The Holy Bullet

by Luís Miguel Rocha

  “Do you agree?” the barber asked Rafael. He was visibly interested.

  “I won’t say no. But why?”

  “When they killed the pair in Amsterdam, that’s what they wanted to make understood. Why is not easy to make out, but burning the file presupposes the elimination of elements that could undermine certain interests,” he explained in a casual tone.

  “Everything has to do with John Paul the Second. Isn’t that what I said?” the man from the Vatican reminded them.

  “Exactly,” the barber confirmed.

  “But John Paul the Second is dead.”

  “Of course he is,” the other said thoughtfully. “Which takes us down other roads.”

  “What roads?” Rafael didn’t drop his guard. Everything had to come out. Ivanovsky understood that. Confidence had been established, plainly.

  “Opus Dei, as they call themselves, took care of the English couple as well as the CIA man, we believe mistakenly, a Spanish priest from Santiago de Compostela, and, presumably, Marcinkus in the United States.”

  “A priest from Santiago de Compostela? Are you certain?” Rafael interrupted.

  “Yes. Though I didn’t come across his name,” Ivanovsky excused himself. “Why? Is there a problem?”

  A black cloud crossed Rafael’s face, but vanished soon.

  “No, go on.”

  “We have already analyzed all the communications we had access to, surveillances, agents in the field, and we came up with two possibilities.” He raised his finger. “Either they wanted to eliminate something based on a decision the Pole made during his life …”

  “What?” Sarah and Phelps protested. Sarah believed the goodness emanating from Wojtyla was genuine and could not imagine ordering killings in his name to clean up anything.

  “How dare you?” Phelps defended the deceased pope.

  Ivanovsky ignored them and raised his other finger.

  “Or Opus Dei has something rotten in its past it wants to hide. We’ve done an exhaustive investigation. We’ve done it for years and come to an interesting conclusion.” He stopped speaking for several moments to increase the suspense. “There was a bishop in the Vatican, who’s been mentioned, who was not what he seemed.”

  “No one is what he seems in any way. Especially in the Vatican,” Rafael declared.

  “This bishop got around quite smoothly. He used bankers, cardinals, priors, politicians, economists. He could do anything. Except pray. He was rarely seen at prayer, unless he had to say Mass. He gained the confidence of people. He was good friends with Paul the Sixth.

  “The interesting fact we’ve discovered is that, in addition to being a member of a Masonic lodge, he was also a member of Opus Dei. We’ve uncovered this through facts found among his belongings. Opus Dei would never permit such a thing to be known. We also discovered an immense scheme of illegal financial manipulations done for this gentleman and his partners with the knowledge of certain members of the Vatican Curia, the Masonic lodge, and Opus Dei, although none of them knew that the others also knew about this. It was a deception carried out well by the bishop. His name was—”

  “Paul Casimir Marcinkus,” Rafael completed his words.

  “Correct.”

  Him again, Sarah murmured to herself. Always him.

  “Marcinkus,” Phelps said with hate in his voice. “He never had any respect for the Church. An arrogant egomaniac.”

  “You knew him?” the Russian asked.

  “I knew him. I was insulted and humiliated by that man.”

  “When was that?” Rafael wanted to know.

  “When?” he responded with a question. He was nervous. “When? When they discovered all his dirty dealings.”

  “Do you mean you had knowledge of what we just said?”

  “A little,” he replied nervously.

  “You’re the first person I know who knew Marcinkus was Opus Dei.”

  “Well …” He hesitated. “I didn’t …”

  Suddenly Phelps raised his hand to his chest and looked like he was in pain.

  “Are you all right?” Sarah asked, worried.

  Phelps said nothing. He grabbed his chest with his hand and fell from his seat, striking his head on the floor.

  “Vladimir,” Ivanovsky shouted.

  The Englishman twisted in pain.

  Rafael placed his hand on his chest. “Do you need air?”

  Phelps confirmed with a gesture. He was in agony.

  “Vladimir,” Ivanovsky shouted again. “Let’s sit him up,” the barber suggested.

  “No. Let him be,” Rafael ordered. “We shouldn’t force him.”

