The Holy assassin

59

John Paul II.

‘Everything comes down to him.’

‘He’s the beginning and the end.’

‘John Paul the Second is dead.’

‘A man like that never dies.’

Where have I heard that before? Sarah asked herself, while she listened to the debate between Rafael and the barber.

They were seated at a narrow table, Sarah facing James Phelps and the barber facing the priest.

The conversation was between the latter two men alone. No one else was permitted to interrupt.

‘How did you get mixed up in this?’ Rafael wanted to know.

‘It’s Mitrokhin’s fault,’ Ivanovsky explained. ‘Have you heard of him?’

‘Of course. He worked in the KGB archives for forty years and put together his own archive transcribing the most important documents. Later he went into exile somewhere in the UK.’

‘Convenient, wouldn’t you say?’

‘You’re the ones who have to check for double agents. Naturally he quickly became the best friend of the British.’

‘He was anti-Russian, an idiot, a traitor.’

‘He passed your greatest secrets to the enemy,’ Rafael said provocatively.

Ivanovsky shrugged his shoulders, dismissing his importance.

‘Very few secrets. The British were the ones who took him in. The Americans didn’t believe him. After a certain point, we suspected him of duplicity and decided to give him misinformation.’

Rafael wrinkled his nose.

‘I don’t know if I believe that.’

‘Believe it.’

‘The powerful Soviet Union has an agent suspected of high treason and decides to give him false information instead of arresting and executing him?’

‘That’s exactly what happened. The majority of what is known as the Mitrokhin Archive is pure fiction.’

‘Bullshit,’ Rafael accused him. ‘He deceived them, and they made up this excuse.’

‘Don’t forget we are talking about transcriptions, not original documents. We don’t have to make up anything. Or even comment on the subject.’

‘But the British classified it as the most complete intelligence source in memory.’

‘And why wouldn’t they? Imagine that an agent of the CIA or MI6 transcribed documents, whether true or false, for thirty or forty years and passed them to us. Do you think we wouldn’t classify them as true?’

The two men looked at each other. Their scrutiny had ended, the analysis of each other’s words and character over. From here on nothing needed to be explained.

‘Everything begins with Mitrokhin,’ Rafael said as if thinking out loud, ‘who accuses you, among other things, of having planned and carried out the attack in 1981 in Saint Peter’s.’

‘With the help of the Bulgarians, Poles, and the now defunct East Germans,’ Ivanovsky added.

‘That’s where Mitrokhin caused problems,’ Rafael declared.

Ivanovsky frowned.

‘I see you’re well informed.’

‘I try to keep current. If Mitrokhin thought the USSR had something to do with the attempt, it was because he was led along.’ A meaningful wink.

‘That’s right. They tricked us.’

‘I know.’

‘We knew an attempt on the pope was imminent. We filled Saint Peter’s Square, and the blame fell on us.’

‘Who did you suspect?’

‘For two years we suspected the Americans.’

‘Why?’

‘The Polish pope at that time was enough to make anyone wet his pants with fear. It was Americans or the Iron Curtain. The Americans have done it before. They killed their own president in 1963.’

Sarah listened openmouthed.

‘Look who’s talking,’ Rafael observed sarcastically. ‘How many did your Stalin kill?’

‘Better not to go there.’

‘I agree.’

We all live in glass houses.

‘When did you stop suspecting them?’ Rafael returned to the subject.

‘When the girls disappeared in 1983.’

‘Emanuela and Mirella? Is that who we’re talking about?’ Rafael asked. There couldn’t be mistakes.

‘Affirmative.’

The wrinkled one, who a little while ago carried an AK-47, came into the room with a tray filled with four cups and a teapot, a sign the meeting was friendly… or not.

‘Who are those girls?’

The two men looked at Sarah with condescension. She couldn’t stand not asking. She’d heard of the girls. Phelps had called them girls but didn’t know who they were…

The wrinkled one put the tray on the table and left. Ivanovsky passed the cups around and served the steaming orange tea to everyone.

‘Mirella and Emanuela were two teenagers who disappeared in Rome in 1983. They were kidnapped by the same man at Marcinkus’s orders.’

‘Why?’ Sarah couldn’t believe it.

Phelps picked up his cup to drink the tea, but Rafael, without taking his eyes off Ivanovsky, placed his hand over Phelps’s cup.

‘The Vatican received three calls from a man who identified himself as “The American” and demanded the immediate release of the Turk in exchange for Emanuela’s liberty.’

