The Holy Assassin

by Luís Miguel Rocha

  With a triumphant smile Littel went to the satellite phone on Barnes’s desk and dialed several numbers. He waited for the connection to be established, and the shining in his eyes redoubled when he heard a response. He placed the call over the loudspeaker.

  ‘Colonel Garrison. It’s a pleasure to hear you.’

  ‘The pleasure is mine.’

  ‘Are you where we agreed?’

  ‘I’m having a coffee precisely in Red Square.’

  ‘Perfect. Start the operation.’

  ‘I’ve already started it, my friend. I’ve already started it.’

  57

  A year later the same fear has returned, panic, and the feeling of impotence. She remembered the abandoned warehouse in New York, the heavy chains that hung from the ceiling to which they fastened her wrists, along with the others. Rafael, who wouldn’t be quiet, trying to draw the torture to him, away from her father and the old priest. What was his name? Marius Ferris. That was it. She hadn’t thought of the pleasant old man, fragile, mistrustful, chained up the same way she was. Nor had she thought of their captors, Barnes and company, but of who really dealt the cards – the man in the Armani suit, with the dark, icy stare, a killer without conscience, and his helper, a Pole of the same type. In charge of everyone, incontestable, untouchable, cruel, JC, the same person with whom she now collaborated and who, a year ago, wanted them all dead. There were no absolute truths, only the moment.

  Inside the door of the Russian souvenir shop, she’d had a sudden impulse to call Simon to see how he was doing. Matrioshkas, eggs imitating Fabergé creations, paintings, jars, ballpoints, postcards, jewelry, everything you could associate with a country. It’s unnecessary to add that not one of the offerings caught Sarah’s eye. She felt too tired, too worried, in a foreign country, in an exciting city, showy, but not at this moment for her. If she could have chosen, she’d have preferred to be at her parents’ estate in Trindade, without roads, flight, and persecution.

  Instead of that, she heard a male voice behind her, very close to her ear. She could almost hear his breathing.

  ‘Little Sarah Monteiro.’ It was not a question. ‘Do me the favor of crossing the street and going into the barbershop. Calm and relaxed. Don’t try anything stupid. If you do, you’ll hurt yourself.’

  Her heart almost jumped out of her mouth. No matter how many times we go through situations like that, nothing prepares us. Her first reaction had been a useless attempt to turn around and put a face on the voice of her captor, but he wouldn’t permit it.

  ‘No, no, no. Look straight ahead. We don’t want to be run over, right?’

  He mixed a certain pleasure and sense of responsibility in his words. He spoke English with a heavy accent. Russian, probably.

  ‘Who are you?’ the journalist asked when she’d recovered her faculties.

  ‘That’s not important. Let’s go. Hurry.’

  They crossed the street in the middle of traffic, making some cars honk in protest. At some moment Sarah had mentioned stopping, but something circular and cold poked her in the ribs and convinced her of the contrary.

  A dissonant voice woke up the radio the man had fastened to his belt. He brought it to his mouth and answered something in Russian. The bright sun had faded as Sarah and the unknown man entered the barbershop. Her eyes were slow in adapting to the new conditions. Several barbers dressed in black were cutting hair. If she’d had doubts, they’d dissipated since Sarah could see she was really in a barbershop. Again she felt the cold barrel pushing her forward. No one looked at her, even with so many mirrors. The customers concentrated on their newspapers or admired their own faces reflected in the mirror, or watched the plasma televisions set above each mirror in front of every barber chair. All of them were indifferent to Sarah Monteiro and the man shoving her. In the back she saw an elevator. To the left, stairs going down.

  ‘Go down the stairs,’ the man ordered.

  Step by step she went down into the deep darkness. She felt danger. She saw nothing. She only felt the cylinder stuck in her ribs. Was he going to kill her? But why? Who was he? It had been stupid to stay in the street alone. Where were Rafael and Phelps?

  ‘Wait,’ the man ordered her again. ‘Put these on.’

  He gave her something she couldn’t identify immediately.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Goggles. Put them on.’

