“I want to go with him.”
“Me too,” Thompson declared.
“Very well.” He turned to the lieutenant colonel. “Wally, go with these two good men. Take them around Rome.”
“To Saint Peter’s?” Wally Johnson suggested.
“To Saint Peter’s,” Littel agreed. “Excellent idea. Pray a little, refresh their ideas, and at the end of the day put them on the same plane with their boss. It’s a promise.”
Littel gave Staughton a friendly slap on the shoulder and turned his back. Wally Johnson helped him toward the door. Thompson followed. Their last look before leaving the room was at Geoffrey Barnes, their unhappy director.
Three went out, another three came in, Phelps with the remaining prisoners, Rafael and Simon, who had an expression deeper than panic. Fear of death. Rafael could now support himself on his feet, although a little shakily. A swollen eye impeded his full vision. They were forced to sit on chairs next to Sarah.
“Take that body out of here,” Littel ordered no one in particular.
Since the only helpers worthy of the name in the room were Priscilla and Herbert, there was no doubt to whom the task fell. Herbert approached Barnes, took him by the feet, and dragged him toward the door.
“That’s not the most dignified way to treat the body of a director of the CIA,” Colonel Garrison warned. “There is protocol—”
“That can’t be observed at the moment,” Littel interrupted.
“If you want, I can take him by the arms,” Herbert malevolently challenged.
Stuart Garrison shot him a look of hate. Under other circumstances that boy would eat those words one by one.
Herbert continued the operation, dragging the corpse in stages. Immediately sweat began to run down his face. Barnes was very heavy.
“Now us.” Littel turned toward Simon, Rafael, and Sarah.
Phelps faced them euphorically. These three deaths were going to be expensive, but at least the loose ends had been tied up for three out of four. JC alone was missing, the astute old man. One only had to find the right time.
Sarah and Simon closed their eyes, anticipating the worst.
“Herbert,” Littel called. “Do the honors.”
Herbert promptly left off what he was doing. Barnes wasn’t going anywhere, after all. He drew his gun from the holster.
“With pleasure.”
“Do you want to say anything?” Littel asked with a sarcastic smile.
The silence spoke for itself. Simon didn’t dare open his mouth, Sarah was gagged. Even though she didn’t want to be silent, she had to be.
“Courage is stupidity in this case,” Phelps said. “I have a question, if you don’t mind.” He was speaking to Rafael. “Who did you speak with in the apostolic apartments that morning in the Vatican?”
Rafael smiled bleakly. “No one.”
“You won’t answer?” Phelps was furious.
“I am answering. No one. We were only there to arouse your curiosity. I knew that would draw you in more. You think you fooled us all, even the pope. It was completely the opposite.” His smile changed to a loud laugh.
Littel gestured with his head that Herbert was authorized to summarily execute the prisoners. Soon they’d only be names that passed from earth without leaving their marks on history. Rafael Santini, Sarah Monteiro, Simon Lloyd, forgotten by the world, would cease to count or even figure in the death statistics.
Herbert removed the safety on the gun, provided with a silencer, but Phelps grabbed it from his hand, infuriated, and pointed it at Rafael.
A shot.
Two shots. Whispered.
Before they understood anything, we see Herbert grab his chest and fall. The same for Phelps, who was already dead before he fell. A thin stream of blood ran from a hole in the middle of his head. He died without knowing how.
Rafael got up before any reaction. Priscilla screamed in panic. Sarah and Simon opened their eyes to see this hellish scene. Three corpses on the floor, Colonel Garrison trying to draw his gun, Marius Ferris shocked, completely astonished, Rafael behind Littel, his gun pressed into the assistant subdirector’s head.
“Do you want to say anything?” he asked close to Littel’s ear.
“Don’t do anything stupid,” Marius Ferris said.
“More than you’ve done would be impossible.” He pressed the barrel harder against Littel’s head. “Be calm,” Rafael advised him. “Look what you’ve done.”
“Me? I need to warn you it’s a serious crime to interfere with an agent of the federal government.”
