The Pope's Assassin

by Luís Miguel Rocha

  Ben Isaac went with Garvis to the heart of the machines and con nections that, God willing, would track down the kidnappers' hid ing place. Gavache was sitting in an armchair smoking, much to Ben Isaac's disapproval. Myriam watched him, intimidated.

  "Do you believe what you're saying?" Myriam asked. She needed to know if Gavache was just talking.

  "Another one of my faults. I always say what I think," Gavache assured her again, blowing a puff of smoke into the air, "and I have to smoke to think."

  "I understand," Myriam said, more at ease with Gavache.

  "Where's that amusing young lady, Jean-Paul?" Gavache wanted to know.

  "She went into the bathroom ten minutes ago," Jean-Paul informed him, appearing behind his boss.

  "Do you think she needs help?"

  "No, Inspector," Myriam interjected. "She not feeling well. She's been nauseous lately."

  "Did you hear that, Jean-Paul?" Gavache asked.

  "I heard, Inspector."

  "One more to keep us busy."

  "But we need to work, Inspector," Jean-Paul contradicted him.

  "We already have enough for this lifetime and the next."

  Myriam found the exchange between them curious.

  "Tell Garvis to treat the young lady well. No interrogation and threats. There are enough psychos in this world without our creating another. Let me talk to her myself, with all respect for his command of the operation."

  "Okay, Inspector," Jean-Paul answered, leaving to carry out the order.

  "You have a good heart," Myriam said, praising him for the sensi tivity he had shown.

  "No, I don't, ma'am. Almost all my arteries are clogged. Someday they'll do me in," he joked, without showing any humor at all. "Not much to go."

  Sarah came out of the bathroom and joined them. She was fl ushed, tired, and sat down by Myriam.

  "Welcome," Gavache greeted her.

  "Sorry for the delay," Sarah said weakly. She was shaky.

  "We didn't notice. Do you feel all right?" Gavache wanted to know.

  "Better," Sarah said, recovering her courage a little.

  "We could call a doctor for you," Myriam suggested.

  "No," she immediately replied. "Thanks, Myriam. I promise you it'll be the first thing I do when all this is over."

  Garvis and Ben Isaac returned from receiving the technician's instructions. Ben Isaac was still angry. He was impatient for the call to come, but at the same time feared it. As a father he needed the call; as an old man, he just wanted to go to sleep and wake up from the night mare the next day and discover nothing about it was real.

  Ben Isaac sat down by his wife, and Garvis took an armchair.

  "What now?" Myriam asked.

  "Now we wait," Garvis said.

  Everyone felt self-conscious except Gavache, who continued to savor the aroma of his tobacco. The others exchanged glances, hoping something would happen.

  "Instead of looking at each other like idiots, why don't we tell each other something about ourselves," Gavache suggested.

  "What about your history?" Ben asked.

  "Mine is boring. From home to work, and from work to home. It's tedious. But yours, Dr. Ben, I'd like to hear. Ultimately, this circus is because of you."

  Ben blushed with all the eyes turned on him. As a banker, he was used to being the center of attention, but usually he had everything in control, that is, he had the money, and that wasn't the case here. The money that for so many years had been infallible in corrupting the human soul was useless now. He had lost control of the situation, if he'd ever had it. One of his mother's sayings came to mind as a sign of wisdom: Man proposes, but God disposes. In fact, when it was least expected, life easily exposed the fragility of human control, and every thing collapsed like a house of cards, as if everything had never existed.

  Everyone waited for him to say something, except the techni cians and other agents who kept busy maintaining the state-of-the art instruments at top operational capacity, or at least enough that they would not break down when it was time to use them. They weren't interested in Ben Isaac at all, just the opposite.

  "You can start with Loyola," Gavache offered, to the surprise of everyone present, including Ben Isaac.

  "Loyola?" Ben Isaac inquired.

  "Isn't he the indirect cause of all this?"

  "No." Ben Isaac smiled, cynically, as if those present were not pre pared for a greater truth only he knew. "Loyola only intervened in a story that was two thousand years old. Everything began with Jesus of Nazareth."

  Garvis shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

  "Hell," Gavache exclaimed. "Maybe we should have something to drink with this. Do you have any coffee?"

  "Of course," Ben agreed. "Myriam, could you do us a favor and ask in the kitchen for coffee, tea, milk, something to eat?"

  Myriam got up. Sarah started to follow her, but Myriam didn't let her. "Relax, dear. I'll go."

  "Let's begin with Jesus of Nazareth, then," Gavache insisted. "We're all anxious to hear about Him."

  Ben thought about all his options, but realized he didn't have any. He would tell the truth and hope God was merciful.

