“Shit,” he said while it kept ringing. “I’m coming. The boss is out. I’ll go look for him.”
The worst thing that could happen to any intelligence service was not to have timely information when someone asked for it. How else to justify the agency’s existence, if not to supply needed information? As his predecessor used to say, “When the phone rings, you better have what they want to hear. If not, you’d better have a fertile imagination.”
But in this case, his imagination would be of no help. Eliminating a target couldn’t be invented. It happened or it didn’t. Whether it was about to happen wouldn’t be of any help.
“I’m coming,” he yelled at the phone, and lifted the receiver. His greeting was in Italian because the man calling him spoke the language of Dante, in addition to being fluent in a handful of dead languages that for Barnes didn’t count.
A tense conversation ensued, in which Barnes attributed his lack of information to various external elements that caused the loss of one of his agents right when his operation was nearly completed. This had resulted in temporary confusion, allowing the target to escape. Barnes was fuming.
“We’ve got some movement!” Staughton announced at the door.
“Just in time,” the big bulk of a man thought. “What is it?”
“A credit card in Victoria Station, used at McDonald’s.”
“Did you tell the staff?”
“They’re on location right now.”
“Good,” he said, and relayed this to the person at the other end. After a while, he hung up, visibly upset. “Staughton, tell our people to stay in the background. Their people are going to act.”
“What do you mean?” Staughton asked, failing to see the implications. “Are you sure, sir?”
Barnes glowered at him, in a more than eloquent reply.
“I’ll give the order right away, sir.”
“And by the way, Staughton, tell them to bring me a hamburger.”
14
The old man hung up, annoyed. “How stupid. Damned Americans!” he said to himself, getting up from the sofa with the help of his cane, and hobbling over to the small bar cabinet. He dropped two ice cubes in a glass and poured himself a drink. The death of an American agent about to complete his job brought to mind all sorts of questions, besides problems of logistics. Who knew about the previously and secretly planned proceedings? How did he know to arrive in time to save the victim? An unexpected participant had joined the game. From this, a second scenario arose. Who’s trying to interfere with our business? How did they get advance information on our plans? The two questions might have a single answer: an infiltrator. A traitor belonging to the CIA, the agency now responsible for the business of old Albion.
No doubt the best way to resolve this situation was to call in the Guard, his organization’s group with a well-earned reputation for never failing. Given the present circumstances, he should activate this select cadre and have Geoffrey Barnes stand by, pending new instructions from general headquarters, his Italian villa.
The old man had always favored direct action and quick decisions, but lately he preferred to consult with his assistant, though informally, at critical moments. All his life he’d chosen his collaborators well, but this assistant was a real find. The man was diligent, competent, persistent, and willing to be at his service 24/7, year-round. The old man, having no children and no relatives, felt reassured to know he could count on this man, down the line. When his own time came to abandon this world, there would be someone to shepherd his organization. His right-hand man was his natural successor, sharing his vision of the organization’s future.
His assistant would be coming to the villa within an hour by private plane. Although both of them had access to satellite phones, even in flight, there was no need to consult him about the present case. There was no doubt the assistant would agree with his decision. Besides, a call now from the old man might be interpreted as a sign of weakness, like begging for advice. If they were both already at the villa, things would be different. He would start a casual conversation and easily find out what his assistant thought about the situation.
Old age is a curse, he mused. For many years, he alone had made all the important decisions, but now the simple objective of doing away with one woman disconcerted him. Under normal conditions, he had to admit, she would have been dead by now. But a mole presented a serious problem. The Guard would resolve this problem in less than an hour. As for the infiltrator, he would take this up with Barnes once the target was neutralized.
His glass was now practically empty. He put it on the table and picked up the phone. It was time to start moving the pieces.
“Jack, the Yankees dropped the ball. We’ll have to solve the situation ourselves.” He brought the whiskey to wet his lips. “Rub her out!”
15
There were three different underground lines at Victoria Station. The District and Circle lines followed the same route from Tower Hill—the zone of the famous Tower of London, the Tower Bridge, and the financial center—up to Edgware Road, where they separated toward different destinations; and the Victoria Line, which joined Brixton and Walthamstow Central. For someone wanting to flee, the District and Victoria lines would be best, particularly because the Circle Line, as its name implied, was continuously returning to its original point of departure.
But Sarah Monteiro wasn’t thinking clearly. The best escape was the first one she could find, even if its destination was the gates of hell. Anything was better than getting caught by an unknown organization apparently worse than the worst of those she knew about.
Sarah bought a one-day travel card at a self-serve machine. This would allow her to move freely the whole day within the 274 stations in the 250 miles of underground trains. Whoever wanted to follow her would have a tough job and need a lot of luck.
Even so, she couldn’t relax. Ultimately they would be able to determine her point of departure. And in due time, they could also pinpoint her destination. Her father had scared her with his description of the organization dogging her. Was he exaggerating? How long would it take them to find and capture her?
While trying to figure out what kind of dangerous documents had fallen into her hands, she decided to run the risk. There was no other choice.