“I’m not going to interfere. I’m going to kill you,” Rafael warned, grinding his teeth.
“Let’s be reasonable,” Garrison argued. “Surely we can come to an agreement without wasting more lives.”
“Are you concerned about your own, Colonel?” It was a rhetorical question. “I don’t remember seeing you concerned about lives in Moscow,” he added bitterly.
Garrison lowered his head.
Rafael looked at Sarah.
“Take off that gag.”
Sebastian Ford obeyed the order, shook out the silk handkerchief, and let it fall on the floor. Littel turned red. Sarah breathed in desperately, like someone had just pulled her from underwater.
“Barnes didn’t commit suicide.” She pointed at Littel. “He’s the one who killed him.”
Priscilla looked at her, frightened. Garrison lifted up his head in fury.
“How could you?” An accusing finger from the colonel.
“Ten million dollars,” Sarah clarified. “That was motive enough.”
“Right. Are you going to take the word of a criminal?” Littel countered with a superior attitude in spite of his precarious situation.
Rafael pushed him forward so hard that he fell on the floor next to the bodies of Phelps and Herbert.
“Look at the patriot.” Stuart Garrison pointed his gun at Littel.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Littel shouted. “Kill him,” he ordered.
The colonel shifted his aim to Rafael, who kept his gun on Littel.
“Don’t even think about it,” Sebastian Ford said, pointing a gun in turn at Stuart Garrison’s head.
“Drop the gun, Sebastian,” Littel ordered.
“Until we verify what happened here, there will be no more deaths. I’m starting an investigation, and if you’re guilty, Harvey . . . God and the president have mercy on your soul.”
“The president gave precise orders to kill the prisoners,” Littel shouted.
“And did he give orders to kill Barnes in cold blood?” Sebastian argued in the same tone. He turned to Rafael. “Get out of here. Disappear.”
“You can’t do that, Sebastian,” Littel alleged.
“This smelled wrong to me from the start, Harvey. Let them go now.”
Marius Ferris raised his hands to his chest and fell on the floor. A sharp pain ran through his coronary arteries, his heart put to the test by extreme emotion.
Rafael bent over him and murmured in his ear.
“God doesn’t sleep. The dead are going to take care of you now. Live many years with them. We’ll see you in the beyond.”
He escorted Sarah and Simon out of the Center of Operations.
In the room Priscilla cried like a child, Marius had fainted from the pain of the heart attack, Sebastian Ford remained with the gun pointed at the head of the hesitant colonel.
“Give me the gun, Colonel,” Sebastian ordered. Littel stayed crouched on the floor, looking into space, desperate, frustrated.
Sebastian Ford took the cell phone and made a call.
“Sebastian Ford, code 1330. I want a rescue team in the Center of Operations in Rome, ASAP.” He looked at Littel. “There are agents dead and arrested.”
He disconnected, and straightened the neck of his shirt.
It was over.
Chapter 72
THE CONFESSION
December 27, 1983
T
wenty minutes could be a long time.
In the narrow cell four people pressed together, only one talking, the rest listening.
Two years, seven months, and fourteen days he’d spent in judicial confinement for having carried out an unsuccessful attempt on the pope’s life.
The Supreme Pontiff sat on a small chair brought in especially for him. His secretary and the guard entrusted with preventing any possible menace against His Holiness waited standing up, although the latter had to pretend not to hear what was being said.
Not for a moment had the Turk left his position as a penitent, his hands touching the white tunic.
“Was it so simple, my son?” asked the Holy Father, to whom the gift of omnipotence hadn’t been granted.
“It was.”
“A simple phone call and a meeting?”
The other said nothing. His silence was agreement. Besides he was the one who had told the story.
“And his name?”
“I don’t know.”
“You didn’t ask?”
“No. He paid half in our first and only meeting. You don’t question men like that.”
“Where was that meeting?”
“In Athens.”
“When?”
“In March.”
They let the silence settle around them. He had to think more deeply about what had been said.
