The Holy Bullet

by Luís Miguel Rocha

  Nestor … Paul hid his face in his hands.

  “You can’t believe just any person who appears so suddenly, Your Holiness. Many people wish us ill.”

  “You know something? You’re right. That’s exactly what I told your friend.”

  He raised his voice. “He’s not my friend.”

  “And he was ready to prove what he’d said. Days later something was entrusted to me in a pretty packet that contained so many things that, even today, with the years that have passed, all of the ramifications and operations described have still not been analyzed.”

  Marcinkus sank into his chair.

  “That was the reason for removing you from the IWR last year, which, I confess, I thought would be enough to see you go voluntarily. I was deceived. You didn’t feel affected by these things. Therefore I’m going to summarize what came in the packet in one single statement. You’re a criminal.”

  The American took his hands from his face and got up, stung by the insult.

  “How dare you call me that!”

  “I’m not the one calling you that, Paul. It’s in the evidence. You can’t contradict the facts.” Wojtyla remained firm and certain.

  “Evidence. Evidence. Don’t throw evidence in my face,” he spoke proudly. “I’ve given a lot to the Holy See. You’ve lost nothing.” He disregarded completely the courtesy the pope deserves.

  “Do I need to remind you how much your speculations at the Ambrosiano in the eighties cost us? Your absolution in ’eighty-four was less than peaceful and even less well explained.”

  Marcinkus stared at him with hate in his eyes.

  “I knew that sooner or later you’d throw that in my face. I admitted the error when it happened.”

  “And why don’t you admit it now?”

  “The Holy Father is popular all over the world. The most popular pope in history. Who do you think makes that possible? Who finances your trips, the luxury in which you live?” he asked angrily.

  “The faithful,” Wojtyla replied.

  “Don’t make me laugh,” Marcinkus joked with a sour smile. “It’s thanks to people like me who wisely administer the goods of the Church over the centuries. The Holy Father wouldn’t exist without me. I’m the true pope of all this. And if you intend to prosecute me, something can always happen,” he threatened.

  The pope walked around the desk and picked up the piece of paper with the seal. He sighed deeply.

  “Effective immediately, the archbishop is removed from all the functions that occupy the Holy See. He will return to his archdiocese, from which he will not return again.”

  “You can’t do that to me,” he shouted.

  Wojtyla ignored his tone.

  “You’ll be taken by helicopter directly to the Fiumicino airport, where you’ll continue on a flight that will take you to the United States.”

  “You’re playing with fire.”

  “The press will be told of your voluntary retirement because of fatigue and homesickness. It’s my wish that this case be closed immediately without scandal. The proof will be deposited in the Secret Archives of the Vatican without more investigation. If this decision doesn’t please you, I’ll be happy to hand you over to the Italian authorities, who are eager to charge you. The choice is yours,” Wojtyla concluded peremptorily, turning his back.

  Marcinkus let himself sink in the chair. Tears of rage welled up in his eyes and ran down his face. He sat there for several minutes, breathing in the oppressive silence. He had come to Rome in 1950 and had never left. Living in the United States was unthinkable, like a prison sentence. He decided to get up and walk toward the office door. He opened it and remained without moving, defeated, old.

  Karol Wojtyla looked out at the plaza, hidden by the white curtains.

  “Ten o’clock tonight at the heliport. Don’t be late.”

  66

  Istanbul had as much movement at night as during the day. Life swirled through the streets and alleys, allied to the nocturnal mysteries that fill this enigmatic city.

  The group led by the old man with the cane, whose handle formed the gold head of a lion, mingled with the thousands of tourists who crammed the tourist spots. An old man with a married couple and another man—they could easily pass for close family members, if it was in their interest to create that image.

