Priscilla put her hand to her mouth, shocked. Littel and the others didn’t seem surprised. Only Barnes’s men showed no previous knowledge of this.
Phelps brought his hand to his mouth and sighed.
‘Enough. This is going to be done the way we agreed. Is there any problem?’ He spoke to Littel.
‘Not on our part,’ he answered, looking at Barnes.
‘Very well. Take those two to the cell. They’ll be interrogated on the ground,’ Phelps commanded.
‘Did you hear what he said?’ Barnes demanded. ‘Staughton, Thompson, lend a hand.’ He looked at Rafael. ‘This time there’s no accord to save you. I want to be the one who sends you from here to hell.’
Rafael smiled provocatively.
‘Where’s the Muslim?’ Phelps wanted to know.
‘What Muslim?’
‘Abu Rashid.’
‘We don’t have him,’ Littel informed them. ‘He disappeared from Jerusalem days ago.’
Phelps looked at him astonished.
‘You don’t have him?’
‘No.’
‘The Russians don’t have him. I heard the conversation they had with our friend here. He also seems to have never heard of him. I thought he could only be in your custody.’
‘He never has been,’ Littel asserted. ‘We have no idea where he could be.’
‘We’ll have to resolve this,’ Phelps added.
‘What about the journalist?’ Garrison wanted to know.
‘Kill him,’ Phelps said without thinking twice. ‘Let’s go. Move.’
Staughton and Thompson helped Herbert carry Sarah and Rafael. She shot a last look at Simon Lloyd, who couldn’t disguise the panic in his eyes.
‘No one’s going to kill anyone for now.’
Everyone looked at Rafael.
‘Oh, no?’ Phelps mocked.
‘No.’
‘And why not?’
You save your ace for the right moment.
65
Over the years the American archbishop had visited the papal office in the Apostolic Palace many times, most frequently during the era of his protector, Paul VI. One phone call was enough to find out the pope’s schedule, and the gates opened immediately if there was an available time. He visited once during the short reign of Albino Luciani, on the evening of his death, to appeal to the pope not to accuse him of fraud and other more serious crimes. That visit was a complete failure. In the pontificate of Wojtyla, which had lasted twelve years so far, the visits could be counted on his two hands, decidedly fewer than a dozen. This was the first in the last five years.
The Pole was distracted, scrawling on a piece of paper, and hadn’t invited him to sit down. Courtesy demanded he not do so on his own, especially in the office of the Supreme Pontiff, when he was right in front of him.
He stamped his signature on the lower part of the page printed with the papal seal, put down the gold pen, and looked, for the first time, at the American.
‘Good evening, Nestor.’
‘Excuse me?’ Marcinkus turned red with shame. Had he heard correctly?
‘Nestor,’ the Pole repeated. ‘Isn’t he your alter ego?’
‘I don’t understand, Your Holiness.’ The archbishop’s uneasiness was obvious. He hadn’t expected this reception.
‘Don’t play dumb.’ Wojtyla got right to the point. ‘I’ve known everything for a long time.’
‘All what, Your Holiness?’
‘Well … let’s go over the parts. I thought it was strange when I removed you from the IWR last year that you never came to ask for an explanation.’
‘The decision was yours to make, Your Holiness. I was in charge of the bank for eighteen years. It was normal that the time had come to leave,’ he responded naturally.
‘All right, Nestor.’
‘Don’t call me Nestor, Your Holiness.’
‘Paul and Nestor are the same person. A true chameleon, if you will.’ He looked at him gravely. ‘You tried to kill me.’
‘No, Holy Father,’ he contradicted him, but without much conviction.
‘Sit down,’ he invited him. ‘Sit down and listen to a story.’
Paul Marcinkus accepted Karol Wojtyla’s request and sat down, while the pope got up and walked around the desk until he stopped behind the American, who felt threatened.
