Everything changes . . . always.
The light from the bulb failed from time to time, plunging the room into an ominous darkness. At times it flashed like a thunderstorm inside the glass, before glowing again with agreeable intensity, refl ected over the chair, leaving the corners flooded in shadowy phantasmagoria.
The room had no windows. A white wooden door was the only way in. Time had worn down the original color of the walls and door with dark stains.
A violent kick threw the door open, adding another dent to count less others. At this precise moment the bulb went out, as if in protest.
"Shit," the attacker swore, turning the light switch on and off impatiently.
After a while the capricious bulb flicked back on.
"I was about to give up," he growled.
He entered the room with a show of power. I want, I can, and I command. A very confident attitude, since he knew of no one who could stop him.
He approached the chair, grabbed the back, and lifted it. Then let the legs of the chair hit the floor in unison. It would support him.
Next to the chair was a small black bag the attacker glanced at. Everything was ready.
He went out and left the door open. The bulb threatened to go out, but when the man returned, it was illuminating the chair as it should. He was dragging someone who appeared lifeless, and sat him in the chair. It was an old man, badly beaten. At fi rst it was diffi cult to keep him seated, since he didn't have the strength to support himself, and tended to fall forward. The attacker steadied him with a hand on his head. He had time. While the old man recovered consciousness, he would pull himself together.
A blindfold prevented him from seeing the place or his tormentor. Dried blood smeared his lips, a remnant of recent beatings. A bruise marked his neck. This old man had been tortured methodically and brutally.
He coughed a little to open his throat passages, but even that was difficult. He was in pain all over. The attacker interpreted the cough as a return to consciousness, and he was ready. He bent over the sack and opened it.
"Who's there?" the old man asked in a startled voice. "Why are you doing this to me?"
He was so naive. He had attended to the request of a friend who knew someone who needed a translation of a parchment. The next morning he caught a plane, and when he landed, instead of characters written on a parchment, he saw the floor a few inches from his face. A hard blow to the neck dropped him to the ground. He never even saw who attacked him. They blindfolded him and continued to beat him. He couldn't say how many there were, maybe only one, or what the motive was. He offered money, the little he had, but apparently they weren't after money. In the midst of his desperation, he tried to maintain lucidity. His mental faculties were all he had left, but even those he lost momentarily from a harder blow. He regained consciousness sitting in a chair with someone rummaging around in something at his feet.
"I don't have anything that could be of interest. I'm a professor, l live an honest life. Have mercy."
The attacker got up. He had a syringe and a glass container in his hands. He inserted the needle into the plastic top of the container and drew up the colorless liquid. He expelled the air, pressing the handle until a drop appeared at the point of the needle. He let the container fall and it shattered into shards of glass. He stared at the blindfolded old man, who was silent, as if expecting the worst.
"The rules are simple. I ask and you answer. Any exception to this rule will have consequences, understood?" the attacker recited.
6
Two books published?" Francesco asked her, rolled up in the sheets of the bed in a suite on the eighth floor of the Grand Hotel Palatino in Rome.
"Sure. They let anyone publish a book these days," she joked, down playing the importance of the question.
"How did you get such important information about the Vatican?" Francesco asked, looking at the white ceiling. "You must know some one inside with excellent contacts."
Sarah thought about the last two years. They had been too intense. She'd discovered things she would never have imagined about subjects that, until now, hadn't interested her in the least. She could consider her self an expert on Vatican affairs, well versed in John Paul I and II, with out ever having lifted a finger to make it all happen. Life could reveal itself in strange ways, certainly. She was at the top of the list of competi tive television commentators and print journalists when the subject was the Holy See. Her opinion was so respected that some even nicknamed her the pope's lover behind her back, since much of what she knew could come only from him. It was ironic that the opinion of a woman, highly suspect within the sacred walls, was most respected outside them.
She thought about Rafael, his strength, his sense of duty, his beauty, and what they had gone through together.
It was six months since they had talked. Actually, that wasn't entirely true. She had done all the talking, and Rafael didn't say a word.
They were in London, where Sarah lived. They met in Walker's Wine and Ale Bar. He arrived first and ordered a Bud. Later, when she got there, she ordered an Evian over the noise of the popular bar, but didn't wait for it to be served. She started suddenly on the subject that had brought her to this meeting.
"What do we have between us, you and I?"
Rafael looked at her as if he hadn't understood.
"What do we have together, you and I?" Sarah repeated. "I know you're a priest . . . that you have a relationship with . . ." She felt con fused. God, Christ, the church? All at the same time? "Huh . . . but I also know I'm not indifferent to you." Here Sarah looked at him to get some reaction. Rafael remained impassive, listening to her. He could be a bastard when he wanted. Sarah felt increasingly nervous. "I know we got to know each other under unfortunate circumstances." She plowed on, or so she thought, "I know that we went through a lot, our lives in danger, and that probably that gave me the opportunity to know you better than anyone. That made me fall in love with you." When she realized what she'd said, the words had already left her mouth. She thought he would have something to say, but she didn't hear anything from him. Should she have declared, clearly and out loud, what she felt? She stared at him even more intently to find some reaction. What she saw was the same Rafael as always: calculating, unemotional . . . impervious.
