The Holy Assassin

by Luís Miguel Rocha

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Come on, Barber. We were doing so well … It’s natural to have your enemies and allies under constant surveillance. The Holy See does also. Everyone does. What’s curious is you’ve kept an organization like Opus Dei under your watchful gaze. That’s what isn’t normal.’

  Sarah calmed her inner hurricane. But doubt remained. His saying they didn’t do it could be true or not.

  Ivanovsky swallowed hard.

  ‘We used the woman to demonstrate we were on top of things. We gave her the disc with intelligence about what happened to the girls, but we didn’t kill the couple.’ He thought about whether to continue.

  There was something that made him trust the Italian, and, really, his instincts had never let him down. Ivanovskys had always had an innate talent for choosing the winning side in history.

  ‘Their murder only shows one thing …’ He hesitated again.

  ‘That you were being spied on or that whoever alerted you to the problem didn’t speak to you alone.’

  ‘Don’t make stuff up.’

  ‘I’m not,’ Rafael ventured firmly. He had already figured out the whole web, or, at least, part of it. ‘Who put you on the trail of Opus Dei?’

  ‘That information is confidential.’

  ‘Everything we’ve said is confidential.’

  The vacillating expression on the Russian’s face made clear his inner conflict between duty and continuing. His confidence in Rafael gained ground.

  ‘Let’s say that someone alerted us to certain actions of that organization. Facts that turned out to be consistent and trustworthy,’ the barber explained. He got up to get an old bottle with clear liquid on a tray. He poured a little in the cup that had held the tea. The smell of alcohol filled the nasal passages of everyone present.

  ‘Does anyone else want some?’

  He held the mouth of the bottle over Phelps’s cup, but Phelps put his hand up to decline. Rafael accepted and let him fill his cup. Sarah also declined the offer.

  ‘Cheers,’ Rafael toasted, lifting his cup.

  Ivanovsky joined him, lifting his cup with a thoughtful look.

  ‘What was the interest of this someone?’ Rafael asked.

  The barber took a drink of vodka and took out a cigarette.

  ‘Do you mind if I smoke?’

  The question did not require an answer, since as he asked he was striking a match and lighting the cigarette. He leaned back, not far enough to fall, making himself comfortable. He had only to cross his legs and put his feet on the table to complete the scenario, but the narrow space of the room prevented those comforts. He crossed his arms with the cigarette held between the fingers of his right hand, letting the ashes fall on the table. Silence was the only reply.

  ‘I’m going to tell you what I think happened,’ Rafael announced. ‘Someone sweet-talked you, which didn’t take much, and put you on the trail of Opus Dei. It’s not hard to figure out what they’re doing. I bet that after a few days you got the general picture.’

  ‘And what’s that?’ It was the Russian’s turn to be sarcastic. A little jab.

  ‘That’s what you don’t understand. On the one hand you found a large-scale operation; on the other you couldn’t find the thread to lead you to what’s going on. Your friend, this someone, shed some light, very little, only what was necessary. I’ll bet it was he who gave you the CD with instructions to give it back after you’d analyzed and processed it. So you ended up knowing everything had to do with the Pole. Or better, you ended up knowing what that someone wanted you to know.’

  ‘It’s a nice guess,’ Ivanovsky interrupted with the same sarcasm.

  ‘What else did you find out?’ Rafael continued. ‘That the rich clergymen had ended up allying themselves with the CIA and were killing right and left.’

  The expression on Ivanovsky’s face changed.

  ‘Who told you that?’ he asked with irritation.

  ‘You know the fact that we have God on our side is a big advantage,’ Rafael finally answered, taking a sip of vodka. ‘It makes us omniscient.’

  ‘And how does this strike you?’ Ivanovsky asked, like someone who doesn’t like something.

  ‘Are you asking me?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Well, my guess seems plausible.’ A statement loaded with venom.

  ‘Why has Opus Dei conspired with the CIA? What’s the purpose?’ the Russian demanded, interrupting him.

  ‘What do you think?’ Rafael answered with a question, testing the situation.

  ‘Burning the file,’ Ivanovsky finally said.

