Papal decree

31

‘Total concentration. Don’t take your eyes off of them,’ David Barry said, looking at a large monitor that showed several images of the interior of St. Pancras International Station and some even inside the train.

There was no better city than London for this kind of surveillance. The thousands of cameras spread over the city offered a vast view of everything and everyone in practically all public places, and with the proliferation of video cameras and cell phones, there was no place that couldn’t be watched. And, of course, there was the cherry on top: the high-definition spy satellites that surveyed the earth, four hundred miles in space, and could capture the glow of a cigarette with greater detail than a conventional camera a few feet away.

Barry resembled the commander of the Enterprise in full battle with the Klingons. He was in the center of the room, alert to every movement, ready to give orders as thing developed.

‘I want to see and hear, folks.’

‘The train stopped. It’s showtime,’ Staughton alerted them, moving the joystick that controlled the high-definition cameras of the satellite.

‘Anything from Sugar Grove?’ Barry asked.

‘We’ve intercepted two communications from the French police,’ Aris reported. ‘We’ve got the names of the victims now. There are four. Three in Paris and one in Marseille.’ He handed some papers to Barry, who looked at the names.

‘Okay, I want to know who these people are. All their strengths and weaknesses, who they associated with, the life they led, secrets, lies, heroic actions, even the size of their shoes.’

‘I’m on it,’ Samantha replied, taking the papers from Barry’s hand.

‘Sooner than later,’ Barry said, half-joking and half-serious.

The images showed people leaving the Eurostar from several angles, in a hurry, absorbed in their own lives, oblivious to the invasion of privacy in the name of the law.

‘They’re on the platform,’ Staughton informed them.

‘Okay. Pay attention. We can’t lose them. Who has the camera in the station?’

‘Davis,’ replied a technician with the same name.

‘Keep a sharp eye out, Davis.’

‘They’re not going anywhere without taking me along,’ he said confidently.

In the image Rafael appeared, followed by another man, walking toward the exit.

‘Who’s that with him?’ Barry asked. ‘I want to know who he is, folks. His name, Social Security number, and who he voted for,’ he ordered in a firm voice.

‘The agents in the main terminal are in position,’ Aris reported.

Barry looked at him seriously. ‘What agents?’

‘We have a team on the ground.’

Barry pointed at the monitor. ‘We have cameras. They’re our agents in the field. Get rid of the people on the ground before Rafael notices them,’ he demanded irritably.

‘But…’ Aris was going to object.

‘But nothing. It’s an order. You don’t know Rafael. He’ll notice them in a second,’ he turned from Aris and spoke slowly. ‘Take the team away immediately.’

‘Stand by, Travis,’ Aris spoke into a headphone, visibly unhappy.

Travis said something over the static.

‘Abort the operation. Repeat. Abort the operation.’

‘Roger. Operation aborted,’ Travis said.

Several cameras continued to follow a serious-looking Rafael. A handful of technicians controlled various areas to let nothing escape. The two men were in a customs line to show their identification in order to step on British soil.

‘Who has the cameras for the exterior of the station?’ Barry asked, always a step ahead of what was happening.

‘Davis,’ the same technician replied again.

‘Where can they go out?’

‘The station has five exits. One by metro, two for St. Pancras Road, and two for Midland Road. In the street they can take a bus, taxi, or rental car. Or walk,’ Staughton informed them.

‘Or take another train to another destination,’ Aris pointed out.

Barry shook his head no. ‘Whatever they’ve come to do will be in London,’ he said, raising his voice. ‘Pay attention to all the exits. We’re dealing with a professional who can make fools of us.’

A couple of technicians looked at Barry, amazed. Was that true? Then they turned to concentrate on the monitors. They could not afford to lose the target.

‘The suspect is in the main terminal,’ Staughton said. ‘He’s going toward the north exit to Midland Road. There’s a taxi stand there.’

Barry didn’t miss a detail. Rafael. How long ago did he last see him? Maybe more gray hair, but, all things considered, he was in good shape, as always. Cold eyes, calculating, scanning the surroundings. He would calculate all possible exits, but only he, and he alone, knew his plan. No matter what the movies said, the CIA still could not read minds.

‘Confirm the Midland Road exit,’ Staughton reported. ‘The taxi stand is next to First Capital Connect.’

‘Control the exit, Davis,’ Barry ordered.

They watched Rafael leave with the still-unidentified person and wait in line for a taxi. The priest took out his phone. Someone was calling him.

‘I want to hear that call, folks,’ Barry demanded. ‘I need to hear it,’ he pressured.

‘Direct from Sugar Grove…’ Staughton said.

Rafael’s voice could be heard all over the room. He was speaking Italian. We just arrived. We’ll continue directly to the location agreed upon. We’re waiting for a taxi.

God protect you, the other person said, and hung up.

An image appeared of Rafael putting his cell phone in his pocket.

‘Who was he talking to?’ Barry asked agitatedly.

‘Just a minute,’ a voice said.

‘We don’t have a minute,’ Barry grumbled.

‘Someone at the Vatican,’ Staughton answered.

‘Shit,’ Barry cursed. ‘Shit, shit, shit.’

‘Why?’ Aris asked.

‘We’re not going to be able to find out who he called,’ the director said.

‘When calls are sent to or from the Vatican, that’s about all we’re able to know,’ Staughton added.

‘Why?’ Aris insisted.

‘Because it’s the country with most telephones per capita,’ a technician explained.

‘There are more telephones than people,’ Barry continued.

Aris smiled.

‘I’m not joking,’ Barry said, with his eyes fixed on the enormous monitor. Rafael and his companion were next in line, only the taxi hadn’t pulled up.

‘Okay, here comes a cab,’ Staughton said.

The image showed one of the famous London taxis pulling into the entrance for passengers.

‘Pay attention to the address,’ Barry warned. ‘Keep your ears open.’

Great Russell Street, Rafael was heard to say.

‘Great Russell Street. What’s on Great Russell Street? Quick, folks,’ Barry took control of the operation.

‘Ah…’ Staughton entered the information into the computer. ‘I thought so. The British Museum.’

‘The British Museum. Why didn’t he just say “British Museum”? Do we have access to the cameras there?’

‘Main entrance, Great Court, and some rooms on the ground floor. Not all have cameras,’ said Davis, the person controlling the ground cameras.

‘Okay. I want a map of the place. Put some agents there just in case,’ the director said.

‘Okay,’ Aris communicated the order over the radio.

‘Does the taxi have cameras?’

‘No,’ Davis responded quickly. ‘I’ve already verified that, sir.’

‘Call me David, Davis.’

The image showed the companion getting in the taxi, followed by Rafael, who looked around and up toward the sky before getting in.

‘What’s he doing?’ Barry asked curiously.

‘He’s looking for somebody. Are there buildings around?’ Aris observed.

‘He’s looking up, Aris,’ Staughton put in. ‘Maybe he’s going to pray?’

Finally Rafael got in, and the taxi moved on to its destination.

Barry sighed and raised his hand to his chin. ‘Pay attention to the taxi, Davis.’ He turned to Staughton. ‘Go back to the image and focus it more.’

Staughton pressed some keys and in seconds recovered the image of Rafael looking at the sky. With further definition it seemed as if his eyes were looking directly at the satellite camera.

‘Bastard,’ Barry swore.

‘But where’s he looking, and what’s he looking at?’ Aris asked, concentrating on the image.

Barry smiled slightly. ‘At us.’