The Holy Bullet

by Luís Miguel Rocha

  “Would you like a haircut, sir?” an employee asked in Russian, his chair just now unoccupied.

  “Sorry, I don’t speak Russian,” Phelps answered in English.

  “No problem. We all speak English,” the Ivanovsky owner put in, a man the same age as Phelps, well preserved, scissors in hand, doing a straight cut in the chair in front. He might be the owner, but he worked just like everybody else.

  “Ah, yes?” Phelps didn’t know what to say.

  “Do you want a haircut?” the employee asked again, now in English.

  “The truth is I’m looking for a friend who has come for one. A European, Italian to be more specific.”

  “Most people here are Europeans,” Ivanovsky interjected again. Nothing went on in his shop without his noticing it. Eccentric, with a fine mustache and proud look, face full of talcum powder, rosy cheeks, he added, “Even most of the barbers are French, recruited from the best coiffeurs in Paris.”

  “Good. I’ll come back when I need a haircut. I promise.” Phelps was evasive and insecure.

  “Next time,” the employee agreed, tired of the conversation. An empty chair was no money coming in. Two seconds later the chair was occupied by a well-fed aristocrat in a black-and-white-striped suit, dark brown hair gathered into a ponytail the barber loosened, a goatee and Russian mustache.

  “Take a look around, mister,” Ivanovsky invited Phelps.

  “Thanks.”

  The Englishman walked along the straight hallway looking at the mirrors on both sides. It’d be easier to recognize Rafael if he looked at them. They created a certain confusion in his mind from all the mirrors and people reflected in them into infinity. Considering them all, he saw that Rafael was not in any of the barber chairs or in the waiting room on the side.

  At the back of the salon there were stairs leading to the basement and an old elevator with an open, wrought-iron door. He paused uncertainly for a few moments between the stairs and the elevator wondering whether to enter or walk down.

  “You don’t see him?” Ivanovsky asked. He must have finished with another customer.

  “No, strange as it seems,” Phelps replied with a timid smile.

  “Maybe he’s gone down to the museum,” the Russian suggested.

  “Do you think?” He felt a little fear.

  “If you don’t see him in the salon and are certain he’s here …” the other explained, “that’s the only place he can be.” He took one of Phelps’s arms and pushed him gently into the elevator. “This way, it’s quicker.”

  Before he could react, Phelps found himself inside the elevator cabin, and it took him some time to realize there was no control panel to operate. Ivanovsky closed the grate and looked at him from the other side, like a jailer.

  “Be careful. There’s not much light down there.”

  The elevator began a slow descent. Phelps saw Ivanovsky rise up, although he was the only one moving, and noticed a sardonic smile before disappearing and descending into complete darkness.

  The motor growled, and the whole elevator creaked as it passed down floors. Without light he couldn’t figure out how fast he was going, but with his heart in his throat he calculated that thirty seconds had passed. However slow the elevator, he must surely have descended several floors.

  It stopped suddenly, almost making Phelps fall. He’d forgotten his fatigue and only worried about the unknown. He opened the door of the cage cautiously—the lighting was bad—took a step forward, a second, a third, and stopped in a hallway. He tried to see enough not to bump into the walls. The hallways, except for some architectural decoration, were all the same. They crossed the building, opening into the main rooms. This one was no different, with several doors all on one side.

  “This is the museum?”

  A click turned on some fluorescent lights, white and strong, just above him. He was startled and stopped walking. They must be photoelectric cells, he thought. He took another couple of steps out of range of the light and another lit up. That confirmed it. The walls were gray and bare. Except for four doors there was nothing more, no pictures, tapestries, tables, absolutely nothing.

  Phelps went forward a little more, and the lights turned on at each step, while those behind went out automatically, creating a shadowy atmosphere.

