“Barnes didn’t commit suicide.” She pointed at Littel. “He’s the one who killed him.”
Priscilla looked at her, frightened. Garrison lifted up his head in fury.
“How could you?” An accusing finger from the colonel.
“Ten million dollars,” Sarah clarified. “That was motive enough.”
“Right. Are you going to take the word of a criminal?” Littel countered with a superior attitude in spite of his precarious situation.
Rafael pushed him forward so hard that he fell on the floor next to the bodies of Phelps and Herbert.
“Look at the patriot.” Stuart Garrison pointed his gun at Littel.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Littel shouted. “Kill him,” he ordered.
The colonel shifted his aim to Rafael, who kept his gun on Littel.
“Don’t even think about it,” Sebastian Ford said, pointing a gun in turn at Stuart Garrison’s head.
“Drop the gun, Sebastian,” Littel ordered.
“Until we verify what happened here, there will be no more deaths. I’m starting an investigation, and if you’re guilty, Harvey … God and the president have mercy on your soul.”
“The president gave precise orders to kill the prisoners,” Littel shouted.
“And did he give orders to kill Barnes in cold blood?” Sebastian argued in the same tone. He turned to Rafael. “Get out of here. Disappear.”
“You can’t do that, Sebastian,” Littel alleged.
“This smelled wrong to me from the start, Harvey. Let them go now.”
Marius Ferris raised his hands to his chest and fell on the floor. A sharp pain ran through his coronary arteries, his heart put to the test by extreme emotion.
Rafael bent over him and murmured in his ear.
“God doesn’t sleep. The dead are going to take care of you now. Live many years with them. We’ll see you in the beyond.”
He escorted Sarah and Simon out of the Center of Operations.
In the room Priscilla cried like a child, Marius had fainted from the pain of the heart attack, Sebastian Ford remained with the gun pointed at the head of the hesitant colonel.
“Give me the gun, Colonel,” Sebastian ordered. Littel stayed crouched on the floor, looking into space, desperate, frustrated.
Sebastian Ford took the cell phone and made a call.
“Sebastian Ford, code 1330. I want a rescue team in the Center of Operations in Rome, ASAP.” He looked at Littel. “There are agents dead and arrested.”
He disconnected, and straightened the neck of his shirt.
It was over.
72
THE CONFESSION
December 27, 1983
Twenty minutes could be a long time.
In the narrow cell four people pressed together, only one talking, the rest listening.
Two years, seven months, and fourteen days he’d spent in judicial confinement for having carried out an unsuccessful attempt on the pope’s life.
The Supreme Pontiff sat on a small chair brought in especially for him. His secretary and the guard entrusted with preventing any possible menace against His Holiness waited standing up, although the latter had to pretend not to hear what was being said.
Not for a moment had the Turk left his position as a penitent, his hands touching the white tunic.
“Was it so simple, my son?” asked the Holy Father, to whom the gift of omnipotence hadn’t been granted.
“It was.”
“A simple phone call and a meeting?”
The other said nothing. His silence was agreement. Besides he was the one who had told the story.
“And his name?”
“I don’t know.”
“You didn’t ask?”
“No. He paid half in our first and only meeting. You don’t question men like that.”
“Where was that meeting?”
“In Athens.”
“When?”
“In March.”
They let the silence settle around them. He had to think more deeply about what had been said.
The Holy Father placed a benevolent hand on the head of his beloved, unsuccessful executioner. A sincere caress filled with positive energy and love from someone who knew there was nothing to forgive.
“In regard to the date and time,” the Supreme Pontiff returned. “Was that decided by you?”
“No. I didn’t decide anything. I received orders with the precise date and time.”
“How much ahead of time?”
“Eight days. Time enough to prepare myself. I arrived in Milan on the seventh of May and Rome, the tenth of May.”
The pope and his secretary exchanged glances, hiding the unease caused by that answer.
“Did you act alone?”
“As far as I know, yes,” the Turk responded, bowing his head.
“I believe you, my son.
“Was there a plan for escape?” Only the Holy Father formulated the questions.
The young man raised his head, letting his shame show.
“There was,” he confessed, bowing his head again. He didn’t continue.
The pope had to force his reply by lifting the Turk’s head so that he would look him in the eye. There was no room for pardons or vengeance. What’s done was done.
“To flee under cover of the confusion … stupid, I know now.”
“How were they going to pay you the rest of the money?”
“It depended. If I survived, fifteen days later in a place to be determined. It would be in cash. If I was caught, it would be given to my family.”
“Had you foreseen that possibility?”
“Never,” the Turk alleged. “After all, I fired six times. Even today I don’t know how you can be here talking to me.”
“No bullet can kill unless it’s the will of God.”
“I am completely aware of that. I know exactly where I pointed the gun.”
In spite of the kind attitude of the Polish pope, he clearly wanted to bring together all the facts of the case. Someone in the heart of his own clerical family wished him ill. Once he knew that, his disgust was incredible. It was as if they shared the same blood, since a man of the Church lived among his clerical brothers more than his family members. They were only a far-off memory of Wadowice on Ulica Koscielna.
