The Holy Bullet Part 18

"John Paul the Second," Phelps admitted. "Then we're on the trail of his legacy."

Rafael turned toward Phelps and looked at him gravely before immediately returning his eyes to the motorway and the red lights from the vehicles in front of them heading for the frenzy of the capital, neither confirming nor denying Phelps's conjecture. All in due course.

Although Phelps was driven by morbid curiosity about Rafael's orders from Benedict XVI, sleep began to overcome him. He'd been awake for almost twenty-four hours, and the movement of the van and engine noise began to sound like a cat purring. He closed his eyelids against his will.

When he noticed Rafael change direction, he opened his eyes.

"Are we there yet?"

"Not yet," Rafael answered. He was looking at the side mirror. "Someone's following us."

"Seriously?" A lump formed in Phelps's throat, dispersing sleep completely. "We're being followed by someone?"

Rafael accelerated the van in the direction of a secondary road. Phelps bent his head to look in the side mirror at the white lights shining at the van. His heart pumped blood faster through his body. His breathing tightened.

"Are you sure?" he asked fearfully, without taking his eyes from the mirror.

"Absolutely."

"What are you going to do?"

"Nothing," Rafael said. "Keep going."

"Where are we going?"

"A little farther and we'll know."

Phelps undid the top b.u.t.ton of his shirt, suspicious, distressed.

"I'm not feeling well," he announced. "Rapid heartbeat."

"It's nerves," Rafael said. His attention was on the road and the car following them, without any sign of worry.

"You . . . you're not scared?" Phelps asked with his mouth crying out for something wet to placate his thirst.

"Afraid of what?"

Rafael insisted on not looking at him and a.s.sumed an insensitive tone highly discomforting to Phelps.

"Of them." He pointed behind them.

"No," Rafael replied dryly.

Phelps looked at the side mirror again, estimating the distance that seemed to have shortened more each time he looked, according to his eyes, not very trustworthy at this hour.

He wanted to ask more questions, but Rafael's expression wasn't encouraging. Best to wait to see if this pa.s.sed; let's hope it did with G.o.d's help.

These doubts disappeared when Phelps saw the lights of the pursuing car almost b.u.mping the van, leaving him worried and full of panic. The speed of the two vehicles wasn't fast, less than fifty miles an hour, and every time he looked at Rafael, he didn't seem willing to go faster.

"Don't you think we should speed up?" he asked at last in a voice heavy with fear.

"There's no danger."

"No?"

"No. Whoever's watching isn't going to let us see him."

"Are you saying they aren't following us?"

The vehicle behind signaled the van with its lights. Phelps understood less and less what was happening. And still less when Rafael came to a complete stop.

"What are you doing?"

"Stopping."

"Isn't that dangerous?"

"No." Rafael unfastened his seat belt and opened the door. "Stay here."

Phelps wanted to protest, but Rafael closed the door, leaving him stamping his foot. He used the side mirrors to try to see what was happening. The lights of the other car were turned off, and he saw two men getting out and approaching Rafael, who waited for them calmly, leaning on the back of the Mercedes. They shook hands, which was a relief. Bad guys didn't greet their future victims. If it wasn't a trick. Rafael talked to the two men for a few moments. A little later one of them gave him an object Phelps couldn't identify. Rafael turned to come back, and the Englishman managed to hear the men saying good-bye with an "a bientot." Strange.

Rafael climbed into his seat, started the engine, and took to the road again without offering one word of explanation.

The silence was deafening, which infuriated Phelps. Who did Rafael think he was? Someone incapable of showing the least sign of confidence in him. He was a worthy inheritor of the tricks and intrigues of the Vatican. He would make an excellent member of the Curia and had everything necessary to become one. He always kept the best to himself and deliberately weighed his words. He created an advantage over others that confounded allies and enemies, like a puzzle in which he alone knew the position of each piece in the total shape.

"So it turns out no one was following us," Phelps said, keeping his eyes on the road. An insult to his dignity as a man and a prelate that he didn't care to call attention to.

"I never said they were following us," Rafael explained. "I said that someone was coming behind us."

"One has to watch his words with you," Phelps replied, holding back his disgust. "Not everything is what it seems."

