Papal decree

27

David Barry liked to get up early. Even before the first hint of sunrise he could be seen on his morning jog in Hyde Park. A full hour around the serpentine path at a fast pace, rain, shine, or drizzle. A thick fog limited his field of vision but not his desire to keep his usual pace. He trusted his reflexes to get him around any obstacle — a slower runner or a morning walker. Even on nice days it was unusual to see a lot of people. The park started to fill up when David finished his daily run.

His morning routine continued with a hot shower and shave. He put on blue tweed slacks, a blue shirt, and a blazer without a tie. He had a light breakfast, just coffee and toast. He didn’t have children to take to school or a wife to kiss before leaving, since they were 3,663 miles away on the other side of the Atlantic in Washington, D.C., and still sound asleep.

His office was ten minutes away by car, depending on the traffic. Learning to drive on the wrong side of the street was not as tricky as he had first thought. After three days it was as if he’d done it his whole life. He’d even started to think the English were right in the first place. He entered his building at ten minutes before eight. The doorman said good morning, and he returned the greeting, waited for the elevator, got in, and pressed a random button, then swiped his ID card through a digital reader that accessed a floor that did not appear on any button. Seconds later the doors opened on a floor filled with activity.

The CIA headquarters for Europe.

‘Good morning, David,’ a man in corduroys and a T-shirt greeted him.

‘Morning, Staughton. Quiet night?’

‘Weird,’ Staughton commented, before disappearing into a room full of monitors.

Aren’t they all? David thought as he went to his office.

The frenzied activity at that time of morning was incredible. People were shouting into telephones, at each other, into microphones and monitors. People walked with others, or alone, from every side of the office to another, holding a stack of papers, files, trays with Starbucks cups, empty trays, sandwiches, and cameras. Fuck, fuck off, fucking work, go fuck yourself, fucking Iraqis, fucking Afghans, fucking Russians, fucking Israelis, fucking Muslims, fucking Osama, fuck them all. We’ll make America safe.

Every day was the same. It wasn’t a job for just anyone, only for the best of the best, men like David Barry, who at forty years old had the qualifications to replace Geoffrey Barnes, the former station chief who had died in service, may God rest his soul.

The director barely had time to enter his office and hang up his coat.

‘David,’ a harried woman called.

‘Good morning to you, too, Samantha,’ he greeted her pleasantly.

‘Good morning, David. Sorry.’ Samantha’s hair was mussed up, but David chose to ignore it. ‘We have a problem.’

‘We always do,’ he said dismissively, then immediately showed her a smile. ‘Talk to me.’

‘Last night two priests died in a church in Paris,’ she told him.

David sat down and gestured for Samantha to join him.

‘Two priests in Paris,’ he said, as if making a mental note.

‘But there’s more.’

There always is.

‘According to our sources, this happened while they were being questioned by inspectors from the Surete Nationale.’

David frowned. ‘The French police? What were they questioning them for?’

‘Two other murders that had occurred earlier.’

‘That’s complicated,’ David yawned. ‘Let’s take one thing at a time. Who killed the priests?’

‘We don’t know yet.’

‘We don’t know a lot, do we?’ he said, a little disgustedly. ‘We can’t waste resources on unimportant things, Sam.’ He sighed and smiled to lighten his condescending tone. He liked his people happy. ‘Anything else?’

Samantha was reluctant to say the rest, and David was an expert at reading people’s expressions.

‘Out with it.’

‘Jack… Jack Payne was with them,’ she finally said.

David’s eyes got wider. ‘Rafael?’

Samantha nodded and lowered her eyes.

‘Was he one of the victims?’

‘We still don’t…’

‘Know,’ he finished her sentence, irritated. He got up. ‘Call Aris, please.’

Samantha got up and left the office to do it.

Jack Payne, aka Rafael Santini, was a legend in the recent history of the CIA. A real son of a bitch who had been exposed as a double agent in the service of the Vatican. A priest of sorts. David Barry had been close to him, a friend, and felt betrayed when he discovered the truth in 2006. He felt hurt, and he wasn’t alone. He still hadn’t gotten over it.

Two minutes later a huge, heavyset man in a well-fitting suit came in. ‘David,’ he greeted him.

The two shook hands in support and loyalty.

‘Tell me everything you know,’ the director asked. ‘Something new with Rafael?’ The name still stuck in his throat.

‘My team is on the ground, but those French bastards aren’t going to be open with us.’ He took out a cigarette and lit it. ‘But we know that the Surete was there at the time and the questioning involved two other murders in Paris and Marseille.’

‘What’s in the news?’

‘This is interesting, too. Nothing, because they know nothing.’

‘The French are fuckers,’ David considered scornfully. ‘No press, then?’

