The Holy Bullet Part 47

"She's going to tell everything," Phelps said with a maniacal look.

"Everything she knows . . . which might be nothing," Barnes said.

The American circled Sarah, intimidating her. He knew she feared him because in the past she'd seen what he was capable of doing.

"Sarah Monteiro, born April eighth, 1976, journalist, Portuguese, resident of London, daughter of a Portuguese father and English mother." Barnes's tone was calm but electrifying, psychic. There was a door he had to open, her ultimate defense, that which guarded everything. "She had an abortion in 2007 as a consequence of which she almost died."

Barnes was silent for a few moments and then put his lips close to her ear.

"Look carefully at the people in this room." He stepped back, grasped her hard by the head and chin, and shouted, "Don't leave anyone out."

Sarah had no choice. Stuart Garrison in his wheelchair, a deathly stare, cold, as if he were in a theater watching a boring film. Priscilla Thomason, a notepad in her hand, closed, watching her with consternation and pain, because of Littel and his will or lack of will. Littel remained seated, with his legs crossed, reading some reports that had little to do with this case. His lack of interest in Sarah was obvious. He was there to serve the wishes of the president of the United States of America . . . or not. Wally Johnson, in his army uniform with the braids of a lieutenant colonel fixed to the shoulders, reminded her of a sentinel guarding the fort, firm, alert, prepared to destroy any threat. Sebastian Ford, whom Sarah recognized as the man who'd entered the cell to see Rafael. Rafael's man on Barnes's team. Barnes had no idea. Ford watched her with compa.s.sion, a politician with feelings. Here votes didn't count, there was no campaign, nothing to win. Herbert, the faithful aide, seemingly everything men of power needed to do their dirty work, and also the clean work. Staughton, the man of data more than field operations. Thompson distanced from her. Habit creates defenses, the mind adapts and rejects the idea that what the person is doing is wrong. He always acted in the best interest of the American nation. Last of all, the old man with white hair who seemed out of place. He was Marius Ferris, the frail parish priest who knew New York. He couldn't be part of that dark gang of wrongdoers. Or could he? A joking smile on his part answered Sarah's doubts.

Barnes's hands squeezed her face, causing an anguished feeling.

"We are the only people in the world who know you're still still alive." alive."

A shiver ran down Sarah's spine.

Barnes took his gun from the holster and pressed the cold barrel against her forehead.

"Do yourself a favor and spit out all you know."

Sarah took a breath anxiously. Her tears flowed copiously; a thread of blood ran from her lips and mouth. They could beat her to death. She had nothing to say.

The tension was broken by the polyphonic sound of the "Star-Spangled Banner" making almost all those present straighten their shoulders. The sound came from a cell phone clamoring for the attention of its owner, Harvey Littel.

"That's illegal," a stern-faced Barnes objected. He left Sarah and sat at the desk, leaving his gun to the side.

"Every American should have that music on his cell phone," Littel a.s.serted before answering it.

The a.s.sistant subdirector listened to the caller.

"Just a moment." He lowered the phone and looked at those in the room seriously. "Leave," he ordered.

In spite of the generality implied in the order, they all knew that the instruction applied only to the lower-level employees, Colonel Garrison, Priscilla, Wally Johnson, Sebastian Ford, Staughton, and Thompson. But no one moved.

"Ask your men to wait outside," Littel told Phelps.

The Englishman only needed to frown, and Herbert and Marius Ferris followed in the steps of the others.

"And the woman?" Phelps asked.

"Let her stay," Littel declared. "It'll be another secret to carry to the grave." Sarah preferred to leave for a change of air instead of staying with these men.

Littel set the cell phone on speaker.

"You can forward me the call."

Barnes was filled with curiosity, as was Phelps. Who could it be?

In less than five seconds they heard the tw.a.n.ging voice of the Texan.

"Harvey?"

Sarah, in the midst of confusion and pain, thought she'd heard that voice somewhere. But she could have been mistaken.

"Yes, Mr. President."

Barnes stood up straight as a pole. The president for the second time in a short while.

"Is Barnes there with you?"

"He is . . . I am, Mr. President," he answered nervously, sitting down in the chair at the desk.

"Great. Great. Listen carefully. Effective immediately, I want the agency out of the operation."

Phelps turned red upon hearing the words. He must not have heard right. Sarah felt the same for other reasons.

Littel got up suspiciously.

"Mr. President, could you repeat that?"

"I want the agency out of the operation immediately. Take your briefcases, turn out the lights, and close the door."

"You can't do something like that," Phelps returned.

"Who's speaking?" asked the most powerful man in the world on the other end of the line.

"Jim Phelps, Mr. President," Littel told him.

"Ah, yes. Jim." The president indicated he knew Phelps.

"What is this, sir? We have an agreement," the Englishman reminded him.

"Our agreement required a series of conditions you haven't fulfilled."

"What do you mean by that? It's not over yet. I'm about to comply." Irritation rose more and more in his voice.

"It's over, Jim. I want all those implicated out of this and the prisoners freed. I a.s.sure you this is best for you."

"You don't even know what's best for yourself," Phelps replied. The explosion had to happen. His world was crashing down around him. A decision like this deprived him of something he was just starting to enjoy. "You can't agree to something and then quit in the middle."

"The agreement was to tie up all the loose ends. You had my complete support, and for that reason you're in Rome with my men. You painted an easy scenario, and the conclusion we've come to is that your enemy has all the evidence, and I'm asking you to terminate everything. If not . . ."