‘And the Vatican didn’t give in?’ Sarah joined the conversation definitively.

‘The Vatican couldn’t do anything. The Turk was in Italian custody,’ the barber explained while sipping a little of his tea. ‘But that’s when we realized the attack could have been an inside job. That and other things we discovered later.’

Rafael lifted his hand from Phelps’s cup, permitting him to drink.

‘And he killed them?’ she asked.

The Russian looked uncomfortably at Rafael, a request for help the other understood.

‘They were already dead before the call,’ Rafael finally said.

‘How is that possible? Weren’t they the price of exchange for the freedom of the Turk?’

A new, heavy silence.

‘Let’s say they served other purposes and let’s not talk about it again,’ Rafael concluded peremptorily. He changed the subject. ‘Let’s talk about now. What was your man doing in London?’

‘Which man?’ the other asked evasively.

‘Grigori Nikolaievitch Nestov.’

Ivanovsky squirmed in his chair, disguising his unease.

‘I don’t understand,’ he stammered.

‘We’re past that phase, Ivanovsky,’ Rafael scolded him without altering his tone.

He took his first sip of tea, showing confidence. Every gesture counted. He let the silence spread through the room as the hot liquid went down his throat.

‘Grigori Nikolaievitch Nestov,’ Rafael repeated.

‘He was a good man. And a good friend,’ Ivanovsky confessed at last, his eyes looking into space and his memory providing vivid images of the dead man. ‘Tell me, have you heard of Abu Rashid?’

‘The name’s not unfamiliar.’

‘Who’s he?’ Phelps asked, wrapped up in everything being said.

‘Abu Rashid is a Muslim who lives in Jerusalem and sees the Virgin Mary.’

‘What?’ Phelps was scandalized.

‘It’s true,’ Ivanovsky confirmed.

‘Nonsense. I’ve never heard of such a thing,’ Phelps insisted.

‘It’s more common than you might think. Perhaps your friend from the Vatican can confirm it.’ The barber pointed an accusing finger at Rafael.

Rafael nodded.

Phelps and Sarah were shocked.

‘It can’t be.’

‘There are countless stories of similar things. But as fast as they appear, they disappear.’

‘What do you mean by that?’ Phelps asked.

‘Every time a case is identified, the subject disappears. We can go back more than three hundred years and the result is always the same,’ the barber said. ‘The same thing happened with this one.’

‘And what does Nestov have to do with Abu Rashid?’ Rafael wanted to know.

‘Nestov went to see Abu Rashid,’ the Russian barber explained, ‘in Jerusalem. We needed to confirm the veracity of the visions.’

‘And were they real?’ Sarah and Phelps asked, avid with curiosity.

‘We think so.’

‘You think so? You’re not certain?’ Sarah’s professional side awakened. Wrap up the interview.

‘We never saw each other after he went to Israel. We spoke on the phone. We know he met Abu Rashid and was disturbed by him.’

‘In what way?’ Another question from Sarah.

Ivanovsky ignored her and continued as if he hadn’t been interrupted.

‘He spoke about the visions. About London. A woman in London.’

Sarah swallowed saliva. She had to put her hands on the table to stop a slight trembling.

‘What woman was that?’ Rafael inquired. He didn’t want to lose momentum.

‘The name he gave was Sarah Monteiro,’ he revealed under pressure. It was an uncomfortable subject for the barber.

‘And what did that woman have?’ Rafael pursued.

‘He said she was keeping a secret that would answer our questions.’

Ivanovsky lowered his eyes, thinking about that moment.

They talked as if Sarah weren’t there.

‘And what are your questions?’

Ivanovsky turned around in his seat. ‘The main question is how did we get to this situation? Who were our enemies, and what part did they play in the whole disaster?’

‘The answer is yourselves,’ Rafael answered provocatively. ‘You can’t blame your enemies for your own faults.’

‘We had our faults, sure. Serious ones. More than anyone could imagine, but our enemies played the main role in the fall of our regime. And your pope was in it up to his eyeballs.’

‘Which one?’

‘The pope at that time. He didn’t care whether communism lasted, as long as national socialism was avenged.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Rafael protested. ‘Benedict the Sixteenth loved Hitler’s policies like a rat loves laboratory experiments.’

‘I have my doubts.’

‘I have my doubts about this democracy you’re living in today,’ Rafael answered.

‘Don’t we all. But, do you know what I say?’ The question was rhetorical. He didn’t wait for a reply. He answered his own question right away. ‘We’ve adopted the following phase of democracy. That of hidden totalitarianism. An illusory democracy that doesn’t even exist. It just seems to.’