Sarah slid her transit card into the turnstile, which opened, then closed behind her. There was no turning back. She had selected the District and Circle lines, and fate would decide the rest. She went down the stairs to the tracks. In two minutes there would be a Circle Line train to Tower Hill. And another, to Upminster, would reach the station in three; that one was on the District Line, one of the city’s longest and oldest, open to the public since the nineteenth century.
At that point, the trains on either side arrived and departed parallel to each other, which allowed passengers on both sides to see the other platform across the tracks. A train going to Wimbledon had just arrived on the other side.
There were only a handful of people on Sarah’s platform. An older man was reading the Times, and two young women chatted excitedly, constantly interrupting each other.
The train on the opposite track pulled out. Sarah noticed the red lights as the train entered the dark tunnel on its way to Wimbledon. Looking at the train schedule, she saw that in one minute a train that could save her would open its doors. A cold gust of wind, out of nowhere, chilled her bones, making her situation even more uncomfortable. She was tired and sleepy, but her intense dread overwhelmed everything else. Being used to eight hours’ sleep every day, she would have to pay for this when it was all over. Lack of sleep made her cranky, as her colleagues in the pressroom knew well. But escaping was her only thought now. She was unaware that her pursuers had at their disposal technology so sophisticated that any of her movements, such as paying for a hamburger, making a call from public phone, or buying a transit card would immediately be identified, sounding an alarm.
A rumble in the back of Sarah’s mind brought her back to
reality. At the far end of the tunnel where she had seen the lights turn red for a departing train, she now saw yellow lights, growing bigger and bigger. Her train was coming.
The doors opened to let passengers out. Only a few people were in the car. One young kid was sprawled out, sleeping.
Two men had just arrived on the platform on the other side, apparently executives. Something about their attitude, however, made them seem suspicious. They were nervously looking all around. Watching them, Sarah, motionless in her car, sank down in her seat, trying to disappear from view. The executives were consulting a piece of paper, perhaps the photo of someone they were after. By sheer luck, they were on the other side and didn’t see her.
“Shut the damned doors and let’s go,” Sarah mumbled, mentally addressing the conductor.
Repeated chimes warned that the doors were about to close. A few seconds later, the train was picking up speed toward Tower Hill. Sarah sighed, relieved, and once her long train was inside the tunnel, she straightened up in her seat. She had never imagined that she could enjoy the monotonous clatter of a train so much.
Through the glass doors, Sarah observed the people in other cars. In the one just behind her, she saw two men and a woman. A teenager was watching a movie on a portable DVD player.
And then she saw him. He was wearing a dark suit, similar to the other two in Victoria Station. He was standing, comparing Sarah’s face with a photo he was holding. It was obvious he had just recognized her.
Putting his index finger to his lips, he motioned her to be silent, and started moving toward her. Sarah also moved, but in the opposite direction, running toward the front of the train. She hastily opened the door between the two cars. The other passengers noticed her opening and closing doors, but took no interest.
The train started to brake as it entered Saint James’s Park Station. The man was looking for anything that could tell him the whereabouts of the woman he was after, who had disappeared into the first cars.
For Sarah it all took an instant, her fright provoking a tremendous burst of adrenaline. Her strength seemed to multiply, following her instinct to escape. She curled up on the floor, wedged against seats that faced the door, waiting. In a second, she hurtled out of the car onto the platform and started running as fast as she could.
The man resembling the two other executive types quickly jumped out of the train and saw Sarah getting away, three cars ahead. Trying to run after her wasn’t worth the effort. So he pulled out his gun and aimed with professional skill. A smile of recognition crossed his face: what an easy target.
The man pulled the trigger. At the same moment, Sarah jumped into one of the cars, and the bullet was swallowed by the darkness of the tunnel.
He had to get back on the train immediately, but the doors had already closed and the train was in motion. When the train finally left the Saint James’s Park Station, the man grimaced. Seconds later he mumbled something, his hand near his mouth.
Still in shock and with tears streaming down her cheeks, Sarah didn’t dare look at the other passengers. The train stopped again. As soon as the doors opened, she bolted out.
16
LUCÍA JULY 11, 1977
Behind the green wooden doors and the beautiful carvings on the stone facade, there were secrets, and great amounts of devotion.
The Convent of Santa Teresa for Carmelite nuns in Coimbra, Portugal, the work of Frei Pedro da Encarnação, opened its doors long ago, on June 23, 1744, perhaps under the same intense heat as on that July day in 1977, when two men were patiently waiting for the doors to open once more.
When the hinges of the heavy door turned, a Teresinha, a Carmelite nun, appeared and welcomed them warmly. It was such a pleasure to welcome these two important men, finally paying the convent a visit. Her white habit and the dark wimple hiding her hair gave the nun the benevolent, maternal air befitting the saintly women devoted to the service of God since a most tender age.
“Your Eminence, what a joy to have you here!”
“Thank you very much, Sister. The pleasure is mine. This is my assistant, Father Diego Lorenzi.”
“How are you, Father Lorenzi? Please come in. Follow me.”
The Venetian patriarch had come to say Mass in the church of the Carmelite nuns. It was a standing commitment of his, which he had already performed several times.
