The Holy Assassin

by Luís Miguel Rocha

  The butler began packing up the table quickly. Security rules regulate takeoffs and landings. In no time he’d cleared everything off the cream-colored table.

  ‘What’s Atatürk?’ Elizabeth asked again, visibly worried.

  ‘It’s an airport,’ JC replied, tightening his seat belt. ‘Fasten your seat belts,’ he advised, ‘and welcome to Istanbul,’ he added with one of his rare smiles.

  55

  There is a barbershop in Ulitsa Maroseyka, near the Kitay-Gorod metro station, that dates from the beginning of the nineteenth century at a time when barbers performed other functions like pulling teeth and resolving family problems. In politics they organized strikes, demonstrations, political revolts, coups, among many other things. Hard as it is to believe, the simple barber, scissors and razor in hand, had more power than a president.

  Ivanovsky, the owner of the establishment, who inherited it in the seventies in the middle of the Cold War from another Ivanovsky, his father, has not neglected technological innovation. He created a website on which clients could make their next appointment and choose the style of haircut, as well as the barber. In spite of the remodeling the Ivanovskys carried out, this latest descendant has never let the building lose its identity. So we can experience a museum-like enchantment inside the grand barbershop, composed of pieces ranging from the first chair used by the first Ivanovsky to unique instruments that have been used over time. Anyone can visit, even if not coming for a haircut. You can enter without disturbing the busy employees and demanding clientele since the antique objects are displayed in their own room.

  Despite the tumultuous history of the city of Moscow, the Ivanovsky clan never had to worry about assaults, fires, settling bills, or anything of the kind. They’ve always known the right side to be on and enjoyed the benefits of their choice. The preference among the political class for barbers of the Ivanovsky family has provoked cries of amazement from the curious, especially among barbers. The barbershop’s location on Ulitsa Maroseyka, very near Red Square and the Kremlin, was also a factor in its popularity, since besides being near the center of politics, it was also near the most important tourist site in Russia, where thousands of people pass through every day.

  ‘What are we doing here?’ James Phelps asked Rafael for the hundredth time, tired, feeling dirty and out of place, like a refugee who’d left his home.

  Rafael, Sarah, and Phelps were in Ulitsa Maroseyka, next to a souvenir shop in front of the Ivanovsky barbershop. Sarah no longer bothered to ask questions. This was Rafael’s way. There was nothing to do.

  ‘I’m going to get a shave. You can stay here. You can go in the shop and buy a souvenir to take with you,’ he said.

  Without another word Rafael crossed the street and entered the barbershop. The chime of the bell could be heard announcing a customer.

  Sarah and Phelps didn’t have time to react, and, in spite of Phelps taking a step in the direction of the barbershop, Sarah stopped him by grabbing his arm.

  ‘Let him go. If he wanted to go alone it’s because that’s how it has to be,’ she told him.

  ‘It can’t be, Sarah.’ There was irritation in his voice. ‘We can’t be left out of this. It affects us, too.’

  ‘If you want to go, go. I’ll stay here.’ She preferred not to know what he’d gone to do, even if it had something to do with her.

  Feeling authorized, Phelps started toward the barbershop, leaving her alone. There are no longer gentlemen like in the old days, and even then it was necessary to be cautious of them.

  It was surprising that no one had stopped them since they arrived, not only with Barnes hot on their trail but primarily because a Russian agent had died in her house. It was more than probable the Russian secret service was watching their movements, so why had no one appeared? She’d asked herself that question more times than Phelps had asked Rafael what they were doing in Moscow. It was three in the afternoon. They’d traveled all night with a refueling layover in Sofia, where Rafael had mysteriously disappeared for a half-hour. They had resumed the flight as soon as he returned and landed at Domodedovo a little after midday. That was the story of her day that brought her to the door of the souvenir shop in front of the Ivanovsky barbershop. She just hoped Rafael wouldn’t be long.

  Inside the shop we can see Phelps looking for Rafael, with no sign of him. The establishment is long and narrow with mirrors and barber chairs on the two sides. Most of them are occupied by the male customers the shop serves, not out of prejudice but rather preference. Phelps listened to the opening and shutting of scissors or clippers, according to the customer’s desire. He didn’t see Rafael anywhere.

  ‘Would you like a haircut, sir?’ an employee asked in Russian, his chair just now unoccupied.

  ‘Sorry, I don’t speak Russian,’ Phelps answered in English.

  ‘No problem. We all speak English,’ the Ivanovsky owner put in, a man the same age as Phelps, well preserved, scissors in hand, doing a straight cut in the chair in front. He might be the owner, but he worked just like everybody else.

  ‘Ah, yes?’ Phelps didn’t know what to say.

  ‘Do you want a haircut?’ the employee asked again, now in English.

  ‘The truth is I’m looking for a friend who has come for one. A European, Italian to be more specific.’

