by James Codlin
Lenin abandoned his attempt to listen through the door and turned to the television. When Gina changed the channel again and the screen displayed a man in a white-hooded robe seated at a white linen-draped table, Lenin whispered, “Leave it there.”
Intense white light cascaded downward from directly above, shadowing the man’s face under the hood. The camera panned out, revealing a man standing before the hooded figure with his back to the camera. He wore a large pointed hat and a yellow scapular that formed a long rectangle on his back. Red stripes ran from each corner of the rectangle, crossing in the middle. Graffiti-like writing was scrawled across the yellow material between the stripes.
A man appeared on screen dressed in a contemporary suit. He bowed, conveying with his body language a great deference to the hooded man seated at the table.
The man in the scapular turned toward the camera. His face, illuminated in bas relief by the bright overhead lights, filled the screen with an image like that of an Edvard Munch painting—rage stretching the mouth, bulging the eyes, engorging the veins, and cording the neck muscles.
At the same instant that Lenin realized who he was seeing, he heard a cry from behind him.
*
The gunman had just pulled the headset off his ears to tell Dennis to pause the video again when he heard a woman cry out in surprise from beyond the door to his left. He remained motionless for an instant, his eyes narrowing and locking on Dennis’s, and then he sprang from his chair toward the door. Dennis reflexively reached out and grabbed the back of the gunman’s shirt, and the man spun, jamming the gun barrel against Dennis’s cheek. Dennis threw up his arms in immediate surrender. The gunman grabbed him by the collar and dragged Dennis toward the door, throwing it open and pushing Dennis into the bedroom. A young woman was sitting in the center of the bed with her eyes glued to the television screen. On the floor next to her stood an older bald man.
“All of you, against the wall!” the gunman shouted. Lenin put his hands up in immediate surrender and started edging back toward the far wall, but Gina remained on the bed, still looking up at the television.
“Get with the others—now!”
Gina tore her eyes from the TV, stared at the gunman’s face, and slipped her legs over the edge of the bed.
“Nico,” she said quietly.
“You know him?” Dennis asked.
Gina gestured at the television. “So, Nico. Where are you keeping your brother?”
*
Father Serrano requested the list of secret witnesses and read their testimonies of Martín Ibarra’s heresy.
Martín experienced a floating sensation as if time were warping between the past and future. This was an ancient rite surreally taking place in a modern television studio. It was a relic of history predating his lifetime by centuries, and yet his life was now immersed in it.
He listened to the testimonies against him and wondered who, if anyone, might have made them. Some sounded eerily familiar—things he had heard said by family, friends, coworkers, interviewers—but phrases had been pulled from contexts he only vaguely remembered. He was jarred by one quotation that was unmistakably from a telephone conversation he’d had with Gina Ishikawa.
How long had these people been keeping him under constant surveillance? How could they know many of the things they seemed to know?
His mind hovered just beyond the ability to cognize what was happening to him. He had no meaningful vision, and the things he was hearing were impossible to fathom. All he wanted to do was to lie down and sleep, uninterrupted, until the pain throughout his body was gone. Even if that meant never waking up again.
*
“You’ve taken him,” Gina said.
Nicolás nodded toward the television as he aimed his gun at Dennis. “Are you blind? That’s not my revolution! That’s the bullshit I fight every day.”
“He’s right, Gina,” Lenin said. “Those aren’t communists.”
“You I don’t know,” Nicolás growled. He swung his gun from Dennis to Lenin. “Who are you?”
“Doctor Teodoro Lenin.”
“The historian?” Nicolás asked.
“The same.” Lenin’s mouth curled into a hint of a smile. He was always pleased when someone recognized him.
“You don’t know shit about history, Lenin. Your bourgeois mentality saturates everything you do.”
Lenin’s slight smile melted into indignation. “My monograph on Marx remains one of the standards throughout Latin America, especially among the educated leftists.”
“The limousine leftists,” Nicolás retorted.
“At least I’m not some play actor prancing around, trying to pretend he’s Che Guevara.”
