The Holy Bullet
Page 8
“But the chief said P2 commands almost all the rest,” Staughton interrupted. “The ‘almost’ is missing.”
Barnes looked down on the two men from his imposing height. They resumed walking to the place where the crime was committed eighteen hours ago. Dutch police tape set off the area, including the door to the bathroom. A uniformed officer was on guard at the door to ensure that only those authorized entered.
“All right, you fools, who orders everything and everyone?”
“Who?” Thompson asked, unable to answer.
“Opus Dei,” the chief concluded.
He showed his FBI badge to the guard and entered the crime scene, leaving his subordinates with their mouths open looking at each other.
“Opus Dei?” they both said at once.
They finally joined Barnes moments later, not knowing if what he had said was true or not. It was time to set aside the general subject of power and concentrate on finding the assassin or assassins of Solomon Keys.
“Here we are,” said Barnes, looking at the ample space. Urinals to the right, stalls with doors to the left. A passage separated them. The yellowish tiles couldn’t hide the passage of time. Once they were pure white, an indisputable choice for bathrooms, a symbol of health and luxury at the same time. They found the objects of their investigation in the fourth and fifth stalls. Blood spread from the walls to the floor, more in the fourth than the fifth. The door of the fifth had three bullet holes that formed an irregular triangle. A bloodstain lay over the wall that supported the water tank. A few tiles were broken on the left side of the same wall.
“This is where they killed our man,” Thompson informed them.
They all stared in silence, looking for clues. The smallest detail spoke to them, intent on answering their questions. Who? Why?
“What a shitty way to die,” Barnes vented his feelings.
“Yeah, it is. And, according to the Dutch report, with his pants around his ankles. Literally,” Thompson added.
“You can’t even shit in peace,” Barnes said, closely examining the place.
“Here in the other stall was an English couple. Like our man, they were waiting for the train to Hoek van Holland.”
“When I die, I want to go like that,” Barnes joked, flashing a sarcastic smile.
“How do you know that’s what they were doing?” Staughton asked.
“I’m a quick study,” Barnes advised. “There aren’t any same-sex bathrooms here.”
A light went on in Staughton’s mind. Of course, it was obvious.
“And these shots in the door?” Barnes questioned Thompson.
“It seems Keys was killed with the door closed. At least it was found locked from inside. One shot hit his chest, the other his head, and the third buried itself in the tiles.”
Barnes looked at Thompson and then at the doors.
“The door was closed?” He shut the door with the bullet holes and analyzed it more carefully. Then he passed to the other door. “Where did the other two get the shots?”
“Oh, one shot each in the head. Very clean,” Thompson told him.
An open door, a shut door. Barnes’s mind seethed with equations and hard thinking. Things were never what they appeared. There were always variants and exceptions, accidents and imponderables, things difficult to connect and understand.
“What are you thinking, Staughton?” his chief asked him.
A professional, Staughton was unfazed. With Barnes he always had to be on top of things, fearlessly decisive, prepared to take the shots, figuratively of course. Field work had never been Staughton’s strong suit, and his contribution was to present solutions without having to be in the place where they were worked out in concrete detail. Obviously he’d prefer never to leave London, the Center of Operations. But excursions like this to Amsterdam didn’t bother him. There were much more dangerous things in this world.
“If the report is correct, and everything happened as we hear—”
“Don’t bullshit,” Barnes interrupted. He had no patience for playing around.
“I’d say Mr. Solomon Keys was collateral damage,” he concluded.
“He was what?” Thompson said, astonished.
“It looks like it to me, too,” Barnes supported his associate.
“How can you come to that conclusion?” Thompson insisted, still stunned.
“Staughton, do us the favor …” Barnes authorized his subordinate to present the theory.
“It’s not a conclusion, obviously, just a theory,” Staughton cautioned. Things should always be explicit in order to avoid confusion and mistakes. “If the facts you’ve given are correct”—he looked at Thompson, who affirmed with a nod the trustworthiness of his facts—“we are dealing, almost certainly, with collateral damage. The door of the toilet where the couple was found was open and doesn’t show bullet holes. Besides it doesn’t show any signs of being forced. The lock is intact, as it should be.” He pointed at the catch on door number four, which showed no sign of violence. “That is, whatever they were doing …”
“They were definitely fucking,” Barnes murmured to himself while gesturing toward Thompson with a vicious smile.
“… they must have been so immersed in their affairs, they didn’t bother to lock the door from the inside. The other door confirms that it was closed from inside, and the murderer didn’t trouble himself to throw it open. He let off three shots, and everything was over.”
“I don’t know where you are going with this,” Thompson said, confused.
“It’s simple, Thompson. Whoever did this was not worried about the old man. He didn’t even take the trouble to make sure he was dead, or see who he was. It didn’t matter to him. I say Keys was already inside when the couple entered. Later the murderer entered, opened their door, and shot them. Since Keys’s door was locked, he assumed there was someone inside. He got off three shots and got out of there. In summary, this was for them”—Staughton pointed to door four—“and not for him.”