‘About two years ago I received a mysterious phone call that led to an even more mysterious visit. Someone wished to discuss subjects of interest to me. Perhaps you’ve heard of this person. He calls himself JC. At the time I thought he might be comparing himself to Jesus Christ, but I don’t think he had that grand pretension. I don’t believe he has the same beliefs we do.’
‘I’ve never heard of him, Your Holiness,’ Marcinkus denied, without turning toward the Pole.
‘No? Well, look, he knows you very well. He told me about your adventures in Masonry …’
‘I can explain, Your Holiness.’ He turned to the pope, alarmed.
‘You can? Belonging to a Masonic lodge results in direct excommunication without the right of explanations. Do you know anything about that, Nestor, 124, of the Loggia of Rome?’
Nestor … Paul hid his face in his hands.
‘You can’t believe just any person who appears so suddenly, Your Holiness. Many people wish us ill.’
‘You know something? You’re right. That’s exactly what I told your friend.’
He raised his voice. ‘He’s not my friend.’
‘And he was ready to prove what he’d said. Days later something was entrusted to me in a pretty packet that contained so many things that, even today, with the years that have passed, all of the ramifications and operations described have still not been analyzed.’
Marcinkus sank into his chair.
‘That was the reason for removing you from the IWR last year, which, I confess, I thought would be enough to see you go voluntarily. I was deceived. You didn’t feel affected by these things. Therefore I’m going to summarize what came in the packet in one single statement. You’re a criminal.’
The American took his hands from his face and got up, stung by the insult.
‘How dare you call me that!’
‘I’m not the one calling you that, Paul. It’s in the evidence. You can’t contradict the facts.’ Wojtyla remained firm and certain.
‘Evidence. Evidence. Don’t throw evidence in my face,’ he spoke proudly. ‘I’ve given a lot to the Holy See. You’ve lost nothing.’ He disregarded completely the courtesy the pope deserves.
‘Do I need to remind you how much your speculations at the Ambrosiano in the eighties cost us? Your absolution in ’eighty-four was less than peaceful and even less well explained.’
Marcinkus stared at him with hate in his eyes.
‘I knew that sooner or later you’d throw that in my face. I admitted the error when it happened.’
‘And why don’t you admit it now?’
‘The Holy Father is popular all over the world. The most popular pope in history. Who do you think makes that possible? Who finances your trips, the luxury in which you live?’ he asked angrily.
‘The faithful,’ Wojtyla replied.
‘Don’t make me laugh,’ Marcinkus joked with a sour smile. ‘It’s thanks to people like me who wisely administer the goods of the Church over the centuries. The Holy Father wouldn’t exist without me. I’m the true pope of all this. And if you intend to prosecute me, something can always happen,’ he threatened.
The pope walked around the desk and picked up the piece of paper with the seal. He sighed deeply.
‘Effective immediately, the archbishop is removed from all the functions that occupy the Holy See. He will return to his archdiocese, from which he will not return again.’
‘You can’t do that to me,’ he shouted.
Wojtyla ignored his tone.
‘You’ll be taken by helicopter directly to the Fiumicino airport, where you’ll continue on a flight that will take you to the Uni
ted States.’
‘You’re playing with fire.’
‘The press will be told of your voluntary retirement because of fatigue and homesickness. It’s my wish that this case be closed immediately without scandal. The proof will be deposited in the Secret Archives of the Vatican without more investigation. If this decision doesn’t please you, I’ll be happy to hand you over to the Italian authorities, who are eager to charge you. The choice is yours,’ Wojtyla concluded peremptorily, turning his back.
Marcinkus let himself sink in the chair. Tears of rage welled up in his eyes and ran down his face. He sat there for several minutes, breathing in the oppressive silence. He had come to Rome in 1950 and had never left. Living in the United States was unthinkable, like a prison sentence. He decided to get up and walk toward the office door. He opened it and remained without moving, defeated, old.
Karol Wojtyla looked out at the plaza, hidden by the white curtains.
‘Ten o’clock tonight at the heliport. Don’t be late.’