  "The historical Jesus has nothing to do with the one the Christian world worships. The truth about Jesus has suffered from an enormous conspiracy. Jesus was born—"

  The ringing of his phone interrupted this story. The instructions were on the way.

  45

  JC was an intriguing man. Perhaps if Francesco had met him under different circumstances, his opinion would be different . . . or per haps not.

  From the top of the King David Hotel Francesco was looking down over all the Old City of Jerusalem, which in the early afternoon swarmed with life. It was cold outside, about thirty degrees. The hotel marked the boundary between the old city and the modern, outside the walls.

  Though he didn't feel like a captive, Francesco didn't feel as if he could just open the door and go outside, either. He was in a foreign country with no idea how he got there, no documents, no identifi ca tion, and no money. He couldn't stop thinking about Sarah. He hadn't talked to her for more than fifteen hours. Was she all right? Where was she? He pictured her. She had such a pretty smile. She could seem bitter and withdrawn, but she was always lovely.

  At midday they served lunch in the suite. The salatim consisted of tabuleh, a kibbe, and a salad of peppers and eggplant. The main course was grilled lamb chops with vegetables. Everything tasted good, but Francesco had no appetite.

  "Eat. You don't know when you'll have your next meal," JC recom mended, drinking some tonic water and lifting a forkful of meat to his mouth.

  Francesco didn't want to admit that his stomach was turning over, and that because of his nerves he'd probably vomit anything he ate. The image of Sarah throwing up intervened. Was she better? He forced himself not to think about it. He'd cope with only what he could, and at the moment, that was JC and what he wanted from him. The old man obviously knew that Francesco was nervous and couldn't eat, only drink, because his mouth was so dry that he was constantly moistening it and, as a result, was constantly going to the bathroom.

  "Calm down, my friend," JC encouraged him. "History doesn't reward the weak."

  "Have you ever felt fear?" Francesco worked up the courage to ask.

  "I always killed everything that put fear in me," JC said, putting another piece of meat in his mouth, as if he were just talking about the weather. "There's no reason to be afraid. Your role in this affair is just as an extra with a few lines to speak," he said, smiling.

  A crucial question struck Francesco. After several successful years of his career, he knew how to recognize a crucial question. He'd done it many times in press conferences, interviews, at some governmental official's door, elbowing his colleagues on all sides to get the best posi tion, the best angle. But those crucial questions never had anything to do with him. It was always about a case, a personality, an offi cial inquiry into a life not his own. This question was diffe
rent. The most important he'd ever asked.

  "What's going to happen to me when my participation in this affair comes to an end?"

  JC didn't even look at him when he replied. He continued eating eagerly, as if he had not done so for a long time. "We'll put you on a plane for home. This never happened."

  "How can I trust you?" He was afraid to push his luck, but he needed some guarantee.

  "You can't. A person's words are worth very little. Things are always changing. What works today doesn't work tomorrow. It's human nature," JC said with his mouth full.

  Francesco was increasingly unhappy. Some things were better not to know.

  "That said, you're the boyfriend of someone important in all this. Your head is always at risk . . . if you don't act right," JC warned.

  The man in the Armani suit entered the room, bringing with him a note of dread. Everything made Francesco shiver. It was surreal. The old man practically threatened him with death if he didn't treat Sarah right.

  "How are things?" JC asked his lame assistant.

  "Dispersed."

  The old man stopped eating and looked at him. "Then the time has come to bring everything together." He wiped his mouth on a napkin.

  JC held out his arm to ask his assistant to help him up. The cripple raised him to his feet and gave him his cane.

  "Shall we go?" JC said to everyone and no one.

  "Go where?" Francesco asked, getting up awkwardly.

  JC walked to the door of the suite, aided by the cripple on one side and the cane on the other, leaving Francesco behind. "Let's take a walk. It's time for you to play your part."

  46

  What were you doing in London?"

  "What were you doing in London?

  "I'm the one asking the questions here."

  "You know perfectly well that you don't have any valid reason to detain me here. Sooner or later you'll receive an angry call from the Vatican asking to release me, and you'll have no other choice."

  Jacopo was right, and David Barry knew it. Two countries were abusing the confidence of a third that had no idea what was happening inside its own borders.

  The two men were alone in the interrogation room. Jacopo was sweating, it was so hot in the room. He'd taken off his jacket and unbut toned his shirt halfway. He hadn't been tortured, at least not in the true meaning of the word. No one had laid a finger on him or threatened him physically, except for the heat in the room.

  David Barry sat in a chair opposite from him and rested his arms on the table. The white light shone uniformly through the small room, reflected everywhere, even on the door.

  "Jacopo Sebastiani, tell me what I want to know, or when the pope calls, I'm going to say that I have no idea what or who he's talking about, have nothing to do with your disappearance, and when you next appear, your decomposed body will be floating in the Thames."