  A tear rolled down Sarah’s face. “What’s wrong with him?”

  No one answered. The wrinkled one came into the room.

  “What’s happening?”

  “Get the car and call Mikhail. We have to take him to the hospital.”

  Vladimir left the room running.

  A last grimace of pain, and Phelps lost consciousness. In spite of everything, calm descended on the room instantly.

  Sarah looked at him collapsed, white, and turned her glance to Rafael.

  “A heart attack,” he said.

  “That’s right,” the Russian agreed.

  “Oh my God,” Sarah exclaimed.

  “We have to get him to a hospital as soon as possible,” Rafael advised.

  “We’re already taking care of that,” Ivanovsky said. “Let’s go to the veterans’ hospital.”

  Speaking Russian, he and Rafael separated a little from Sarah.

  “He knows something we need to know,” he whispered.

  “It seems to me there is someone above all of us who knows much more,” Rafael reflected.

  “Who?”

  “Your friend someone. I think I know who he is.”

  The other looked at him, frightened.

  “Pray to God this one survives,” Rafael said, turning around next to Sarah, who was on her knees over Phelps, pressing his inert hand.

  60

  The man sweated profusely. Perspiration stuck to his nude body. Pleasure required effort; with every lunge there was an answering moan. Sex is the mixing of bodies, in general two—but there is no limit to the human imagination—the exchange of fluids and sweat, saliva and one’s desires. During the coupling almost nothing exists but the one and the other; the fire has to be put out.

  “I really needed that,” said the man.

  “Me too. We’ve got to do it more often,” the other suggested, grabbing a pack of cigarettes from on top of the table.

  “It’s dangerous,” the first one cautioned. “Our uniforms could give us away.”

  “Don’t be so hardheaded, Paul. I don’t play when I’m on duty.”

  “We can’t afford the luxury of being careless,” Paul reaffirmed. He got up and sat on the edge of the bed. “Give me one.”

  His companion handed him the cigarette he’d already lit for himself and took another. He leaned against the bed board, almost sitting.

  “They’re not going to give up,” Paul commented, exhaling smoke.

  “Are you sure?”

  “They already would have.”

  “That’s not the impression I got when I contacted them,” the other said.

  The cigarette smoke created a haze in the poorly ventilated room, forming a shadowy atmosphere around the two men.

  “It wasn’t a good idea to call yourself the American,” Paul grumbled.

  “It’s what popped into my head.”

  “You have to be careful. They might get suspicious.”

  “Let me worry about those things,” the other said complacently. “After all, why do you want the Turk out? He’s only going to create problems.”

  “This doesn’t smell right to me. I heard the Pole was thinking about going to see him,” he answered circumspectly.

  “And what could happen? He doesn’t know who he is,” the other reiterated.

  “The two of them together in the same
room. It’s not good.”

  “In the same cell, you mean,” the other joked, getting a smile from Paul.

  “I’d like to see the Pole in a cell. I have to find out his intentions. I think he’s suspicious.”

  “It’s just in your mind. He has no reason to distrust you,” the other asserted.

  “It must have been JC who carried out the plan. Hell. The Turk drew me in.”

  “JC has other plans.”

  “He only does what Licio tells him.”

  “Licio doesn’t give any orders now.”

  They were silent for a few moments. The sweat had dried. They’d recovered their energy.

  “Did you get rid of the car?” Paul asked.

  “It won’t be a problem for anyone now. It was sold up north. I’m going to have to buy another one.”

  “Buy it. A different brand. I don’t like BMW.”

  “I was thinking of a Mercedes.”

  “Good idea. Buy a Mercedes,” Paul agreed.

  Paul finished his cigarette and continued looking at the ceiling, his hand behind his head. He didn’t say anything for several minutes, just stared at the ceiling worn from the passage of years.

  “I want you to find another one for me,” he finally said.

  The other looked at him disapprovingly.

  “Another? It’s dangerous, and it’s a lot of work.”

  “Not if they’re from far away. I don’t want more from Rome or the Vatican. That was a mistake. I prefer one from Naples. They should be daring. Or even farther south. No more Romans,” he demanded.