Nothing more to say. Silence took over for the rest of the journey, unpleasant, uncomfortable, always there. The great city of London spread before them, with more traffic. Even so, Rafael managed to pa.s.s slower cars.

Rafael's cell phone rang. He looked at the screen identifying the caller and answered.

"Alors," he said into the phone, indicating he knew who was calling. He listened to a message that lasted for some time. He showed no sign of interjecting either a thought or agreement. Seconds later he disconnected and, without warning, pulled the Mercedes around in a U-turn, making Phelps. .h.i.t his face on the door window. He took off now at high speed in the opposite direction in the wrong lane. he said into the phone, indicating he knew who was calling. He listened to a message that lasted for some time. He showed no sign of interjecting either a thought or agreement. Seconds later he disconnected and, without warning, pulled the Mercedes around in a U-turn, making Phelps. .h.i.t his face on the door window. He took off now at high speed in the opposite direction in the wrong lane.

"Are you crazy?" Phelps protested.

"It makes more sense with the wheel on this side," Rafael answered, dodging vehicles coming from the other direction on the correct side, protesting vehemently with their horns and swerving away as they could. Some ended up crashing into vehicles pulled over to the shoulder of the road.

"Careful!" Phelps cried out, holding on to the seat.

Rafael continued driving, indifferent to the insults or admiration from other drivers. Phelps shut his eyes and said no more. He crossed himself and prayed silently, Our Father, Omnipotent, free me from this black sheep, separated from the flock, and put him on a better path. . . . Our Father, Omnipotent, free me from this black sheep, separated from the flock, and put him on a better path. . . .

Many horns and insults later, the van came to a stop at the entrance of a Victorian building in disrepair. Rafael scrutinized the surroundings carefully on all possible sides. Phelps wanted to discover where they were, but was still too upset to speak reasonably and calmly. Besides he was from Newcastle, in the north, and not obliged to know where things were in the capital of the empire.

"Where are we?" he asked Rafael.

Rafael ignored the question and took out the package given to him by the two unknown men, under the cover of night.

"What's that?"

Rafael answered by tearing off the paper that covered something inside.

"Good G.o.d. What do you need that for?" Phelps asked, surprised.

Rafael checked the chamber of the Glock and took off the safety before looking at Phelps.

"Not everything is what it seems." He left the van and went toward the door of the abandoned building.

34.

What hurt him most was the slap, backhand, that knocked him to the floor. The physical pain was nothing compared with the empty heart and the loss of dreams of a wonderful love, beautiful, idyllic, and innocent, destroyed by harsh reality. For Simon Lloyd the idea of life as beautiful came to an end with that blow. Rage overwhelmed him, but a kick in the stomach made him rethink his priorities while the pain spread through his body. Anger could wait.

Sarah hadn't received the same treatment because those were the orders received by Templar and his a.s.sociate.

"Herbert's coming. He says not to touch them," Templar warned when James or "Hugh" or whatever the son of a b.i.t.c.h's name was was about to apply another round of blows.

"He'd better get here soon," James protested.

Sarah and Simon Lloyd now found themselves shut in a small window-less room completely sunk in claustrophobic darkness. Simon had received more slaps from his ex-lover, who was enraged by the bottle Sarah broke over his head. And since the a.s.shole couldn't take the insult out on Sarah, he hastened to do so on Simon. He, Simon, was only a job, something that guaranteed a paycheck. . . .

Sarah heard Simon snuffling or trying to disguise his crying by mumbling in a low voice. It made her feel completely discouraged. Another victim paying for something she'd done.

"What are they going to do to us?" Simon asked, breaking the silence.

"To you, nothing," she said confidently. She'd do everything to prevent his paying for being with the wrong person. No one ought to suffer for that.

"I was so deceived, so deceived." A damp sound confirmed the tears that still ran down his face unseen.

Simon meant Hugh as the target of these words, but Sarah applied them to herself, since she felt them deeply. She considered herself a disappointment for everyone, beginning with the people she loved, always in danger, pleading, wounded, dead. So she repeated, "They won't do anything to you." She would strongly resist cooperating with this Herbert, unless he agreed to release Simon. She might be tortured, but she'd only talk when Simon was out of danger. Even if it was the last thing she did, which was possible, she intended to save Simon. The worst was if this Herbert didn't want information from her and was only coming in order to personally carry out their killing. If that was the case, Simon would pardon her, if her lack of power wouldn't permit heroic acts. If she found Herbert willing to negotiate, only one of them would survive. This was hard reality, not the stuff of detective novels or films. The good die before the end.

