“Thank you, Brother. That is what I wanted to hear,” Marius Ferris said, kissing his hand. “How’s your nephew?”
“He’s well,” the other answered with an expression of appreciation for the memory.
“In that case I won’t take more of your time and will say good-bye. Until we meet again.”
Don Clemente got up, seeing the other do the same, and walked toward the great door of the cathedral.
“Good-bye, Marius.”
Marius Ferris didn’t look back and left the sacred building. Don Clemente, staring vacantly at the door where his colleague had left, remained in the pew, his mind in turmoil. He didn’t notice the man dressed in black approaching him.
“May I help you,” he asked when he noticed the visitor.
“Yes, thank you,” the man responded cordially, while he took something from inside his jacket. “I want you to tell me where the dossier on the Turk is.”
“The what? I have no idea what you are talking about,” Clemente answered, confused.
“Then I don’t need help.”
“In that case, good night.” And with that Don Clemente turned his back on the visitor, shrugging his shoulders.
“It’s not considered a sin when the cause is the sacred institution of Holy Mother Church,” the man said. Don Clemente turned around toward him in time to see a Beretta with a silencer in his hand.
19
In the room where Sarah Monteiro waited, daybreak couldn’t be seen, only deduced. There were no windows, only clocks. The ever prudent Simon Templar had brought her to the installation at Vauxhall Cross, the general headquarters of the SIS, Secret Intelligence Service, the complete name of the British secret service, more commonly known as MI6, its previous name. During the Second World War the British secret service was divided into various departments charged with different operations. These were denoted by MI, Military Intelligence, followed by the number that identified the service; they went from MI1, charged with breaking codes, to MI19, in charge of extracting information from prisoners of war. In the middle were the famous MI5, charged with security within the border, and MI6, which took charge of intelligence abroad. The names changed, but the conduct and objective were the same, aided in the present by technology exclusively. Simon had asked whether she wanted something to eat and drink, but she’d declined the offer. They asked her to wait. This had been almost nine hours ago.
The room where she waited was bare of any decoration, only the essential furnishings, a square table, big enough for two people on each side, but at this moment with only three chairs.
Sarah was seated on a small black sofa, uncomfortable, since it tipped back. Five clocks hung on the walls with plaques lower down identifying the place to which they referred. From left to right, it was three hours and three minutes in the morning in London, four and three in Paris, twenty-two and three in Washington, six and three in Moscow, and the same time in Baghdad. Time may be different, but it never stops.
Sarah’s sigh expressed fatigue and discomfort. The hours of waiting had already been long. She had no idea why. Now she wished she’d accepted the offer of food, but since Templar had left at six o’clock, no one else had bothered to offer any. Sarah spent the time sunk into the sofa or pacing. She tried to call Simon Lloyd and the paper, but the calls wouldn’t go through, in spite of a signal for the network on the cell phone. Luckily the room had a small bathroom, clean, thank God, that Sarah used twice. If the idea of all this was to break her down psychologically, it was working. She would have said anything they wanted and signed whatever they put in front of her. She had looked at the door several times without approaching it. The numerical key box next to the lock required a code to open it, but Sarah hadn’t wanted to see whether the lock was in fact activated. It was a way to avoid feeling like a captive. During the first hours she went over the possible questions they might ask her. There were many things. She couldn’t think of a reason why they might be concerned with the murder of Pope Luciani. No, that secret was well guarded, and it was not in JC’s interest that the British interfere in that subject. It had to be something else. But what? Six digits were pressed into the keypad outside the room. Finally, the answers were coming.
Two men entered. Sarah immediately recognized Simon Templar. Sarah jumped up, as if her body automatically knew how to react.
“Sarah Monteiro,” said the man she didn’t know. “Come and sit in this chair, please,” he said, putting his hands on the back of the single chair across the table.
Sarah complied as if the request were an order. The agent pulled out the chair for her like a good waiter at a high-priced restaurant. She couldn’t help feeling nervous after so many hours of waiting, but she tried to hide it as much as possible. She couldn’t show weakness at a moment like this. Simon Templar had already sat down in one of the chairs across from Sarah and waited for his colleague. An atmosphere of cooperation had been created. A file was placed on the table. The letters on the label stuck on the cover were too small for Sarah to read.
“Sarah Monteiro.” The same man opening the dossier spoke again. “The lady is a very mysterious woman.”
“I am?” The only words that came to mind.
“Yes, Sarah,” he confirmed in a friendly tone. “A woman of many secrets.”
“I don’t know why you say that,” she dissembled.
“Yes you do,” the agent pressed her. “But before we debate the subject that has brought us here, I’d like you to take a look at this.” The unnamed agent pulled some photographs out of the dossier and slid them over the table to Sarah. “You covered the city in dust a few hours ago.”
Sarah looked at the first photograph in A4 format that showed a London bus with its windows blown out and dents in the body. Other vehicles were in the same condition. Glass and debris were scattered across the street.
“Do you recognize the place?”