  “Really, I don’t ask them for their identifications ahead of time.”

  “And don’t use the Avon trick again.”

  “What do you think I am?” the other protested, looking insulted. “I don’t use the same trick twice.”

  “A pope’s bodyguard should have no imagination,” Paul kidded him.

  “Take back what you said.” The other got up. “Take back what you said.”

  “And if I don’t?” Paul dared him.

  The pope’s bodyguard laughed.

  61

  I stanbul. Formerly Constantinople. The imperial city, cradle of civilization, frontier between Europe and Asia, point of separation or arrival for each of the continents, clash of ancestral cultures, land of European emperors and Arab sultans, Byzantines and Ottomans, the most prosperous city of Christianity for more than a thousand years.

  They drove around the center for hours, this time more tightly crowded in the back where JC, Elizabeth, and Raul sat. In front was a Turkish driver with expert knowledge of the city, obviously, and the cripple, saturnine, cold, an observer alert to everything, inside and outside the car, in spite of the thousands found in this city, inhabitants, tourists, businesspeople.

  They’d started with Beyoglu, where they saw the Galata Tower, built in the sixth century. A couple of hours later they’d entered the route that ends at what is now an imperfect circle that covers the Bazar quarter, with the Süleymaniye Mosque marking the most distant point, the edifice built by Sinan over the Golden Horn in honor of Suleiman the Magnificent, where both are buried, though at opposite ends. The interior of the circle covers the Seraglio, as well, which includes the Topkapi Palace, the official residence of the sultans for four hundred years, and the Sultanahmet, that shelters within itself two other pearls, facing each other, the Blue Mosque and Hagia Sophia.

  JC played the part of tourist guide, explaining the multicultural and historical points of each monument and place in that immense city.

  “What’s the purpose of this excursion?” Raul wanted to know, exhausted by such a tour shrouded by secrecy.

  “I told you already. We’re here to see a friend.”

  “And where is he?”

  “He should be on his way to our meeting.”

  “What time is that set for?” the cripple asked.

  “At eighteen hundred hours.”

  “See? Only a half hour from now.”

  “Where are we meeting him?” Raul asked again.

  “You’ll soon see,” the old man replied evasively.

  “Why Istanbul?” It was Elizabeth’s turn to ask for answers.

  “Why does someone move from England to a mountain in the Alentejo? How can you answer something like that? These are the imponderables of life. The tastes, desires. Some are able to fulfill them, others not.”

  “Do you always have an answer for everything?” Raul asked. He considered the ability both impressive and irritating.

  “My dear captain, the day I don’t, you can lower the flag to half-mast because I’ll be dead.”

  “This friend we’re going to visit. Is he like you?” Elizabeth asked.

  She’d only looked at him twice, but she didn’t have to do so again to know he didn’t like her or her husband. The cripple in the front seat tolerated them only out of respect for the old man who gives him orders, thank God. As much as she tried, she couldn’t imagine this old man, so frail and in precarious health, hurting a fly or leading such a vast organization with the purpose of … whatever their purpose was.

  JC laughed at her question.

  “No, men like me are dying out. I must be the last of a very under-appreciated species. We’re going to see a cardinal in the Church. A man much older than I.”

  We’re going to see a cadaver? Elizabeth thought without saying it. It would be bad manners to insult the host.

  “For some time I’ve wanted to ask you a question,” Raul dared to say, looking him in the eye as if to ask permission.

  He who is silent agrees, and JC was proof of this.

  “Why did you accept the agreement last year?”

  “In New York?”

  Raul nodded yes.

  “It served my interests,” the old man answered.

  Raul pulled up his undershirt and revealed a scar at the bottom of his stomach on the right side made by a deep incision. He arched his ribs a little so that another identical scar could be seen below his ribs. A sharp, cutting object had penetrated from one side to the other, leaving a scar that would last to the end of his days.

  “Do you see what they did to me that day in the warehouse in New York? I don’t see how that served your interests.” He was angry, but JC didn’t blink. Other people’s pain didn’t affect him.

