The Holy Bullet

47

Three people got out of the black car parked in front of the Holiday Inn Express. They went into the hotel for tourists on low budgets and short stays, passed the reception desk without asking for any authorization or room key, and went up the stairs to the second floor, where an open door revealed every conceivable variety of monitors, cameras, computers, and other kinds of unconventional technology, some top secret that cannot be identified, operated by a dozen agents packed into the tight space. Paying no attention, the three made their way to a room on the side. The door was closed. They opened it without hesitation and went in. They saw four men in identical suits looking out the only window in the room. Jerome Staughton, Thompson, Herbert, and Geoffrey Barnes.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” the recently arrived Harvey Littel, accompanied by his assistant, Priscilla, and Wally Johnson in military uniform, greeted them. “I see there’s been some progress.”

Barnes greeted Littel with a firm handshake. He didn’t try to hide his serious expression.

“Welcome.”

“This is my assistant, Priscilla Thomason, and the military attaché, Wally Johnson.” He gestured toward the two, whom Barnes greeted similarly with a frown.

“My assistants, Staughton and Thompson.” It was an exchange of introductions that left no one unknown. “This is Herbert”-he pointed toward him-“but you should know him better than I.”

“What’s new?” Littel asked, putting an end to the formalities.

“We’ve found the van they used in a private residence in Clapham. The bodies that were missing were there, but not a sign of the woman or the-”

“And afterwards?” Littel interrupted.

“We investigated the identity of the owner of the house and discovered-”

“What?” Littel again interrupted.

“Are you going to be quiet and let me explain or do you want to find out everything on your own?” It was a warning.

“My apologies. It’s your investigation. Go on.” Littel was sincere.

“We’ve discovered that the house is listed in the name of a multinational branch of a telecommunications firm called Hollycom. It didn’t take much looking to find out the company doesn’t exist. It’s a cover for our friends in the Vatican.”

“The Vatican?” Wally Johnson asked. “What side are they on?”

Barnes ignored the question from the recent arrival.

“We did an investigation of the property registered in the name of the company and came up with a Volvo only three months old. We sent out an alert, and your associate Herbert’s men here have come across it.”

Barnes asked Littel to come to the window. Staughton, Thompson, and Herbert moved aside to make room. Barnes pointed at a car parked on the other side of the street, a Volvo.

“It’s that car.” He raised his hand toward the house in front. “And Sarah Monteiro lived in that house.”

“Then we’re on the right path.” Littel rubbed his hands. “Let’s finish this. I’ll inform the subdirector, and we’ll return home today.”

“He didn’t come?” Barnes asked.

“Bed’s a big adversary when you wake someone up at four in the morning. He wants to stay informed and trusts that I’m capable of resolving the problem. Which means I can’t screw up.”

“It’s always the same shit,” Barnes protested.

Littel agreed with a glance and turned to look at the house again.

“Is there movement?”

“Yes, especially on the ground floor.”

“Then let’s not delay. Order them to go in.” Littel dropped his eyes when Barnes looked at him from his full height.

“Whenever you want.”

Barnes brought his radio to his mouth and pressed one of the buttons.

“Attention, Alpha Leader. The commander authorizes you to go in. I repeat, authorization to advance.”

Several seconds later they began to hear over the radio the operation taking place. There were three teams, the Alpha Leader, the Beta, and the Gamma. Alpha would go in the front, Beta in back and from above, and Gamma remained in reserve in case they needed reinforcement. It was evident that this kind of operation didn’t follow the same rules as special forces, although in part the principle was the same. Let’s not forget we’re dealing with forced entry into a house in broad daylight by a foreign governmental service with no jurisdiction, authorization, or knowledge by the country they’re in. So what better disguise than city construction workers to attack the house from the front, the Alpha team, and electrical line workers to go over the roof and enter the back, team Beta? An operation organized in record time, without much analysis of the layout of the building, which was poor planning they’d have to ignore. They didn’t expect much resistance. Gamma team was scattered along the street inside cars, reading newspapers at the number 24 bus stop, a street sweeper cleaning the sidewalk, a mailman, tourists with suitcases and a map in hand looking for a hotel.

Barnes and the rest listened in suspense as the attack by the Alpha and Beta teams unfolded. They entered with no difficulty or alarm. Everything was over in a few minutes. While the teams searched the rooms, they alerted Barnes about the situation, offering the word “free” to signify there was no one there, the area was clean. They reported just one person in the living room.

“Arrest the suspect,” Barnes ordered.

Littel was present without interfering.

“Subject detained without resistance,” the agent announced a few seconds later. “He says he has a message for the commander.”

“Repeat, Alpha Leader,” Barnes said.

“The subject has a message for the commander.”

Barnes left the window and walked out of the room.

“Wait, Alpha Leader. I’m coming down.”

“Received,” the agent informed him.

Two minutes later Barnes was in the living room of Sarah Monteiro’s old house with the entire group who had filled the room in the hotel in front.

“Who are you?” he asked brusquely.

“My name’s Simon Lloyd. I’m a journalist for the Times, and my newspaper knows I’m here.”

Barnes looked him over, and vice versa, evaluating the young man in front of him. He seemed nervous and rightly so. All attention focused on him, influential, powerful people, who with a gesture could end his life without thinking twice and later make up any reason to excuse it. Reality was a great fiction.

Simon tried not to show panic. This was the job given to him to carry out so Sarah and Rafael could complete their plan. Rafael reassured him everything would go well, but now, under so many hostile stares, he wasn’t so sure. Perhaps it was just an excuse to convince him. Sarah had warned him how manipulative these people could be. Let them be. The job would be finished.

“What’s the message?” the fat American asked unpleasantly.

Simon handed over a disc the size of a button to him.

“What’s this?” Barnes asked, looking at the object.

“I don’t know, but Jack Payne told me to tell you he’d meet you there.” Job over.

Barnes’s eyes filled with hate as he looked at the small disc.