The Holy Assassin

by Luís Miguel Rocha

  ‘Do you think he opened his mouth?’

  ‘No. If he had, we’d be carrying a corpse.’

  ‘Barnes kicked the shit out of him,’ Staughton said.

  ‘True. He gave it to him good. Old-school.’

  He was alluding to the fact they hadn’t used the most modern methods of extracting information. Electric shock was still idolized within this community. Sleep deprivation was extremely efficient, when you had time, which was not the case here. A battery of drugs and injections might or might not work, depending on the mental and physical condition of the individual. None of these techniques had been used on Rafael. They’d thrown unexpected punches or slapped him and kicked him down below, which is what had left him in the sorry condition we witness here. Barnes, Herbert, and Phelps himself hadn’t had to ask or stand on ceremony to use Rafael as a punching bag. There was a close relationship between the degree of pain a person could support and death. It was the fine line that marked the difference between good and bad work. So we see the two men from the agency carrying Rafael’s inert but still living body. It only meant he hadn’t said anything to his interrogators, or, if he had, it wasn’t satisfactory. Still, there was time to drag that information out by the same method, or others.

  Thus the discouraged faces of Barnes, Herbert, Phelps, and the others, spread around the Center of Operations for the agency in Rome.

  ‘The guy is tough,’ Littel said, seated, smoking a cigar, where he’d been during the whole interrogation. He hadn’t stained his expensive suit or carefully manicured hands. That was work for others. They didn’t pay him to get dirty.

  ‘He’s a son of a bitch,’ Barnes contradicted him. He turned to Phelps with a critical expression. ‘I told you you wouldn’t get anything out of him.’

  ‘Calm down, Dr. Barnes. In five minutes bring the woman in. You’ll see how we find things out,’ he declared confidently.

  ‘I hope so,’ Littel said. ‘Today is the last round of the US Open, and I don’t want to miss it.’

  ‘I missed Wimbledon, and I’m here,’ Barnes answered.

  ‘You hate tennis,’ Littel argued back.

  There were more people in the room than usual, maintaining a sepulchral silence, the better to ignore what was to come. We refer to Wally Johnson, always at Littel’s side as his bodyguard, Colonel Stuart Garrison, whose efficiency stood out in the capture of the fugitives, Priscilla Thomason, the devoted secretary. She’d asked permission to leave during the interrogation, but couldn’t avoid seeing the victim’s condition when he left the room, aided by Staughton and Thompson, not to say dragged, carried, transported. Sebastian Ford rounded out the group, upset because a drop of blood had stained the collar of his shirt. He hadn’t even been close to the gang pounding the man as if there were no tomorrow. He tried to clean it with a handkerchief monogrammed with the initials SF, but the blood became an untamed smear.

  ‘Hell,’ he complained, a little more loudly than he wanted.

  All of them looked disapprovingly at him with his handkerchief wet with saliva rubbing the white collar.

  ‘I’ll be right back,’ Sebastian Ford stammered, leaving the room.

  ‘Politicians,’ Phelps remarked scornfully as soon as Ford left.

  ‘I know from experience he’d let the woman die if he thought she could reveal the location of the Muslim and the file,’ Barnes said worriedly.

  ‘Well then, let them all die,’ they heard a voice suggest from the door.

  ‘Marius. My good Marius,’ Phelps greeted the white-haired man with an embrace.

  ‘James. Things have not gone as well as we would wish,’ Marius Ferris alerted him.

  ‘They could be worse.’

  Marius Ferris looked around the room. ‘Gentlemen, good afternoon to you all.’

  Barnes remembered him from other operations.

  ‘Where’s your lord?’

  ‘The Lord is in heaven,’ Ferris answered a little arrogantly.

  ‘No one is what he appears,’ Barnes finally said. Nothing surprised him after so many years of service to the republic.

  ‘He hasn’t talked, Marius,’ Phelps informed him.

  ‘I knew it. Sebastiani has betrayed us, also,’ he said, closing his fists in anger. ‘Do they have family we could use to put pressure on them?’

  ‘Nothing. The journalist has a mother who knows nothing. We didn’t get anywhere pressuring him on that. If he knew something, he’d have confessed it with the beating we gave him. The parents of the woman have disappeared,’ Littel declared. ‘They haven’t been seen anywhere.’

  Phelps put his hand on Marius Ferris’s shoulder.

  ‘This is the work of the old man.’