  They passed through the Hippodrome, whose obelisks still survived, although the amphitheater that seated a hundred thousand people had to be imagined. They went into Hagia Sophia, the cathedral converted into a mosque and then into a museum, where emperors and sultans were once crowned. It served Greeks and Ottomans, survived Constantinople, and remained a symbol of the city and Turkey. They dined at Cati in Beyoglu, at a table next to a window with views of the Bosporus. They began with corbasi, yogurt soup, with vegetables; then, as the main course, had hunkar begendili köfte, meatballs with eggplant puree, mixed with cheese, and a variety of kebabs.

  Raul and Elizabeth had many questions, but didn’t ask any. They were astonished at the way JC delighted over the food he was serving.

  “Turkish Palace cooking,” he said. “Delicious.”

  The couple scarcely tasted the food. They picked at it more out of courtesy and sympathy than hunger, even though they hadn’t eaten well for days.

  The cripple maintained his cool pose. He ate, but not like a savage. He was always the same. Polite, silent, he ate to survive, no other reason, and looked around from time to time to assure himself of the old man’s safety. That was his only preoccupation; everything else was secondary.

  “What time is our meeting?” the old man asked him.

  “He’ll call us as soon as he arrives.”

  “Tell him to come here.”

  “All right.”

  The cripple got up and left with his cell phone in his hand. A private call away from the chaos of the restaurant.

  “Who’s coming?” Elizabeth asked.

  “Another friend?” Raul added.

  “An ally … I hope,” he replied, not paying attention, bringing a meatball to his mouth. “Hmm … delicious.”

  “How can you live like this?” Elizabeth asked, scandalized.

  “How do you mean, my dear?”

  “Like this.” She didn’t know how to explain it. “Walking a tightrope.”

  “Don’t be fooled, Mrs. Monteiro. Politicians are the ones who live on a tightrope. Presidents, prime ministers, senators, representatives walk a tightrope. They know that living at the will of the electorate is thankless. No matter what they do the public is never grateful. That’s why they sell themselves to corporations and lobbies. In short, they take care of their future. People like you also walk a tightrope. I don’t.”

  “Do you call this a life of peace and quiet?” Raul put in.

  “What more could you desire? Dining at the finest restaurant in Istanbul after a guided tour. Tomorrow, who knows, Amsterdam, Bangkok.”

  “Don’t be funny,” Raul exclaimed.

  JC drank a little vigne suyu, cherry juice, to moisten his words. “My life was very quiet until last year. Your friend is the one who stirred things up. Don’t forget it.”

  “I know that perfectly well. That’s another story.”

  “In any case this year reminded me of my adventurous youth. I’m old. I’ve been old a long time. My appearance doesn’t deceive. I was retired in my villa, making decisions over telephone, with a glass of whiskey in hand, reading the Corriere and La Repubblica, to keep up with the stupidities they publish. For the first time in fifteen years, I feel alive. For someone whose active military, political, and clandestine life began in the Second World War and continued to the end of the Cold War, to be physically inactive is frustrating. Now I’m in the field again, and no price can be put on that.”

  He’s human, after all, the Monteiros thought.

  “As I see it, this is all a game for you,” Raul commented.

  “In a way. A game with grave consequences for whoever loses.”

&nb
sp; “Things aren’t black or white, isn’t that so?” Elizabeth asked, more depressed every minute. Time was passing, and she urgently needed news about her daughter.

  “Things are black and white, but not for the common person,” he said, taking a little more puree.

  “This pope has secrets, too?” Raul inquired.

  “Who doesn’t?” He wiped his mouth with the cloth napkin. “As your Messiah said, he who is without sin … Not even the saints that the Holy Mother Church canonizes are without stains. No one passes through life without sin … even if only in thought. It’s not evil. It’s intrinsic to being human.”

  “That scares me,” Elizabeth confessed.

  “There’s a Brazilian writer, whose name I don’t remember, who said something about this. If we could look through the doors of our neighbors, no one would shake hands with anyone. That’s more or less so.”

  “Nelson Rodrigues,” Raul added.

  “That’s right,” JC confirmed, remembering the name of the author.

  “Do you have any news of my daughter?” Raul asked a question that hadn’t crossed Elizabeth’s lips for a long time.