The Holy Father placed a benevolent hand on the head of his beloved, unsuccessful executioner. A sincere caress filled with positive energy and love from someone who knew there was nothing to forgive.
“In regard to the date and time,” the Supreme Pontiff returned. “Was that decided by you?”
“No. I didn’t decide anything. I received orders with the precise date and time.”
“How much ahead of time?”
“Eight days. Time enough to prepare myself. I arrived in Milan on the seventh of May and Rome, the tenth of May.”
The pope and his secretary exchanged glances, hiding the unease caused by that answer.
“Did you act alone?”
“As far as I know, yes,” the Turk responded, bowing his head.
“I believe you, my son.
“Was there a plan for escape?” Only the Holy Father formulated the questions.
The young man raised his head, letting his shame show.
“There was,” he confessed, bowing his head again. He didn’t continue.
The pope had to force his reply by lifting the Turk’s head so that he would look him in the eye. There was no room for pardons or vengeance. What’s done was done.
“To flee under cover of the confusion . . . stupid, I know now.”
“How were they going to pay you the rest of the money?”
“It depended. If I survived, fifteen days later in a place to be determined. It would be in cash. If I was caught, it would be given to my family.”
“Had you foreseen that possibility?”
“Never,” the Turk alleged. “After all, I fired six times. Even today I don’t know how you can be here talking to me.”
“No bullet can kill unless it’s the will of God.”
“I am completely aware of that. I know exactly where I pointed the gun.”
In spite of the kind attitude of the Polish pope, he clearly wanted to bring together all the facts of the case. Someone in the heart of his own clerical family wished him ill. Once he knew that, his disgust was incredible. It was as if they shared the same blood, since a man of the Church lived among his clerical brothers more than his family members. They were only a far-off memory of Wadowice on Ulica Koscielna.
He knew that the simple fact of being chosen by the Holy Spirit—and one hundred and ten cardinals—to direct the destinies of the Church had earned him many enemies. According to his mental arithmetic, at least half of the ninety-seven who voted for him. It was known that after a certain time, the factions in which the conclave was divided would have to reach a gentlemen’s agreement to permit the choice of only one of all those eligible. Besides those forty-eight cardinals and half of those who simply didn’t like him as a person, there were also assistants, secretaries, subsecre taries, priests, bishops, archbishops, monsignors, simple employees without a diploma in theology. Any one of them might be behind all this, but he could only manage to call one to mind.
“Does the name Nestor mean anything to you?” the Holy Father asked.
The young Turk searched his memory for the name.
“That name means nothing to me,” he finally said.
“Could it have been the name of the man who hired you?”
“It could.”
“Did he seem Eastern European? A Soviet?”
“Soviet? No way. American or English,” the young man replied.
Wojtyla got up suddenly, leaving the Turk on his knees.
“Holy Father, I’m worried about what they could do to my family.” He grasped the white tunic begging for mercy. “Protect them. Please. I’m desperate.”
The Pole looked him up and down, thoughtfully.
“Someone has threatened you, my son?”
“Me, no. But they’ve threatened my family. If I open my mouth, they’re going to pay.”
The pope assumed a serious expression. One had to adopt measures very carefully. The pieces fit together very easily. He needed no guarantee to feel that the young man’s admissions were the truth, without inventions, knowing he could even be sacrificing his family.
“Get up and listen carefully,” he ordered decisively. “From today on, your family will be mine, and mine, yours. I’ll protect them with all my power.”
Tears ran down the young Turk’s submissive face.
“But remember. Never tell this to anyone. Make up a new version each day. Say whatever comes into your head. One thing in the morning, and another, completely different, in the afternoon.”
The young man looked at the pope in surprise. The pope understood his confusion.
“We’re going to save your family and mine . . . ours. The best for yours and mine is that no one know the truth. The truth could kill the Church, my family, and, consequently, yours . . . ours.”
The young Turk’s legs doubled under him, and he fell on the floor weeping copiously.