“Do you know their identities?” Barnes asked Thompson. He obviously supported Staughton’s theory.
“It’s here,” Thompson announced, handing him a paper with the identifications.
Barnes looked at the names. Two unknown people, male and female, both dead in the course of their pleasure. Barnes didn’t hold back his smile, imagining them releasing their fluids and energy, and, suddenly, poom, poom, or better, puff, puff, since no one in the entire station heard anything resembling a shot. He was carrying a silencer. Solomon Keys on the other side, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, maybe even excited, to the extent permitted at eighty-seven, by the madness he must have been listening to and trying to imagine, and then suddenly, nothing. Probably he heard the bodies falling helplessly, and, later, silence, only silence. He bet not even breathing was heard from either of them. What a fucked-up way to die. A man who gave everything for his country. There was no justice. Barnes felt humiliated for Solomon Keys, for himself, since no one knows how he’s going to cross over to the other side. Dead, that’s for sure, you arrive dead, but the ultimate moment, that last moment, of the last breath, how many are going to have the serenity, the perspicacity to feel it, to know it has arrived and to say good-bye? The moment of poof, poof, poof, for Solomon Keys with his pants down. The bastard finished him off. There was no justice. He was collateral damage, in the wrong place at the wrong time. There was no worse luck than being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Everything was tolerable except that. But who had the power to divine what places are wrong or right? The English couple was the reason for the crime. The killer was after them.
“Oh, shit,” Barnes cursed.
“What’s the matter, Chief ?” Thompson wanted to know.
“Do you recognize one of these names?” Barnes asked, passing the identification page to Staughton.
Not waiting for an answer, Barnes took out his cell phone and made a call.
“Oh, no,” Staughton let escape.
“It’s Barnes.” He identified himself as soon as the call was answered. “I want to report a homicide.” He waited a few moments. “Call him, please.” For a moment he appeared to be listening to what the party on the other end of the call was saying. “I don’t care if he’s busy. Call him immediately and cut the shit. There has been a murder, but that’s the least of our problems.”
16
Let us return to the gears and solitary wheels that only know their part, ignorant of the final result. Let us speak about Sarah Monteiro and the whirlwind that invaded her, the call from her father and JC, strange and worrying, the two together in the same house. How anxious must Raul Brandão Monteiro feel? Certainly her father’s voice sounded stressed. She sensed no sorrow, but who knew the reality of anything concerning JC? He was the one who seemed to know everything and everyone and disposed of everything and everyone as he wished. He was the designer of the gears, the engineer and constructor, the one who created the movements of toothed wheels, chains, belts, now toward one side, now another. Everything danced to his music; Sarah was sure of that. She owed her position as editor of international politics at the Times to him, as well as the correct news forecasts. Even absent, he was always present during the last year, whispering stories in her ear, the shadow that dissipated when she looked over her shoulder. But not today, not now when she heard his voice again. To stay to see his sentence carried out was not an option. Better to comply with his instructions and figure it out later.
The taxi took her to her new place in Chelsea, a two-story house with lots of space and a dream view for someone who liked buildings and the river with its brown water. After that night a year ago, she hadn’t been able to set foot inside her old house in Belgrave Road again. The scenes constantly came to mind, and she recalled them all too intensely. How everyone looked suspicious, even ordinary pedestrians she saw through the window. The man with a garbage bag, the woman talking on a telephone who was always looking out the second-floor window of the Holiday Inn Express, in front, the 24 bus stop, the black car with tinted windows parked in the street, the man who broke into her house with a gun pointed at her, and the two mysterious shots that left holes in the window of her old bathroom and two deadly wounds in the man who came to bring her down. Only later did she realize who’d helped her, who killed the assassin who came to kill her. She thought about him often, although she’d never seen him again. He appeared to her every night freeing her from the nightmares, from the image of JC, from the other well-dressed man, from the shots, the deaths, the malignant laughter, the evil acts. It was always him coming to lie down with her, every night, murmuring lullabies in her ear, until Sarah woke up in the morning, calm and serene, a smile on her lips, alone, with no one. The monsters returned every night, the same images, people, faces, the same bullets, deaths, the last night in the house on Belgrave Road, the gun pointed at her, the final moments of a short life, and he who returned to her side, murmuring lullabies until she slept again. After that she went to live temporarily in the studio apartment of her friend and colleague Natalie Golden on Pentonville Road. Later she rented another studio on Polygon Road, until her recent employment gave her the financial security to lease a new place. She wouldn’t have it if it weren’t for him, or be in this taxi, nor would Simon Lloyd be her intern seated at her side with a look of happiness in his eyes.
Sarah wouldn’t feel right leaving without word, so she’d informed her editor in chief about her brief absence. A journalistic coup, at the last minute, an exclusive worth investigating, would justify her trip.
