“Any results?”
“Nothing. Have you considered the possibility they haven’t left the country?” one of the agents asked.
“They’ve left. I’m sure.” He looked at the spot that had caught his attention. “Where’s Staughton?”
“He left with Thompson.”
“With Thompson? Where’d they go?”
“They didn’t say.”
Barnes was returning to his office when his secretary intercepted him.
“Sir—”
“Have they brought my lunch yet?”
“It’s on its way.”
“They’re taking longer than usual.”
“Twenty minutes, as always, sir.”
Barnes shoved his office door. He was really on edge. “This is going to end badly for me,” he repeated obsessively.
SEATED ON THE STAIRS and concentrating on the PlayStation game, the little girl paid no attention to the two men going past her, headed for another floor. If not for her concentration on the game, the girl would have heard the man walking behind, scolding the first one that this was not acceptable and that this was not what he was supposed to do. There was nobody else around.
The girl was absorbed in the meteorite shower that she had to avoid with her spaceship. The earphones kept her from hearing the tremendous racket caused by a door being kicked in on the third floor. The tenant woke up, startled by the noise. He tried to flee through the window, but the gun held by the first man stopped him cold.
“Hans, my dear Hans,” Thompson greeted him gaily, closing in, with Staughton close behind, also holding a gun.
“How’s business?”
42
Though it had been barely two hours since landing in the Portuguese capital, Sarah was already in the shower in a room at the Altis Hotel on Castilho Street, where the two of them managed to get something to eat as well.
Sarah still felt weird to be sharing a room with a stranger. Because he was a stranger, even after all she’d been through with him, events that she would never manage to erase from her memory, and that bonded her with Rafael in a way she hadn’t ever experienced with any other man. She went around the room wrapped in a white towel, and he sat there indifferently, which did not make her any less uncomfortable.
Suddenly the television offered the latest news report. Sarah heard her name.
“We have late-breaking news, just in. The Portuguese journalist Sarah Monteiro, who was being sought by English authorities as an eyewitness to the murder that took place in her home, has been taken into custody here in London this morning.”
The accompanying video showed a woman getting out of a car, her head covered with a jacket, and entering the famous Scotland Yard Building.
“That’s a surprise!” Sarah exclaimed, flabbergasted.
“We’re doubly clean,” Rafael commented.
“Why are they making up that story?”
“To keep outside forces from interfering. They’re absolutely convinced that we’ve left the country.”
“Is that what it means?”
“Yes,” Rafael answered, getting up. “I’m going to have a shower and then we’ll leave.”
When Rafael came out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his waist, he didn’t find Sarah in the room. The young woman came in just as he was starting to put on his pants.
“Where were you?”
“The reception desk.”
“Why?”
“Do I need to explain my every movement?”
“No. But if I don’t know where you are, I can’t protect you.”
“I only went to the reception desk. Now I’m back, safe and sound,” Sarah said sarcastically. “And now, are we leaving?” she asked, changing the subject.
“As soon as I finish getting dressed.”
Sarah saw the strange tattoo on his arm, and the bullet wound he’d bandaged. “That doesn’t look good.”
“It’s getting better.”
“Let me at least clean it.” Without waiting for a reply, Sarah headed for the bathroom, grabbed the soap, moistened a towel with hot water, and took another dry one. Returning to the room, she put everything on the bed.
“Sit here.”
“Leave it alone. It’s already better.”
“Sit down.”
Not wanting to argue, Rafael obeyed, sitting down on the edge of the bed. Without alcohol, the best available disinfectant was the soap. Sarah began by cleaning the wound with the wet towel. Next she used the dry one to wipe it off, and then tore the fine hand towel into strips and bandaged it. After finishing, she stood up and looked at him. Rafael’s gaze had been fixed on her since the beginning of her work, so gently accomplished. Neither of them looked away for a few seconds. The situation was growing uncomfortable, at least for Sarah, but she kept her eyes steady.
“What’s wrong?” Sarah finally asked.
“Nothing,” Rafael answered, shifting his eyes off her as he finished putting on his shirt. “Thank you.”
“Always happy to be of service,” Sarah replied, standing up. “Hey, that’s quite a tattoo,” she commented, trying to ease the emotional tension.
“When you see one like it on somebody else, start running and don’t look back.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s the Guard’s insignia.”
“The guard’s? What guard?”
“The P2’s Advance Guard. It’s a kind of small army, trained as an overland rapid response force. Today you’ve trashed the reputation of that elite corps.”
“Not me. You,” Sarah corrected. The serpent tattoo, extending down his arm to his wrist, was now hidden again by the long shirtsleeve.
“Let’s phone the desk to ask for a taxi.”
“It’s not necessary.”
“Are we going to catch one somewhere else?”
“No. We’re not going by taxi. I have a car ready.”
A little while later they found themselves on the highway leaving Lisbon, headed north. Very soon Sarah was to see her father, and she could think of nothing else.
43
After a whole night without sleep, the two men remained in the same place, their eyes fixed on the lobby door through which the old man had disappeared many hours before. They maintained the same alert, watchful attitude, especially the one sitting next to the driver.
“I’m beat,” the more alert one complained.
“Cars weren’t designed for sleeping,” the other replied.
They had some coffee and doughnuts that the first one had gone out to buy from a coffee shop no more than a block away. Given his companion’s taciturn nature, he had a lot of extra time to think. He thought about stores that stayed open all night and about more important matters. Payne, for example, the famous Jack. He condemned what the man had done and yet admired him. It took a lot of courage—real balls—to make a move like that. He had to put his ass on the line to play a double role inside the Guard and, even more important, not to be exposed, until he decided the time was right. Good old Jack Payne. A fox. And speaking of old men and foxes . . .
