The Holy Bullet

by Luís Miguel Rocha

  Barnes turned his back on him, frustrated but not defeated.

  “Charades. I’m sick of charades.”

  “Order the plane shot down,” Herbert suggested.

  Littel interposed himself. “Don’t be crazy. What’s the destination of the flight?”

  Barnes showed him the paper with the information. Littel turned red when he read it and confronted Barnes’s stare.

  “He knows.”

  53

  THE BUSINESS DEAL

  February 1969

  No believer can deny that the Church is competent in its magisterium to interpret natural moral law.

  —PAUL VI, Humanae Vitae, 1968

  Two very different men shared the same room in the papal summer residence in Castel Gandolfo.

  Giovanni Battista Montini was modest and reserved; he thought more than he spoke. The other wore his heart on his sleeve and expressed himself enthusiastically. He dressed well, fashionably, and if he had any fault, although he wouldn’t have said so, it was vanity. He liked what was extraordinary, and always got what he wanted. He loved to be eulogized, flattered, deferred to. Not every man succeeded in reaching what he had acquired. He was the ruler of an empire in the name of God, Opus Dei. He had thousands of followers and millions of financial donations daily. He’d become the greatest and most influential prelate ever; if not, he wouldn’t be here in this house talking informally with Paul VI, his friend.

  “José María, things are not that straightforward.”

  “Of course they are. You yourself told me that the finances were full of spiderwebs. You don’t know what you have.”

  “They’re not mine. I need an inventory of the goods of the Church,” Giovanni Montini answered civilly.

  “The goods of the Church belong to the pope. You know that very well. They’re yours. You can give and take.” While he spoke, José María gestured effusively. With his loud voice the gestures made him someone who had to be listened to. “Money generates money, Giovanni. You can be the master of an unlimited patrimony, so powerful you can bend anyone to the will of your Church.”

  “The Church is not mine. I’m her highest representative, and it doesn’t seem right to go investing her assets in financial operations that could go bad. That’s not the role of the Church.”

  “For the love of God, Giovanni. It’s the duty of the Church to invest the money that the faithful deposit in the offertories. They don’t expect anything else. I only ask you to give this man an opportunity. Let him inventory and organize the house. Then we’ll see.”

  They were drinking Burmester Port, vintage 1963, the year Giovanni Battista Montini was elected pope, adopting the name of Paul for the sixth time in the history of the Church. The conclave differed from others, since the moribund Angelo Roncalli, better known as John XXIII, had pronounced his name as successor. It’s known that the will of the pope should always be obeyed … or almost always.

  José María Escrivá had brought the bottle that morning, a gift to his lord, his pastor, and everyone else’s.

  “Who’s the man?”

  “A bishop who has served in other capacities. Extremely competent.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Paul Marcinkus.”

  “Paul Marcinkus? He’s a personal friend. Principal translator and bodyguard.”

  Escrivá smiled affirmatively.

  “I don’t know. I don’t know if he has the qualifications for a responsibility like this,” the pope said in a distrustful tone.

  “He does, you can be confident. He’s a suitable person.”

  “And what is the press going to say? The pope employs a member of Opus Dei to direct the Vatican bank? I don’t think so.”

  “There’s the advantage, Giovanni,” Escrivá emphasized. “No one knows he’s Opus Dei. Only you and I. No one else needs to know.” A boyish smile spread over his lips. So easy.

  “If I were to agree, everything must be very clear. He cannot invest according to his own whims.”

  “Of course not,” Escrivá agreed.

  “He’ll have to spell out a concrete, clear plan for the potential of all business deals.” He raised an admonishing finger. “Only after cleaning out the cobwebs in the house.”

  “Of course. You’re the boss. Don’t forget it.”

  “Don’t say that,” Paul said uncomfortably.

  “But it’s the truth. You may not want to understand it or see it, but it’s all yours. This palace and everything in it, the Vatican State … Damn, one word from you, and Saint Peter’s Square is closed until you say so.”