The kind abbess welcomed the two visitors.
“Your Eminence, you can’t imagine what an honor it is to have you here,” the old nun said, walking slowly and with difficulty. “Sister Lucía is waiting for you. She has expressed her desire to talk with you and to ask for your blessing after Mass.”
“Of course. It will be my honor, Sister.”
After Mass, Albino Luciani and Diego Lorenzi walked through the convent corridors, guided by the same nun who had welcomed them. They crossed through the enormous iron grate that reached to the ceiling and enclosed the cloister. In that jail-like atmosphere, the Carmelites received visits from relatives and friends. The prelate from Venice and his assistant, however, weren’t going to meet Sister Lucía through those annoying bars, which made obscured faces and caused more bitterness and pity than religious piety in a meeting between Christians. Don Albino Luciani and Father Lorenzi entered the Carmelite cloister under the arches that helped mitigate the summer heat outside.
“Very baroque, Don Albino,” Lorenzi said, trying to relieve the heavy silence of those corridors.
“Yes,” Luciani agreed, smiling. “No architects were involved in building this place. It was the work of a discalced Carmelite priest, more than two centuries ago.”
“That’s right,” the sister confirmed. “We are so pleased to have Your Eminence honoring us with your erudition about our modest convent.”
“Please don’t exaggerate, Sister.”
“Oh, Your Eminence. Your great humility is well known even here,” the sister protested, her hands raised in a sincere gesture.
“Please don’t make me blush, Sister.”
“Nothing could be further from my intention, Your Eminence. But it’s true that this convent is more than two hundred years old. Unfortunately, it hasn’t had an easy existence, and only recently has had active, future projects.”
“The republic,” Don Albino reminded his assistant, by way of explanation.
“How was that?” Lorenzi asked, feeling he had missed something.
“His Eminence is referring to the establishment of the Portuguese republic in 1910. That same year, on October 10, the convent was violently invaded and all the nuns were thrown out.”
“Incredible!” Lorenzi exclaimed.
“Actually, Father Lorenzi, the republicans were only continuing a brutal tradition,” the sister added. “The dissolution of religious orders had already started during the monarchy with the rise of liberal politics. This convent was kept open under a special license granted by Queen Mary II, valid until 1910. I didn’t really mean to get into a political discussion, Father Lorenzi, but this is my understanding.
“In the face of those calamities, the nuns sought shelter with relatives and friends, later joining Carmelite convents in Spain. But by 1933 conditions in Portugal were more peaceful; certainly there was less animosity toward religious orders. Three of the nuns who had been thrown out came back to Coimbra and tried to restore the Carmelite community. Since the convent was occupied at that time by the military, the sisters had to rent a house and faced many hardships. In 1940 it was rumored that the military was going to abandon the convent, and the sisters did all they could to get it back. That finally happened in 1947. Of those who’d been expelled, only two were nuns still alive. One of them was our reverend mother, who in due course received the keys to the convent.”
“It’s a very moving story, Sister,” Luciani remarked.
“I’m sure Your Eminence already knew it.”
“I did, but this is the first time I’ve heard it directly from a Carmelite nun from Coimbra. And I appreciate it very much, Si
ster.”
Beyond the cloister, the three of them continued their tour through the interior corridors of the convent, behind the high walls that helped preserve a sort of somber freshness against the implacable sun outside.
They reached a smallish room with a pious, austere décor—just a simple oak table and a bookcase with a few books, some old chairs, and several pieces of furniture that had seen better days, probably going back to the founding of the community. They stopped to look at the large, stark crucifix that dominated one of the walls—just two crossed pieces of rough wood, with no figure of Jesus—infusing the room with a holy air.
“Sister Lucía will be joining you soon. Would you like something to drink? Perhaps a cup of coffee or a soda?”
“I’d like some coffee, Sister, if you’d be so kind,” Don Albino said.
Father Lorenzi also accepted, and they both remained seated, waiting for Sister Lucía.
“We’ll finally meet Sister Lucía, Don Albino! I’ve heard so much about her,” Lorenzi said, with sincere admiration.
“So have I, Lorenzi. Fátima means a lot to the Church. It’s very hard to know exactly how everything happened and why. But her visions were connected with decisive events. And she is still keeping a secret.”
“The third secret.”
“Yes, the third secret.”
“Could it be the most important?”
“The others were very important. There was only one secret, but Sister Lucía divided it into three parts, and then revealed only the first two. That unknown part is what’s being called ‘the third secret.’ ”
“The first two parts of the secret of Fátima referred to the First World War—a hellish vision—and to Russia’s adoption of Mary’s Sacred Heart. Sister Lucía never wanted to reveal the third secret to anyone.”
People were naturally curious. Who wouldn’t want to know the third secret of Fátima? It was rumored that it had to do with terrible cataclysms, perhaps even the Apocalypse, the end of the world, the extinction of the human race. People fond of secrets and conspiracy theories rejoiced. The Church had to be prudent, and tried to avoid promoting unnecessary scandals.
The Last Pope Page 7