The Holy Bullet

45

How many times do I have to repeat myself?” Sarah was irritated by Rafael’s umpteenth question. “Are you trying to catch me in some contradiction? I’m being held here in custody, is that it?”

“In some way you are. I don’t think you can freely walk down the street right now,” Rafael advised in a neutral tone. “The only reason I’m pressuring you is to get every fact that can help us.”

“Am I behaving well?” she asked sardonically.

“Perfectly.” He went on to show her. “Your colleague Simon was the victim of an explosion detonated on entering your house. You had the good luck, in quotes”-he emphasized the expression-“to be warned minutes before by Simon Templar.”

“Correct,” Sarah agreed in the same tone of voice.

“That means they’ve always known your whereabouts and decided not to act until the hospital.”

“But I was the one who decided to go to the hospital. No one made me. I went on my own will.”

“It’s irrelevant. You did them a favor. That way they could take both you and Simon.”

Sarah looked at Simon. She hadn’t thought of that. Maybe he was right.

“But Templar was against my going to the hospital.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” Rafael answered. “He could have simply made you think that. I’m sure you never suspected him.”

Sarah thought about that. He was right. Besides, he did know what he was talking about. It was his profession.

“That raises a question,” Rafael continued. “Who placed the bomb? Templar’s behavior tells us he knew nothing of the device, in spite of being a chameleon.”

Like you, Sarah thought, but didn’t say. She ended up feeling ashamed for the thought. He didn’t deserve that lack of respect. His way of seeming one thing and being something else had saved her life several times, as she never tired of remembering.

“Let’s not forget the Russian agent who was found, and that Herbert person they were waiting for in the hospital, but never appeared,” Sarah pointed out, a little more cooperatively.

“We’ll worry about the Russian agent later. In regard to Herbert, there is nothing to think at the moment. He’s only a name…”

“Like Jack Payne?” Sarah quipped. In the end her cooperation was fleeting.

“Like Jack Payne,” Rafael agreed.

“Who’s Jack Payne?” Phelps and Simon asked simultaneously. “I realize nobody seems to have a problem not using his real name,” Simon said.

“It’s a long story,” Sarah said. “Some other time.”

“Time is the one thing we have.” Phelps’s interest was apparent. “I’m very interested in hearing the story of Jack Payne.”

“Jack Payne is dead,” Rafael observed. “He belongs to another story. There’s nothing to say.”

Sarah helped change the subject.

“You mentioned a they just now. That have been following me. Who are they? Barnes?”

“No,” Rafael quickly corrected her. “Barnes is a puppet in the hands of other interests. He just wants them to leave him in peace.”

A hesitant clearing of the throat indicated Phelps’s turn to join the conversation.

“I don’t mean to be at all critical, but I’ve thought of a certain reason for the story only Sarah and Rafael know about.” In spite of the diplomatic manner, his judgmental attitude was evident. He turned to Rafael. “I believe it’s time to make everything clear. I don’t want to get into your joint history, far be it from me to intrude on your privacy, you have a right to it, but, when I asked Rafael a question last night, I was terrified by the answer, although it was evasive.”

“What was the question?” Simon was curious.

“Who are we after?” Phelps concluded.

“And what was the reply?” Sarah asked with her eyes fixed on him.

“John… Paul… the Second…” Phelps responded slowly, so that each component of the name weighed on them.

The silence was oppressive, and attention turned immediately to Rafael, who showed no sign of reproof toward Phelps or any sign of discomfort.

“Oh my God. The dossier on the Turk,” Sarah let slip, remembering the file that JC had left with her in the Grand Hotel Palatino in Rome, the one that was behind the bottle of vintage port.

“The one I was going to look for?” Simon asked with wide-open eyes.

“Yes.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Rafael tried to appease them. “It hasn’t been there for a long time.”

Sarah was angry. “What do you mean by that?”

“That it hasn’t been there for a long time,” Rafael repeated without a bit of emotion.

“It wasn’t where?” Sarah was afraid she’d lose her mind if he said what she thought he would say.

“In your house that exploded in Redcliff Gardens, behind the bottle of port, vintage 1976,” he said. “I was there to get it also, but I suspected you’d miss it.”

Sarah got up from the table, red-faced, upset with the outrageous back and forth about her life, and, what was worse, without her realizing it.

“How could you?” she almost shouted at him.

“Someone had to read it,” Rafael argued. It was a fair argument from his point of view.

“You had no right,” Sarah continued, hurt, although she might have felt flattered knowing that he was always present and attentive to her survival. She sat back down.

“We’re digressing again,” Phelps complained.