  What you don’t see, you don’t know. She followed his order and immediately understood why the object had seemed strange. They were, in fact, night-vision goggles. The flight of stairs ended there. Another step and she would have walked into the wall. A greenish image made everything clearer. A landing supported another flight of steps that descended lower into the Russian earth. A new landing, a new flight of stairs, with many slippery steps.

  ‘What is this place?’ Sarah asked with more fear than she wanted to show.

  ‘The stairway to hell. Isn’t it pretty?’ the other responded sarcastically.

  Sarah regretted asking. What was certain was that in all the way they’d come there was no lamp, light, or even a candle or place for it. The place had really been designed to have no light. A shiver ran up her spine.

  ‘Stop. Give me the goggles.’

  Sarah had no choice but to obey. She found herself immersed in the darkness of the stairwell. She heard some noises to the side.

  ‘What’s that?’

  Silence.

  A new sound, like something dragging itself along.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Be very quiet,’ the man said with a panting sound indicating physical effort. The voice came from in front. ‘It’s only a little way.’

  The little way had been long, or seemed so. She heard the man’s voice behind her again.

  ‘Now take a step forward.’

  A step forward.

  ‘Another.’

  Another step ahead.

  ‘Now relax. Stay quiet.’

  Sarah complied and again heard the sounds of dragging repeated.

  Suddenly a white fluorescent light came on, illuminating an empty hallway. The man, almost sixty years old, was in front of her with a slightly mocking smile on his face.

  ‘We’ve arrived. You can go on,’ the unknown man said. ‘Keep going straight. You can’t get lost.’

  The hallway had doors on only one side. They went in the second.

  ‘Stay here a minute. I’m going to urinate.’

  The man closed the door, but there was no sound of a key turning in the lock.

  Strange, Sarah thought. Could it be he didn’t lock it? After a staircase in which special goggles were required to go down, this seemed amateurish. Maybe the door could only be opened from outside. That was it. That had to be it.

  Spurred on by curiosity, Sarah tried to turn the doorknob, sure it wouldn’t open.

  She was wrong.

  She spied the hallway. Not a living thing. She started to walk down it, step by step, not knowing what to look for. An exit? Only if there were a different one, because the stairs were impossible. There was no light. She had no idea where she was. The grated door of the elevator was closed and the elevator itself empty. No alarm button was visible. She tried the doors fearfully, always alert for a sound that would indicate the return of the unknown man. She turned the knobs carefully. Two were locked. She didn’t need to check the one she’d left. The door at the side was ajar. She opened it slightly and saw Phelps and Rafael seated on chairs face downward on a square table. Red stains on the floor made a shiver run down her spine.

  ‘Rafael,’ she whispered.

  ‘Sarah,’ he answered seriously. He showed no physical weakness. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Yes. I mean, considering the possibilities.’ She was happy to see him again … see them … ‘Are you … all right?’

  ‘Yes, thanks,’ Rafael answered calmly.

  ‘James is pale,’ Sarah realized. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Uh, don’t worry. It’s nerves,�
�� the Englishman said.

  ‘What are we doing here?’ Sarah wanted to know. ‘Is it Bar—’

  Rafael put his finger on his lips, the obvious sign to shut up.

  ‘We are in the custody of the Russian secret service. Old-guard people without technological equipment or satellite images. They’re very patient and have their own training. This is one of their old methods.’

  ‘What method?’ Phelps asked doubtfully.

  ‘They leave us loose here without pressure, prepared to complain about our life, one to the other, to talk about what has brought us here and how everything has gone wrong for us, et cetera, et cetera.’

  In fact all this sudden freedom had seemed strange to Sarah. It smacked of amateurism. It might have worked if Rafael were not here.

  ‘Would you like something to drink?’ Rafael asked Sarah.

  ‘What?’ She hadn’t expected this question. ‘Ah, if I had the pleasure of a cup of tea …’

  ‘Three teas for us down here, please,’ he shouted at the door, startling Sarah and Phelps.

