remembered her duty to visit Simon Lloyd. It was the least she could do for all he’d gone through. So she decided to visit the hospital, close to her house, before heading out for Waterloo. She asked John Fox for someone to go with her, and he offered to do it himself, as we see. It was a way of checking on Simon Lloyd’s condition for giving a statement. By coming with Sarah, he would gain Simon’s confidence sooner and be able to arrange a visit the next day.

  Sarah’s worried expression didn’t leave him unmoved. He sympathized with what he had seen of her, not just as a woman but also the mystery she carried within her. This woman knew a lot, although he didn’t know what or how. He had read the articles she wrote for the paper, sometimes of great help to various SIS departments, as well as foreign agencies, he well knew. It was as if Sarah were sending messages to the various factions, Western and East European, as if she knew them all, their true, secret identities. She would be a valuable asset as an ally; for that reason, John didn’t understand Simon Templar’s suspicions. Was it because it was a woman who possessed the information they all would like to have? It didn’t matter. He, John Fox, was ready to invest in this contact, not pressure her, show himself a friend. Later he’d see. Good things could come out of artifice.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he tried to calm her. ‘He’ll be all right.’

  ‘I hope so.’ Sarah took a deep breath and answered with a timid smile.

  But it’s not him I’m thinking about, she confessed to herself. Her mind went back over the past year, remembering everything. He was at her side, the protégé, in spite of his irritating tendency to not tell her anything, or tell things in bits and pieces
according to a logic only he understood. How much she missed him at moments like this. She felt alone, unprotected, although she didn’t feel truly in danger despite all the deaths around her, some close enough she didn’t want to think about them, as with the explosion in her house, JC’s alarming call, and all that. Not like that night a year ago when they’d broken into her house and put a gun to her head. Maybe today’s bad guys, whoever they were, knew she was with SIS agents. That was obvious. The short ride to Waterloo International would be tense, since she didn’t plan to accept John Fox’s amiable company again. They couldn’t find out about her intention to leave London.

  ‘What’s the room number?’ Sarah had forgotten in her nervousness.

  ‘Twenty-five,’ John Fox told her. ‘We’re almost there.’

  Their steps closed the distance to the room, where, according to the reception desk, the patient from emergency number 259475, listed under the name Simon Lloyd, was assigned. They passed 19, 20. Unconsciously Sarah slowed her pace, feeling defensive about what she was going to find.

  She breathed deeply …

  21 …

  Breathed deeply …

  22 …

  She hung back even more, letting John Fox get a few feet ahead.

  23 …

  She let herself close her eyes for a few seconds. Why was this happening all over again? No one should have to go through this twice, or once, for that matter. Simon Lloyd, another victim of the power of men who didn’t care what means they used. All because of her, her father, his past … last year …