He knew that the simple fact of being chosen by the Holy Spirit—and one hundred and ten cardinals—to direct the destinies of the Church had earned him many enemies. According to his mental arithmetic, at least half of the ninety-seven who voted for him. It was known that after a certain time, the factions in which the conclave was divided would have to reach a gentlemen’s agreement to permit the choice of only one of all those eligible. Besides those forty-eight cardinals and half of those who simply didn’t like him as a person, there were also assistants, secretaries, subsecre taries, priests, bishops, archbishops, monsignors, simple employees without a diploma in theology. Any one of them might be behind all this, but he could only manage to call one to mind.
“Does the name Nestor mean anything to you?” the Holy Father asked.
The young Turk searched his memory for the name.
“That name means nothing to me,” he finally said.
“Could it have been the name of the man who hired you?”
“It could.”
“Did he seem Eastern European? A Soviet?”
“Soviet? No way. American or English,” the young man replied.
Wojtyla got up suddenly, leaving the Turk on his knees.
“Holy Father, I’m worried about what they could do to my family.” He grasped the white tunic begging for mercy. “Protect them. Please. I’m desperate.”
The Pole looked him up and down, thoughtfully.
“Someone has threatened you, my son?”
“Me, no. But they’ve threatened my family. If I open my mouth, they’re going to pay.”
The pope assumed a serious expression. One had to adopt measures very care
fully. The pieces fit together very easily. He needed no guarantee to feel that the young man’s admissions were the truth, without inventions, knowing he could even be sacrificing his family.
“Get up and listen carefully,” he ordered decisively. “From today on, your family will be mine, and mine, yours. I’ll protect them with all my power.”
Tears ran down the young Turk’s submissive face.
“But remember. Never tell this to anyone. Make up a new version each day. Say whatever comes into your head. One thing in the morning, and another, completely different, in the afternoon.”
The young man looked at the pope in surprise. The pope understood his confusion.
“We’re going to save your family and mine … ours. The best for yours and mine is that no one know the truth. The truth could kill the Church, my family, and, consequently, yours … ours.”
The young Turk’s legs doubled under him, and he fell on the floor weeping copiously.
The pope stroked the Turk’s head and started for the door. He looked at him one last time.
“I came here to see my executioner, and I leave with a friend in my heart.”
Twenty minutes can be a long time.
73
Amen.
—The last word of John Paul II before his death, April 2, 2005
Eight days have passed, though they seemed like months. Sarah has wandered through the small city of Wadowice, fifty kilometers from Krakow, in the venerable land of Poland. She’s passed by number seven on Ulica Koscielna and visited the house where the young Karol Wojtyla was born and raised. The place where Wojtyla’s life began, which led to his becoming the most beloved pope in history, it must be confessed, filled her with emotion. One thing was certain, sooner or later, one day he would be Saint John Paul. Keeping in mind all that Sarah had come to know in this last week, it was just that it be so. If a saint worthy of the name exists, he was it. A man who helped his executioner from the beginning without judgment, censure, or reprobation, who gave himself to God without anything and without anything departed to Him. Humble, benevolent, placid, serene, the highest example for millions of the faithful. What was important was to believe in God the Father, Omnipotent, Creator of all that was, is, and will be to eternity.
The car came down Ulica Wisniowa and entered Gimnazjalna. Rafael drove. He didn’t wear cassock or suit, just jeans and a sweater, since this was spring, the mild season of the year.
“Do you miss much?” Sarah asked.
“No,” he answered without taking his eyes off the road.
Sarah remembered a few days ago when Rafael drove her to Rome for the reunion with her parents. The meeting was in the Piazza Navona, full of people in mid-afternoon. Elizabeth covered her with kisses and embraces, as did Raul. They radiated health and looked tan.
“Were you at the beach while I was gone?” Sarah asked jokingly.
“Istanbul has this effect on people,” JC interjected, sending a shiver down Sarah’s spine; she had not expected to see him.
“JC,” she stammered.
Rafael looked him over from top to bottom, evaluating him. He looked older than a year ago. Time had passed and worn him down. The cripple looked at Rafael out of the corner of his eye, anger present but controlled, as it had to be. He couldn’t help but think about the disability in his leg and who was responsible for it, there in front of him, with a few dark bruises on his face, nothing to leave a scar, while his walking …
JC watched Sarah with a cool stare. He enjoyed it. He knew they all feared him except for Rafael, from whom he’d just turned his eyes away.
“You’ve conducted yourself well,” he praised him.
“I tried,” Rafael replied.
There were no thanks or appreciations.
“What’s going to happen to Harvey Littel?” Sarah timidly asked.
“He’s going to be promoted to secretary of defense.”
“What? You’re joking.” Sarah was shocked.