  ‘Burning the file?’ Phelps stammered out. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘When someone eliminates loose ends,’ Rafael explained.

  ‘Do you agree?’ the barber asked Rafael. He was visibly interested.

  ‘I won’t say no. But why?’

  ‘When they killed the pair in Amsterdam, that’s what they wanted to make understood. Why is not easy to make out, but burning the file presupposes the elimination of elements that could undermine certain interests,’ he explained in a casual tone.

  ‘Everything has to do with John Paul the Second. Isn’t that what I said?’ the man from the Vatican reminded them.

  ‘Exactly,’ the barber confirmed.

  ‘But John Paul the Second is dead.’

  ‘Of course he is,’ the other said thoughtfully. ‘Which takes us down other roads.’

  ‘What roads?’ Rafael didn’t drop his guard. Everything had to come out. Ivanovsky understood that. Confidence had been established, plainly.

  ‘Opus Dei, as they call themselves, took care of the English couple as well as the CIA man, we believe mistakenly, a Spanish priest from Santiago de Compostela, and, presumably, Marcinkus in the United States.’

  ‘A priest from Santiago de Compostela? Are you certain?’ Rafael interrupted.

  ‘Yes. Though I didn’t come across his name,’ Ivanovsky excused himself. ‘Why? Is there a problem?’

  A black cloud crossed Rafael’s face, but vanished soon.

  ‘No, go on.’

  ‘We have already analyzed all the communications we had access to, surveillances, agents in the field, and we came up with two possibilities.’ He raised his finger. ‘Either they wanted to eliminate something based on a decision the Pole made during his life …’

  ‘What?’ Sarah and Phelps protested. Sarah believed the goodness emanating from Wojtyla was genuine and could not imagine ordering killings in his name to clean up anything.

  ‘How dare you?’ Phelps defended the deceased pope.

  Ivanovsky ignored them and raised his other finger.

  ‘Or Opus Dei has something rotten in its past it wants to hide. We’ve done an exhaustive investigation. We’ve done it for years and come to an interesting conclusion.’ He stopped speaking for several moments to increase the suspense. ‘There was a bishop in the Vatican, who’s been mentioned, who was not what he seemed.’

  ‘No one is what he seems in any way. Especially in the Vatican,’ Rafael declared.

  ‘This bishop got around quite smoothly. He used bankers, cardinals, priors, politicians, economists. He could do anything. Except pray. He was rarely seen at prayer, unless he had to say Mass. He gained the confidence of people. He was good friends with Paul the Sixth.

  ‘The interesting fact we’ve discovered is that, in addition to being a member of a Masonic lodge, he was also a member of Opus Dei. We’ve uncovered this through facts found among his belongings. Opus Dei would never permit such a thing to be known. We also discovered an immense scheme of illegal financial manipulations done for this gentleman and his partners with the knowledge of certain members of the Vatican Curia, the Masonic lodge, and Opus Dei, although none of them knew that the others also knew about this. It was a deception carried out well by the bishop. His name was—’

  ‘Paul Casimir Marcinkus,’ Rafael completed his words.

  ‘Correct.’


  Him again, Sarah murmured to herself. Always him.

  ‘Marcinkus,’ Phelps said with hate in his voice. ‘He never had any respect for the Church. An arrogant egomaniac.’

  ‘You knew him?’ the Russian asked.

  ‘I knew him. I was insulted and humiliated by that man.’

  ‘When was that?’ Rafael wanted to know.

  ‘When?’ he responded with a question. He was nervous. ‘When? When they discovered all his dirty dealings.’

  ‘Do you mean you had knowledge of what we just said?’

  ‘A little,’ he replied nervously.

  ‘You’re the first person I know who knew Marcinkus was Opus Dei.’

  ‘Well …’ He hesitated. ‘I didn’t …’

  Suddenly Phelps raised his hand to his chest and looked like he was in pain.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Sarah asked, worried.

  Phelps said nothing. He grabbed his chest with his hand and fell from his seat, striking his head on the floor.

  ‘Vladimir,’ Ivanovsky shouted.