The second photograph showed a house, completely destroyed, or at least it seemed so, missing doors and windows, only the skeleton of walls remaining and the street number over what had been the portico.
“But … but … this is my …” Words failed her.
“It’s true,” said the only agent speaking at the moment. “This is what’s left of your house.”
“But how?” She was unable to take her eyes from the photograph.
“Really, you should thank Agent Templar for being so solicitous when he went to find you.”
“I don’t understand,” Sarah continued, astonished, eyes wide, examining every inch of the photo.
“As you can see, all this damage was done by an explosive device triggered by turning the key in the lock. It could have been you, Sarah.”
Sarah reflected on this for a few moments, completely devastated. Someone had tried to kill her and gone to enormous lengths to do it. It could have been her turning the key in the lock, as the agent pointed out. It could have been …
“Oh, my God.” She raised her voice nervously. Simon. She remembered her intern. He was the one who opened the door. She told him to. She hid her face in her arms, leaning her head on the table. This couldn’t be true.
“He’s alive,” was all the agent said.
“He is?”
“He suffered some scrapes, some broken bones, but he’ll survive. It could’ve been worse. He’s in the Chelsea and Westminster Hospital,” he informed her.
A wave of relief passed over Sarah. Scrapes and broken bones could be dealt with. Death could not.
“We have to go into this more deeply,” the agent alerted her. “But, as you know, this isn’t the reason we’ve invited you here,” he said as he took the photographs back from Sarah.
Invited me? He calls this inviting? He’s crazy, she thought.
“My house has been destroyed. What else is there to talk about?”
“I understand your reaction, but, believe me, right now there are more important things.”
“Yes, Sarah.” The first words Simon Templ
ar had spoken since he picked her up nine hours ago. “Let Agent Fox ask the questions. Later we’ll talk about what happened to your house.”
“It’s natural for the lady to be worried about what happened to her house, Simon,” the recently baptized Agent Fox added.
“Sure, but with all due respect to Miss Monteiro, we have more important things to talk about. You know that, John.”
“More important than putting a bomb in my house, and wounding my assistant?” Sarah was furious.
“In fact … there are things much more important than that,” Agent John Fox informed Sarah, while handing over three more photographs to her. “Recognize any of these people?”
This time there were three portraits in three-by-five format. The first, an older man with immaculate white hair. Sarah’s hand caused the glossy paper to tremble. Her nerves were on edge. Of course, they’d blown her house away without a thought, and she’d been the target. Almost a year later, her life was again hanging by a slender thread that could break at any moment. The photograph was taken when the man was getting into a green taxi with Arabic script indicating somewhere in the Middle East.
“I don’t know him,” she concluded.
“Are you sure?” Agent Fox pressed her.
“Absolutely,” Sarah insisted. “I’ve never seen that man.” She looked again at the old man in the photograph. “Why? Should I know him?”
“It depends on your relations with CIA operatives,” Simon Templar cut in bluntly.
Sarah didn’t expect this. What would the old man in the photograph have to do with the CIA? In moments like this she doubted what she could say or not, what they knew or acted like they knew. It was difficult to handle these connections. What was certain was that she didn’t know the man in the photograph and they couldn’t accuse her of anything … until she knew different.
“I have no relationship with the CIA, as you ought to know.” She decided to protect herself. “I have as much as I have with you.”
If they suspected something, they’d continue following the same line of questioning; otherwise they’d move on. This was how they worked, and Sarah knew it. They throw out the bait and wait to see what they reel in.
“That man was named Solomon Keys, and he was a longtime CIA agent,” John informed her.
“Was named?” Now he’s not?
“He was killed two days ago in Amsterdam.”
The men looked at Sarah as if expecting a confession or a comment.
“If you think I had something to do with that, several people can confirm I was covering the G8 summit in Edinburgh.” She hastened to clear herself.
“We’re up to date on where you’ve been. Don’t worry,” John Fox informed her. “What about the rest?” He pointed at the photographs remaining in her hand.
Sarah hadn’t even remembered to look at the others. She assumed they were of the same person, but realized not, when she looked at the next photo. A blond man about thirty-five. The last photograph showed a woman about the same age, an idyllic smile on her lips, with blond hair falling over her shoulders to breasts covered by a tight blouse. What did all this mean?
“These I know,” she said.
“Who are they?” John Fox wanted to check.
Sarah resisted answering for several moments. Didn’t they know? Yes, in all certainty. It wouldn’t be difficult to discover their identities, affiliations, professions, prior records, and political leanings. She decided to trust them. She had nothing to gain by concealing things.
“He’s Greg Saunders. She’s Natalie Golden.”
“And what’s your relationship with them?”
“We’re friends and professional colleagues. Natalie works for the BBC, as you know, and Greg’s a photojournalist. Now he’s doing animal photography and travels frequently to Africa on assignment with National Geographic , as you ought to know from his passport.”
John Fox and Simon Templar exchanged uncomfortable glances. Sarah picked up on that and a chill ran down her spine.
“What’s going on?” she asked.