  ‘Most people here are Europeans,’ Ivanovsky interjected again. Nothing went on in his shop without his noticing it. Eccentric, with a fine mustache and proud look, face full of talcum powder, rosy cheeks, he added, ‘Even most of the barbers are French, recruited from the best coiffeurs in Paris.’

  ‘Good. I’ll come back when I need a haircut. I promise.’ Phelps was evasive and insecure.

  ‘Next time,’ the employee agreed, tired of the conversation. An empty chair was no money coming in. Two seconds later the chair was occupied by a well-fed aristocrat in a black-and-white-striped suit, dark brown hair gathered into a ponytail the barber loosened, a goatee and Russian mustache.

  ‘Take a look around, mister,’ Ivanovsky invited Phelps.

  ‘Thanks.’

  The Englishman walked along the straight hallway looking at the mirrors on both sides. It’d be easier to recognize Rafael if he looked at them. They created a certain confusion in his mind from all the mirrors and people reflected in them into infinity. Considering them all, he saw that Rafael was not in any of the barber chairs or in the waiting room on the side.

  At the back of the salon there were stairs leading to the basement and an old elevator with an open, wrought-iron door. He paused uncertainly for a few moments between the stairs and the elevator wondering whether to enter or walk down.

  ‘You don’t see him?’ Ivanovsky asked. He must have finished with another customer.

  ‘No, strange as it seems,’ Phelps replied with a timid smile.

  ‘Maybe he’s gone down to the museum,’ the Russian suggested.

  ‘Do you think?’ He felt a little fear.

  ‘If you don’t see him in the salon and are certain he’s here …’ the other explained, ‘that’s the only place he can be.’ He took one of Phelps’s arms and pushed him gently into the elevator. ‘This way, it’s quicker.’

  Before he could react, Phelps found himself inside the elevator cabin, and it took him some time to realize there was no control panel to operate. Ivanovsky closed the grate and looked at him from the other side, like a jailer.

  ‘Be careful. There’s not much light down there.’

  The elevator began a slow descent. Phelps saw Ivanovsky rise up, although he was the only one moving, and noticed a sardonic smile before disappearing and descending into complete darkness.

  The motor growled, and the whole elevator creaked as it passed down floors. Without light he couldn’t figure out how fast he was going, but with his heart in his throat he calculated that thirty seconds had passed. However slow the elevator, he must surely have descended several floors.

  It stopped suddenly, almost making Phelps fall. He�
�d forgotten his fatigue and only worried about the unknown. He opened the door of the cage cautiously – the lighting was bad – took a step forward, a second, a third, and stopped in a hallway. He tried to see enough not to bump into the walls. The hallways, except for some architectural decoration, were all the same. They crossed the building, opening into the main rooms. This one was no different, with several doors all on one side.

  ‘This is the museum?’

  A click turned on some fluorescent lights, white and strong, just above him. He was startled and stopped walking. They must be photoelectric cells, he thought. He took another couple of steps out of range of the light and another lit up. That confirmed it. The walls were gray and bare. Except for four doors there was nothing more, no pictures, tapestries, tables, absolutely nothing.

  Phelps went forward a little more, and the lights turned on at each step, while those behind went out automatically, creating a shadowy atmosphere.

  Farther ahead Phelps began to hear voices coming from inside one of the rooms off the hallway. He immediately identified Rafael’s but not the other two. They spoke Russian, or some other Eastern European language, that was certain. This Rafael was surprising. The Vatican wasn’t scanty with its service. It prepared its people so they could control any terrain lacking nothing, without errors or imperfections.

  He approached the door in question, which was only closed a little, but understood nothing since it was all in Russian. He tried to see inside the room, but the crack was narrow. All he could see were shadows.

  Suddenly the door opened, revealing a blond man with a wrinkled face covered by a week’s growth of beard. He carried a Kalashnikov and began a one-sided conversation in Russian with Phelps. He shouted, spraying shots of saliva in every sense of the word. The thought occurred to Phelps that the gun was unnecessary, since his breath was so bad it could knock down any enemy.

  ‘He doesn’t understand Russian,’ he heard Rafael say in English.

  The man stopped his babble and looked inside.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  The Russian dragged Phelps into the room. A sixty-watt bulb hung from a wire attached to the ceiling right in the center, shining down on a square table in bad shape with blotches of dried blood on the laminated wood. Phelps made out another man with a Kalashnikov pointed at Rafael, seated, but, from what could be seen, unhurt. Next to a wall was an open armory. Inside were three shelves full of various makes of guns, grenades, radios, a satellite telephone, a machine for resuscitation or torture, depending on the intended purpose. Phelps felt panic at the sight.

  ‘Is this everyone?’ asked the man who was pointing the gun at Rafael’s head. He was stronger and older.

  ‘The woman is missing,’ the wrinkled man said, shoving Phelps against the wall and pressing the barrel of the gun into him. Immediately he searched him minutely. ‘He’s clean.’

  The older man took the radio and pressed a button.

  ‘Everything clean. The woman’s missing.’

  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.’

  56

  ‘He 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-1700 WJY, 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.’