‘Not yet,’ Aris said, taking another draw on his cigarette before putting it out in the ashtray on David’s desk.

‘Do we know who the other victims were?’

‘I should have that information within the hour,’ Aris replied.

‘Do we know whether Rafael was among the victims in the church?’ He felt no sympathy for a Judas.

Aris shook his head no. ‘But there’s a simple way to find out.’

Barry waited for his suggestion.

‘Call him up,’ Aris said with disdain.

‘Who?’

‘You.’

Barry sat back down in his chair. What a hell of an idea. It was the logical thing to do. Aris was intelligent and pragmatic. He was good at analyzing situations, seeing the options, and coming up with solutions.

‘This could scare off the game,’ Barry objected.

‘On the other hand we’ll find out if he was one of the victims and if he’s trying to hide something. Either way we win.’

Barry thought a few moments. What would Rafael be doing in Paris with the Police Nationale? Was he being questioned by them? Had he died? When he came to himself again, he took out his personal cell phone and checked his contacts under the letter R. No number for Rafael. Strange. He knew he had his number and hadn’t deleted it. A CIA agent never deleted anything, since he never knew when he’d need it someday. Finally he remembered. He pressed J, and after several Jacks, Jack Payne appeared. He was listed under the name by which Barry had first known him. The bastard.

After a few seconds of hesitation, he pressed the green key and brought the phone to his ear. It started to ring. One ring, two, three. Pick up, pick up, he said to himself. Four rings, five, six, and… someone answered.

‘Rafael?’ he asked with a firm voice. He congratulated himself for having waited. It was he. ‘Hello. It’s David.’

Rafael said something David listened to carefully. ‘Yeah, we haven’t talked in a long time.’ More words neither Aris nor Samantha heard, since David hadn’t activated the speaker. ‘I’m in Rome,’ he lied, ‘and I thought of you. Are you free for coffee?’

A few seconds later Barry disconnected the call with a Perfect — I’ll see you there. He looked at Aris and Samantha.

‘He’s alive,’ Barry stated the obvious. ‘And he’s lying, too.’

‘What did he tell you?’ Aris wanted to know. Curiosity was an occupational hazard.

‘He was about to hear confessions at six, but we could have dinner at eight,’ he said as he left the office.

The others followed him.

‘Sam, I want you to check flights leaving Paris for Rome around five and see if Rafael is on any of them.’

‘He’s on one,’ Samantha guessed and left them.

‘Are we certain Rafael was in Paris this morning?’ Barry asked.

‘Absolutely. He’s on the manifest for Alitalia. The French confirmed this. He used his own passport.’

They went into a room crowded with monitors and agents carrying out surveillance on them. The various images were from satellite or closed-circuit video, covering different points all over the world. Barry saw Staughton, who was manipulating a joystick while also looking at a screen.

‘Staughton,’ Barry called.

‘Hi, David. To what do I owe the pleasure?’

‘Are you busy with something important?’

The monitor showed a woman talking on a cell phone on a busy street. She was carrying two shopping bags from Burberry. She was being filmed from above from a satellite four hundred miles high. Staughton zoomed out, and the monitor displayed the island of Britain.

‘Nothing that can’t wait,’ he answered.

‘I need to find the location of this number.’ Barry showed him the screen of his cell phone.

Staughton pressed a key that focused on the number. He rapidly dialed some keys and entered the number. He continued to send orders with impressive speed.

‘Are you kidding me?’ Staughton asked as he read the information that appeared on another monitor, along with a photo of Rafael, aka Jack Payne.

‘Do you know him?’ Aris asked.

‘Everyone knows Rafael. He gave me a lot of trouble.’ He also didn’t want to say a few ugly bruises. ‘When Barnes died he was there, too. He’s a tough son of a bitch.’

Barry knew the case. Rafael had nothing to do with the death of Geoffrey Barnes, Barry’s predecessor.

‘I need you to tell me where he is now.’

Moments later a red blinking signal appeared over a map on one of the screens.

‘He’s moving,’ Staughton informed him, continuing to strike the computer keys.

‘Where?’

‘In France. North of Paris, and taking off at high speed.’

The screen showed the red signal shifting toward the north on the map. Every time it blinked it shifted farther north.

‘Where is he? In a car?’ Aris asked.

‘No. He’s moving too fast.’

‘In a plane?’ Barry suggested.

‘We can’t pick up cell phone signals in a plane. Wait a minute,’ Staughton said, concentrating on his operations. A few moments later he left the keyboard and pressed the joystick: the image that hovered over the British Isles defined itself more and shifted to the south to focus on a long, narrow object moving very fast.

‘What’s that?’ asked Aris, who couldn’t see well.

‘The Eurostar,’ Staughton and Barry answered in unison.