  “Not yet.”

  “Is that really true? You’re not trying to avoid telling us bad news in any way?” Her worry as a mother loosened her tongue.

  “Look me in the eye.” He waited for her to do it. “Do you believe I’d have any problem telling you that the worst has happened to your daughter, if that were the case? After all that you’ve heard?”

  Elizabeth lowered her eyes. Bad news travels fast; good news at a snail’s pace.

  “It doesn’t matter to you?”

  “It does,” he answered without emotion. “You need to know that the negotiations I’m about to begin can affect her fate … for better or worse.”

  “Please, don’t let them hurt her,” Elizabeth implored.

  JC sipped a little more visne suyu and expressed no sign of commitment. Elizabeth tried to speak reason to her motherly heart, but it was useless. JC wouldn’t let anything affect his plans. In the end nothing would go beyond business with human lives at stake.

  The cripple returned to the table with a tall, impeccably dressed man. He was barely middle-aged, and his muscular body indicated hours a day in the gym, his tan regular hours in a tanning salon. He was a man who cultivated his body, and therefore his health.

  “What’s the hurry?” he asked impolitely. He hadn’t come of his own free will. Some customers looked over at the table.

  “Please, sit down,” JC invited him, cheerful and serene. Attitude was important.

  The man wanted to show his indignation a little more, but the old man’s look made him think twice. He sat down in the cripple’s chair.

  “I’m all ears,” he said rudely.

  “Ah, you Americans … always so arrogant,” JC sighed.

  The man got up immediately.

  “I didn’t come here to be insulted. Are you listening to me?”

  A firm hand on his shoulder obliged him to sit. The cripple didn’t like this kind of behavior in front of the old man.

  “Calm down, Oliver.”

  “How do you know my name?” he asked, surprised.

  “I know a lot about you, my friend. Oliver Cromwell Delaney, born in 1966, Dover, Delaware, father of two lovely daughters—”

  “Who are you? What do you want from me?” His nervousness was apparent. Things get complicated when strangers start mentioning your daughters. He took out his cell phone.

  “I’m going to call my security—”

  “You’re not going to call anyone,” the cripple warned, grabbing the phone from his hand. “Stay in your chair and be quiet.”

  “Excuse my faithful assistant’s bad manners,” JC excused him sardonically.

  Raul and Elizabeth looked on, intimidated.

  “Where was I? Oh, father of two beautiful twin daughters, Joanne and Kathleen, eleven years old. Consul in Istanbul. I could enumerate your biography in detail, but we don’t have time.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I need you to put me in contact urgently with George. I could do it through my own channels, but it’d take time to authenticate the call.”

  “Who’s George?”

  “Your superior.”

  “I don’t have any superior named George.”

  “No?” JC asked with a sarcastic smile on his lips.

  Oliver looked thoughtful. “I’m not … Ah … You’re talking about George …”

  “The same.”

  67

  With every step the body weighed more. The sweat that a short time ago was only scattered drops on their faces had become streams that dripped off their chins onto the floor. The two men dragged the mound of inert flesh, bent over in the shared effort.

  “Do they think we’re pack mules?” Staughton protested.

  “Apparently,” Thompson said. Talking only wasted energy necessary for carrying out the task.

  “Do you think he opened his mouth?”

  “No. If he had, we’d be carrying a corpse.”

  “Barnes kicked the shit out of him,” Staughton said.

  “True. He gave it to him good. Old-school.”

  He was alluding to the fact they hadn’t used the most modern methods of extracting information. Electric shock was still idolized within this community. Sleep deprivation was extremely efficient, when you had time, which was not the case here. A battery of drugs and injections might or might not work, depending on the mental and physical condition of the individual. None of these techniques had been used on Rafael. They’d thrown unexpected punches or slapped him and kicked him down below, which is what had left him in the sorry condition we witness here. Barnes, Herbert, and Phelps himself hadn’t had to ask or stand on ceremony to use Rafael as a punching bag. There was a close relationship between the degree of pain a person could support and death. It was the fine line that marked the difference between good and bad work. So we see the two men from the agency carrying Rafael’s inert but still living body. It only meant he hadn’t said anything to his interrogators, or, if he had, it wasn’t satisfactory. Still, there was time to drag that information out by the same method, or others.