“Actually, we’re not,” Rafael answered. “The Turk’s dossier is an important element of this case.”

“In what way?” Phelps insisted.

“It’s a complete report on how everything happened, what led to planning the death of the Pole, who the conspirators were, what happened in the years that followed, and the consequences. An authentic, detailed account.”

“And where is it?” Phelps asked like a police inspector. “I’d like to read it.”

“It should be in my house,” Sarah protested, although more calmly now.

Rafael smiled. The second time Sarah’d seen him smile.

“You didn’t pay attention to it, Sarah. You fled from it like the devil from the cross.”

Phelps crossed himself on hearing mention of the devil, provoking a laugh from Simon, who tried to hide it.

“And where is it?” Phelps asked again.

“In a safe place. It’s better you not know its location for security reasons.”

“For our security? What’s the problem?” Phelps asked again. Ah, brave man.

Rafael confronted the three questioning looks without blinking.

“What do you think all this is about?”

“Why don’t you clarify it for us?” Sarah’s tone was serious.

“They want that report and to eliminate any and all threat it could represent, even though they’ve not yet read it,” he spelled out.

Once again because of papers, Sarah thought with a strong feeling of déjà vu.

“Don’t these people know they should leave nothing in writing?” she lamented. “And this has nothing to do with Albino Luciani and what happened to him?” She began to feel a certain fear. This was much more complicated than she thought.

“No. It’s about John Paul the Second and what we don’t know about him.”

“But, who are they?” Simon asked. His body began to ache again. He needed rest.

“The saviors of the Church. Those in command of the Church.”

“The pope?” Simon continued.

“No, of course not. Who thinks the pope rules the Church?”

“The conclaves, the election of a successor, the Swiss Guard, the prime minister. Choose one.” Simon presented an endless list.

“The commander of the Church is and always has been… money,” Rafael explained.

Phelps felt insulted by the remark. “Listen, Rafael…”

Rafael raised an authoritative hand, demanding silence. “Money rules the Church. Think of the banking system.”

Phelps sighed. What sacrilege. For her part, Sarah couldn’t understand where Rafael was going with this idea.

“Banks have to obey the directors of the Central Bank. They raise or lower interest rates, set policies, regulations-”

“Where are you going with this?” Sarah was the impatient one this time.

“To what is obvious. We have the Holy Mother Church, the Vatican, which is the face and regulatory agent that manages the wealth and advises what decisions to make to promote the faith.”

“For the love of God.” Phelps was furious. He got up and put his hands on the table. “What are you talking about? Surely the Vatican-”

“You’re mistaken. I’m speaking about Escrivá’s organization.”

“Holy Virgin.” Phelps crossed himself again three times in a row. “Heresy.”

“Escrivá’s organization?” Simon was lost.

“Opus Dei,” Sarah and Rafael said in unison.

“That seems like a theory without foundation,” Sarah contradicted.

“An outrage,” Phelps added. His voice trembled with indignation.

“Unfortunately it’s not a theory, it’s not even speculation. It’s a certainty. That’s the way it works.”

Phelps sat down completely crushed. “My God, I don’t believe it. There has to be something wrong.”

Minutes passed without a word, only listening to their breathing, panting, fatigued, nervous.

“Okay!” Sarah interrupted the silence, recalling conversations of this kind with Rafael in the past. “I think we’re all in agreement to tie up the loose threads. We want to know everything.”

The other two just nodded in agreement. Yes, they wanted to know everything… now. Sarah looked at Rafael seriously. We want to know everything… now.

“You can start by talking about the bodies,” Phelps suggested, crossing himself at the same time.

“What bodies?” Sarah felt goose bumps.

“This is getting more and more interesting,” Simon said with a sour smile.

“The bodies this guy went to pick up in Amsterdam. We covered five hundred miles with them before we got here,” Phelps said incriminatingly.

“Natalie?” Sarah said timidly. “The bodies of Natalie and Greg? You’ve brought them?” She couldn’t conceive of this repulsive act, snatching two bodies, people she knew, from eternal rest.

Rafael nodded.

“Why?” Sarah demanded. This man never ceased to amaze her. She had no idea how he felt, if he considered this good or bad.

“Among other reasons… for this.” Rafael showed them a small black object the size of a jacket button, circular, smooth.

“What’s that?”

“A CD.”

“That’s a CD?” Simon looked astonished at the object. “They make them that size?”

“They make whatever size is necessary.”

“And what does it have on it? Who had it?” That was what mattered to Sarah.

“Information Natalie had been investigating for a long time,” he only said.

“About what?”