"What?" Phelps was possessed.

"What you've heard. JC has contacted me. He has everything. He was specific in saying he wants everything stopped or you're going to suffer a disaster."

Phelps was in anguish. Defeated by the old fox who'd antic.i.p.ated every one of his steps. He'd dangled the carrot in front of him and manipulated him at his will.

"Everything stays the same. No one leaves hurt," George added. "Accept it and go along with it, Jim."

If we looked closely, we'd see a tear welling up in Phelps's eye. Accept, conform, lose. All this work for nothing. No, this couldn't happen. They had an agreement. d.a.m.n JC.

"What about the tomb?" Phelps wanted to know.

"Everything stays as it is," the president repeated.

"And the woman, the agent of the Vatican . . ."

"Release them immediately. Now, I've got other things to do. I've given my orders. I count on you to carry them out, Littel."

"Of course, Mr. President."

"You, too, Barnes."

"Of course," Barnes answered, tripping over his words.

The call was over. Sarah was incredulous. She didn't know whether to feel relieved or suspicious. Be that as it may, a huge about-face had happened at the right moment.

"b.a.s.t.a.r.d," Phelps cursed, defeated.

"Everything calculated," Barnes a.n.a.lyzed. "You've heard the orders. Let's close this screwed-up case."

"No," Phelps stammered.

"No? You heard the same thing I did. I'm not going to contradict a direct order of the president," Barnes warned with certainty.

"Before turning in the arms we should kill the prisoners."

"I'd love to. Especially that b.a.s.t.a.r.d Rafael. But the orders are explicit," Barnes reminded him.

"Let's say they were already dead."

"Tell me something, Jim." Littel spoke. "Suppose we do what you say. Will the transfer continue online?"

"My word is good. Five million in cash, when and where you want it," Phelps guaranteed him.

"Transfer? What transfer?" Barnes asked.

Sarah felt a shiver in her guts.

"Ten million," Littel said.

Phelps looked Harvey Littel in the eye with a serious, pragmatic expression.

"Ten million it is."

"Littel, what the h.e.l.l are you saying? The president was very clea-"

Before completing the sentence, Barnes lay on the floor with a bullet in his forehead. Littel looked at the body coldly, the gun with a silencer in his hand, which Barnes had forgotten on the desk. Phelps smiled diabolically, and Sarah wept for Natalie, Greg, Clemente, Rafael, Simon, her father, her mother . . . and Barnes. He wasn't on her side, but he hadn't sold out.

"Go get the other two," Littel ordered, looking at Sarah with a Machiavellian expression, a simple way of saying you're next you're next without opening his mouth. He wiped down the gun with a silk handkerchief and put it in the hand of Barnes, who stared ahead, devoid of life. What a h.e.l.l of a way to die. without opening his mouth. He wiped down the gun with a silk handkerchief and put it in the hand of Barnes, who stared ahead, devoid of life. What a h.e.l.l of a way to die.

70.

Tim had slept like a baby. It was a long time since he'd felt such a profound spiritual peace. The phantoms that all his life had tortured his dreams and, night after night, transformed them into nightmares had disappeared, blown by the wind far away from him. A peaceful, friendly night, impregnated with the scent of spring, between warm and cold, nature in her eternal search for the perfect balance. A perfect night he'd never imagined could exist.

For the first time in his life he woke up sleepy, dazzled by the sunlight coming in the open window of the room in the inn, and forgot the prayers to the Creator of all things, an unpardonable fault in the eyes of the clerical tutors who molded his character in his early years. The first thought of the day should be of the Creator, G.o.d, as should be the last, and all other thoughts during the day. Nothing else existed but G.o.d, and he should think of Him all the time. So it was said and is said in the monastery where he was brought up and lived since infancy to the sound of carnivorous whips tearing his skin and that of others.

He faced the strong morning sun and sat on the edge of the bed.

"You slept well," he heard a voice say. Abu Rashid, seated in the chair where Tim had seen him for the last time before falling asleep.

"Yes."

"It wasn't a question," Abu Rashid sweetly contradicted him. "I know you slept well."

Tim closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The weight he felt on himself the day before had disappeared. He felt light, rejuvenated, fresh.

"This is the true peace," Abu Rashid affirmed. "It has nothing to do with orders, sacrifice, suffering. What you feel now is communion with G.o.d. A perfect harmony with nature, with the universe."

"Was it the Virgin who told you that?"

"Any wise person comes to that conclusion."

Tim looked around, inspecting the room, used to the intense light now. The white, strong sun embracing the world with energy. For a moment, not seeing the black briefcase, he felt a weight in his stomach.

"It's under the bed," Abu Rashid told him. "I don't want you to miss anything."

Tim squatted down and grabbed the briefcase. The key code and lock didn't look tampered with.

"Didn't you want to see what was inside?" he asked curiously.

"I know what's in there," the Muslim confirmed. "I don't have to see it."

"Or maybe your visionary powers couldn't decipher the code?" he said in a challenging way.

"I like to see you calmer, Tim. You seem different." Abu Rashid deliberately ignored the provocation.

"I feel strange," Tim confessed. "As if I were the father of a large family I needed to support with a lot of sacrifice, I alone, and suddenly they don't need me, and I can live my own life. A life I didn't know I had."