Papal decree

38

From the street, the church could not be seen. It was hidden under a dark, filthy viaduct. Above, the constant noise of trains made the foundations vibrate in that same place where it had stood long before there had been trains and viaducts. The church wasn’t always set in that kind of subterranean underworld, but within a community, and its tiled roof had shimmered in the weak British sunshine. People came to the small Catholic church for morning services, especially on Sundays. These days it was just a grimy, forgotten building under a viaduct, which sheltered Rafael from the light rain that had begun to dampen London.

He had abandoned the taxi a half mile from the British Museum, walked another few yards to Tottenham Court Road, and called another taxi, which left him a few hundred feet from the church. He quickly covered the distance to the Church of St. Andrew and found the door, bare of paint from the passage of time, open. He entered without making any noise. No one was there. A candle burned next to the altar. The church couldn’t hold more than fifty people, but rarely had that many over the years. Perhaps a handful of faithful still attended, more out of fear of God and respect for the priest than for any other reason. The walls, once white, looked darkened by cars and trains. The light was faint. Next to the candle were one or two low-voltage bulbs.

Rafael kneeled at the altar, blessed himself, and prayed briefly.

‘Hello,’ he heard a voice say.

Rafael got up and looked at a man with completely white hair. ‘Hi, Donald,’ he greeted him.

‘What the fuck,’ the other cursed.

Rafael smiled. ‘You were always gracious.’

‘What are you doing here, you prick?’ Donald was clearly not enjoying the visit.

‘Seeing a friend.’

‘You must have the wrong place. No one is your friend here.’

Rafael didn’t give the slightest sign of being offended. Donald greeted all his friends like this.

‘Have you got yourself into a mess, Santini?’

‘Have you ever seen me not in one?’ Rafael responded.

Donald said nothing for a few moments. He looked at Rafael disdainfully, then looked around the minuscule space and turned his back. ‘Follow me… or get out. Whatever you want.’

The sacristy was to the left of the altar as one approached.

When Rafael entered, Donald had already poured the golden liquid of a bottle of whiskey into two glasses. He opened a wooden box from which he took some tobacco and filled the bowl of his pipe. He struck a match and held it above the tobacco, sucked vigorously to get it lit, and in less than a minute was relaxing in a chair to enjoy the drink and tobacco. Rafael sat down also, without Donald’s invitation, and grabbed the second glass of malt scotch. He wasn’t in the habit of drinking in the morning, but he needed this one. It had been a long night. There were some who drank for fewer reasons than this.

‘How are things in Rome?’ Donald asked, finally breaking the silence.

Rafael sipped a little of his drink before replying. ‘Same as always.’

Donald frowned. ‘Still fucked up, huh.’ The Englishman got up and went over to a closet. ‘How many do you need?’

‘One.’

‘Only one?’

‘Only one.’

‘And they? How many are there?’ Donald’s voice was friendlier as he continued looking through the closet for something, with his back toward Rafael.

‘You never know, Donald.’

‘Of course not. That’s shitty.’

Donald approached with a package and a box and put them down by Rafael. ‘Take your choice.’

Rafael unwrapped the tissue around a Glock 19 9mm. He tried it out, chambered a load from the magazine he attached, and aimed. Then he opened the box that contained a Beretta 92FS of the same caliber. He didn’t even test it. He put it in his jacket pocket along with two magazines of 9mm bullets. Donald looked at him curiously.

‘Made in Italy,’ Rafael explained, getting out of the chair. ‘Has any Jesuit asked for your help?’

‘The Jesuits don’t need me. They have their own methods. Besides, they have Nicolas.’

‘Who is Nicolas?’

Donald got up and accompanied Rafael out of the sacristy. ‘Nicolas is the man who carries out their jobs. The Jesuit front line. He’s the one who solves their problems.’

‘Where can I find him?’ Rafael was visibly interested in this information.

‘I have no idea. I don’t even know where he’s from. Some Jesuit will know. He’s one of them. Talk to Robin.’

The two men went to the door.

Donald offered his hand. ‘I’m not going to wish you good luck because you’re a tough son of a bitch.’

Rafael smiled. ‘Keep your head down for a few days,’ he advised. ‘Things are going to get hot.’