66
Istanbul had as much movement at night as during the day. Life swirled through the streets and alleys, allied to the nocturnal mysteries that fill this enigmatic city.
The group led by the old man with the cane, whose handle formed the gold head of a lion, mingled with the thousands of tourists who crammed the tourist spots. An old man with a married couple and another man – they could easily pass for close family members, if it was in their interest to create that image.
They passed through the Hippodrome, whose obelisks still survived, although the amphitheater that seated a hundred thousand people had to be imagined. They went into Hagia Sophia, the cathedral converted into a mosque and then into a museum, where emperors and sultans were once crowned. It served Greeks and Ottomans, survived Constantinople, and remained a symbol of the city and Turkey. They dined at Cati in Beyogölu, at a table next to a window with views of the Bosporus. They began with çorbasi, yogurt soup, with vegetables; then, as the main course, had hünkar beğendili köfte, meatballs with eggplant puree, mixed with cheese, and a variety of kebabs.
Raul and Elizabeth had many questions, but didn’t ask any. They were astonished at the way JC delighted over the food he was serving.
‘Turkish Palace cooking,’ he said. ‘Delicious.’
The couple scarcely tasted the food. They picked at it more out of courtesy and sympathy than hunger, even though they hadn’t eaten well for days.
The cripple maintained his cool pose. He ate, but not like a savage. He was always the same. Polite, silent, he ate to survive, no other reason, and looked around from time to time to assure himself of the old man’s safety. That was his only preoccupation; everything else was secondary.
‘What time is our meeting?’ the old man asked him.
‘He’ll call us as soon as he arrives.’
‘Tell him to come here.’
‘All right.’
The cripple got up and left with his cell phone in his hand. A private call away from the chaos of the restaurant.
‘Who’s coming?’ Elizabeth asked.
‘Another friend?’ Raul added.
‘An ally … I hope,’ he replied, not paying attention, bringing a meatball to his mouth. ‘Hmm … delicious.’
‘How can you live like this?’ Elizabeth asked, scandalized.
‘How do you mean, my dear?’
‘Like this.’ She didn’t know how to explain it. ‘Walking a tightrope.’
‘Don’t be fooled, Mrs. Monteiro. Politicians are the ones who live on a tightrope. Presidents, prime ministers, senators, representatives walk a tightrope. They know that living at the will of the electorate is thankless. No matter what they do the public is never grateful. That’s why they sell themselves to corporations and lobbies. In short, they take care of their future. People like you also walk a tightrope. I don’t.’
‘Do you call this a life of peace and quiet?’ Raul put in.
‘What more could you desire? Dining at the finest restaurant in Istanbul after a guided tour. Tomorrow, who knows, Amsterdam, Bangkok.’
‘Don’t be funny,’ Raul exclaimed.
JC drank a little vişne suyu, cherry juice, to moisten his words. ‘My life was very quiet until last year. Your friend is the one who stirred things up. Don’t forget it.’
‘I know that perfectly well. That’s another story.’
‘In any case this year reminded me of my adventurous youth. I’m old. I’ve been old a long time. My appearance doesn’t deceive. I was retired in my villa, making decisions over the telephone, with a glass of whisky in hand, reading the Corriere and La Repubblica, to keep up with the stupidities they publish. For the first time in fifteen years, I feel alive. For someone whose active military, political, and clandestine life began in the Second World War and continued to the end of the Cold War, to be physically inactive is frustrating. Now I’m in the field again, and no price can be put on that.’
He’s human, after all, the Monteiros thought.
‘As I see it, this is all a game for you,’ Raul commented.
‘In a way. A game with grave consequences for whoever loses.’
‘Things aren’t black or white, isn’t that so?’ Elizabeth asked, more depressed every minute. Time was passing, and she urgently needed news about her daughter.
‘Things are black and white, but not for the common person,’ he said, taking a little more puree.
‘This pope has secrets, too?’ Raul inquired.