  ‘I think so, too,’ he confirmed. ‘It’s the old fox. We should have known he’d make a move.’

  ‘That means he’s been helping them from the beginning,’ Phelps reflected.

  ‘He must have thrown more wood on the fire, without doubt.’

  ‘Herbert, go get the woman.’

  ‘With pleasure,’ the sadistic aide answered.

  ‘Let’s get this over with,’ James Phelps decided.

  68

  Rafael was thrown into the cell against the bare wall, followed by a dry ‘Welcome to Rome’ from Thompson.

  Sarah cried out when she saw him in that condition.

  ‘Oh, my God. Rafael,’ she cried.

  But he didn’t answer. He looked unconscious, but was probably in too much pain to say anything.

  Simon watched Sarah’s distress, unable to do anything. Rafael had endured more blows than he had. He hoped he wouldn’t see Sarah come back in the same way.

  The cell had four concrete walls and a concrete floor, without windows, mattresses, or toilet … nothing. Sarah put Rafael’s head on her lap and stroked it tenderly.

  ‘Good God, what’ve they done to you,’ she whispered, stroking his hair and face.

  ‘They’re not playing games,’ Simon said.

  ‘They’re barbarians.’ She looked at Rafael sadly. She’d never seen him like this. ‘I see they didn’t leave you in peace, either,’ she said to Simon, without stopping the caresses.

  ‘They left me for a time. The editor told me not to leave the house for any reason.’

  ‘Roger?’

  ‘Yes. I knew I should’ve gone somewhere else. When they threw me in the door, I felt like my heart would jump out of my mouth.’

  ‘What did they want from you?’

  ‘To know about the file and someone named Abu Rashid.’

  ‘Who’s this Abu Rashid?’ Sarah wondered. She’d already heard the name in Moscow.

  ‘I have no idea. But do you think they believed me?’

  Simon looked at Sarah sadly, as if he had something to say and didn’t dare say it.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ she asked.

  ‘Do you think …’ He didn’t like to raise the subject. ‘Do you think they’ll do the same with you?’

  Sarah hadn’t thought of that before. She’d only worried about Simon and Rafael, never about herself, ignoring that at any moment the door might open to take her for interrogation.

  ‘Let’s not think about that,’ she said, hiding the fear she felt. ‘Besides, I know no more than you.’ That didn’t entirely make sense, since the fact that Simon knew nothing hadn’t prevented them from leaving bruises all over his body.

  Through the irony of fate, which likes to manifest itself at appropriate times, the lock on the door came to life.

  Sarah surrendered to panic. Her time had come, her hour to endure the harshness of a group of impatient men who’d do anything to achieve their objective.

  The door opened to admit a man dressed in an impeccable suit, at first glance. He bent over Rafael.

  ‘What have they done to you, friend?’ he said sadly.

  ‘Who are you?’ Sarah asked.

  ‘That’s not important. You’ve never seen me here. Understand?’

  He stuck his hand inside
a briefcase, took out a Beretta with a silencer, and left it next to Rafael.

  ‘This is the most I can do,’ he said. ‘Good-bye.’

  Sarah and Simon didn’t understand what was happening. Who was this man? Why was he leaving them a gun? For a woman it’s natural to look at an unknown man with X-ray vision, and she did.

  ‘Later,’ the man said farewell.

  Suddenly Rafael’s hand grabbed the man’s arm.

  ‘John Cody,’ he whispered weakly.

  The said John Cody leaned over Rafael.

  ‘My friend. I can’t delay.’

  ‘I need a favor.’ Rafael’s voice seemed to come from a deep well.

  ‘Yes, if I can do it.’

  ‘You only have to … to … to call a number …’ He pulled him down closer and spoke into his ear. ‘He should be confused. Tell him … Tell him …’ It was an effort to talk. ‘Tell him not to do anything until he receives new instructions.’

  The man sighed as if something was tiring his mind, a difficult weight to support.

  ‘My friend, you have to be strong. Wait it out. This’ll be resolved.’ He gripped his hand strongly. ‘They’ve killed your uncle.’

  He got up without taking his eyes from Rafael.

  ‘I’ve got to go.’

  A tear could be seen running down Rafael’s face.

  The friend left, closing the door behind him. You could see the bloodstain on the neck of his shirt.

  69

  ‘I want explanations,’ Barnes demanded.