  ‘It’s not every day we receive a visit from foreigners who know our methods,’ a voice answered from the door. ‘The foreigners who know them are not usually in the world of the living.’

  Sarah recognized him as the man in his sixties who had led her to this basement.

  ‘You?’ Phelps offered this scandalized doubt.

  ‘Me indeed,’ the man answered. He turned to Rafael. ‘Who are you?’

  They stared at each other without blinking. They measured forces, studied each other. Every gesture counted, thus the appearance of calm. Rafael seated with his elbow on the table supporting his chin as if he didn’t have a care in the world. The unknown man leaning in the doorway, a cigarette in his mouth.

  ‘You know who I am.’

  A smile filled the Russian’s mouth. Straight white teeth.

  ‘Does the pope know you are here?’

  ‘Why don’t you ask him?’

  ‘Maybe I will.’

  He took a drag on the cigarette and adopted a meditative expression, an empty look, supported by the silence of the moment.

  ‘I have many questions for you, Father Rafael Santini.’ A slight mocking look shone in the Russian’s eyes. It was time to show the cards.

  ‘I haven’t come to answer but to ask questions … Barber Ivanovsky.’

  58

  Inside every border there is an elite with limitless access to all corners of the territory. They are in control over the population whether the regime is democratic or dictatorial. The few that control the many, a minority who clap their hands and see one pair of hands turn into an immense national applause. Beyond the greedy ones of national influence, there are others who go beyond the borders of their own country and manage to make the greater part of other populations dance to the sound of their music. These are the elite of the elite, and of course they exist, since everything can be subdivided infinitely.

  Marius Ferris could be considered one of these privileged few, someone who crosses borders without being inconvenienced, who enters countries through a special door without the necessity of explanations.

  Work or pleasure? is what some border guards ask recent arrivals. A phrase Marius Ferris never hears. One word, one word alone, is what they tell him: Welcome. They don’t even take his diplomatic passport with the Vatican seal. It’s enough when they see it at a distance in the hand of a man of the highest importance.

  He had arrived on a commercial night flight, business class, of course. He has enjoyed the privilege of a Famous Grouse whisky, earphones to listen to music or add sound to the images on his individual monitor, an orthopedic pillow to sleep a little. After all, it was two hours and forty minutes in the air, and sleep has to be regularized. Twenty minutes’ delay from the scheduled arrival to the actual time the plane touched down on the asphalt of Leonardo da Vinci Airport at Fiumicino.

  He headed immediately for the place of his personal pilgrimage. His bedroom in the Casa di Santa Marta could wait.

  He found a young driver waiting for him with a paper showing the letters MFOD.

  Marius Ferris, Opus Dei. The prelate smiled.

  ‘That’s me. Good evening.’

  ‘Good … good evening … Your Eminence.’

  He could have corrected him and told him that he was not yet ‘Your Eminence,’ but he liked the deference to religious authority. In the final account he and his colleagues were the border that separates the believers from God. And nobody got to God without passing through people like him. It was worth all the money extracted from the faithful, more or less wealthy, who deposit fortunes in their hands … in the name of God.

  The driver offered to take the small silver-gray briefcase he carried.

  ‘Don’t bother. I’ll carry it,’ he refused arrogantly. ‘Show me to the car, please.’

  The car was right at the door of the arrivals terminal, a rare case today, explicable because the passenger was who he was.

  Once settled into the immense backseat of the Mercedes, top line, with his briefcase in his lap, Marius Ferris sighed. A sigh of relief, of peace with himself. Things were coming together again.

  ‘To Saint Peter’s, Your Eminence?’ the driver asked, looking at him in the rearview mirror.

  ‘No. No. Santa Maria Maggiore.’

  He had to go now. He couldn’t wait any longer.

  The young man drove off wiping away the drops of sweat from his face. It seemed strange the bishop wanted to go to Santa Maria della Neve. The basilica was closed at that hour, like all the sacred places in Rome. Even the saints have a right to the same nocturnal rest as the living. Thank God.