‘I don’t question that. That’s obviously the road you’re taking. Don’t forget I know no other regime than a totalitarian one.’

‘Ah, yes. How could I forget. The clergy is stuck in the Middle Ages. It suits you.’

‘Putin is no daisy, either.’

‘I have no comment. He’s my president.’

‘Did Abu Rashid say anything else?’

It was better to avoid provocations. Let’s not get off track.

‘He said the temptation was great, but Nestov shouldn’t go to London under any pretext. He would not return-’

‘-alive.’ Sarah completed his sentence, astonished.

Ivanovsky shut his eyes.

‘Rafael knows we’re pragmatic men.’

‘Of course.’

‘Rationalizations. If we have a clue, we don’t think twice. Besides, it wasn’t really a threat, more a suggestion.’

‘What is certain is that Rashid was right. We don’t know if it was coincidence or certainty.’

Silence settled over the room as an homage to Nestov’s soul and respect for the Muslim’s prophetic gift.

‘I don’t believe the prophet was referring to the secret that marked the end of the communist regime,’ Rafael declared after a little.

‘No?’ The Russian was amazed.

‘No.’

‘What are we talking about then?’

‘Of the total rehabilitation of the old Soviet Union in relation to planning and executing the attempted assassination in 1981,’ the Italian recited.

‘We know what we did and didn’t do.’

‘But the world doesn’t. Seventy percent of Catholics believe that you, the Bulgarians, Poles, and East Germans were responsible for the failed attempt. And the Italian Mitrokhin commission didn’t help.’

‘That commission was a farce. Mitrokhin was a fraud,’ the barber grumbled.

‘But it has a voice. The doubt will always persist.’

‘And the secret ends the doubts?’

‘It ends them. But even with all the proof in the world, doubts will always exist.’

‘That’s like everything.’

‘In any case, don’t forget you gave orders to the Poles to do away with him.’

‘I don’t know that.’

‘Naturally. Twenty-five frustrated attempts are reason enough for not knowing. Tell me something. Have you heard of a man named Nestor?’

Ivanovsky thought for a few moments.

‘I don’t believe I’ve ever known anyone by that name.’

‘He was a KGB agent,’ Rafael observed, half closing his eyes, waiting for a reply.

Ivanovsky shook his head no.

‘I’ve never heard of him. I’ll have to look in the personnel files.’

Rafael took another sip of cold tea. ‘To summarize, Mitrokhin deceived them with a trick by giving a date you didn’t know how to get out of. You know someone tried to kill the pope, which would have been a big favor for you if the attempt had come off, but they failed, and, worse than that, you got the blame. You don’t have any idea who planned the attack of ’eighty-one, do you?’ Rafael spoke too rapidly.

‘We have some suspects.’

‘Who?’

‘Personnel in the pay of the CIA, Italians, Muslims.’

‘Cold, cold, cold, my friend. They were all terrified, but they didn’t have time.’

‘But our major suspect is someone inside the Vatican,’ Ivanovsky suggested.

‘As simple as that.’ Rafael struck the table with the palm of his hand, sanctioning the Russian’s answer.

‘You should be the first to deny it,’ Ivanovsky argued.

‘Then I deny it,’ Rafael said. ‘How do you come into the story now?’

‘How do you come in?’

‘By chance.’

‘Same with us.’

‘Who were you watching?’ Rafael tried a different approach.

‘We watch everyone.’

Bad. The conversation was better, Sarah thought. It’s one thing to confide actions and information from the past, another to describe the situation of the present.

‘I’ll ask you something else. Why did you kill the English couple and CIA man in Amsterdam?’

To Sarah those words were like a punch in the stomach. Were they the ones who killed her friends in cold blood? She couldn’t believe it.

‘We haven’t killed anyone in Amsterdam recently,’ the Russian said. ‘Why?

‘They had a CD with interesting information, obtained and held by the KGB until ’ninety-one and afterwards by your excellencies who inherited the file.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Come on, Barber. We were doing so well… It’s natural to have your enemies and allies under constant surveillance. The Holy See does also. Everyone does. What’s curious is you’ve kept an organization like Opus Dei under your watchful gaze. That’s what isn’t normal.’

Sarah calmed her inner hurricane. But doubt remained. His saying they didn’t do it could be true or not.

Ivanovsky swallowed hard.