“Capitalist swill from a pampered, soft-handed dilettante. You wouldn’t know—”
“What’s happening to Martín?” Gina demanded.
Lenin and Nicolás glared at each other.
“Tell her,” Nicolás said. “You may be a capitalist stooge, but I think even you have figured this one out.”
Lenin nodded. “It seems that he is being tried by the Spanish Inquisition.”
Nicolás turned the gun back on Dennis. “You said that this is happening right now, but that it isn’t airing anywhere yet. Why?”
“No idea,” Dennis said. “I guess they’re saving it for later. Maybe it will be simulcast by a bunch of stations at some point. Hey, could you do me a favor and stop pointing that goddamn gun at me?” He gestured with his head at Gina and Lenin. “Seems like you’re mates here. Maybe we can all relax a bit.”
“His eyes,” Gina murmured. “There’s something wrong with his eyes.”
Lenin and Nicolás both stared at the monitor.
Martín’s eyes looked completely vacant and unseeing.
*
Nicolás sat with his back against the inside of the only door leading out of the container, caressing his pistol.
The video feed had ended with Martín being remanded to his cell to reflect and consider how he would plead for clemency before the court. Specifically, he was ordered to prepare a statement accepting the one true church into his life and asking for God’s mercy that the purifying flame of the Fourth Angel might save his eternal soul.
Lenin, Gina, and Dennis sat in quiet contemplation. Finally, Dennis broke the silence. “You know,” he said. “What we just saw on the telly kind of jibes with what I saw on the outside.” He looked at Nicolás. “My shout for some grog?”
Nicolás gave him a resigned nod, and Dennis pulled a bottle of expensive cognac from a cabinet. He set four snifters on the table and began to pour.
“It’s really something out there,” Dennis said. “Everything is calm and pretty much normal. You know, going to work, kids in school, shopping in the markets. But the LU parliament is locked down, and there are—what would you call them?—monks, I guess is the best word, spreading out all over town. Rich neighborhoods, poor neighborhoods, middle-class areas. And I swear, they look like Friar Tuck right out of a bloody Robin Hood movie: shaved heads, sackcloth robes, sandals on their feet, the long cord at the waist.”
“Do you know which religious order?” Lenin asked.
“Well, my Spanish isn’t too hot, but I’d guess they’re Dominicans—that’s what I think I heard, anyway. But get this. With each of these monastic platoons that goes house to house encouraging people to go back to church is a guy in a black outfit with a truckload of attitude. If anybody blows off the happy fat guys during their pitch, ninja padre ‘explains’ things so they can understand it.”
“And people are going to church?” Nicolás asked.
“Believe it. I don’t know what those guys in black are telling everyone, but every church in the city is chockablock. There’s three-hour queues to get into the confession booths. Masses run around the clock. And they’ve got capital. They’re handing out crucifixes—heavy, ornate brass ones, telling people to hang them over their beds as a daily reminder of Christ in their lives. I talked to a g
uy from a newspaper in Santiago, and it’s the same story there.”
“These men in black, did anyone say anything about who they were?” Nicolás asked. “You said you thought they were Dominicans, but what’s their authority?”
Dennis pulled out his phone and opened a file full of audio recordings. He clicked on one and they heard Dennis asking, “Look, these guys in black, uh, hombres negro vestido, who are they… quien es?”
The answer in Spanish came in a hurried and hushed staccato. “Quienes son? Mira, gringo, guardas tu alma, y guardas tu culo. Son el Gestapo de Díos. Son de la Santa Oficina.”
Dennis shrugged. “I have to admit I didn’t really get all of that.”
Gina spoke, translating. “Who are they? Look, stranger, watch out for your soul, and watch out for your ass. They’re the Gestapo of God. They’re the Holy Office.”
Lenin sighed. “Nicolás, I fear that even the extremity of your paranoia might not have done justice to what the right-wing factions in Latin America have planned. The Church and the Spanish crown are set on a reconquista of their former colonies. If you’ll let me open my email account, maybe I can prove it.”