  Thus the discouraged faces of Barnes, Herbert, Phelps, and the others, spread around the Center of Operations for the agency in Rome.

  “The guy is tough,” Littel said, seated, smoking a cigar, where he’d been during the whole interrogation. He hadn’t stained his expensive suit or carefully manicured hands. That was work for others. They didn’t pay him to get dirty.

  “He’s a son of a bitch,” Barnes contradicted him. He turned to Phelps with a critical expression. “I told you you wouldn’t get anything out of him.”

  “Calm down, Dr. Barnes. In five minutes bring the woman in. You’ll see how we find things out,” he declared confidently.

  “I hope so,” Littel said. “Today is the last round of the U.S. Open, and I don’t want to miss it.”

  “I missed Wimbledon, and I’m here,” Barnes answered.

  “You hate tennis,” Littel argued back.

  There were more people in the room than usual, maintaining a sepulchral silence, the better to ignore what was to come. We refer to Wally Johnson, always at Littel’s side as his bodyguard, Colonel Stuart Garrison, whose efficiency stood out in the capture of the fugitives, Priscilla Thomason, the devoted secretary. She’d asked permission to leave during the interrogation, but couldn’t avoid seeing the victim’s condition when he left the room, aided by Staughton and Thompson, not to say dragged, carried, transported. Sebastian Ford rounded out the group, upset because a drop of blood had stained the collar of his shirt. He hadn’t even been close to the gang pounding the man as if there were no tomorrow. He tried to clean it with a handkerchief monogrammed with the initials SF, but the blood became an untamed smear.

  “Hell,” he complained, a little more loudly than he wanted.

  All of them looked disapprovingly at him with his
handkerchief wet with saliva rubbing the white collar.

  “I’ll be right back,” Sebastian Ford stammered, leaving the room.

  “Politicians,” Phelps remarked scornfully as soon as Ford left.

  “I know from experience he’d let the woman die if he thought she could reveal the location of the Muslim and the file,” Barnes said worriedly.

  “Well then, let them all die,” they heard a voice suggest from the door.

  “Marius. My good Marius,” Phelps greeted the white-haired man with an embrace.

  “James. Things have not gone as well as we would wish,” Marius Ferris alerted him.

  “They could be worse.”

  Marius Ferris looked around the room. “Gentlemen, good afternoon to you all.”

  Barnes remembered him from other operations.

  “Where’s your lord?”

  “The Lord is in heaven,” Ferris answered a little arrogantly.

  “No one is what he appears,” Barnes finally said. Nothing surprised him after so many years of service to the republic.

  “He hasn’t talked, Marius,” Phelps informed him.

  “I knew it. Sebastiani has betrayed us, also,” he said, closing his fists in anger. “Do they have family we could use to put pressure on them?”

  “Nothing. The journalist has a mother who knows nothing. We didn’t get anywhere pressuring him on that. If he knew something, he’d have confessed it with the beating we gave him. The parents of the woman have disappeared,” Littel declared. “They haven’t been seen anywhere.”

  Phelps put his hand on Marius Ferris’s shoulder.

  “This is the work of the old man.”

  “I think so, too,” he confirmed. “It’s the old fox. We should have known he’d make a move.”

  “That means he’s been helping them from the beginning,” Phelps reflected.

  “He must have thrown more wood on the fire, without doubt.”

  “Herbert, go get the woman.”

  “With pleasure,” the sadistic aide answered.

  “Let’s get this over with,” James Phelps decided.

  68

  Rafael was thrown into the cell against the bare wall, followed by a dry “Welcome to Rome” from Thompson.

  Sarah cried out when she saw him in that condition.