  Farther ahead Phelps began to hear voices coming from inside one of the rooms off the hallway. He immediately identified Rafael’s but not the other two. They spoke Russian, or some other Eastern European language, that was certain. This Rafael was surprising. The Vatican wasn’t scanty with its service. It prepared its people so they could control any terrain lacking nothing, without errors or imperfections.

  He approached the door in question, which was only closed a little, but understood nothing since it was all in Russian. He tried to see inside the room, but the crack was narrow. All he could see were shadows.

  Suddenly the door opened, revealing a blond man with a wrinkled face covered by a week’s growth of beard. He carried a Kalashnikov and began a one-sided conversation in Russian with Phelps. He shouted, spraying shots of saliva in every sense of the word. The thought occurred to Phelps that the gun was unnecessary, since his breath was so bad it could knock down any enemy.

  “He doesn’t understand Russian,” he heard Rafael say in English.

  The man stopped his babble and looked inside.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  The Russian dragged Phelps into the room. A sixty-watt bulb hung from a wire attached to the ceiling right in the center, shining down on a square table in bad shape with blotches of dried blood on the laminated wood. Phelps made out another man with a Kalashnikov pointed at Rafael, seated, but, from what could be seen, unhurt. Next to a wall was an open armory. Inside were three shelves full of various makes of guns, grenades, radios, a satellite telephone, a machine for resuscitation or torture, depending on the intended purpose. Phelps felt panic at the sight.

  “Is this everyone?” asked the man who was pointing the gun at Rafael’s head. He was stronger and older.

  “The woman is missing,” the wrinkled man said, shoving Phelps against the wall and pressing the barrel of the gun into him. Immediately he searched him minutely. “He’s clean.”

  The older man took the radio and pressed a button.

  “Everything clean. The woman’s missing.”

  No reply was heard in the first seconds. Only the uncomfortable silence of uncertainty.

  “Good work,” a man’s voice said at last. “The woman’s with me. Take care of the others.”

  56

  He knows.”

  One of the crucial principles for secret services that claim to be competent and in the vanguard of technological development is the capacity to construct a command post wherever necessary. In spite of the fact that the enormous headquarters of the agency in Langley occupies tens of square miles and besides secret facilities spread all over the planet, each one with specialized functions, it’s common to see small units organized to respond to the demands of the world of espionage. Whether below water, above it, on land or in the air, the CIA is always prepared to act.

  In this case the men under the supervision of Barnes and the astute gaze of Harvey Littel found themselves at forty thousand feet flying over Poland. And don’t anyone imagine they’re in their seats with their seat belts fastened. Here seat belts were only buckled during takeoff and the final stage of landing. The hurried activity was the same as that on land at the Center of Operations. Men and women concentrated on monitors and keyboards, listening devices in their ears, shouts, conversations, printers spewing information. This was a unique room. Organization was maintained, rigid and responsive, adapted to the reality of the space. The airplane in question was a Boeing 727 with the registration DC-1700WJY, plain white, belonging to the CIA, not registered with any airline whatsoever. Nor could it be. The American government wouldn’t permit it. Secrets of state must be guarded by the state. Besides the paraphernalia and technicians w
ho occupied the part we’d call economy class, there was an office for Geoffrey Barnes in the business class section, strategically located next to the pilot’s door.

  Here in that office, shielded from the Center of Operations, we find the same people as always. Barnes, seated in a chair identical to the one he has in London, reclining with his hands behind his head at a more modest desk. Harvey Littel, also seated in an armchair, legs crossed, a thoughtful look on his face. And the rest of the team, Thompson, Herbert, Priscilla, and Wally Johnson. Only Staughton was away, directing the work in the economy section of the plane.

  “He knows,” Barnes repeated, more to himself than to those present in the small office.

  “How can he know?” Herbert asked, irritated.

  “He chose Moscow by chance? Coincidence?”

  “Even if he does know, we can’t risk it,” Littel advised. “What do the Russians say?”

  “They don’t say. They’ve decided not to cooperate,” Thompson reported. “If it were up to them, we wouldn’t have authorization to enter the country. Which still isn’t guaranteed. Oh, and they deny they’re in Russia.”