JC showed her the front page of The New York Times where she could read the headline: “Harvey Littel to Run Defense.” Sarah read it but couldn’t believe it. How could that be possible? A small headline at the bottom of the page caught her attention: “Ford Accused of Pedophilia.” Sebastian Ford, Rafael’s man on Barnes’s and Littel’s team. He who risked his life to save Rafael and, as a consequence, her and Simon.
“I don’t understand,” Sarah protested. “How could this happen?”
She looked at Rafael, who didn’t look surprised.
“Littel belongs to the system. He knows a lot. Now they’ve put him in a position out of the CIA, but where he’s going to have all his movements watched by the CIA … and public opinion. They’re keeping the dog, but on a shorter leash,” JC explained.
“And you? Have you seen what’s happening to your friend?” Sarah spoke angrily.
“Littel’s revenge. In politics there’s no room for honest men,” Rafael said. “But don’t worry. The Vatican’s going to need his services as a mediator with the United States.”
So, at first blush, nothing seemed bad. Rafael was not the type to turn his back on friends, that was certain, especially those who hadn’t turned their backs on him in his hour of need.
“What happened finally? What was it Phelps wanted?” Sarah changed the subject. She needed explanations.
“Phelps wanted what many people do. To get rid of anything that could be harmful to the image of his organization. No one could know that Marcinkus was Opus Dei.”
“And P2,” Sarah added.
“Yes, but that didn’t matter to him. He was afraid that someone would find out that a man like that, who presided over the operations of the IWR for such a long time, could be linked to the organization. It would be a step away from discovering that Marcinkus had made an attempt on the pope’s life, and, worst of all, was recommended for that position by Opus Dei’s own founder José María Escrivá.”
“Oh, my God.”
“But you also had your own agenda,” Rafael accused him.
“I’m sorry about your uncle,” JC said.
“You’re not sorry about him.”
“I like direct people.” He turned to Sarah. “There’s a box in the post office at Kings Cross that this key unlocks.” He showed her a small key and placed it in her hand. “Inside you’ll find a pile of documents and copies I collected over my lifetime.”
Sarah couldn’t believe what she was hearing. JC trusted her.
“Soon you’ll receive instructions about what to do with them,” he said. “Don’t do what you did with the Turk’s file,” he criticized. He looked at Rafael. “Help her with anything she needs.”
The priest said neither yes nor no.
The old man took a yellow envelope out of his jacket that Raul recognized as the one that Cardinal Sebastiani had handed him in Istanbul.
“Add this to the spoils.”
“What is it?” Sarah asked curiously.
“A letter that should have been delivered to Wojtyla but never was.”
“Can I read it?”
“Please,” JC permitted her.
Sarah opened the envelope and took out a paper worn through the passage of years. It was once white, the date above, 11/04/1981.
“Sebastiani didn’t want to believe the letter. He hid it as if this action would put off the warning until much later. That same day, the Pole was shot, and Sebastiani knew it was true.”
To my very esteemed Holy Father: I take the liberty to address myself to Your Excellency with the deepest humility.
I know you will consecrate your pontificate to the Virgin Mary, since you feel the same love for Her as I do.
I wrote to many predecessors of the Holy Father in the same respectful terms that I write in these lines… . The Virgin has always sent me, and sends me, many different revelations all my simple life.
In one of my recent visions, the person of the Holy Father was mentioned:
“Tell him that no bullet will ki
ll unless it is His will. Men love to make others suffer, they don’t respect the values of goodness and love, but that is not reason enough not to forgive. Unconditional love implies unconditional forgiveness. The two go hand in hand like brothers.”
You will be remembered every day in my prayers to the Merciful Lord and the Lady of the Rosary.
Respectfully,
Lúcia de Jesus dos Santos
“That’s incredible,” Sarah declared ecstatically.
JC turned his back accompanied by the cripple. Everything had been predicted.
“Where are you going?” Sarah asked him.
The old man turned to her.
“I’m going where we all have to go. Stay out of trouble.”
“Thank you for my job at the newspaper.”
JC looked from her to Rafael.
“I’m not the one to thank. If it were up to me, you’d have been dead in London or New York a year ago.”
He flashed a sarcastic smile and continued toward the rest of his life. They would never see him again.
Sarah considered his words now inside the car on the streets of Wadowice. Rafael followed a secondary road that led to the outskirts.
“Why did you get the job for me at the newspaper?” she asked.
Rafael drove in silence.
“Don’t I deserve an answer?” she pressured him, slightly insulted.
“I didn’t get you any job.”
“Are you lying, Father Rafael?” she reproved him ironically.
“Why did someone have to find you a job?” Rafael continued, confused. “Did it ever cross your mind you got the position on your own merits?”
Sarah had never seen things in this light. On the other hand, he could be trying to mislead her for some other reason. Let him have his way.
They entered a very steep dirt road.
“Where are we going? Cross-country?” Sarah protested.
“Only a few more miles.”
They continued in silence for a few minutes, not a contemplative silence appropriate to the situation, but an oppressive, awkward silence.
“How could the pope pardon someone who wished him such ill?” Sarah asked.
“He was a noble soul.”
The Holy Bullet Page 40