  There was little traffic on the expressway at that hour of the morning. The airport itself had been empty when he arrived, only the late arrivals, the distracted, the disoriented, who didn’t understand Italian or English, those who’d lost their belongings or those who’d come from late-night flights like that of Marius Ferris.

  The straight fast lane with guardrails less than a yard from the outer edge on the shoulder didn’t intimidate the drivers who used it. Least of all this nervous young man, who, at the wheel, at sixty-five or seventy miles an hour, forgot his anxieties with nothing on his conscience. The left lane was for speed, and he didn’t change lanes until he entered the Fiumicino – Rome freeway, except on one occasion to let a faster BMW pass.

  At least he’s efficient, Marius Ferris thought. Driving over the speed limit didn’t bother him. The faster the better.

  Without delay they entered the great imperial city. Marius Ferris looked at his watch. Two-twenty. It wasn’t a decent hour to enter this basilica or any basilica or church in Rome or anywhere else.

  They turned onto the Lungotevere di San Paolo, ignoring the first of four basilicas in Rome, San Paolo Fuori le Mura. It was not the one that mattered, we well know, or the greatest. Destiny marked Santa Maria Maggiore as the most important tonight.

  ‘The basilica is closed at this hour,’ the driver dared to say in an attempt to start a conversation. He was visibly much calmer.

  ‘For you,’ Marius Ferris only replied, stressing his superior importance.

  The young driver had thought this would be a quick trip, picking up a priest at the airport and taking him to Saint Peter’s. He’d have time to stop by Ramona’s house on the Via dell’Orso and give her a good-night kiss, maybe something more. But this detour wouldn’t allow him time for that. He should cross himself and ask forgiveness for thinking sinful thoughts of lust, but he was ashamed because of the presence of the prelate in the backseat. He was afraid he’d read his thoughts. Little did the young driver know that Marius Ferris had more things to think about than his driver’s sexual fantasies, although what the old man felt, now that they’d left the Via dei Fori Imperiali and drove up Cavour, could be compared to the pleasure of carnal relations, applied to the spiritual. Marius Ferris, apparently calm, felt anxious with butterflies in his stomach, just like the blessed th
at look forward to an amorous encounter, a kiss on the lips, a smile.

  Once on Via Cavour they turned right toward the Via di Santa Maria Maggiore. It was a steep climb that leads to the Via Liberiana. The driver eased up with the Basilica of Santa Maria Maggiore on the left.

  Marius Ferris opened the door with the vehicle still in motion, forcing the young man to brake hard.

  ‘Wait for me here,’ he ordered, closing the door immediately and walking in the direction of the side door for authorized persons only to the right side of the basilica.

  The driver closed his eyes in frustration. Hell. He hated the idiotic phrase Wait for me here. He hated it. Oh, Ramona, beautiful Ramona, you will have to wait another night for him to throw pebbles against your window.

  But it’s Marius Ferris who interests us. He approached the side door for deliveries and employees. He rang the bell for fifteen minutes before someone appeared. For the last five minutes he never stopped pressing the button. The person who finally opened the door was a Redemptorist brother, roused out of bed by the violent, constant buzzing.

  ‘There are hours for visiting the basilica and the brothers,’ he scolded. ‘This isn’t one of them.’ His eyes were red with sleep and anger.

  ‘Get out of the way,’ Marius Ferris said, shoving him aside roughly.

  The man didn’t resist and let him enter. Brothers aren’t used to violence, no matter what order.

  ‘Where do you think you’re going? Who are you?’ he managed to ask.

  ‘I’m the guy who pays you,’ Marius Ferris answered immediately, turning his back and walking toward the interior of the church.

  The man recovered and ran after him.

  ‘Listen, I don’t know who you think you are, but you can’t come in like this. Identify yourself or I will have to call the carabinieri.’

  If, on the one hand, Marius Ferris loved being flattered, put on an altar, and adored, the contrary infuriated him. He stopped and looked at the Redemptorist.

  ‘Tell Brother Vincenzo I’m going to be in the crypt for five minutes. He already knows.’