  Jacopo swallowed dryly at the idea of fi nding himself in the dirty, cold river, and shivered despite the heat.

  "I don't understand your interest in this affair. There are no Ameri cans involved," Jacopo argued, aware that this wouldn't move things along.

  "Everything that concerns our allies concerns us."

  "How nice. You're just busybodies, if you ask me."

  "Are you going to be like this all day?" Barry was losing patience.

  "No, you have to be in Rome by eight tonight," Jacopo joked.

  Barry banged his fist on the desk. "If you want to joke, I know how to joke, too. Playing with me is playing with fi re."

  "Wasn't that what he said?"

  "Who?"

  "Rafael."

  "What is he doing in London?"

  "Not even he knows."

  "I'm losing patience, Mr. Jacopo." Barry decided to quiet his voice to calm the mood. He had more to gain if Jacopo cooperated. "Rafael may be in danger. We can help him if you tell me the purpose of his trip."

  "Rafael knows the hazards of his occupation. Today we're alive, tomorrow only God knows. Don't worry about him."

  "What's your function in the Vatican?"

  "I'm a historian specializing in comparative religion."

  "What's that?"

  "Analyzing the similarities and differences between religions."

  "Is a course necessary to know that?" It was Barry's turn to be sar castic. "Why did you come with Rafael to Paris?"

  "Who said it was I?"

  "Didn't you?"

  "I'm here. He's not."

  An annoyed sigh escaped Barry. They were going in circles, getting nowhere.

  There was a knock, then Aris's head appeared through the half opened door. "Do you have a minute, David?"

  Barry gave Jacopo a dirty look and got up. "I'm coming."

  The door closed, leaving Jacopo alone with dozens of images of himself reflected in the mirrored walls. Sweat ran down his face and stained his shirt under his arms. He was weary. He longed for Rome, to return to the comforts of home, even for Norma's strident voice call ing him to dinner. Anything was better than this. "Can't you turn off the heat?" he grumbled to himself or whoever might be spying on him.

  Then he remembered that someone was probably watching him through one of the mirrors, and smiled. Go fuck yourselves. Every thing was going as foreseen. To hell with them all. The plan was almost concluded.

  Barry returned to the room, out of breath. He leaned on the desk and leaned his head into Jacopo's face.

  "What's going on here?"

  "The heat's on too high," Jacopo enjoyed replying.

  "You son of a bitch. You're going to talk, one way or another, you bastard," Barry insulted him. "I'm going to ask you for the last time what you were doing in London. What is Rafael's plan?"

  Jacopo smiled cynically. "It's incredible. All this technology, and it doesn't help you at all," he confronted the American. "Ask him tonight. He won't keep it secret."

  "I don't like being behind the curve."

  "I know what your problem is," Jacopo asserted. "There's a big cir cus going on in Ben Isaac's house, and you don't have any eyes or ears there. You have no idea what's going on," he said. Despite being fed up with being there, that fact amused him.

  "Are you telling me that that's all your doing?"

  "Of course. Wherever you go, we've been there already and know more than you."

  "Rafael's there, then?"

  "What a fixation, man! You still don't see that Rafael is just a pawn in the game? He follows orders, nothing more."

  "And the circus is part of those orders?"

  Jacopo sighed. "Rafael has no idea what's happening in Ben Isaac's house. All this is much bigger than him."

  47

  One can, and should be, suspicious of assumptions. Just because a sinner says he has a gun pointed at the head of the confes sor doesn't mean it should be believed. Empirical proof is necessary, and the wooden screen between them does not allow for that. But the confessor opened the screen and saw the barrel of a gun pointed at his head, followed by a hand and body, and identified the man holding it.

  "Rafael?"

  "Robin."

  "What are you doing here? Drop that shit." He tried not to change his voice too much. Confessionals are not soundproof.

  Rafael didn't answer the question. He kept the Beretta pointed, holding it only in one hand, with the safety still on.

  "What's going on?" Robin asked.

  "You tell me. Put your hands where I can see them." He wasn't joking.

  Robin looked confused, but Rafael didn't believe it for a second. He needed answers and was there to get them.

  "Please, Rafael. We're men of God. Put that down, for the love of God," Robin argued, visibly uncomfortable.

  "Men of God don't murder innocent people. Tell me who the Jesuit is who's going around killing people who helped us in the past, and why." Rafael's voice expressed some anger.

  "What do I have to do with that?"

  "You should know what's going on in your society. Where can I fi nd Nicolas?"
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br />   Robin did not reply. Rafael removed the safety. Robin remained pensive for a few moments. He considered the options, then opened the door of the confessional and got up.