The Holy assassin

42

Sarah and Rafael were late. They were due in Barnes’s office, ready for a not very cordial interrogation. That time had come and gone, and they didn’t show, except for himself, in the office. His solitude had been broken by brief visits from Staughton and Thompson reporting on the progress, which was nothing, and as the hours passed, that was worrisome. Priscilla had passed by to check on his physical state, and he’d asked her to bring him an order of roast pork with potatoes and oregano, the cravings of a body hungry for victory.

At that moment Herbert entered.

‘Don’t tell me they’ve found a hole to hide in?’

‘Don’t fuck around with me,’ Barnes shouted with irritation. ‘If you were better, you wouldn’t need to walk in our shadow to do your shitty job.’

‘Don’t doubt that if I were the one giving orders, I’d do it alone, with no help. You have hundreds of agents, and not one has managed to find them. As far as we know, they might have left the country.’

‘They haven’t left,’ Barnes insisted firmly.

‘How can you guarantee that?’ Herbert pressed, seeing Barnes worried.

‘My word is enough. They haven’t left the country. And I’ll tell you more. They’re still in the city.’

Even the younger man’s smile was without any feelings. More a grimace, livid, lifeless.

‘You’re basing that on instinct, Mr. Barnes. You Americans are very fond of luck and destiny.’

‘This has nothing to do with luck. I know the suspects well,’ Barnes said. Besides, I know that he’s going to find a way to let us know when he leaves the country. He didn’t speak this thought. You’ve got to have an ace up your sleeve that others don’t know about, even if they’re associates.

Herbert raised his hands in the air as if to say that Barnes’s arguments were worthless, but if he wanted to believe them, fine.

‘I’ve got to inform my superior about the situation in half an hour. What am I going to say? That we haven’t expanded the radius of the search because you have a hunch?’

‘Fuck what you’re going to tell him. My men are doing their job. I don’t have the least doubt that any moment now they are going to come through that door with something solid. If you want to tell him, I don’t think we are going to have any news until nightfall. So prepare him and yourself. It’s going to be a long wait.’

‘Who’s the man who showed up at the hospital? This Rafael who seems to have upset you?’

Barnes paused thoughtfully before responding.

‘A traitor. He infiltrated P2 in order to destroy it from the inside and almost succeeded.’

‘He managed to deceive JC and the CIA?’ A sarcastic smile.

‘You’re in no position to laugh,’ Barnes warned, chastened. ‘For all I know he gave your men a good looking-over three times. They probably don’t even know what happened.’ He laughed in an offensive way that seemed not to affect the other. He congratulated himself, thinking that deep down Herbert must have been angered. Nobody could be so cool all the time.

The office door opened to let in Staughton and the pandemonium of noise from the Center for Operations. Closing the door behind him cut off the exterior noise, leaving a silent movie unfolding on the other side of the window, an agitation without meaning.

‘News?’ Barnes asked, leaning back in the chair to give his younger colleague an impression of calm and control.

‘We’re analyzing the images on CCTV, but it’s like looking for a needle in a haystack. We can’t find any Mercedes with continental markings or the license plate in question. We see no bank transfers in the accounts of Sarah Monteiro or Simon Lloyd…’

Barnes laughed dryly.

‘What do you want? Everything tied up all nice and neat for you? It won’t be there.’

‘Where will it be then?’ Herbert asked maliciously.

‘Rest assured you’re dealing with someone who knows how we work. I get irritated, unhinged, fucked up, but we have to be rational.’

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘That he’s going to appear when and where it seems best to him.’

‘That’s not an option. There has to be a way to find them.’ For the first time a note of irritation could be detected in Herbert’s voice. Barnes was pleased and didn’t take long to show it.

‘We’re doing everything possible already,’ Staughton told him. ‘We have the CCTV on constant alert, not just in London, but over the entire country. All the police and border patrol have their photographs and know what to do if they’re spotted. MI6 is working with us.’

‘It’s okay they’re helping,’ Barnes interrupted. ‘I don’t much like their thinking about their own interests.’

‘There’s nothing else to do,’ Staughton declared.

‘What if we offer a reward?’ Herbert suggested.

‘Don’t talk nonsense,’ Barnes protested. ‘Publicize the thing? Have the journalists and public opinion all over us? What do we gain from that?’

‘Catch them sooner. People will do anything for money.’

‘It might not be a bad idea,’ Staughton put in.

Barnes crossed his arms and looked skeptical.

‘We’ve identified the man who took Sarah and Simon to the van.’

That got the attention of Barnes and Herbert.

‘He’s named James Phelps, an English priest assigned to the Vatican.’

‘The what?’ Barnes grumbled. ‘Son of a bitch.’

The three were silent for a few seconds. In this profession everything was a question of strategic analysis. Deciding what route to take to get to a determined objective, speculating about what the others would do. The more facts they had to fill in the blanks, the more accurate their speculation. When there was little information, everything was guesswork and hunches. Trusting luck was not good, but sometimes one had no choice.

‘What if we leave the priest out and send out an advisory on just the others?’ Herbert tried again.

‘It won’t work,’ Barnes said. ‘The woman has an influential position at The Times. It’s only going to hurt us.’

More silence.

‘What time is Littel getting here?’ Barnes asked.

‘Two hours from now.’

Barnes sighed.

‘Very well. Two hours. Until then we won’t do anything. When he arrives, we’ll make a decision,’ he blustered again. ‘Get me something in the next two hours, Jerome. We’re not looking good with our friends in Opus Dei.’ He pointed in Herbert’s direction, who noticed his sardonic tone.

The door opened to let in Thompson.

‘We have news.’

‘Spit it out.’ Barnes jumped up.

‘Between five and six a Metropolitan policeman, returning to his house after his shift, saw a Mercedes of the same description as our alert enter the garage of a house on Clapham.’

‘What are we waiting for, gentlemen?’ Barnes asked as he grabbed his gun.