"What's happening? What have we done to deserve this?" Simon lamented in the darkness of the room that blended into the mental darkness overwhelming him since he'd turned the key in the unlucky door of the house at Redcliff Gardens and summoned the unknown.

"You haven't done anything, Simon," Sarah said with shame. "This . . . only has to do with me and me alone," she confessed. "Last year a price was put on my head," she began to explain.

It was impossible to see anything, but Simon straightened his back against the cold wall, sharpened his ears, and waited.

"My G.o.dfather, whom I hardly remembered, sent me a list of names belonging to a secret Italian society. It contained the names of some very important people in politics, the judiciary, religion, and all at the international level. Even my father's name was on it. I found out later that that list was in John Paul the First's hands the night he died . . . and I knew that he was murdered."

"What?" Simon could barely believe what he heard.

"Just what I said. The sect, called P2, and the CIA started to persecute me."

"Good G.o.d," Simon exclaimed. "Are they the ones trying to do us in?"

"No. This is something else entirely. I still haven't figured it out."

Simon stopped talking in order to let Sarah spill her guts.

"Things poured out in such a torrent that I couldn't process all the information given to me. Even today I don't understand how far-reaching it all is."

"Sarah, we're prisoners in a bas.e.m.e.nt or whatever this is. There are two armed men outside prepared to give us a pa.s.sport to eternity."

Despite all that was happening, Simon seemed more in control of himself. The power of resignation has this consequence. We accept what has happened and look for better times to come. Of course the fear was always present. A quick death was preferable to torture, though obviously the best result would be if they opened the door and let them go with apologies for what they'd done, regretting a terrible mistake in identification, accompanied by a farewell dinner in some luxury restaurant. Ah, the power of the imagination, unconquerable, even in the face of imminent death.

"Let's try to make a deal with everyone," Sarah continued.

"What kind of a deal?"

"We won't turn them in, and they won't hurt us."

"Maybe they've repented," Simon suggested.

"They'd have a lot to lose. Besides it's the Holy See that protects this agreement," Sarah said thoughtfully. She wanted to put the loose pieces together to see if they made some sense. "That is something else."

"One thing not missing is crazy men with power," Simon revealed his feelings. "Do you think they're going to leave us here the rest of the night?"

"Long enough to soften us up." It was Sarah's turn to sigh. "They're specialists in that."

"I don't know about you, but I'm softer than a marshmallow."

Two bursts of laughter filled the small room, completely out of place given their situation. Fear can even make a person laugh.

The sound of the lock turning put a stop to the laughing. Seconds later the light from the hallway filled the dispensary and blinded Simon and Sarah, who blocked the light with their hands.

"It's nice to see you feeling so good," James mocked them from the door, where they made out his silhouette. "Get up. It's time."

Simon swallowed saliva. His heart still went cold when he saw this cool killer who looked at him with curt indifference.

Without waiting for them to obey, James yanked Simon up brutally by his shirtfront. James had executed his job in an exemplary way. Now he wanted to make his scorn for Simon plain.

If Simon wanted to fool himself into imagining a sweeter scenario, a joke in tremendously bad taste, maybe, but still forgivable, two hard punches James had the pleasure of giving him in the face drove that fantasy out of his mind. Simon swallowed his impotent rage in silence. When all was said and done, James had the gun pointed at the head of his ex-lover.

"Leave him alone," Sarah cried, calling attention to herself.

The result was immediately visible. James turned on her with contempt. He looked her up and down in such a hateful way that Sarah lowered her head, nauseous. James took a short step toward her and put the barrel of the pistol under her chin, forcing her to lift her head. A bad man knew how to recognize the hate that emanated from her eyes.

"Your time has come," he said scornfully. He followed up with a punch to Sarah's face that split her lip.

"You son of a b.i.t.c.h," Simon immediately cried. "Without the gun you wouldn't be so brave, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d." Indignation overwhelmed him.