Nicolás took his last swig of cognac and waved the empty glass at his three captives. “Fine. But on the big screen, so I can see it.”
With a few strokes, Dennis brought up a computer screen onto the television. He handed the keyboard to Gina, who pulled up the Quickmail web portal and then entered the new email account and password.
The mailbox popped up, and there were two emails. The first was a welcome message from Quickmail. But the second was from the email address [email protected]. Gina clicked on the email, and Alejandra’s words filled the screen.
I have the documents and I am coming to you. Iberia Flight 004 to Bogotá. Trying to connect there to San Juan Diego. Will follow up with my next flight’s information as soon as I have it. Please confirm that you have received this and will meet me at the airport.
“She got away!” Lenin exclaimed. “And she has my proof! Dennis, is there any way we can get someone you trust to meet her in Bogotá? The sooner she has an escort, the better.”
Nicolás sat upright, his eyes narrowing. His right hand seemed to suddenly remember that it possessed a firearm, and it sprang upward and pointed the gun at Lenin. “You have forgotten yourself! We will not be contacting anyone outside of this container!”
Dennis held up his hands. “Let’s all slow down here and take one thing at a time. First, Nicolás, can Gina send an email back to Alejandra that just says ‘confirmed’? No codes, no distress call, just ‘confirmed.’”
Nicolás thought for a moment, then reluctantly nodded.
Gina typed in the one-word response and sent the email while Nicolás watched.
“Good,” Prinn continued, “Now before we make the next decision, I am going to write down the email address and the flight number so that we have it, and then you can delete the email from Alejandra as well as the one you just sent to her. Everything apples?”
Everyone else in the container nodded back at Dennis.
“Excellent. Then I am going to write everything down.” Dennis picked up a sheet of scrap paper and a felt-tipped pen, looked up at the screen, and read out the information as he wrote it down. “Abogadaflamenco at Quickmail dot-com, and Iberia flight naught-naught-four.”
Gina and Lenin locked eyes.
“Naught,” Lenin said.
“Knotted,” Gina said.
“Tied up,” Lenin said.
“Zero,” Gina finished.
Nicolás jumped to his feet, waving his gun. “What is all that?” he demanded. “It’s some kind of code!”
“No, nothing like that,” Lenin said. “Well, it is a code, but it has nothing to do with you.”
“It may be the key to all of this,” Gina said.
Nicolás began pacing in front of the exit door, looking like a cornered animal, wild in the eyes. “What are these tricks? Enough with the foolishness and games!”
“Nico, please listen,” Gina said. “A friend of Martín’s was doing legal research for someone in Spain. Something happened, and he had to get a message out to us. He left a coded message on Martín’s voicemail. We think we finally just figured it out. If we have, we may be able to help your brother.”
“Show me what you have,” Nicolás said, lowering his gun.
Gina went into the bedroom and returned with the satchel full of documents and the stolen laptop. She rummaged through the papers, found one, and showed Nicolás a matrix written in pencil:
Lenin took Dennis’s felt-tip pen and leaned over, writing zeroes where the dashes had been, making the number 0-0-0-1-4-2-2-5-4.
“We think this is a code for a document that came from the research our friend David did in Spain with the girl who is now on the flight to Bogotá,” Gina said.
“I think I know exactly which document this refers to,” Lenin said, “but I need to go online.”
Nicolás glared at him but waved with the barrel of the gun for Lenin to sit down at the console. “I’ll be watching everything you do, and if you do anything I don’t like, you’re dead.”
Lenin entered the URL, and the homepage for the Archive of the Indies came up on the screen. He clicked on the search function, entered 0-0-0-1-4-2-2-5-4, and waited.
*
Waro Moto sat crossed-legged at a low table. He was considering the balance of the character he had just brushed onto rice paper when an assistant discretely entered the office. On a signal from Moto the young man carefully placed a message in front of the magnate.
