The Holy Bullet Part 42

63.

It was a night like others before and others that will come.

The innkeeper finished up the accounts from another day's work. It was normal not to have many guests this time of the year. It wasn't cold or hot enough. Business flourished in the middle of winter with the snow and the fascination it exerts over old and young alike, and in summer when green conquered the white, aided by the rise in temperature, encouraging sightseeing and religious tourism.

Today he had seven guests, among them two priests, a couple with a small boy, and two Benedictine sisters. All with full service for three days, with the grace of G.o.d. He expected some reservations for the weekend and so spent his days unworried.

Someone rang the bell at this hour of the night, some traveler in search of a room for the night. It happened. Despite closing the door of the inn as soon as the church chimed ten at night, he stayed on watch for the last-minute client or guest who had decided to enjoy the social life in the town.

He unlocked the door and opened it. Outside there were two men, an old man with a beard, sweating, another younger one who seemed more composed. He noticed some bruises on the old man's face that didn't inspire confidence. The young man carried a black briefcase like businessmen use to keep their doc.u.ments.

"h.e.l.lo."

"Good evening," the young man greeted him. "We'd like a room for the night."

It took him five seconds to forget the condition of the darker man, Arab perhaps, and remember that the inn was almost empty.

"Of course. Please come in."

He locked the door again and took them up to the second floor. The young man registered as Timothy Elton and paid in zlotys, leaving a generous tip.

Money is the universal language, whatever the currency. It's never too much, it slips through the fingers like water, and one can never hold on to it. It can be tamed, hypothetically, channeled here and there, but it has a propensity toward sudden flight. And it makes innkeepers everywhere forget the faces behind the hand that gives them the bills, although they may be beaten, sorrowful, sweating, dirty, tired, or proud.

"We don't wish to be disturbed," the young man emphasized, the only thing said during the process of registering.

"I understand," the innkeeper said, handing over the key to room 206, fastened to a sh.e.l.l.

The guests climbed the stairs. There was no elevator. A fundamental rule of inn-keeping was that the customer is always right. If his desire was not to be disturbed, he wouldn't be, except in the case of an emergency, which had never happened, thank G.o.d. There was a barrier of privacy that could never be crossed from the moment the guest shut himself inside the room. It was true that when one went to clean after checkout, or the daily tourist activity, one could learn something about the person in question, habits of hygiene, s.e.x, or gastronomy. . . . In the thirty years of experience he had in the business, he'd acquired some psychic ability, nothing supernatural, based only on steady observation. He thought, for example, that cleaning room number 206 in the morning wouldn't take more than five minutes. There would be no trash in the wastebaskets, nor would the bathroom look used. The sheets on the bed would be untouched, as would the furniture. It'd look as if no one had occupied the room that night.

He'd had other guests like this in the past, whose traces were deliberately covered over or never left. In those situations one didn't ask intrusive questions of any kind; one took the money, signed the register, and forgot that a man named Timothy Elton accompanied by an old man had once stayed in the inn.

Behind the closed door with the number 206 fixed in the wood was a scene of one-sided nervousness. The younger man paced from one side to the other with his cell phone in hand with no call sent or even about to be made. Abu Rashid sat in a chair, distanced, free, watching the other's nervousness.

"I'm like the only responsible one," Tim said. "I can't get hold of my boss."

Sweat covered his face, an occupational hazard for men who work under specific instructions.

Abu Rashid closed his eyes and sighed. He withdrew from Tim's negative energy. He remained in that state many minutes, hours, concentrating on himself, peace, and good thoughts. He forgot there was someone else in the room, stopped hearing the frenetic pacing and complaints. He understood Tim's doubts, the dilemma, the disgust, solitude, sudden confusion. It was like having the umbilical cord cut while still inside the maternal womb.

When morning broke and entered the sinister hour of sepulchral silence, broken by cries and unknown sounds, Tim's steps were no longer heard in the room waiting for the call that hadn't come.

Abu Rashid felt a cold, cylindrical object pressed against his head. He knew what it was and didn't bother to open his eyes to see the menace.

"Who told you about the tomb?"

"You know as well as I do, Tim."

"Don't call me Tim," he shouted.

"What do you want me to call you? Timothy?"

Tim drew the gun away from Abu Rashid's head and scratched his head with the hand holding it. He took a deep breath and thought. He made sure the cell phone was closed. Everything was correct. Only the instructions were lacking.

"Who else knows about the tomb?"

"You, me, and whoever is giving you orders. Not even those directly involved know."

"But someone else has to know." Tim's voice stammered, confused. He was very tired, and Abu Rashid was not an easy prisoner. "The Americans? The Russians? With their secret satellites?"

"You know satellites, as advanced as they may be, cannot keep track of millions of people. They only keep watch on a small part of the globe. They only see one thing at a time. And while they're focused on one objective, they see nothing else. The idea that they can monitor everything and everybody every hour and minute is absurd. An attempt to frighten us. Only G.o.d can be in all places at all times, and so He helps us in all we want to do."