  ‘I do, too,’ Phelps warned. ‘We can’t leave here without them. The woman has to talk.’

  ‘I’m not talking about her. I’m talking about you and your men.’

  ‘I’ve already given all the explanations I have to give,’ he said peremptorily.

  ‘One more.’ Barnes looked at Littel. ‘The Spanish are giving us grief because of the priest who was shot to death in the cathedral of Santiago de Compostela.’

  Phelps smiled and exchanged a conspiratorial look with Marius Ferris.

  ‘What makes you think we have something to do with that?’

  ‘Do you want to go down that road?’ Barnes hated many things, but high on the list, along with lying and betrayal, was omission. The simple fact of wanting to make him look like an idiot. With the years he’d spent in the business … they ought to show him more respect when they encountered him.

  ‘To where?’ Phelps’s sarcasm was obvious.

  ‘Your assistant, your number two, as you call him, is not very good at covering his tracks,’ Barnes declared.

  ‘And why should he cover them, if you don’t mind my asking?’

  ‘Mr. Marius Ferris landed at the airport in Santiago de Compostela from Madrid on the morning of the day Father Clemente was killed. And, big coincidence’ – Barnes raised his voice and hands theatrically – ‘your helper arrived in Vigo the same day.’ Barnes got up, leaned on the table with his arms, and shot a firm, hard look at him. ‘Do you mind telling me about it?’

  ‘Would somebody mind turning on the air conditioner?’ Littel asked. ‘We’re getting fried in here.’

  In fact, they were all sweating, heat combined with suspicion.

  ‘Very well,’ Phelps conceded. ‘There were signs the file on the Turk was in Don Clemente’s hands. Herbert searched his rooms, and Marius took care of things personally.’

  ‘And they killed him because …’

  ‘They didn’t leave evidence. It was decided from the beginning it’d be that way, without witnesses. We’ve complied.’

  ‘You should’ve informed us.’

  ‘Aren’t you the ones who always know everything?’ Marius Ferris said sarcastically.

  ‘Why did you think they’d be in his possession?’ Littel asked. ‘From what we know, Rafael took the Turk’s file from the woman’s house.’

  ‘Don Clemente had several meetings with Rafael in the last year. Two in Santiago, one in Rome, and another in London.’

  ‘They knew each other?’ Barnes wanted to know.

  ‘More than that … they were relatives,’ Phelps informed him.

  ‘Don Clemente was Rafael’s uncle,’ Marius Ferris added.

  ‘You killed his uncle?’ Littel asked.

  ‘And we’re going to kill the nephew,’ Phelps affirmed with the sarcastic smile of a mischievous child.

  ‘Does he know?’ Barnes asked.

  ‘It’s not very likely.’

  ‘We shouldn’t waste time. We have to eliminate him as soon as possible,’ a worried Barnes stated.

  Sebastian Ford came into the room again, suffocating. Sweat ran down his face. His armpits soaked his shirt. He’d taken off his jacket and loosened his tie a little – a politician giving the impression of working.

  ‘What kept you so long? Where’ve you been?’ Littel asked.

  ‘Uh … I was trying to get the spot out, but it won’t go away,’ the other replied.

  ‘I’ll buy you another one, then,’ Littel replied.

  ‘And burn that one,’ Barnes ordered. ‘I don’t want any evidence.’ He turned toward Phelps, the helmsman. ‘What made you follow the uncle and nephew?’

  ‘Once more owing to the confidence of the cardinal I serve …’ He interrupted himself with the expression of someone who’d just realized the truth suddenly.

  ‘You served,’ Barnes completed the thought with a scornful expression. ‘Who told you what you wanted to hear …’

  Phelps’s expression changed completely. His cheeks turned red, and the color spread over the rest of his face.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Marius Ferris asked.

  The door opened again to let in Staughton, Thompson, and Herbert, who seemed to be tolerating one another. In Herbert’s claws Sarah was white as chalk, in a state of suppressed panic. They followed the looks fixed on the blushing Phelps and realized instantly something was not right. The anger flowing from the priest could be felt for miles. Barnes repressed a certain personal satisfaction. He hated people who thought they were so superior they were beyond ordinary people.

  ‘It looks like you’re the one who ended up being manipulated,’ Barnes concluded.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Phelps shouted.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Herbert wanted to know. When he’d left, everything was fine.