  Paul preferred not to think of these things. Other affairs were much more important than the administration of the State and its assets. Nevertheless, he viewed favorably the idea of someone with understanding taking on these more mundane matters and putting the house in order.

  “Tell him to come and see me,” Paul finally said.

  Escrivá smiled. “Agreed.”

  “Make an appointment with my secretary. I’m going to ask Villot to come also. It’ll be good to have a friend taking this on.”

  “Perfect, Giovanni. You’ll see how I am going to show my appreciation,” he declared confidently.

  “And what are you going to want as a sign of gratitude?” Paul asked ingenuously.

  “A statue in the Vatican after my canonization.”

  Paul laughed, while Escrivá remained thoughtful.

  “I’m serious.”

  54

  After a night of good sleep, bodies awaken invigorated, ready to accept new challenges, alert and active. This was how Raul and Elizabeth felt after a flight of thousands of miles over the Mediterranean, in a plane so luxurious it even had two bedrooms with king-sized beds. They felt a little guilty, as if they’d sinned by the simple act of having rested.

  “How do you think our little girl is?” Elizabeth asked, truly worried. Her heart contracted again with the paralyzing anguish of motherly anxiety.

  “Surely she’s well,” Raul answered, putting a timid hand on her shoulder.

  “Where are we?”

  Raul looked out one of the small windows. It had dawned, the sun shone, but they still flew at the altitude of their cruising speed.

  “I have no idea.”

  The door of the bedroom opened slightly, enough for a voice to be heard, the cripple’s, who didn’t want to interfere with the privacy of his guests.

  “Breakfast is served,” he informed them.

  “We’re coming, thanks,” Raul answered.

  The door closed without a sound.

  “If someone had told me that today I’d be having breakfast aboard a private jet that has bedrooms, flying I don’t know where, I’d have called him crazy,” Elizabeth said. “I feel bad about all the kind attention with no news of Sarah.”

  Raul hugged her.

  “Relax. These people know what they’re doing. And she’s protected. Rafael can be trusted.”

  “Yes, but people make mistakes. Whoever is pursuing them must also have resources. Perhaps more.”

  “Think positively, my dear.”

  “I’m trying, but I have a bad feeling.”

  “Let’s eat something,” Raul suggested, directing her to the door.

  “I’m not hungry.”

  Raul turned toward his wife and hugged her with one hand around her shoulder—they were like a pair of newlyweds on their honeymoon.

  “You have to eat, dear. We can’t let ourselves get weak. Our daughter needs us in good shape to take care of her,” he argued.

  “What can we do against those people?” Elizabeth observed hopelessly.

  Raul led his wife over to the bed and they sat on the edge. A slight turbulence began to shake the plane, causing some unease.

  “I used to think that, too, Liz. But last year your daughter taught us all a lesson,” Raul recounted hesitantly. “Things come to an end and not before that. We can sit here completely deceived, crushed, without hope, with death whistling in
our ears, but God, or whatever you want to call it, has given us something precious, our intelligence. And everything can change in a second.” His words were deeply felt, almost moving. “This is what happened last year, thanks to our daughter. We can never give up. She’s going to be all right.”

  Tears ran down Elizabeth’s face. She could only think of her daughter as a little girl, since for parents their children are always adolescents. Perhaps it was destiny, some divine order, that exposed her path to the most lethal and shameless side of the pious Church.

  “Shall we go?” Raul insisted one more time.

  “Yes, I’ll go,” Elizabeth agreed, getting up. “We need to keep going, for Sarah.”

  They left the bedroom for the cabin, where six movable leather easy chairs were installed. At the moment four of them in pairs, facing each other, were separated by a table loaded with breakfast dishes. Plates of bri oches, muffins, bread, a mixture of continental and English, with plenty of sausages, bacon, beans, and poached eggs. Probably prepared with Elizabeth and her Saxon blood in mind. All this with Darjeeling and Earl Grey tea, milk, coffee, fresh fruit juice, oranges, as always, and to finish up, a plate of four sfogliatelle napoletane, a fine puff pastry of difficult confection, but exquisite taste, in honor of the Italian travelers. Even a butler dressed in black and white was doing the honors at the table.

