God's Spy

by Juan Gomez-jurado

  She managed to last sixty seconds on the first try. On the second try, she watched almost the whole thing. She made it all the way through on the third try, but she had to race to the bathroom to regurgitate the glass of water she drank when she got back to the room, as well as all the bile she was still holding inside. The fourth time, she managed to stay calm enough to convince herself that it was very real, and not a tape on the order of The Blair Witch Project. But, as we have already noted, Andrea was a very sharp journalist, which normally was both her great advantage and her major liability. Her intuition had already told her from the very first viewing that the film was genuine. Perhaps some other journalist would have given the disc a contemptuous once over, certain that it was a fake. But Andrea had spent days looking for Cardinal Robayra, and she suspected that the other cardinals were missing as well. Hearing Robayra’s name in the film dispelled her doubts the way a drunken fart would blow through five o’clock tea at Buckingham Palace. Harsh, dirty, and efficient.

  She watched the film a fifth time, just to get used to the images. And then a sixth time, to take notes, barely more than unconnected squiggles in a block. She shut her laptop down, sat as far away from it as possible in a sliver of space between the desk and the air conditioner. And she surrendered to the lure of nicotine.

  “Definitely a bad moment to try to give up smoking.”

  Those images were a nightmare. At first sight the hostility they filled her with, the dirty way they had made her feel, was so profound she was unable to react for two hours. When the shock had worn off and she was able to think, she began to take stock of what she had in her hands. She took out her notebook and wrote down three points that would serve as the basis for her article.

  She wrote down nine and then replaced it with eight. It was Saturday now.

  She had to write a fantastic piece of reporting. A full report, three pages long, with summaries, pull-out quotes, sidebars, and a killer head. She couldn’t send any images to the newspaper beforehand because they would take her off the story without a second’s delay. The editor would no doubt drag Paloma out of her hospital bed so that the article would have the weight it deserved. Maybe they would let her have a byline on one of the sidebars. But if she sent the completed story to the paper, laid out and ready to send to the printers, then not even the editor in chief himself would have the gall to take her name off it. It was not going to happen, because in this case Andrea would also send a fax to El Pais and another to the daily ABC with the complete text and photographs from the article before it was published. And to hell with the exclusive. And her job, for that matter.

  “Like my brother Miguel Angel says, ‘All of us get laid, or we throw the whore in the river.’ ”

  It was not exactly a simile appropriate for a young lady like Andrea Otero, but nobody butted in to insist that she was a young lady. It was hardly proper for young ladies to steal other people’s correspondence as she had done, but she’d be damned if it mattered to her. She could already see herself writing the best seller I Caught the Cardinal Killer. Hundreds of thousands of books with her name on the cover, interviews all over the world, conferences debating her revelations. The shameless robbery was definitely worth the trouble.

  Clearly, she thought, you sometimes have to be careful who you rob.

  Because that message had not been sent by the senior executives of a newspaper. It had been sent by a heartless killer who probably was counting the hours until his message would be broadcast all over the world.

  She considered her options. It was Saturday. Certainly whoever had sent the disc would not find out that it had failed to reach its destination until the morning. If the messenger service was open on Saturday, which she doubted, the killer would be on her trail in a few hours, perhaps by ten or eleven in the morning. But she doubted that the messenger had read her name on her press badge. He seemed more preoccupied by what lay immediately below, inside her shirt. Best-case scenario, if the service were closed until Monday, she had two days. Worst case, a few hours.

  It was true that Andrea had learned that the sanest thing was always to act as if the worst case were the most likely. So she would put the story together right away. As soon as the editor in chief and the newspaper’s director sent the article to press, she’d have to dye her hair, hide behind her sunglasses, and fly out of the hotel like a bee.

  She got on her feet and told herself to be strong. She switched on the laptop and opened the newspaper’s paste-up program. She wrote right into the template. She felt much better when she saw how her words would look in the text.

  It took her three-quarters of an hour to prepare the three-page trial run. She was almost done when her cell phone rang.

  Who the hell is calling me at this number, at three in the morning?

  Only the newspaper had that number. She hadn’t given it to anyone else, not even to her family. So it had to be someone from Editorial with an emergency. She got up and searched around in her bag until she found it. She looked at the screen, expecting to see the incredibly long display of numbers that appeared when there was a call from Spain, but what she saw instead, where the identity of the caller should appear, was a blank. It didn’t even say Unknown Caller.

  She put the phone to her ear.

  “Hello?”

  The only sound was a busy signal.

  She hung up.

  But something inside her told her that the call was important and she had better hurry up. She went back to the keyboard, writing faster than ever. The errors she let stand—she had always been a good speller, from age eight on—and never went back to correct them. They could do it at the newspaper. She was suddenly in a tremendous rush to finish.

  It took her four hours to complete the rest of the article; hours searching for profiles and photos of the cardinals, news, biographies, and their deaths. The article had several images taken directly from Karosky’s video. Some of them were so strong they made her blush. What the hell. Let them censor them in Editorial if they dared.

  She was right in the middle of writing the closing lines when there was a knock at the door.