  The Englishman twisted in pain.

  Rafael placed his hand on his chest. ‘Do you need air?’

  Phelps confirmed with a gesture. He was in agony.

  ‘Vladimir,’ Ivanovsky shouted again. ‘Let’s sit him up,’ the barber suggested.

  ‘No. Let him be,’ Rafael ordered. ‘We shouldn’t force him.’

  A tear rolled down Sarah’s face. ‘What’s wrong with him?’

  No one answered. The wrinkled one came into the room.

  ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘Get the car and call Mikhail. We have to take him to the hospital.’

  Vladimir left the room running.

  A last grimace of pain, and Phelps lost consciousness. In spite of everything, calm descended on the room instantly.

  Sarah looked at him collapsed, white, and turned her glance to Rafael.

  ‘A heart attack,’ he said.

  ‘That’s right,’ the Russian agreed.

  ‘Oh my God,’ Sarah exclaimed.

  ‘We have to get him to a hospital as soon as possible,’ Rafael advised.

  ‘We’re already taking care of that,’ Ivanovsky said. ‘Let’s go to the veterans’ hospital.’

  Speaking Russian, he and Rafael separated a little from Sarah.

  ‘He knows something we need to know,’ he whispered.

  ‘It seems to me there is someone above all of us who knows much more,’ Rafael reflected.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Your friend someone. I think I know who he is.’

  The other looked at him, frightened.

  ‘Pray to God this one survives,’ Rafael said, turning around next to Sarah, who was on her knees over Phelps, pressing his inert hand.

  60

  The man sweated profusely. Perspiration stuck to his nude body. Pleasure required effort; with every lunge there was an answering moan. Sex is the mixing of bodies, in general two – but there is no limit to the human imagination – the exchange of fluids and sweat, saliva and one’s desires. During the coupling almost nothing exists but the one and the other; the fire has to be put out.

  ‘I really needed that,’ said the man.

  ‘Me too. We’ve got to do it more often,’ the other suggested, grabbing a pack of cigarettes from on top of the table.

  ‘It’s dangerous,’ the first one cautioned. ‘Our uniforms could give us away.’

  ‘Don’t be so hardheaded, Paul. I don’t play when I’m on duty.’

  ‘We can’t afford the luxury of being careless,’ Paul reaffirmed. He got up and sat on the edge of the bed. ‘Give me one.’

  His companion handed him the cigarette he’d already lit for himself and took another. He leaned against the bed board, almost sitting.

  ‘They’re not going to give up,’ Paul commented, exhaling smoke.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘They already would have.’

  ‘That’s not the impression I got when I contacted them,’ the other said.

  The cigarette smoke created a haze in the poorly ventilated room, forming a shadowy atmosphere around the two men.

  ‘It wasn’t a good idea to call yourself “The American”,’ Paul grumbled.

  ‘It’s what popped into my head.’

  ‘You have to be careful. They might get suspicious.’

  ‘Let me worry about those things,’ the other said complacently. ‘After all, why do you want the Turk out? He’s only going to create problems.’

  ‘This doesn’t smell right to me. I heard the Pole was thinking about going to see him,’ he answered circumspectly.

  ‘And what could happen? He doesn’t know who he is,’ the other reiterated.

  ‘The two of them together in the same room. It’s not good.’

  ‘In the same cell, you mean,’ the other joked, getting a smile from Paul.

  ‘I’d like to see the Pole in a cell. I have to find out his intentions. I think he’s suspicious.’

  ‘It’s just in your mind. He has no reason to distrust you,’ the other asserted.

  ‘It must have been JC who carried out the plan. Hell. The Turk drew me in.’

  ‘JC has other plans.’

  ‘He only does what Licio tells him.’

  ‘Licio doesn’t give any orders now.’

  They were silent for a few moments. The sweat had dried. They’d recovered their energy.

  ‘Did you get rid of the car?’ Paul asked.

  ‘It won’t be a problem for anyone now. It was sold up north. I’m going to have to buy another one.’

  ‘Buy it. A different brand. I don’t like BMW.’