“In that case, take Simon with you,” the editor ordered her, and she hadn’t been able to argue against it. Perhaps another time, more calmly, she could have persuaded him not to send Simon, without questioning his competence, but her mind was occupied with more urgent problems.
“What are we going to do in your house?” Simon was curious and impressed by the speed the taxi was making through the streets of London, despite the late afternoon hour.
“I’m going to look for some investigative files,” Sarah explained. “And afterwards you’re free to go,” she concluded.
It was worth trying, but she was certain Simon was not going to follow such a suggestion.
“My orders are to go with you. Don’t think you can get rid of me so easily,” Simon replied like a man. Bravo, young man.
“I give you your orders. Have you forgotten?” she returned.
“With all due respect, I always follow your orders, but these have been given to me personally by the editor in chief,” he argued, pointing up as if he were speaking about God Himself. “What do I tell him if I show up for work and he asks about you?” Simon scored a point. “ ‘Ah, sir, she excused me.’ Do I tell him that?”
“Okay, okay.” Sarah gave up. Better to go along for the moment and see about later. She would never forgive herself if something happened to him because of her. “Pay attention to what I’m going to tell you. Do whatever I tell you to do. Do you understand?”
Simon looked at her, his feelings hurt. “That’s a little insulting, but you can count on me. I won’t make problems. We’re a team.” He smiled.
A little flash of temper, there, Sarah thought with irritation.
“And now, can you tell me where we’re going?” Simon asked curiously.
“We’re going to my house, as you know,” she replied dryly.
“Yes, and after that?”
Sarah still hadn’t planned that part. The phrase Leave London pounded in her mind like a pneumatic drill, but leave for where? Where could she go? There were a lot of choices. London was connected to the world by land, water, and air. That was not the problem. But where? An international flight to the States, for example. Would that be a safe place temporarily? Or should she stay in Europe close to her father with more flexibility and independence to move? She hadn’t been given any other instruction than to get away as fast as possible without looking back. They were following her. Don’t let yourself be caught. And later? It would be best to stay close, she decided. Besides, her last experience on the other side of the Atlantic was so traumatic, it seemed better to face the dangers of this side.
“After that, the train to Paris,” she announced.
“Paris?” Simon repeated with his face glowing. “I’ve never been to Paris. That’s fabulous.”
“Simon, this is work, not vacation,” she warned. “What are you doing?” Sarah asked as she saw him frantically dialing his cell phone.
“I’m sending a message to my sweetheart. You know how it is. Do you have a boyfriend?” Maybe now he would find out something about his boss. Unexpectedly. He was curious how everything changed in seconds; perhaps this business trip would end up bringing them together and change the conventional work relationship into a nice friendship.
“We’ve arrived,” Sarah informed him, ignoring his question. Her house was situated at the end of the street, and she wouldn’t give any more information about it to protect her privacy. It was important that episodes like that on Belgrave Road were not repeated, for her own mental health. She needed room to breathe.
After they paid off the taxi, Simon and Sarah crossed the street, and she opened her purse, looking for the key to the solid white door. She thought of a trip to Paris in the Eurostar, the high-velocity train that crossed the Channel tunnel and arrived in two hours and thirty-seven minutes. The last time she made this trip she went with him, her savior, with an immense weight on her conscience, forced by destiny, like now. They’d left behind a scene of destruction, it was true, a sea of tears, of broken homes, projects canceled or postponed, separated lives, on the last trip on Eurostar to the City of Lights. No, this time was very different. There were no deaths or wounds, at least that she knew about, only a warning and an order to get out of there. She’d see what happened next.
Sarah found the toy donkey
on her key ring and fit the key in the lock just as a shadow darkened the whiteness of the solid wooden door. She looked behind her and saw a London bus stopped in front, letting passengers with normal lives get off and on. If only she could be the same. Instead she had to remember things like the place she put the dossier that JC, or someone working for him, more probably, had left in her room on the seventh floor of the Grand Hotel Palatino in Rome.
“Sarah Monteiro?” she heard a voice say in her ear. It wasn’t Simon. She looked at a man dressed in a black suit with a scar on his face from his right eye to his upper lip. He looked like a typical bad guy from pulp fiction. She felt panic, among her other feelings, but to her surprise, she managed to control it enough not to let it show.
“Who wants to know?” she asked, showing no nervous trembling in her vocal cords.
“My name’s Simon Templar,” he replied succinctly. “I need you to come with me.” One more thing to deal with. He gripped her arm as he showed his identification, a card inside the wallet with his photograph, a few years younger, with his affiliation printed underneath. SIS. Secret Intelligence Services.
“Why?” Sarah asked, flushing. Her nervousness gave her chills. Was this really happening?
“Affairs of state. I can’t tell you more,” he concluded, showing some irritation. The State with a capital S is above everything. Faith, race, profession, personal life, nothing matters when it concerns the State. You can’t question it. You just comply.
The agent, Simon Templar, whose name seemed to have come out of some 1960s television series, took Sarah’s arm, like a prison guard, alert for any unforeseen or illicit action.