  HOTEL RAPHAEL

  Largo Febo, 2 Saturday, April 9, 2005, 7:58 A.M.

  Andrea looked at the door as if she’d never seen one before in her life. She took the disc out of the computer, jammed it back in its plastic slipcover, and buried it inside the wastebasket in the bathroom. She walked back to her room, her heart balled in a fist, wishing that whoever it was on the other side of the door would just go away. More knocks on the door, courteous but very forceful. Maid service was out of the question. It was barely eight in the morning.

  “Who is it?”

  “Signorina Otero? It’s breakfast, courtesy of the hotel.”

  Andrea opened the door. She was surprised.

  “I didn’t order any—”

  The man on the other side of the door never let her finish her sentence. There was no chance he was one of the hotel’s elegant bellhops or waiters. Short and stocky but clearly fit, in a leather jacket and black pants, he had gone without shaving for a day or so. He was wearing a broad smile.

  “Signorina Otero? I’m Fabio Dante, deputy inspector at the Vatican Corpo di Vigilanza. I would like to ask you a few questions.”

  In his left hand he held an ID card, with a very visible photo. Andrea looked at it intently. It appeared to be authentic.

  “As you can see, right this second I’m very tired and I need to get some rest. Come back some other time—”

  She shut the door as abruptly as she could, but the man on the other side wedged his foot in like an encyclopedia salesman with a large family to support. Andrea watched him force his way in the door.

  “You didn’t understand me? I have to get some sleep.”

  “It seems that it is you who doesn’t understand me. I need to speak with you urgently. I am investigating a robbery.”

  Oh Christ, she thought to herself. How did they find me so quickly?

&nbs
p; Not a muscle in Andrea’s face so much as twitched, but inside, her nervous system passed from “alarm” to “total crisis.” She would have to bluff her way out. Her nails were digging into her palms, the toes on her feet were curled into a ball. She opened the door all the way so the supervisor could enter.

  “I can’t give you much time. I have to send an article to my paper.”

  “A little early to be sending an article, wouldn’t you say? The printers haven’t even shown up for work yet.”

  “Right, but I like to do things with time to spare.”

  “Are we talking about some special news?” Dante asked, taking a step in the direction of Andrea’s laptop. She stepped in front of him, blocking his way.

  “No, nothing special. Habitual conjectures about who is going to be the next supreme pontiff.”

  “Of course. A question of great importance, no?”

  “Of great importance, actually. But there is not a lot to say right this instant. You know how it goes, the usual human interest stories from here and there. There has been no new news for a while”

  “And we would like it to stay that way, Signorina Otero.”

  “Except, of course, for this robbery you were talking to me about. What exactly was stolen?”

  “Nothing so extraordinary. A few envelopes.”

  “What’s in them? Something very valuable for sure. The cardinals’ payroll?”

  “What makes you think the contents were valuable?”

  “Must be. Why else would they put their best hunting dog on the trail? Maybe it’s a collection of Vatican postage stamps. I have heard that the philatelists will kill to get their hands on them.”

  “Actually, they weren’t stamps. Mind if I smoke?”

  “You ought to take up mints.”

  The deputy inspector’s nose took in the air around him. “Advice which you yourself appear not to be following.”

  “It’s been a long night. Smoke, if you can find an empty ashtray.”

  Dante lit up a cigarette and exhaled.

  “As I was telling you, Signorina Otero, the envelopes do not contain stamps. It’s a matter of some extremely confidential information, which must not get into the wrong hands.”

  “For example?”

  “I don’t follow. For example what?”

  “Whose hands would be the wrong ones?”

  “Those whose owner has no idea what’s best for them.”

  Dante looked around in vain for an empty ashtray. He resolved the question by flicking the ashes on the floor. Andrea took the opportunity to swallow some saliva: if what he had just said wasn’t a threat, she was a nun in a convent.

  “And what kind of information is that?”

  “The confidential kind.”

  “Valuable?”

  “It could be. I expect that when I find the person who took the envelopes, it will be someone who knows how to negotiate.”

  “You are prepared to offer a lot of money for them?”

  “No. I’m prepared to offer to let the person keep their teeth.”

  Dante’s veiled threat didn’t frighten Andrea, but the tone did. He spit out the words with a smile and the same tone he would use to order a decaffeinated coffee. And that was dangerous. She was suddenly very sorry she had let him in the room. She had one card left.

  “Fine, Ispettore. It’s been very interesting talking to you but I am going to have to ask you to leave. My photographer friend is due back any minute and he’s a little jealous.”

  Dante broke out laughing. Not Andrea though, not at all: Dante had his pistol out and was aiming it at the center of her chest.

  “Game’s over, pretty one. There is no friend. Give me the discs, or we’ll get a live look at what shape your lungs are in.”

  Andrea glared at the pistol.

  “You’re not going to shoot me. We’re in a hotel. The police would be here in thirty seconds, and you’ll never find what you’re looking for, whatever that is.”

  Dante wavered for a few seconds.

  “You know what? You’re right. I’m not going to shoot.”

  He landed a left with terrible force. Andrea saw colored lights and a solid wall in front of her. It took her some time before she realized the punch had knocked her legs out from under her and she was staring at the ceiling.