“Emanuela and Mirella.”

“The girls?” Phelps asked nervously. “Good God, this is torture. I can’t believe it.”

“What girls?”

“My God. The girls.” Phelps covered his face with his hands, paralyzed. “Information about the worst that could happen to them, I suppose.”

“What girls?” Sarah asked again. The loose ends were getting even looser, instead of tying together plausible explanations. No resolution was in sight. Suddenly the conversation she wanted to have about the house seemed inopportune.

“Two adolescents who disappeared in Rome in 1983,” Rafael finally told her, ignoring Phelps’s comment.

“What do they have to do with this? Why did Natalie want information about them?”

“She was doing an investigation of the attempt against John Paul the Second. He deserved to die.”

The image shook her, impeding her formulation of the next question. It took her a little time to recover.

“But who are those girls?” Simon put in.

“It’s a delicate subject. It’s enough to know they were carried off in Rome by persons connected with the Church at that time. Despite having circulated the idea they wanted to exchange them for the Turk, they killed them a little after the kidnapping for other reasons.”

“And what were those reasons?” Phelps demanded.

“What I’ve said is enough.” Rafael’s expression made it obvious he’d say no more on the subject.

“And what about the other victim who died with them?” Phelps changed the subject. “Did that have something to do with the case or was he just caught up in the imponderables of life?” He was remembering the article he’d read in Schiphol airport that mentioned the English couple and another man, not yet identified.

“Are there other dead?” Simon felt he’d entered a world gone mad.

“He was the one who figured everything out. He was with the CIA, one of the founders, in fact. He was as good as dead as soon as he started following their movements. Ironically he’d just been relieved of the case the day before. His work was over. He’d reported something Natalie had been looking for in Bulgaria. This man, Solomon Keys, was going to spend a few days in London before returning to the United States. Natalie decided to satisfy her desires precisely in the place where Solomon, who now had nothing to do with the subject, happened to be. He probably had no idea it was her. The shooter never knew that it was Solomon Keys in the other toilet stall.”

“How is that?” Phelps was fascinated by so much information.

“The shots were fired with the door closed from the inside.”

“My God,” Sarah exclaimed, imagining the scene.

“You’re very well informed,” Phelps commented with some reservation.

Rafael said nothing.

“The Dutch authorities didn’t find the CD?” Sarah asked suspiciously.

“Of course they did,” he said. “And they handed it over to the person they had to give it to.”

“I don’t understand.” Sarah wanted everything perfectly explained. She had the right.

“There are behind-the-scenes games by the secret services that are not important here.”

“How did you know all this?” Sarah insisted.

“Nothing is invisible to the eyes of the Vatican,” he answered conclusively but evasively.

“And the girls? What do they have to do with the assassination attempt on John Paul the Seond?”

Rafael looked hard at her to be sure he was understood.

“Everything.”

The story was only getting more confusing. She wanted answers and, in part, had gotten them, but every answer contained new questions, new doubts.

“To summarize,” Simon began, “a supposedly religious institution, Opus Dei, does not wish known the circumstances surrounding the attack on John Paul the Second in 1981.” It sounded like a journalistic presentation. “For that reason they initiate an operation-I imagine that’s the appropriate term-the objective of which is to silence anyone who has or might have knowledge of the affair, as well as getting hold of all the documents pertaining to the case.”

Everyone listened to Simon’s synthesis. Sarah remained perplexed. She needed a cool head to make things fit together.

“They have the help of an enormous American governmental organization, and we’re here putting off the inevitable. Is that it?” Simon concluded with a question.

“That seems about right to me,” Sarah agreed. “So many things need explaining. I feel more confused than when I arrived here.”

“There is a question, though, that has still not been asked,” Simon said, analytically, hesitantly. “What is Opus Dei’s interest? We’re talking about a costly operation with a lot of resources. And what does the CIA have to do with this?”

“We’ll talk about that later,” Rafael decided. “Now we have to discuss what happens next.”

A vibrating sound interrupted them. Rafael’s cell phone. He listened without offering a word and disconnected in the same way.

“Um, by the way, I have to call home. Can I?” Phelps asked cowardly. “I have to reassure my family. I talk to them every day.”

“Of course,” Rafael granted. His voice was serious, professional.

“Don’t worry. I know well what I cannot say.”

“Me too,” Rafael informed him. “But before that, Sarah has to make a call.”

“Me?” She was not expecting this.

“Yes. We need to set your father’s mind at rest. I told him you’d call.” He put the cell phone in her hand. “And, in passing, ask him to tell his associate we need a plane for tonight.”