"Don't blaspheme," Tim cried, sitting on the edge of the bed. "This conversation about technology only proves that you know how things work." He pointed the gun at him.

"Why don't you try to kill me if that's your final judgment?"

Tim lowered both his eyes and the gun. He looked again at the cell phone on the bedspread.

"Don't worry. He'll call you," Abu Rashid a.s.sured him.

There was visible disturbance in Tim's face, a boy taken from his mother and father to be given orders and shown the path. Only orphan boys gathered into the bosom of the Catholic community could be initiated into the secret order of the Sanctifiers. Of those, very few were chosen to fill the spa.r.s.e ranks of the elite group. Innumerable tests and discipline were necessary-thousands of hours of prayer to the Lord, theological, anthropological, sociological study, punishment of the flesh, several hours a day, religiously. A few blows of a whip striking the flesh and immediately the sharp pain vanquished evil thoughts, feelings, and other degeneracy.

Tim got up and took some white plastic cords out of the pocket of his jacket. He went over to the dreamy Abu Rashid and tied him to the chair to prevent him from getting away. That done, he opened the bathroom door and took off his jacket.

Abu Rashid opened his eyes.

"G.o.d is and always will be synonymous with love. Man is the one who has created sorrow and the dogma that suffering is the remedy for everything."

Tim ignored him and shut himself in the bathroom. The water ran in the tub and sink, strong streams to cover up the held-back moans. Return me to the right road, Lord Return me to the right road, Lord, he murmured, bent over in the liberating pain. Return me to Your Way Return me to Your Way.

He turned off the faucets. Silence returned. Tim opened the door that separated the bathroom from the bedroom with his shirt on and b.u.t.toned. More self-possession was impossible, given the circ.u.mstances. He found Abu Rashid in the same position he'd left him. Eyes open, looking at him without blame . . . without the cords that had tied him. He looked closer. It couldn't be. He confirmed it. He squatted down to pick one up; it was cut. He took the gun he had left in his jacket on top of the bed. An irresponsible act, he recognized.

"Who cut the cords?"

"Our Lady," Abu Rashid answered.

The punch struck him full in his face.

"Who cut the cords?" Timothy repeated.

He opened the door of the room, gun in hand, and looked around. Everything was quiet. He did the same at the window. It was too dark to see anything.

"Our Lady," Abu Rashid said again.

Tim returned to the center of the room and sighed. I'm going crazy I'm going crazy. He took in what had occurred and a.n.a.lyzed the cord again.

"Why didn't you run away or take the gun?" he finally asked.

"I don't need to," Abu Rashid declared, looking at him profoundly.

"You still don't understand, Tim. I'm not your prisoner. I'm here of my free will. Sleep now. Tomorrow will be an important day."

64.

A thin line separates patriotic duty from the temporary illusion of a comfortable life free of financial problems, as if money were the magic solution for earthly happiness. Even on a border as rigidly controlled as the Russian, greasing palms with dollars is sufficient stimulus. It's never been a question of honor or dignity, but of price. thin line separates patriotic duty from the temporary illusion of a comfortable life free of financial problems, as if money were the magic solution for earthly happiness. Even on a border as rigidly controlled as the Russian, greasing palms with dollars is sufficient stimulus. It's never been a question of honor or dignity, but of price.

As soon as they left Moscow, they went in civilian helicopters somewhere close to the border with Ukraine. From there they caught a plane that in a matter of seconds crossed the border, leaving the Russian authorities to deal with the dead agents. It would open a diplomatic conflict between America and Russia, but without proof the Westerners could deny any responsibility.

There were two stops on the long flight, but Rafael and Sarah couldn't calculate how long. They only knew they'd been traveling for hours. During the first stage they were blindfolded and forced to change planes. There the blindfolds were taken off, but even so there was nothing to orient them. They flew together in a compartment that was essentially a cell without windows. There was hardly s.p.a.ce for the two seats where they sat tied with straps and chains above and below. You couldn't be claustrophobic and survive in such a narrow s.p.a.ce. Even someone who'd never suffered previous symptoms would end up suffering, as happened to Sarah, who felt her nose and throat begin to close up. Being handcuffed didn't help. It didn't matter that they'd removed the blindfold. It wasn't really necessary since the walls around them were barely visible. Her respiratory panic increased when Rafael fell asleep. She felt alone, incapable of sleeping, consumed by her thoughts and speculations. In this case she had no control of the situation. Without any aces there was no way to negotiate. The only thing she could do was trust Rafael, who seemed to be sleeping the sleep of the innocents, completely carefree, as if he didn't expect an unforeseen torture session. Barnes was not going to forgive them, much less whoever was working for him.