  “I won’t take much more of your time, Miss Otero. Just enough for me to get what I need.”

  Dante walked over to the computer. He pushed the letters on the keyboard until the screen saver disappeared and Andrea’s article appeared in its place.

  “First prize!”

  She managed to get halfway to her feet, one hand massaging her left eye. The cretin had lacerated the pulpy flesh under her brow, and blood was spilling everywhere. She couldn’t see a thing on that side.

  “I don’t get it. How did you find me?”

  “Signorina, you yourself gave us the authorization to do so by giving us your mobile phone number and signing the waiver.” Dante took two objects out of his jacket pocket as he was speaking: a screwdriver and a small, shiny metal cylinder. He shut the laptop down, turned it over and used the screwdriver to get into the hard drive. He passed the cylinder over the drive several times, at which point Andrea figured out what it was: a powerful magnet, used in order to completely erase the article and all the information stored in her hard drive. “If you had carefully read the small print of the form you signed, you would have noticed that one of the provisions authorizes us to locate your mobile phone by satellite, ‘in case of danger to your personal security.’ A clause put there should a terrorist infiltrate the press, but which has turned out to be very useful in your case. Just be happy it was me you met up with, and not Karosky.”

  “Ah yes, I’m jumping for joy.”

  Andrea was on her knees. With her right hand she felt around for the heavy crystal ashtray that she had been planning to take home as a souvenir from the hotel. It was sitting on the floor next to the wall, where she’d been sitting and smoking like a demon. Dante came close to her and then sat down on her bed.

  “Let it be said that we owe you a thanks. If it wasn’t for your petty theft, the disgraceful actions of that pyschopath would be front page news all over the world at this moment. You wanted to take personal advantage of the situation, but you were unable to pull it off. That’s a fact. Be smart and we’ll leave things as they are. You won’t get your exclusive but you will save face. What do you say?”

  “The discs . . .” Andrea mumbled a few unintelligible words. Dante lowered himself until his nose was touching hers.

  “What are you saying, Miss Charming?”

  “I said you can shove them in your ass, you bastard,” said Andrea.

  She brought the ashtray down hard on his ear. The rock-hard crystal collided with Dante’s head and the ashes flew in all directions. He cried in pain, his hand over his ear. Andrea sprung to her feet and pushed him over, and then tried to hit him with the ashtray a second time. But he was faster than she was. He grabbed her arm when the ashtray was an inch from his face.

  “Well, well. So the little whore has claws.”

  Dante squeezed her wrist and twisted her arm until she dropped the ashtray. And then he gave her a straight shot to her stomach. Andrea hit the floor a second time, the air knocked out of her, feeling as if a heavy lead ball were pressing down on her chest. Dante massaged his ear. A thin thread of blood ran down the side of his neck. He looked at himself in the mirror: his left eye was half-closed, he was covered with ashes, and there were cigarette butts in his hair. He walked back over to the girl and dragged her to her feet. He was going to punch her in the chest. Had he done it, he would have broken a few ribs. But Andrea was ready for him. Just as Dante was pulling back for the punch, she kicked him in the ankle of his stationary leg. Dante lost his balance and fell onto the floor, giving her time to run into the bathroom. She slammed the door.

  Dante got up, limping.

  “Open up, bitch.”

&n
bsp; “Go fuck yourself, asshole.” She said it more for herself than for him. She noticed she was crying. She thought about praying, but then she remembered whom Dante worked for and decided that maybe it wasn’t a good idea. She leaned against the door, but it was no help. It flew open, pushing Andrea against the wall. Dante burst into the room, his face red and overwhelmed by rage. Andrea put up her fists. Dante countered by grabbing her hair and dragging her across the room; he pulled a fistful of hair out in the process. He was a brute who used every ounce of his strength to hold her down. All she could do was tear at his face and his hands, trying to break out of his hold. He began to bleed, and became even more enraged.

  “Where are they?”

  “Go fuck—”

  “TELL ME—”

  “Yourself !”

  “Where they are!”

  He pressed her face against the bathroom mirror, then pulled her head back and slammed it against the glass. A spider spread its web over the mirror, with a round glob of blood in the middle that quickly dripped down to the sink.

  Dante forced her to look at her reflection in what was left of the mirror.

  “Want to keep going?”

  Andrea quickly decided she had had enough.

  “In the wastebasket,” she said in weak voice.

  “Good. Bend down and get it with your left hand. And no more tricks, or I will cut off your nipples and shove them down your throat.” Andrea followed instructions and handed the disc to Dante. He looked it over: it appeared to be identical to the one at the Vigilanza.

  “Very good. And the other nine?”

  Andrea swallowed hard.

  “I threw them away.”

  “More bullshit.”

  Andrea felt as if she were flying out of the room, and in fact she was, for a distance of about four feet, carried by Dante. He threw her onto the floor.

  “I don’t have them, for fuck’s sake. I don’t have them! Go look for yourself in the damn garbage cans in the Piazza Navona, you fucking pig!” Dante moved closer. He was smiling. She was very close to the edge, breathing as quickly as she could.