‘Who doesn’t?’ He wiped his mouth with the cloth napkin. ‘As your Messiah said, He who is without sin … Not even the saints that the Holy Mother Church canonizes are without stains. No one passes through life without sin … even if only in thought. It’s not evil. It’s intrinsic to being human.’
‘That scares me,’ Elizabeth confessed.
‘There’s a Brazilian writer, whose name I don’t remember, who said something about this. If we could look through the doors of our neighbors, no one would shake hands with anyone. That’s more or less so.’
‘Nelson Rodrigues,’ Raul added.
‘That’s right,’ JC confirmed, remembering the name of the author.
‘Do you have any news of my daughter?’ Raul asked a question that hadn’t crossed Elizabeth’s lips for a long time.
‘Not yet.’
‘Is that really true? You’re not trying to avoid telling us bad news in any way?’ Her worry as a mother loosened her tongue.
‘Look me in the eye.’ He waited for her to do it. ‘Do you believe I’d have any problem telling you that the worst has happened to your daughter, if that were the case? After all that you’ve heard?’
Elizabeth lowered her eyes. Bad news travels fast; good news at a snail’s pace.
‘It doesn’t matter to you?’
‘It does,’ he answered without emotion. ‘You need to know that the negotiations I’m about to begin can affect her fate … for better or worse.’
‘Please, don’t let them hurt her,’ Elizabeth implored.
JC sipped a little more vişne suyu and expressed no sign of commitment. Elizabeth tried to speak reason to her motherly heart, but it was useless. JC wouldn’t let anything affect his plans. In the end nothing would go beyond business with human lives at stake.
The cripple returned to the table with a tall, impeccably dressed man. He was barely middle-aged, and his muscular body indicated hours a day in the gym, his tan regular hours in a tanning salon. He was a man who cultivated his body, and therefore his health.
‘What’s the hurry?’ he asked impolitely. He hadn’t come of his own free will. Some customers looked over at the table.
‘Please, sit down,’ JC invited him, cheerful and serene. Attitude was important.
The man wanted to show his indignation a little more, but the old man’s look made him think twice. He sat down in the cripple’s chair.
‘I’m all ears,’ he said rudely.
‘Ah, you Americans … always so arrog
ant,’ JC sighed.
The man got up immediately.
‘I didn’t come here to be insulted. Are you listening to me?’
A firm hand on his shoulder obliged him to sit. The cripple didn’t like this kind of behavior in front of the old man.
‘Calm down, Oliver.’
‘How do you know my name?’ he asked, surprised.
‘I know a lot about you, my friend. Oliver Cromwell Delaney, born in 1966, Dover, Delaware, father of two lovely daughters—’
‘Who are you? What do you want from me?’ His nervousness was apparent. Things get complicated when strangers start mentioning your daughters. He took out his cell phone.
‘I’m going to call my security—’
‘You’re not going to call anyone,’ the cripple warned, grabbing the phone from his hand. ‘Stay in your chair and be quiet.’
‘Excuse my faithful assistant’s bad manners,’ JC excused him sardonically.
Raul and Elizabeth looked on, intimidated.
‘Where was I? Oh, father of two beautiful twin daughters, Joanne and Kathleen, eleven years old. Consul in Istanbul. I could enumerate your biography in detail, but we don’t have time.’
‘What do you want?’
‘I need you to put me in contact urgently with George. I could do it through my own channels, but it’d take time to authenticate the call.’
‘Who’s George?’
‘Your superior.’
‘I don’t have any superior named George.’
‘No?’ JC asked with a sarcastic smile on his lips.
Oliver looked thoughtful. ‘I’m not … Ah … You’re talking about George …’
‘The same.’
67
With every step the body weighed more. The sweat that a short time ago was only scattered drops on their faces had become streams that dripped off their chins onto the floor. The two men dragged the mound of inert flesh, bent over in the shared effort.
‘Do they think we’re pack mules?’ Staughton protested.
‘Apparently,’ Thompson said. Talking only wasted energy necessary for carrying out the task.
The Holy Assassin Page 37