At a certain point a roar of delirious, shouting voices was heard from inside the bar. The "blues" team had just scored a goal at Stam ford Bridge and some of those present had been swept away by the images repeated on the television screens throughout the bar.
At that instant the waitress brought the water, after a long wait. Or at least to Sarah it seemed so, an eternity, hours. Really only a few minutes had passed, but when you've stuck your hand in the fi re, a brief time seems much longer.
"It's not an ordinary situation, I know. Nothing is with us," Sarah went on after wetting her lips. "I'm not asking you to divorce God. I'd never do that, but I had to tell you. I know you're perceptive enough to have already noticed." She looked at him again. "Anyway, let's return to my first question. What is it that you and I have for each other? You're not indifferent to me, are you?" It hadn't occurred to her until that moment that she could be hasty. Rafael might simply not feel anything for her. Seeing him take another sip of beer without offering a word made her feel even smaller, like a girl who confesses her love and gets her first rejection. Not verbally in this case, which made it harder. Had Sarah misunderstood everything? Had she deliberately exaggerated the signs? No way. She was intelligent, successful, the editor of interna tional politics at the Times, author of two highly regarded books. Had she been deceived by her feelings? Now it was too late. She couldn't do anything. She'd revealed herself. She had to stay firm until the end.
"Aren't you going to say anything, Rafael?"
Only another sip of beer.
"You let me do all the talking and say nothing? Aren't you going to stop me? Put me in my place?"
Rafael wanted to talk badly, and he spoke, but Sarah
didn't hear him now. She was leaving after throwing down a ten-pound note to pay for the Evian she'd hardly drunk.
"It's good we had this conversation," Sarah declared. "Now I can go on with my life and put this behind me." She left as fast as possible, infuriated. It was her right to feel exasperated.
If she'd stayed a few moments longer, not gone to the door so quickly, so far from the bar, so far from Rafael, if, if, if . . . probably she would have heard him. A timid, faint "I can't."
The editor of international politics of the Times, more sought after than she would have liked, soon found reasons to forget Father Rafael, who returned to Rome. And if, at rare times, she remembered the con versation that had occurred in that bar in Whitehall, while Chelsea was playing some team, it didn't matter to her. The same God Rafael believed in created an opportunity in the form of an Italian Adonis. Apparently she was attracted to Italians. He was a London correspon dent for Corriere della Sera, made regular appearances on RAI, was thirty-two years old like Sarah, and had a body that would make Eros green with envy. He only had eyes for her from the first second he saw her at a lunch for journalists at the Italian embassy.
It should be said that Sarah avoided this Adonis from the south of Europe at fi rst. But soon the Italian showed a genuine interest and agreeable conversation far beyond his playboy appearance. A native of Ascoli, his name was Francesco. To tell the truth, his sculpted beauty was the reason Sarah agreed to a date. An opportunity for Francesco to show what he was worth and if he was worth it. After this fi rst date came a second. On the third their commitment was sealed with a pas sionate kiss on the steps of her house in Kensington, and others fol lowed with greater intensity in her bedroom.
In the days that followed, things progressed naturally. More dates, more conversations, more kisses, and more. Francesco seemed capti vated by Sarah's directness. There was no role-playing or cover-ups. She was always herself, Sarah, authentic, on the telephone in the offi ce, ordering something in a restaurant, kissing in her room. There was no one but her in his eyes, and he adored this.
"Listen, those books are not bad. I see why you're a celebrity."
"You read them?" Sarah asked with feigned shock. "Who gave you permission?"
"I needed to know if I was going to introduce an anti-Catholic to my mother," Francesco replied, then, seriously, "They put me at ease."
"They're books about men, not about religion," Sarah explained.
"Yes, in fact I think my mom would agree with you on some points. We could drop by Ascoli on your book tour. What do you think?"
"Don't you think that's a little premature?" Sarah argued.
"Not for me. Take the time you need to promote your book. Don't rush. When you're free we can detour to the northeast."
"It's only a conference on La Feltrinelli of the Largo di Torre Argen tina," Sarah said as she considered the invitation.
Francesco leaned over her. "You're a very appealing heretic."
"Do you want to carry me to bed, my bad boy?" Sarah smiled with desire.
"Would you let me?" Francesco chose to sound like an innocent boy.
"I would. I do . . ." Sarah said. "I don't know if your mother would let you." She threw herself against him.
"Oh, do you want war?"
A little struggle began with pillows and deep kisses. "You're going to pay for this," Francesco teased.
