The Holy Bullet Part 10

He didn't wait for Sarah's reply, but flicked a silver lighter and immediately touched the end of the cigarette, lighting it. Two deep breaths made the cigarette glow, and he released a mouthful of smoke into the air.

"Are those encounters still going on?" John Fox asked.

"I haven't seen them for two or three weeks, but I presume so."

John Fox got up and started to walk around the room.

"Sarah, there's no good way to say this, but-"

The telephone rang at this precise moment and made Sarah jump. The strident, continuous sound came from the cell phone on John Fox's belt. He finally took the device and put an end to the loud torture.

"Fox," he said into the phone. He listened to what they were saying on the other end of the line for several moments and began to show tension in his muscles. Whatever it was, it was not good news, that was certain. A dry sound marked the end of the call.

"Let's go," he ordered, closing the file and taking the photographs out of Sarah's hand without ceremony or courtesy.

"Her, too?" Simon Templar asked.

"Yeah, all of us. Let's go," the other replied, heading for the door.

Simon got up, Sarah, as well, confused.

"Where are we going?" she inquired.

"To Redcliff Gardens," John Fox informed them.

It took Sarah a couple of seconds to realize.

"What are we going to do there?"

John Fox punched in the code on the keyboard of the lock and opened the door before looking Sarah in the eye.

"They've found a body inside your bedroom."

"A what?" She gasped.

"What I said," he repeated and turned toward Simon. "As far as the corpses of the others . . ."

"The ones from Amsterdam?" he asked in confusion.

"Exactly. They disappeared from the morgue."

Sarah listened to this exchange of words attentively and felt a chill run up her body.

"Corpses? What corpses?"

20.

THE ARCHBISHOP.

September 26, 1981

The paper was stamped with the pontifical seal of John Paul II, two crossed keys, one gold, the other silver, joined by a red cord, below an azure ecclesiastical shield with a yellow Latin cross. The papal tiara with three gold crowns above the shield and keys.

Paul Casimir Marcinkus, t.i.tular archbishop of Horta and secretary of the Roman Curia, was a step away from being named vice president of the Pontifical Commission for the State of Vatican City, making him the third most influential man in the Church. The only thing lacking was the signature of Karol Wojtyla, who had his gold pen poised in his hand.

"Are you completely sure?" the German asked.

With a sigh the Pole set the pen on the desk by the side of the paper.

"He seems like a capable man."

"Think a little more." He sat in a chair in front of the majestic papal desk. "He doesn't inspire confidence in me."

"You don't trust anyone, Joseph."

"I do. I just think we're being manipulated."

"That's what brought us here," the Pole added.

The German cardinal looked at his friend and superior condescendingly. He was right, as usual.

"I understand, Karol," Joseph agreed. "But it troubles me to see him with more power. It seems we're giving him full powers. I'm sure with a little more time . . ."

"I made a promise when I was elected, Joseph. To protect our our family," he said emphatically. "I'm not going to wander from that road," he a.s.serted firmly. family," he said emphatically. "I'm not going to wander from that road," he a.s.serted firmly.

Joseph knew it wasn't worth contradicting him. Nothing was going to prevent him from keeping the promise. He'd made a commitment to G.o.d, and no one in his right mind reneged on an agreement with the Creator.

"Many people write about my actions, as you well know. I cannot take a step without being judged by someone, archived for posterity. When I announced I had pardoned the boy his act, everyone criticized it. It's hypocrisy. He's only saying it to look good. He's trying to be a saint. Not for a moment did they think, Who am I to judge the actions of others? Not for a moment did they say, Look, there's a sincere gesture. . . . As we forgive those who trespa.s.s against us As we forgive those who trespa.s.s against us."

Silence spread through the immense papal office. The major decisions of the Catholic world were made here. A simple signature on a sheet of paper with the papal seal had the power to change consciences, begin revolutions or inspire them, alleviate in a small way hunger in the world, poverty, provide shelter for those without homes, protect those whose forefathers rejected them. Here were created priests, bishops, archbishops, monsignors, cardinals, missionaries who carried the name of Christ to every corner of the world, a friendly word, a piece of bread, a gla.s.s of drinkable water, a smile accompanied by a kiss of peace. Here what couldn't be said was omitted, and truth embellished. Only in this way, complex, accustomed to concessions, negotiations, strategic accords, could the Church exist. The pure simplicity a.s.sociated with the image of Jesus Christ was not possible to implement in the world of men, unless by a superior man, like Christ himself.

"After all they managed to blame on the Turk . . ." the German cardinal defended him.

"That's precisely why I'm doing this. If in fact he was implicated, he won't suspect our distrust. Later we can investigate at our leisure."

"Perhaps you're right," Joseph conceded.

"When possible, I want to talk to the Turk personally."

Wojtyla took the pen at the exact moment the door opened and the secretary announced the arrival of archbishop Paul Marcinkus.

"Tell him to come in." He turned to the German cardinal. "Give me a minute, Joseph, please."

Thwarted, Joseph got up from the chair and left the office through a side door, at the same time the American bishop entered.

"Holy Father," he greeted him, making a motion to kiss the ring of the Fisherman on Wojtyla's finger, but the latter didn't extend his hand.

"Sit down, please." He received him seriously. "Would you like something?"

"I don't need anything, thanks," he answered with a smile.

"Have you had news from Nestor?" the Supreme Pontiff asked.

"No. Anyway, we still haven't finished what he required, Your Holiness."

"Yes, yes," he agreed misleadingly. "Remind me what he asked of us."

"They're interested in increasing the investment of IOR in South America and Switzerland," Marcinkus explained. He adopted a confidential tone. "In reality he's pressuring me. But I didn't want to trouble the Holy Father. I've made excuses for the preparation of the trip to the United Kingdom, and, at the moment, I've managed to keep it apart. But I always live in fear they'll make an attempt on you again, Your Holiness. It's a torment."