Failed to acquire asset in Zaragoza. Residence searched: no package. Reestablished contact: MAD. Asset confirmed Iberia 004 / Bogotá, Colombia. Probability package is with asset: extremely high.
Waro Moto looked up. “Notify our security team in San Juan Diego that they will be meeting a flight in Bogotá.”
*
Lenin brought up a standardized research form. There were no cross-references cited, and the document had only been accessed one time previously. One name was next to the entry: David Broch. As Lenin had expected, the text was written in procesal.
“Who can read that shit?” Nicolás asked.
Gina also shook her head, recognizing only a date for the year 1487. The rest of the text was incomprehensible to her.
Lenin said nothing as he downloaded the document.
*
Nicolás had returned to his seat on the floor with his back against the entrance door while Lenin sat across from him, writing furiously as he translated the document from procesal to modern Spanish. He hadn’t said a word for more than an hour. Finally he removed his glasses, carefully put them on the pile of papers, and rubbed his eyes.
“For years there were rumors of the existence of this document,” he said. “Rumors at monasteries, whisperings in the royal courts, innuendoes from audits of the royal treasury.”
He paused, seeming to savor the moment.
“It’s all here,” he said in a quiet, awed voice. “Lost all these centuries because it was supposed to have been destroyed. But someone put it in a file where it didn’t belong.”
He put his glasses back on and picked up the first page.
“This document was written by the notorious inquisitor Tomás de Torquemada. There is no telling what series of events brought it to the Archive of the Indies, which was for documents about colonial trade and governmental matters, not the Inquisition. Somehow David Broch found this, probably by accident. If you want, you can read it for yourself.”
“Just give us the gist,” Nicolás said.
“All right. The document is entitled ‘The Fourth Angel,’ referring to the book of Revelation in the Bible and the seven angels carrying the seven last plagues that would be turned loose on the world to prepare for the Second Coming of Christ. Torquemada fervently believed that the Spanish crown and church could, by joint action, bring about the millennium of rule by Christ by carrying ou
t the steps set forth in Revelation.
“Each angel carries what the Bible calls a vial containing the wrath of God. The first angel’s vial brought festering sores to those wearing the mark of the beast. The second turned the seas to blood, killing everything in them. The third angel turned the waters of rivers to blood.
“The fifth angel poured blood upon the throne of the beast, and the beast’s kingdom was consumed by darkness. The sixth angel poured his vial on the Euphrates River, which dried it up. And the seventh angel emptied his vial into the air, an act that was followed by thunder, lightning, and the strongest earthquake the world had ever seen.
“But it was the fourth angel that had special meaning to the Inquisition. This angel poured his vial on the sun, and was given the power to scorch men with fire. Torquemada understood this passage to be justification for the Inquisition to burn heretics—to purify them. He and his fellow inquisitors believed that by burning people at the stake they were helping to bring on the rule of Christ.
“The Torquemada letter is addressed to King Fernando II to advise him to make plans for a time in the future when Spain would have rights and obligations beyond the peninsula—an empire, in other words. That was a remarkable prediction. Spain was still four years from forcing the Moors to surrender at Granada, and the country remained completely introverted, consumed by its own passion to eject Muslims and embroiled in fighting among its own regions. Spanish dominion over Sicily, Naples, Milan, and Flanders were more than 30 years in the future.
“But although Torquemada believed that Spain was destined to spread Christian sovereignty all over Europe and the world, he also warned Fernando II that they had to learn from past great civilizations—the Carthaginians, the Greeks, the Romans and so on. The eventual Spanish empire would likely also collapse and have to be rebuilt.
“Torquemada urged Fernando not just to think of his own reign, but to build a secret edifice that would stand for however many centuries it took to bring about the rule of Christ on earth. He counseled Fernando to take the largest sum of gold he could get from the royal treasury and from the cortes, the ruling councils of the regions and major cities, spirit it out of Spain, and place the treasure in an interest-bearing account in the free imperial city of Augsburg, convinced that the Germans would be more tight-lipped than the more famous bankers in Genoa and Florence.