"Will it be very expensive?" Sarah provoked him.
When the hostilities were over and they lay in bed, out of breath, on their backs, sweating, they smiled.
"I love you," Francesco said.
His words were like a bullet, wiping her smile away. She had no reply. At least not at the moment. Francesco was not just a pretty face, it seemed. He looked at her for a while and changed the subject, paying no attention to the uncomfortable silence.
"You still haven't told me who the bishop or cardinal is who's bring ing you these stories," he said, half joking and half seriously.
"A woman never tells." She regarded him pensively. She thought about Rafael again.
7
Ben Isaac was doing everything to save his marriage. Myriam had lost her patience and given him an ultimatum. The business or her. That was the reason he agreed to go on a cruise when his busi ness was in such a precarious state. His son, also named Ben, would take care of things for a month. Little Ben, twenty-seven years old, had worked administering the business for a long time, but always under the attentive, appraising eye of his father. This time was different. His father was on board a ship with his mother, relaxing in the Mediterra nean. Young Ben made a nightly report of what had happened during the day. His mother tolerated this discussion as long as it didn't take more than fifteen minutes. Ben Isaac took advantage of it to counsel his son. He wasn't a good husband, or father, but nobody beat him at his game. He thought his business affairs would be lighter as he got older, but he had deceived himself. His objectives had changed. First he wanted the best for its own sake, then for Myriam, then for his son, and now he simply wanted to leave a magnificent legacy, immune to rough times or bad decisions. "When you die, you leave everything," Myriam warned him. "You can't take it with you."
The cruise could not be happening at a worse time. The negotiations
with his Israeli counterparts were at a crucial stage, and little Ben had to conclude the deal. It was a crucial test for the boy.
He'd boarded MS Voyager of the Seas, an enormous ship with fi f teen decks and more than a thousand passengers. They called it a fl oat ing hotel, and they weren't wrong. It had a casino, a spa, a marriage chapel, ice-skating rink, cinema, theater, shopping center, everything to make the travelers forget they were at sea and not on land.
Ben Isaac could have bought his own ship and crew and sailed where he wanted, but Myriam was inflexible. She wanted to take a cruise like a normal married couple. Arguing with her was not an option. He reserved five cabins on deck 14 and occupied the middle one in order to avoid unpleasant neighbors. Of course, he decided not to tell Myriam this detail. Ben Isaac was like that. He gave in to a cer tain point, and then arranged things his way. He tried to spare Myr iam everything. Business problems, his son's accidents, her brother's detoxification cure, her father's lovers. He permitted nothing to incon venience her, kept her enclosed in a glass dome. This created other problems, such as a lack of attention, long absences, and a lack of affec tion. Myriam rebelled and Ben Isaac gave in to her, adapting to the new reality. That was always the secret of his success.
So we find him reading the paper at table 205 in the restaurant on deck 14. Myriam was in the gymnasium swimming, and would join him shortly. Mornings were always the same since they'd boarded the ship. And Ben Isaac, exiled in London since childhood, where he made his fortune, didn't care. If Myriam was happy, so was he. If he got news of the business only at night, then so be it. That was the price he had to pay for innumerable lonely nights. Myriam deserved this sacrifi ce.
The waiter brought his coffee.
"Good morning, Dr. Isaac. How are you today?" A genuine smile crossed his face.
"Good morning, Sigma. Very well, thank you."
Sigma was from the Philippines and an excellent waiter, in Ben Isaac's opinion.
"Are you only going to have coffee?'
"Yes, just coffee. I'm not hungry before ten.
"Certainly, Dr. Isaac. If you need anything else, don't hesitate to call me. I hope you have a very nice day."
"Thank you, Sigma."
Ben Isaac continued to read the Financial Times out of profes sional interest. No other reading gave him more pleasure. Analyzing the market, reading between the lines, evaluating investment oppor tunities. One page alone could turn into millions of dollars of income. For this reason he advised little Ben to subscribe and read this paper carefully.
He lifted the coffee cup and drank a little. Black, strong, without sugar. What better way to face the day? Only when he set the cup back down did he notice a small envelope at the edge of the
saucer. How strange. Sigma had not mentioned it. He lay the paper down on the table with the intention of returning to his reading and opened the envelope. There was a small piece of cream-colored paper inside.
12am swimming pool Status Quo.
Ben Isaac reread the note three times. He looked around at the tables on every side. Few people had gotten up yet. A family of fi ve in the back, a couple three tables away. No one suspicious, though seeing faces is not seeing hearts, let alone intentions.
He caught sight of Sigma carrying a tray to the table of the family of five, full of croissants, bread, cheese, and ham.
"Sigma, please," Ben Isaac called. The Filipino came over. "Who gave you this envelope?" Ben Isaac asked, trying to hide his anxiousness.
The Pope's Assassin Page 3