“Do you know what the relationship was between them?” John Fox asked, leaning on the table.
“The relationship between them?” Sarah didn’t like the turn in the conversation.
“Yes, the relationship. Were they lovers? Friends? Engaged?”
“They’re not the marrying kind,” Sarah said, smiling a little as she imagined the scenario. “They might’ve had a roll in the hay, but nothing serious.”
“And these affairs were frequent?”
“It depends. I’d call it a casual relationship. When the occasion happens.” Where is this conversation going?
“I understand.” Simon Templar took a cigarette out of the pack and put it in his mouth. “Do you mind if I smoke?”
He didn’t wait for Sarah’s reply, but flicked a silver lighter and immediately touched the end of the cigarette, lighting it. Two deep breaths made the cigarette glow, and he released a mouthful of smoke into the air.
“Are those encounters still going on?” John Fox asked.
“I haven’t seen them for two or three weeks, but I presume so.”
John Fox got up and started to walk around the room.
“Sarah, there’s no good way to say this, but—”
The telephone rang at this precise moment and made Sarah jump. The strident, continuous sound came from the cell phone on John Fox’s belt. He finally took the device and put an end to the loud torture.
“Fox,” he said into the phone. He listened to what they were saying on the other end of the line for several moments and began to show tension in his muscles. Whatever it was, it was not good news, that was certain. A dry sound marked the end of the call.
“Let’s go,” he ordered, closing the file and taking the photographs out of Sarah’s hand without ceremony or courtesy.
“Her, too?” Simon Templar asked.
“Yeah, all of us. Let’s go,” the other replied, heading for the door.
Simon got up, Sarah, as well, confused.
“Where are we going?” she inquired.
“To Redcliff Gardens,” John Fox informed them.
It took Sarah a couple of seconds to realize.
“What are we going to do there?”
John Fox punched in the code on the keyboard of the lock and opened the door before looking Sarah in the eye.
“They’ve found a body inside your bedroom.”
“A what?” She gasped.
“What I said,” he repeated and turned toward Simon. “As far as the corpses of the others …”
“The ones from Amsterdam?” he asked in confusion.
“Exactly. They disappeared from the morgue.”
Sarah listened to this exchange of words attentively and felt a chill run up her body.
“Corpses? What corpses?”
20
THE ARCHBISHOP
September 26, 1981
The paper was stamped with the pontifical seal of John Paul II, two crossed keys, one gold, the other silver, joined by a red cord, below an azure ecclesiastical shield with a yellow Latin cross. The papal tiara with three gold crowns above the shield and keys.
Paul Casimir Marcinkus, titular archbishop of Horta and secretary of the Roman Curia, was a step away from being named vice president of the Pontifical Commission for the State of Vatican City, making him the third most influential man in the Church. The only thing lacking was the signature of Karol Wojtyla, who had his gold pen poised in his hand.
“Are you completely sure?” the German asked.
With a sigh the Pole set the pen on the desk by the side of the paper.
“He seems like a capable man.”
“Think a little more.” He sat in a chair in front of the majestic papal desk. “He doesn’t inspire confidence in me.”
“You don’t trust anyone, Joseph.”
“I do. I just think we’re being manipulated.”
“That’s what brought us here,�
�� the Pole added.
The German cardinal looked at his friend and superior condescendingly. He was right, as usual.
“I understand, Karol,” Joseph agreed. “But it troubles me to see him with more power. It seems we’re giving him full powers. I’m sure with a little more time …”
“I made a promise when I was elected, Joseph. To protect our family,” he said emphatically. “I’m not going to wander from that road,” he asserted firmly.
Joseph knew it wasn’t worth contradicting him. Nothing was going to prevent him from keeping the promise. He’d made a commitment to God, and no one in his right mind reneged on an agreement with the Creator.
“Many people write about my actions, as you well know. I cannot take a step without being judged by someone, archived for posterity. When I announced I had pardoned the boy his act, everyone criticized it. It’s hypocrisy. He’s only saying it to look good. He’s trying to be a saint. Not for a moment did they think, Who am I to judge the actions of others? Not for a moment did they say, Look, there’s a sincere gesture… . As we forgive those who trespass against us.”
Silence spread through the immense papal office. The major decisions of the Catholic world were made here. A simple signature on a sheet of paper with the papal seal had the power to change consciences, begin revolutions or inspire them, alleviate in a small way hunger in the world, poverty, provide shelter for those without homes, protect those whose forefathers rejected them. Here were created priests, bishops, archbishops, monsignors, cardinals, missionaries who carried the name of Christ to every corner of the world, a friendly word, a piece of bread, a glass of drinkable water, a smile accompanied by a kiss of peace. Here what couldn’t be said was omitted, and truth embellished. Only in this way, complex, accustomed to concessions, negotiations, strategic accords, could the Church exist. The pure simplicity associated with the image of Jesus Christ was not possible to implement in the world of men, unless by a superior man, like Christ himself.
“After all they managed to blame on the Turk …” the German cardinal defended him.
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