  JC was seated in one of the chairs, eating a sfogliatella. At his side, the cripple made do with a piece of bread and butter.

  Various plasma-screen televisions were arranged around the cabin tuned into the best news and financial channels. Elizabeth watched the one with Sky News.

  “Good morning,” JC greeted them. “I hope you like what I ordered.”

  Raul greeted everyone and sat down. Elizabeth kept watching television.

  “Come over and sit down, my dear. There’s no news,” JC advised. “Come and eat. I’ve ordered scalloped eggs and beans for you.”

  Elizabeth sat in the only empty chair next to the table.

  “What would you like to drink, signora ?” the butler asked.

  “Tea with milk, please.”

  “E voi, signore?” he asked Raul.

  “Coffee.”

  The butler prepared the orders on a cart like those used by flight attendants.

  “Thanks. You didn’t have to go to all this trouble,” Elizabeth thanked JC.

  “Elizabeth, dear, what gets us through this life is comfort. Did you sleep well?”

  “Well enough,” Raul replied, spreading some cheese over his brioche.

  “There was a time when I could sleep on any side and took two minutes to fall asleep,” JC complained. “Now everything bothers me. I don’t know if it’s the engine noise or the altitude.”

  The butler placed the drinks in front of Raul and Elizabeth.

  “Where are we?” Raul wanted to satisfy his wife’s curiosity.

  “In the air, my friend.”

  “In whose air?” he insisted. He hated evasions.

  “In the air of the Lord,” JC responded in the same way.

  “Where are we going?” Elizabeth’s turn to ask.

  “To see a friend,” the other informed her.

  He always has his answers prepared, Elizabeth thought, a little suspiciously.

  “Do you talk to the pope like this?” Raul tried a new strategy.

  “A pope is not superior to any of us,” JC replied, off guard.

  “He’s someone very special,” Elizabeth said.

  “Of course he is, my dear. I’m sure he’d receive you with tea and cookies.” The sarcasm was more than obvious in JC’s choice of words.

  “You weren’t well received by the Pole?” Raul insisted on knowing details.

  “He was too afraid of me not to receive me well. Which is not to say he spoiled me with parties.”

  “How many times did you speak with him?”

  “Personally? Three. Enough to change the world.” He showed no unease at his pretension. It must be how he saw himself, a savior, someone so important that he could give and take at his pleasure, bring down governments, states, and substitute one ally for another.

  “That’s a little exaggerated,” Elizabeth considered.

  “You think?” JC asked, making himself comfortable in the seat and sipping his Darjeeling. “Ask the Soviets and the East Germans.”

  “The Soviets and East Germans don’t exist anymore,” Raul observed.

  “Precisely,” the old man concluded with a look of triumph, the brilliance in his eyes of a boy proud of having climbed a high mountain to look back on what he’d done.

  “I can’t believe it,” Raul said, completely amazed.

  “Then don’t believe it,” the other responded simply. “The fact that you don’t believe it doesn’t mean it’s not true.”

  They both knew that it was so. And the contrary could also be considered true.

  “Why can’t we know where we’re going?” Elizabeth risked asking, a little fearful.

  “Who told you that you can’t? Don’t feel like captives.”

  “What friend is this we are going to see?” It seemed like an interrogation agreed upon between Elizabeth and Raul. This last question had come from the husband, but JC was used to operating in the line of fire.

  “You’ll find out.”

  They noticed the engines had slowed their rotation, and the plane was descending. A static noise was heard, followed by the voice of the pilot.

  “Signor Dottore, we are beginning our descent into Atatürk.”

  JC pressed a button. “Great, Giovanni. Thanks.”

  “Atatürk?” Raul recognized the place.

  “Where’s that?”

  The butler began packing up the table quickly. Security rules regulate takeoffs and landings. In no time he’d cleared everything off the cream-colored table.