  ‘Don’t raise your voice with me,’ Barnes ordered firmly. ‘I’m likely to forget we’re associates and finish this up completely.’ He waited for his words to sink into Phelps’s mind. ‘We found out here that the cardinal he serves or served has betrayed us. What he told him in secret has turned out to be false. He happened to see the uncle talking to his nephew, perhaps giving him something, to convince him he had everything under control. Everything was under control, but by them, not you … or us.’

  ‘They’re in a cell. The woman’s here under our control,’ Phelps argued, thwarted.

  ‘But they still have everything we wanted. And where are the ringleaders? JC, the cardinal, and their team? Running everything from their box seats, drinking champagne, and eating caviar.’

  They all listened to Barnes in silence. Phelps, with his eyes closed, looked like he wanted to deny the arguments, but his rationality prevented him.

  Barnes was right. He’d been deceived, but there was a remedy. He approached Sarah and grabbed her by the hair without pity. Sarah twisted and screamed.

  ‘No. No.’

  They sat her violently in an empty chair.

  ‘Where’s Abu Rashid?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Sarah answered, frightened.

  A strong slap jolted her face to the side.

  ‘Where’s the file on the Turk?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  The tears from the first slap flew out with the second, still harder, from the other side.

  ‘Where’s JC?’ The questions followed faster.

  Sarah didn’t reply, but the slaps didn’t stop, shaking her whole head inside.

  ‘We�
�re going to drag everything you know out of you,’ Phelps cried, leaning over her and brutally pulling her hair.

  ‘I want the whole truth. If not, your parents are going to suffer.’

  Broken down in silent tears, Sarah looked at him. She didn’t give voice to the sorrow filling her, driving her to shout, to moan, to give up. Mentioning her parents was cruel, hard. Could it be they’d caught them? Would that mean they’d also caught JC? Or was it all a lie to make her tell everything … but what? She knew nothing.

  Another angry slap. James Phelps was beside himself. His flinty eyes sparked out uncontrollable fury. A thread of blood trailed from her mouth.

  Phelps’s arm reached back again to gain force for another brutal slap, but was prevented by a strong hand, heavy as a blackjack, that grabbed and stopped it.

  ‘Calm down, Phelps,’ Barnes recommended. ‘We want her alive. Stop now.’

  ‘She’s going to tell everything,’ Phelps said with a maniacal look.

  ‘Everything she knows … which might be nothing,’ Barnes said.

  The American circled Sarah, intimidating her. He knew she feared him because in the past she’d seen what he was capable of doing.

  ‘Sarah Monteiro, born April eighth, 1976, journalist, Portuguese, resident of London, daughter of a Portuguese father and English mother.’ Barnes’s tone was calm but electrifying, psychic. There was a door he had to open, her ultimate defense, that which guarded everything. ‘She had an abortion in 2007 as a consequence of which she almost died.’

  Barnes was silent for a few moments and then put his lips close to her ear.

  ‘Look carefully at the people in this room.’ He stepped back, grasped her hard by the head and chin, and shouted, ‘Don’t leave anyone out.’

  Sarah had no choice. Stuart Garrison in his wheelchair, a deathly stare, cold, as if he were in a theater watching a boring film. Priscilla Thomason, a notepad in her hand, closed, watching her with consternation and pain, because of Littel and his will or lack of will. Littel remained seated, with his legs crossed, reading some reports that had little to do with this case. His lack of interest in Sarah was obvious. He was there to serve the wishes of the president of the United States of America … or not. Wally Johnson, in his army uniform with the braids of a lieutenant colonel fixed to the shoulders, reminded her of a sentinel guarding the fort, firm, alert, prepared to destroy any threat. Sebastian Ford, whom Sarah recognized as the man who’d entered the cell to see Rafael. Rafael’s man on Barnes’s team. Barnes had no idea. Ford watched her with compassion, a politician with feelings. Here votes didn’t count, there was no campaign, nothing to win. Herbert, the faithful aide, seemingly everything men of power needed to do their dirty work, and also the clean work. Staughton, the man of data more than field operations. Thompson distanced from her. Habit creates defenses, the mind adapts and rejects the idea that what the person is doing is wrong. He always acted in the best interest of the American nation. Last of all, the old man with white hair who seemed out of place. He was Marius Ferris, the frail parish priest who knew New York. He couldn’t be part of that dark gang of wrongdoers. Or could he? A joking smile on his part answered Sarah’s doubts.