  “Bastards,” Barnes swore.

  “Shit,” Littel exclaimed. “Why have they changed their attitude now?”

  “They always have a card up their sleeve. You can’t trust the Russians,” Barnes said.

  “One thing is certain,” Thompson affirmed. “They’re better documented than us.”

  “Could they have the Muslim?” Wally Johnson suggested.

  “For our sake they better not,” Littel declared. “That would be terrible.”

  “Why?” Thompson wanted to know.

  “Because we’d have to rescue him,” Herbert explained. “And something would probably go wrong and they’d all die during the operation, the hostage included,” he added ironically.

  “If it were up to you, even we’d be wrecked,” Barnes murmured just loud enough for Herbert to hear. The expression Herbert directed at Barnes in return confirmed the murmur had hit its mark.

  Staughton entered suddenly, opening the door violently, something out of character for him.

  “We have a problem,” he said.

  “Another one,” Barnes exploded.

  “The Russians won’t permit us to fly over their airspace. Much less land in their territory.”

  “What?”

  “Now this. Can’t you do something?” Herbert asked.

  “Only if your commander has friends in Russia,” Barnes informed him. “And at the highest level.”

  Littel looked at the floor, withdrawn, pensive.

  “This is all very strange.”

  Staughton left the door and put a file on the desk in front of Barnes.

  “What’s that?” he asked, abandoning his restful position and bending over the report.

  “The content of the CD.”

  There were a few dozen pages inside the folder. A considerable pile.

  “So much?” he protested.

  “And I’ve selected only the most important.”

  Barnes turned the pages with no desire to read them.

  “Make a summary,” he ordered Staughton.

  “I can’t.”

  Barnes raised his eyes in amazement.

  “Why can’t you?”

  “This is confidential information. There are people in the room not authorized to hear or read it,” he explained with authority, resorting to the laws that guide the agency and looking at Herbert.

  “Okay, let’s read this carefully,” Littel confirmed. “Regarding the refusal to let us fly over and land …”

  “We could try the diplomatic route,” Barnes suggested.

  “No. They know something. They’re going to tie our hands and end up denying the authorization.”

  “While we lose any trace of the woman and the others. They must already have them in custody,” Barnes said in a circumspect tone.

  “But something intrigues me.”

  “What?”

  “He’s left a trail of bread crumbs so we can follow him. Why?”

  “He hasn’t left the bread crumbs for us,” Herbert asserted.

  “For who, then?” Barnes asked with no patience for the colleague butting in.

  “For the mole.”

  “The mole again?” Barnes shouted with irritation.

  “There’s a mole among us,” Herbert insisted.

  “Then leave me in peace,” Barnes answered, indicating the subject was closed. I’m not going to let you bring this up again, his tone suggested.

  “We have a problem, gentlemen. We can’t enter Russia,” Barnes announced in a loud voice. “What do we do? Anyone have a suggestion?”

  There was silence for a few moments. No one said anything.

  “Think what this is costing the taxpayers. Everybody out,” Barnes ordered. “Out of my sight.”

  Obviously the order didn’t pertain to Littel, since he remained in the same position he’d been in for a long time, seated, legs crossed.

  The rest left the office silently, depressed, tired. It was the downside of this work. When you did well, no one appreciated it or said a word of encouragement, but if things went badly, the finger was pointed and the criticism never ended. In a short time only Littel and Barnes remained.

  “We’re screwed,” the fat man said.

  “No,” Littel considered. “We have people in Russia. We don’t need to go there personally.”

  With a triumphant smile Littel went to the satellite phone on Barnes’s desk and dialed several numbers. He waited for the connection to be established, and the shining in his eyes redoubled when he heard a response. He placed the call over the loudspeaker.

  “Colonel Garrison. It’s a pleasure to hear you.”

  “The pleasure is mine.”

  “Are you where we agreed?”