"Of course, of course. I appreciate, my good man, all you've done to protect me," the Pole said. He thought for a few moments.

"You can start investing in South America as you consider best."

"That couldn't be better news, Holy Father." Marcinkus smiled sincerely. "I'll make intelligent investments that won't hurt your good name."

"So I expect. I don't want another Ambrosiano, Marcinkus," he replied firmly. "But I haven't called you for this."

"No?" There is more to come? There is more to come? Marcinkus thought. Marcinkus thought.

"No." Wojtyla got up and looked out the window. "I want to tell you I'm going to name you vice president of the Pontifical Commission for the State of Vatican City."

Marcinkus looked at him incredulously.

"You honor me greatly, Holy Father. I'm speechless."

"You'll have more responsibilities, but I'm sure you'll manage them."

"Thank you, Your Holiness." Marcinkus was truly surprised.

Minutes later, alone, Wojtyla sat down in his chair again and signed the sheet of paper with the seal.

21.

The dark Mercedes van traveled down the E19/A1 expressway at great speed. Greater than the maximum of sixty miles an hour. Few drivers complied with the speed limit, and this Mercedes was no exception. It was traveling at ninety miles an hour, pa.s.sing the rest of the vehicles using less gas.

"Do we need to go so fast?" James Phelps asked with a pale, uncomfortable look from the pa.s.senger seat.

"Time's a-wasting, my friend," Rafael answered without taking his eyes off the road. "We have two hundred miles to go and four hours to do it in."

"Where are we going now?"

"You'll soon see."

It'd been like this since they left Rome by plane, and now this black Mercedes van.

The spa.r.s.e information provided by Rafael in only small, ambiguous portions, without going into detail deeply, or at all, affected the mood of James Phelps, always so calm and circ.u.mspect. His displeasure seemed out of place.

As soon as they'd landed, Rafael ordered him to wait for him right there in the airport terminal.

"Don't contact anyone, don't talk to anyone, unless someone talks to you. If they ask, say you're waiting for a family member to pick you up."

"Who's going to talk to me?" Phelps asked, astonished.

"I don't know. I'm only giving you these instructions as a precaution. You never know," Rafael explained calmly. "Take the opportunity to get something to eat. Two hours from now go to the door for arrivals and wait for me," he concluded, walking away through the crowd.

"Wait. Are you going to be so long?" James Phelps asked, but Rafael didn't hear him, losing himself among the crowd of just-arrived pa.s.sengers and reunited families in the arrival area.

Phelps strolled through the terminal for several minutes with a worried look on his face. He didn't want to eat anything, despite the advice, and, after an hour, bought the Times Times at a news kiosk. He looked it over carefully since he had nowhere to go in the next hour and nothing else to do. Night had fallen and the display screens spread through the terminal showed eight o'clock at night. He tried but couldn't concentrate on reading. To think that in the morning everything had been fine, calm, organized, and a few hours later . . . If he at least knew what had been said in the papal apartment . . . it would probably lessen his anxiety. at a news kiosk. He looked it over carefully since he had nowhere to go in the next hour and nothing else to do. Night had fallen and the display screens spread through the terminal showed eight o'clock at night. He tried but couldn't concentrate on reading. To think that in the morning everything had been fine, calm, organized, and a few hours later . . . If he at least knew what had been said in the papal apartment . . . it would probably lessen his anxiety. He's very intelligent He's very intelligent, he thought. With so many vultures surrounding him, this was the only way to manage all this without going crazy. Meetings behind closed doors, secret encounters. He is a brave man, a brave man With so many vultures surrounding him, this was the only way to manage all this without going crazy. Meetings behind closed doors, secret encounters. He is a brave man, a brave man, he reflected while trying to read the paper. a.s.suming it was he Rafael had talked with, of course a.s.suming it was he Rafael had talked with, of course, he continued speculating. That has to be it That has to be it.

He pursued these frenzied thoughts to fill up the wasted time without paying much attention to what he was reading. He glanced at the page, reading the headlines, until stopping on a story that caught his attention, for whatever reason something grabs our attention or doesn't.

An English couple murdered in Amsterdam.

An English couple had been found dead in one of the bathrooms at the central station in Amsterdam. According to the few details given by the authorities, it seemed to involve some sort of execution, since both had been killed with a single shot to the head. Their ident.i.ties had not yet been released by the Dutch authorities, who had joined forces with Scotland Yard to investigate the causes.

Lives mown down without pity. Someone had to gain from this, certainly, but was it worth the price? What would something taste like bought with human lives? Probably it would be tasted without caring, without considering the method used; otherwise no one would do it.

Two hours had pa.s.sed, and James Phelps, always keeping his commitments, even those he had not made himself, showed up outside the terminal arrival doors to wait for the strange-acting Rafael. Five minutes pa.s.sed before a black Mercedes van honked at him. At first he didn't pay attention, but when the automatic window on the pa.s.senger side rolled down and he saw Rafael in the driver's seat, he realized the beep was for him.

"What's this?" was his first reaction.

"A van," Rafael replied.

It took them around an hour and about sixty miles from the airport to the E19/A1 expressway. They had, as Rafael informed him, two hundred miles to get to a destination only Rafael knew.

"I don't like traveling at night," Phelps complained petulantly.

"Don't worry. Everything's going to be fine."

A little quick braking, harder than normal, but not too hard, caused a bang against the separator between the trunk and pa.s.senger compartment. Something had b.u.mped against the metal divider.

"Are we carrying something in back?" Phelps asked curiously. He looked through the small window of the divider, but could see only darkness in the back of the van.