How can he sleep? She couldn't get James Phelps out of her mind during the long flight. How was such deception possible? To gain their confidence, listen, suffer physically with them, only to gain some strange influence, whatever it was. A courteous man with an adorable frailty, who could be her father, until he looked at her with those cold eyes, repugnant, a taker of lives. There was a Portuguese proverb about he who sees faces, doesn't see hearts. There was no better way to ill.u.s.trate the manipulative power of that Englishman. To think she'd been genuinely worried about his health. She couldn't help a certain negativity come over her, a loss of hope for humanity. She couldn't get James Phelps out of her mind during the long flight. How was such deception possible? To gain their confidence, listen, suffer physically with them, only to gain some strange influence, whatever it was. A courteous man with an adorable frailty, who could be her father, until he looked at her with those cold eyes, repugnant, a taker of lives. There was a Portuguese proverb about he who sees faces, doesn't see hearts. There was no better way to ill.u.s.trate the manipulative power of that Englishman. To think she'd been genuinely worried about his health. She couldn't help a certain negativity come over her, a loss of hope for humanity.

When she wasn't thinking these things, wondering about her fate, or fighting a panic attack, she watched Rafael sleeping deeply. No one would imagine he was in European airs.p.a.ce, a prisoner of the CIA in partnership with Opus Dei or whomever. She tried to touch his hand, even with her finger, but the strap was too tight.

Rafael didn't sleep for the whole trip, of course. When he wasn't sleeping, he talked to Sarah about superficial things.

"What's it like to be an editor of international politics?" he began asking.

"It's a lot of work, but the pay is good."

"I imagine so. I've read some of your stories. They're very good."

"Thanks. I've spent the whole year wondering why."

"Why what?"

"Why me? How did I get that position, almost as if I parachuted in?"

"What conclusion did you come to?"

"It could only be because JC put me there and gave me enough material to stay," Sarah argued. "I don't know why."

Rafael didn't indicate agreement or disagreement. He just kept chatting pleasantly, not a word about what was going on. Sarah a.s.sumed the reason was that there were other eyes and ears intent on what they said. They talked for several hours about various things until the second stop, probably for refueling. Outside they could hear noises of trucks and machinery checking what needed to be checked for the proper running of the airplane. They were not bothered at any time. It felt like they'd been forgotten.

An hour later the plane rolled down the runway and took off.

Sarah looked at Rafael for the umpteenth time. He'd fallen asleep again. She realized at that precise moment that he'd only talked about her. Absolutely nothing about himself . . . as was to be expected.

The door of the compartment opened, letting in a young blond man. His heavy fist landed in the middle of Rafael's sleeping face.

"Wake up," Herbert shouted with a serious expression.

Rafael opened his eyes, stunned. He had actually been sleeping.

"You've given us a lot of trouble," Herbert growled, loosening Sarah's straps.

"What I've done is make your work easier," Rafael declared. "If I'd wanted to give you trouble, I wouldn't be here right now."

"I know you're a brave man," Herbert accused him sarcastically, slapping him again on the same side. "That's for the men you made me lose."

"You must feel sorry for them," Rafael mocked.

Herbert knelt down to loosen the straps binding Sarah's legs and turned to lift her up.

"Now we're going to have a conversation," the captor said, forcing Sarah to get up. "I'm taking you to see the visitors."

"Give them a kiss for me," Rafael said before the door closed.

Let's stay at Sarah's side, since Rafael isn't going anywhere.

The plane was s.p.a.cious. She hadn't noticed when they entered, considering she hadn't a.s.similated any of the unfolding events. Her mind was bombarded with images of the shot to Ivanovsky's head, the Russian eccentric who'd died in the service of his country, in an attack carried out by Chechen separatists, according to the newspaper headlines. Moscow would have to adopt more repressive measures against those terrorists who showed no respect for human lives.

Swivel seats were distributed through the cabin of what had to be a Boeing 7-something, outfitted with just about everything.

Sarah was pushed toward the front of the plane. Various agents were working throughout the plane, oblivious to her or Herbert. Computers, radar, flat screens reflecting graphs added to the crowded s.p.a.ce. At the front was a closed door. Herbert opened it and pushed Sarah inside.

It was a small office for so many people. Sarah recognized only a few, Barnes, seated behind a desk, Staughton, Thompson, although she didn't know their names, and . . . Simon Lloyd.

"Simon," she shouted fervently.

She tried to reach him, but Herbert held her tightly. She evaluated his condition, and it didn't indicate good treatment. Bruises on his face, dried blood, and a swollen lower lip. Simon Lloyd had endured severe punishment, and she felt responsible, as if she'd done it herself.

"Oh, Simon."

He lifted his eyes as well as he could and bowed his head again, beaten.

There were more men in the small office, two seated, one in a wheelchair, who Sarah recognized as the man who was inside the black van they'd been put into in Moscow. Another two standing, and a woman. No sign of Phelps.

"He doesn't know anything. Why have you done this?" she protested emotionally.

"He doesn't, but you do. Take it as a warning," Barnes said seriously. He glanced at Herbert. "Go get the other one."

"With pleasure," replied Herbert, who was not given to taking orders. Things were going well. Opening the door, he encountered Phelps, and they looked at each other.

"Good work," Phelps praised him.

"You were magnificent."

"Have you told Marius?"

"He's waiting for us," Herbert told him.