  “I’m having a coffee precisely in Red Square.”

  “Perfect. Start the operation.”

  “I’ve already started it, my friend. I’ve already started it.”

  57

  A year later the same fear has returned, panic, and the feeling of impotence. She remembered the abandoned warehouse in New York, the heavy chains that hung from the ceiling to which they fastened her wrists, along with the others. Rafael, who wouldn’t be quiet, trying to draw the torture to him, away from her father and the old priest. What was his name? Marius Ferris. That was it. She hadn’t thought of the pleasant old man, fragile, mistrustful, chained up the same way she was. Nor had she thought of their captors, Barnes and company, but who really dealt the cards was the man in the Armani suit, and the dark, icy stare, a killer without conscience, and his helper, a Pole of the same type. In charge of everyone, incontestable, untouchable, cruel, JC, the same person with whom she now collaborated and who, a year ago, wanted them all dead. There were no absolute truths, only the moment.

  Inside the door of the Russian souvenir shop, she’d had a sudden impulse to call Simon to see how he was doing. Matrioskas, eggs imitating Fabergé creations, paintings, jars, ballpoints, postcards, jewelry, everything you could associate with a country. It’s unnecessary to add that not one of the offerings caught Sarah’s eye. She felt too tired, too worried, in a foreign country, in an exciting city, showy, but not at this moment for her. If she could have chosen, she’d have preferred to be at her parents’ estate in Trindade, without roads, flight, and persecution.

  Instead of that, she heard a male voice behind her, very close to her ear. She could almost hear his breathing.

  “Little Sarah Monteiro.” It was not a question. “Do me the favor of crossing the street and going into the barbershop. Calm and relaxed. Don’t try anything stupid. If you do, you’ll hurt yourself.”

  Her heart almost jumped out of her mouth. No matter how many times we go through situations like that, nothing prepares us. Her first reaction had been a useless attempt to turn around and put a face on the voice of her captor, but he wouldn’t permit it.

 
; “No, no, no. Look straight ahead. We don’t want to be run over, right?”

  He mixed a certain pleasure and sense of responsibility in his words. He spoke English with a heavy accent. Russian, probably.

  “Who are you?” the journalist asked when she’d recovered her faculties.

  “That’s not important. Let’s go. Hurry.”

  They crossed the street in the middle of traffic, making some cars honk in protest. At some moment Sarah had mentioned stopping, but something circular and cold poked her in the ribs and convinced her of the contrary.

  A dissonant voice woke up the radio the man had fastened to his belt. He brought it to his mouth and answered something in Russian. The bright sun had faded as Sarah and the unknown man entered the barbershop. Her eyes were slow in adapting to the new conditions. Several barbers dressed in black were cutting hair. If she’d had doubts, they’d dissipated since Sarah could see she was really in a barbershop. Again she felt the cold barrel pushing her forward. No one looked at her, even with so many mirrors. The customers concentrated on their newspapers or admired their own faces reflected in the mirror, or watched the plasma televisions set above each mirror in front of every barber chair. All of them were indifferent to Sarah Monteiro and the man shoving her. In the back she saw an elevator. To the left, stairs going down.

  “Go down the stairs,” the man ordered.

  Step by step she went down into the deep darkness. She felt danger. She saw nothing. She only felt the cylinder stuck in her ribs. Was he going to kill her? But why? Who was he? It had been stupid to stay in the street alone. Where were Rafael and Phelps?

  “Wait,” the man ordered her again. “Put these on.”

  He gave her something she couldn’t identify immediately.

  “What is it?”

  “Goggles. Put them on.”

  What you don’t see, you don’t know. She followed his order and immediately understood why the object had seemed strange. They were, in fact, night vision goggles. The flight of stairs ended there. Another step and she would have walked into the wall. A greenish image made everything clearer. A landing supported another flight of steps that descended lower into the Russian earth. A new landing, a new flight of stairs, with many slippery steps.