  “What’s Atatürk?” Elizabeth asked again, visibly worried.

  “It’s an airport,” JC replied, tightening his seat belt. “Fasten your seat belts,” he advised, “and welcome to Istanbul,” he added with one of his rare smiles.

  55

  There is a barbershop in Ulitsa Maroseyka, near the Kitay-Gorod metro station, that dates from the beginning of the nineteenth century at a time when barbers performed other functions like pulling teeth and resolving family problems. In politics they organized strikes, demonstrations, political revolts, coups, among many other things. Hard as it is to believe, the simple barber, scissors and razor in hand, had more power than a president.

  Ivanovsky, the owner of the establishment, who inherited it in the seventies in the middle of the Cold War from another Ivanovsky, his father, has not neglected technological innovation. He created a website on which clients could make their next appointment and choose the style of haircut, as well as the barber. In spite of the remodeling the Ivanovskys carried out, this latest descendant has never let the building lose its identity. So we can experience a museum-like enchantment inside the grand barbershop, composed of pieces ranging from the first chair used by the first Ivanovsky to unique instruments that have been used over time. Anyone can visit, even if not coming for a haircut. You can enter without disturbing the busy employees and demanding clientele since the antique objects are displayed in their own room.

  Despite the tumultuous history of the city of Moscow, the Ivanovsky clan never had to worry about assaults, fires, settling bills, or anything of the kind. They’ve always known the right side to be on and enjoyed the benefits of their choice. The preference among the political class for barbers of the Ivanovsky family has provoked cries of amazement from the curious, especially among barbers. The barbershop’s location on Ulitsa Maroseyka, very near Red Square and the Kremlin, was also a factor in its popularity, since besides being near the center of politics, it was also near the most important tourist site in Russia, where thousands of people pass through every day.

  “What are we doing here?” James Phelps asked Rafael for the hundredth time, tire
d, feeling dirty and out of place, like a refugee who’d left his home.

  Rafael, Sarah, and Phelps were in Ulitsa Maroseyka, next to a souvenir shop in front of the Ivanovsky barbershop. Sarah no longer bothered to ask questions. This was Rafael’s way. There was nothing to do.

  “I’m going to get a shave. You can stay here. You can go in the shop and buy a souvenir to take with you,” he said.

  Without another word Rafael crossed the street and entered the barbershop. The chime of the bell could be heard announcing a customer.

  Sarah and Phelps didn’t have time to react, and, in spite of Phelps taking a step in the direction of the barbershop, Sarah stopped him by grabbing his arm.

  “Let him go. If he wanted to go alone it’s because that’s how it has to be,” she told him.

  “It can’t be, Sarah.” There was irritation in his voice. “We can’t be left out of this. It affects us, too.”

  “If you want to go, go. I’ll stay here.” She preferred not to know what he’d gone to do, even if it had something to do with her.

  Feeling authorized, Phelps started toward the barbershop, leaving her alone. There are no longer gentlemen like in the old days, and even then it was necessary to be cautious of them.

  It was surprising that no one had stopped them since they arrived, not only with Barnes hot on their trail but primarily because a Russian agent had died in her house. It was more than probable the Russian Secret Service was watching their movements, so why had no one appeared? She’d asked herself that question more times than Phelps had asked Rafael what they were doing in Moscow. It was three in the afternoon. They’d traveled all night with a refueling layover in Sofia, where Rafael had mysteriously disappeared for a half hour. They had resumed the flight as soon as he returned and landed at Domodedovo a little after midday. That was the story of her day that brought her to the door of the souvenir shop in front of the Ivanovsky barbershop. She just hoped Rafael wouldn’t be long.

  Inside the shop we can see Phelps looking for Rafael, with no sign of him. The establishment is long and narrow with mirrors and barber chairs on the two sides. Most of them are occupied by the male customers the shop serves, not out of prejudice but rather preference. Phelps listened to the opening and shutting of scissors or clippers, according to the customer’s desire. He didn’t see Rafael anywhere.