  “My dear captain. You can’t criticize me for trying to get something back that was taken from me.”

  “I’m not criticizing. I simply don’t believe it served your interests.”

  “What was the agreement?” Elizabeth asked.

  She didn’t know what they were talking about. Raul and Sarah had told her as little as possible about what happened the previous year to avoid a fight. Divorce was a real possibility, though. Sarah explained to her mother that her father wasn’t at fault. He was swept up in a whirlwind of uncontrollable events, just like her. It was true.

  “Would you prefer to tell her?” Raul challenged JC.

  “I don’t see any problem with that,” the old man said, turning his gaze from the street to Elizabeth. “Your daughter had something in her possession that belonged to me.”

  “That’s debatable,” Raul grumbled.

  “You asked me to tell her. You’ve got to let me tell my version,” JC said without changing his calm tone.

  “I’m only saying the ownership of those papers is relative. We know very well who they belong to.”

  “We do. They belonged to Albino Luciani until the date of his death, and afterwards to me.”

  Raul saw clearly he wouldn’t change the old man’s way of thinking no matter what arguments he used. He gave up and asked the old man to continue.

  “Your daughter sent those documents to a journalist friend, and the agreement was a pact of mutual nonaggression, scrupulously complied with to the end.”

  “Why did you trust it?” Raul insisted.

  “Because it didn’t seem to me you’d sacrifice your lives for values or moral principles. You kn
ow as well as I it would’ve been a death sentence for everyone. Besides, I trust a maxim that I’ve always followed.” He tapped the cripple on the shoulder, who looked ahead alertly. “Which is?”

  “There are more tides than sailors.” His dedicated assistant completed the statement.

  JC looked at Raul and Elizabeth triumphantly. The brio of his personal pride began to sparkle.

  “What do you mean by that?” Raul asked.

  “Think back. The person who had custody of the documents was a lady, as I said, one of your compatriots,” he added, indicating Elizabeth. “Called …” He tried to remember. He touched the cripple on the shoulder again. “What was her name?”

  “Natalie. Natalie Golden.”

  “Natalie. Correct. Natalie … Golden.”

  “And what follows from there?” Raul was very curious, which, added to irritation, turned into impatience.

  “From that follows the obvious question: what is a journalist’s greatest ambition?”

  Raul and Elizabeth exchanged looks. They knew perfectly well the aspirations of their only daughter, professionally. Make a difference. Tell a great story, the exclusive that will give them great prestige, although Sarah was already heading down that road as the editor of international politics.

  “You gave her an exclusive?” Elizabeth risked asking.

  JC confirmed with a gesture.

  “In exchange for the documents?” Raul couldn’t control his nerves.

  “It was a fair price,” JC said. “Everything was done through intermedi aries, obviously.”

  “How could she?” Raul asked, more to himself than the other passengers.

  “The flesh is weak, my friend. In any case, the girl didn’t use the story.”

  “Why?” Elizabeth asked, frightened.

  “She was eliminated by the same people who tried to kill your daughter,” he answered, with no attempt to beat around the bush.

  “My God.” Elizabeth, incredulous, put her face in her hands.

  “How could that happen?” Raul stammered. He hadn’t expected this, either.

  “We’re fighting a deadly force. Don’t doubt it.”

  Raul released his breath, freeing a small part of the bitterness he felt at that moment.

  Elizabeth crossed herself and closed her damp eyes. Neither of them knew Natalie personally. She was someone Sarah mentioned only professionally or personally in the emotional stories she told them from time to time on vacation, during a phone conversation, or in an e-mail. They were used to thinking of her as one of their daughter’s best friends. Now all that had ended. Until this instant Elizabeth’s fear had no face or personality. It seemed like something turbid, unhealthy, capable of everything and nothing, open to negotiating, to yielding, to hope. That had just been lost. They were in the middle of real danger, and any feeling of control was a complete illusion. Now the attention with which JC’s assistant—since a lady doesn’t call him “cripple”—watched everything and everyone made sense. The danger was out there at every corner, window, automobile, terrace. Everybody was suspicious, even innocent children. God have mercy on her daughter.