  ‘I was thinking of a Mercedes.’

  ‘Good idea. Buy a Mercedes,’ Paul agreed.

  Paul finished his cigarette and continued looking at the ceiling, his hand behind his head. He didn’t say anything for several minutes, just stared at the ceiling worn from the passage of years.

  ‘I want you to find another one for me,’ he finally said.

  The other looked at him disapprovingly.

  ‘Another? It’s dangerous, and it’s a lot of work.’

  ‘Not if they’re from far away. I don’t want more from Rome or the Vatican. That was a mistake. I prefer one from Naples. They should be daring. Or even farther south. No more Romans,’ he demanded.

  ‘Really, I don’t ask them for their identifications ahead of time.’

  ‘And don’t use the Avon trick again.’

  ‘What do you think I am?’ the other protested, looking insulted. ‘I don’t use the same trick twice.’

  ‘A pope’s bodyguard should have no imagination,’ Paul kidded him.

  ‘Take back what you said.’ The other got up. ‘Take back what you said.’

  ‘And if I don’t?’ Paul dared him.

  The pope’s bodyguard laughed.

  61

  Istanbul. Formerly Constantinople. The imperial city, cradle of civilization, frontier between Europe and Asia, point of separation or arrival for each of the continents, clash of ancestral cultures, land of European emperors and Arab sultans, Byzantines and Ottomans, the most prosperous city of Christianity for more than a thousand years.

  They drove around the center for hours, this time more tightly crowded in the back where JC, Elizabeth, and Raul sat. In front was a Turkish driver with expert knowledge of the city, obviously, and the cripple, saturnine, cold, an observer alert to everything, inside and outside the car, in spite of the thousands found in this city, inhabitants, tourists, businesspeople.

  They’d started with Beyoğlu, where they saw the Galata Tower, built in the sixth century. A couple of hours later they’d entered the route that ends at what is now an imperfect circle that covers the Bazaar quarter, with the Süleymaniye Mosque marking the most distant point, the edifice built by Sinan over the Golden Horn in honor of Suleiman the Magnificent, where both are buried, though at opposite ends. The interior of the circle covers the Seraglio, a
s well, which includes the Topkapi Palace, the official residence of the sultans for four hundred years, and the Sultanahmet, that shelters within itself two other pearls, facing each other, the Blue Mosque and Hagia Sophia.

  JC played the part of tourist guide, explaining the multicultural and historical points of each monument and place in that immense city.

  ‘What’s the purpose of this excursion?’ Raul wanted to know, exhausted by such a tour shrouded by secrecy.

  ‘I told you already. We’re here to see a friend.’

  ‘And where is he?’

  ‘He should be on his way to our meeting.’

  ‘What time is that set for?’ the cripple asked.

  ‘At eighteen hundred hours.’

  ‘See? Only a half-hour from now.’

  ‘Where are we meeting him?’ Raul asked again.

  ‘You’ll soon see,’ the old man replied evasively.

  ‘Why Istanbul?’ It was Elizabeth’s turn to ask for answers.

  ‘Why does someone move from England to a mountain in the Alentejo? How can you answer something like that? These are the imponderables of life. The tastes, desires. Some are able to fulfill them, others not.’

  ‘Do you always have an answer for everything?’ Raul asked. He considered the ability both impressive and irritating.

  ‘My dear captain, the day I don’t, you can lower the flag to half-mast because I’ll be dead.’

  ‘This friend we’re going to visit. Is he like you?’ Elizabeth asked.

  She’d only looked at him twice, but she didn’t have to do so again to know he didn’t like her or her husband. The cripple in the front seat tolerated them only out of respect for the old man who gives him orders, thank God. As much as she tried, she couldn’t imagine this old man, so frail and in precarious health, hurting a fly or leading such a vast organization with the purpose of … whatever their purpose was.

  JC laughed at her question.

  ‘No, men like me are dying out. I must be the last of a very under-appreciated species. We’re going to see a cardinal in the Church. A man much older than I.’

  We’re going to see a cadaver? Elizabeth thought without saying it. It would be bad manners to insult the host.