‘We used the woman to demonstrate we were on top of things. We gave her the disc with intelligence about what happened to the girls, but we didn’t kill the couple.’ He thought about whether to continue.

There was something that made him trust the Italian, and, really, his instincts had never let him down. Ivanovskys had always had an innate talent for choosing the winning side in history.

‘Their murder only shows one thing…’ He hesitated again.

‘That you were being spied on or that whoever alerted you to the problem didn’t speak to you alone.’

‘Don’t make stuff up.’

‘I’m not,’ Rafael ventured firmly. He had already figured out the whole web, or, at least, part of it. ‘Who put you on the trail of Opus Dei?’

‘That information is confidential.’

‘Everything we’ve said is confidential.’

The vacillating expression on the Russian’s face made clear his inner conflict between duty and continuing. His confidence in Rafael gained ground.

‘Let’s say that someone alerted us to certain actions of that organization. Facts that turned out to be consistent and trustworthy,’ the barber explained. He got up to get an old bottle with clear liquid on a tray. He poured a little in the cup that had held the tea. The smell of alcohol filled the nasal passages of everyone present.

‘Does anyone else want some?’

He held the mouth of the bottle over Phelps’s cup, but Phelps put his hand up to decline. Rafael accepted and let him fill his cup. Sarah also declined the offer.

‘Cheers,’ Rafael toasted, lifting his cup.

Ivanovsky joined him, lifting his cup with a thoughtful look.

‘What was the interest of this someone?’ Rafael asked.

The barber took a drink of vodka and took out a cigarette.

‘Do you mind if I smoke?’

The question did not require an answer, since as he asked he was striking a match and lighting the cigarette. He leaned back, not far enough to fall, making himself comfortable. He had only to cross his legs and put his feet on the table to complete the scenario, but the narrow space of the room prevented those comforts. He crossed his arms with the cigarette held between the fingers of his right hand, letting the ashes fall on the table. Silence was the only reply.

‘I’m going to tell you what I think happened,’ Rafael announced. ‘Someone sweet-talked you, which didn’t take much, and put you on the trail of Opus Dei. It’s not hard to figure out what they’re doing. I bet that after a few days you got the general picture.’

‘And what’s that?’ It was the Russian’s turn to be sarcastic. A little jab.

‘That’s what you don’t understand. On the one hand you found a large-scale operation; on the other you couldn’t find the thread to lead you to what’s going on. Your friend, this someone, shed some light, very little, only what was necessary. I’ll bet it was he who gave you the CD with instructions to give it back after you’d analyzed and processed it. So you ended up knowing everything had to do with the Pole. Or better, you ended up knowing what that someone wanted you to know.’

‘It’s a nice guess,’ Ivanovsky interrupted with the same sarcasm.

‘What else did you find out?’ Rafael continued. ‘That the rich clergymen had ended up allying themselves with the CIA and were killing right and left.’

The expression on Ivanovsky’s face changed.

‘Who told you that?’ he asked with irritation.

‘You know the fact that we have God on our side is a big advantage,’ Rafael finally answered, taking a sip of vodka. ‘It makes us omniscient.’

‘And how does this strike you?’ Ivanovsky asked, like someone who doesn’t like something.

‘Are you asking me?’

‘I am.’

‘Well, my guess seems plausible.’ A statement loaded with venom.

‘Why has Opus Dei conspired with the CIA? What’s the purpose?’ the Russian demanded, interrupting him.

‘What do you think?’ Rafael answered with a question, testing the situation.

‘Burning the file,’ Ivanovsky finally said.

‘Burning the file?’ Phelps stammered out. ‘What’s that?’

‘When someone eliminates loose ends,’ Rafael explained.

‘Do you agree?’ the barber asked Rafael. He was visibly interested.

‘I won’t say no. But why?’

‘When they killed the pair in Amsterdam, that’s what they wanted to make understood. Why is not easy to make out, but burning the file presupposes the elimination of elements that could undermine certain interests,’ he explained in a casual tone.

‘Everything has to do with John Paul the Second. Isn’t that what I said?’ the man from the Vatican reminded them.

‘Exactly,’ the barber confirmed.

‘But John Paul the Second is dead.’

‘Of course he is,’ the other said thoughtfully. ‘Which takes us down other roads.’

‘What roads?’ Rafael didn’t drop his guard. Everything had to come out. Ivanovsky understood that. Confidence had been established, plainly.

‘Opus Dei, as they call themselves, took care of the English couple as well as the CIA man, we believe mistakenly, a Spanish priest from Santiago de Compostela, and, presumably, Marcinkus in the United States.’

‘A priest from Santiago de Compostela? Are you certain?’ Rafael interrupted.

‘Yes. Though I didn’t come across his name,’ Ivanovsky excused himself. ‘Why? Is there a problem?’

A black cloud crossed Rafael’s face, but vanished soon.

‘No, go on.’

‘We have already analyzed all the communications we had access to, surveillances, agents in the field, and we came up with two possibilities.’ He raised his finger. ‘Either they wanted to eliminate something based on a decision the Pole made during his life…’

‘What?’ Sarah and Phelps protested. Sarah believed the goodness emanating from Wojtyla was genuine and could not imagine ordering killings in his name to clean up anything.

‘How dare you?’ Phelps defended the deceased pope.

Ivanovsky ignored them and raised his other finger.

‘Or Opus Dei has something rotten in its past it wants to hide. We’ve done an exhaustive investigation. We’ve done it for years and come to an interesting conclusion.’ He stopped speaking for several moments to increase the suspense. ‘There was a bishop in the Vatican, who’s been mentioned, who was not what he seemed.’

‘No one is what he seems in any way. Especially in the Vatican,’ Rafael declared.

‘This bishop got around quite smoothly. He used bankers, cardinals, priors, politicians, economists. He could do anything. Except pray. He was rarely seen at prayer, unless he had to say Mass. He gained the confidence of people. He was good friends with Paul the Sixth.

‘The interesting fact we’ve discovered is that, in addition to being a member of a Masonic lodge, he was also a member of Opus Dei. We’ve uncovered this through facts found among his belongings. Opus Dei would never permit such a thing to be known. We also discovered an immense scheme of illegal financial manipulations done for this gentleman and his partners with the knowledge of certain members of the Vatican Curia, the Masonic lodge, and Opus Dei, although none of them knew that the others also knew about this. It was a deception carried out well by the bishop. His name was-’

‘Paul Casimir Marcinkus,’ Rafael completed his words.

‘Correct.’

Him again, Sarah murmured to herself. Always him.

‘Marcinkus,’ Phelps said with hate in his voice. ‘He never had any respect for the Church. An arrogant egomaniac.’

‘You knew him?’ the Russian asked.

‘I knew him. I was insulted and humiliated by that man.’

‘When was that?’ Rafael wanted to know.

‘When?’ he responded with a question. He was nervous. ‘When? When they discovered all his dirty dealings.’

‘Do you mean you had knowledge of what we just said?’

‘A little,’ he replied nervously.

‘You’re the first person I know who knew Marcinkus was Opus Dei.’

‘Well…’ He hesitated. ‘I didn’t…’

Suddenly Phelps raised his hand to his chest and looked like he was in pain.

‘Are you all right?’ Sarah asked, worried.

Phelps said nothing. He grabbed his chest with his hand and fell from his seat, striking his head on the floor.

‘Vladimir,’ Ivanovsky shouted.

The Englishman twisted in pain.

Rafael placed his hand on his chest. ‘Do you need air?’

Phelps confirmed with a gesture. He was in agony.

‘Vladimir,’ Ivanovsky shouted again. ‘Let’s sit him up,’ the barber suggested.

‘No. Let him be,’ Rafael ordered. ‘We shouldn’t force him.’

A tear rolled down Sarah’s face. ‘What’s wrong with him?’

No one answered. The wrinkled one came into the room.

‘What’s happening?’

‘Get the car and call Mikhail. We have to take him to the hospital.’

Vladimir left the room running.

A last grimace of pain, and Phelps lost consciousness. In spite of everything, calm descended on the room instantly.

Sarah looked at him collapsed, white, and turned her glance to Rafael.

‘A heart attack,’ he said.

‘That’s right,’ the Russian agreed.

‘Oh my God,’ Sarah exclaimed.

‘We have to get him to a hospital as soon as possible,’ Rafael advised.

‘We’re already taking care of that,’ Ivanovsky said. ‘Let’s go to the veterans’ hospital.’

Speaking Russian, he and Rafael separated a little from Sarah.

‘He knows something we need to know,’ he whispered.

‘It seems to me there is someone above all of us who knows much more,’ Rafael reflected.

‘Who?’

‘Your friend someone. I think I know who he is.’

The other looked at him, frightened.

‘Pray to God this one survives,’ Rafael said, turning around next to Sarah, who was on her knees over Phelps, pressing his inert hand.