“The target just came out,” the driver said.
“I saw him, too.”
“Are you going to follow him?”
“No. You are.”
“And you?”
“I’m going to take a look around his place.”
“Now you’re talking,” the driver said, satisfied. Finally, a bit of action.
“Don’t let him out of your sight. When I’m finished, I’ll give you a buzz to find out where you are.”
The driver slid smoothly out of the car and followed the old man’s steps, walking up Seventh Avenue toward Central Park. He turned toward Broadway and headed for Times Square. Taking walks delighted the old man, and it simplified the work of the one trailing him.
Why don’t we just put a bullet between his eyes and be done with this whole business? the driver wondered. What makes him special? Why should we treat him any differently from every
body else?
Barely fifteen minutes later, the other man managed to get into the old man’s flat. He did a professional job and was extremely careful, now that he had exceeded the limits of his assignment. His boss’s clear instructions did not include entering the apartment. Moreover, they expressly prohibited any action that could jeopardize the overall plan. Why was he placing himself in such danger? He was risking all of his previous accomplishments and taking his life in his hands, knowing that the Master’s hand did not tremble at the moment of exacting punishment. But he was trying to gain an edge, something that could please the old boss, whose arrival was imminent.
He’d had everything planned, waiting at a prudent distance from the residence. Less than ten minutes had gone by when a car stopped in front of it and the doorman went to open the car door for the lady and her children ready to climb in. The man wasted no time, already finding himself in the service elevator, on his way to the seventh floor. No one had seen him go in.
Now, inside the apartment, he inspected it with precision. The decor was modest, with old furniture and nothing too luxurious. Dark tones were predominant and there were many crosses, dispersed through all the rooms. The faith of the man living there was also evidenced by a humble wooden altar with enough extra space facing it to say Mass for ten or fifteen people, and by various copies of the New Testament, in different editions, sizes, and bindings.
During his hourlong inspection, the man made three phone calls to keep track of the tenant’s jaunt, well into Central Park, to the despair of the driver, who was already fed up with following him around. By the time he had completed his task, he had no doubt that what he had hoped to find wasn’t there. He had searched in the darkest nooks and hidden corners. Cautiously poking his head out the window, he saw the endless traffic on Sixth Avenue. He glanced at his car, still neatly parked. He tried to compose himself, for he couldn’t go out in an agitated state.
With a thoughtful expression, he sighed deeply. “Nothing.”
44
The Mafra National Palace, one of the most important architectural relics of Portugal, was located in the town from which it got its name. The enormous edifice was built according to the wishes of King Juan V of Portugal, who had promised to build it if the queen, Doña María of Austria, gave him an heir. The birth of Princess Doña María Bárbara made him keep his promise, and the king spared no expense in building that baroque architectural masterpiece. The luxurious royal quarters occupied the entire top floor, but the building also contained a monastery for more than 300 Franciscan priests, a basilica, and one of the most beautiful libraries in Europe, covered with marble and exotic woods. Its rococo shelves now housed more than 40,000 volumes, leather-bound with gold engraving. In addition to many other literary marvels, it held a first edition of Os Lusíadas, by Luíz Vaz de Camões. The building had not housed any Franciscan fathers for a long time now, since the religious orders were dissolved in 1834. In addition to its great intrinsic value, the palace also held many treasures. The basilica had two towers and a cupola, six pipe organs with an exclusive repertory, which couldn’t be heard in any other place, and two carillons of ninety-two bells, considered the best in the world.
“What are we doing here?”
“We’re going to meet your father.”
“Here?” Sarah was in a terrible mood. “He’s coming here?”
“He’s already here.”
They passed the enormous doors of the monastery and went into its magnificent interior. Rafael’s manner suggested he knew where they were going.
The serenity of the monastery began to ease Sarah’s anxieties. This environment served as a balm. A group of students was ahead of them, with a guide explaining the history of the place.
“Saramago, the Nobel Prize winner in literature—in his book Memorial do convento, which I recommend, by the way—describes the misfortunes and complications that occurred during the construction of this building.”
Rafael and Sarah were sneaking through a restricted-access doorway. Her heart began beating much faster. “He’s close.”
“Did you know it’s said that the height of this monastery is the same as its depth underground?” she asked nervously.
“I’m sure,” Rafael answered mechanically, obviously thinking about something else.
They went into what had once been a hospital, with an adjoining chapel, from which the patients could hear the Lord’s words. In one corner, Rafael skillfully opened a small wooden door.
They descended a narrow spiral staircase, illuminated by the flashlight Rafael had pulled out of his pocket.
“It’s also said that the basements have been inaccessible for centuries, due to the thousands of rats living there.” Sarah’s voice sounded tremulous, revealing her anxious jitters. “Countless treasures were lost because of that.”
They came to a very old door with rusty hinges and moldy wood. There was utter darkness. Sarah began picturing bats awakened from their sleep, infuriated by the two intruders. Rafael opened the door, which screeched sharply.
“Watch your head,” he warned, stooping to go through the narrow doorway. Sarah followed him, convinced she was about to enter fifteenth-century Portugal.
“What is this? Where are we?”
“Take this,” Rafael said, handing her the small flashlight.
Sarah grabbed the chance to survey the place, disregarding Rafael’s moves. But the only thing she managed to see was dirt. Dirt and more dirt. She couldn’t tell if it was a continuation of the passageway or a kind of catacomb.
“Would you mind pointing that over this way?” Rafael asked. “It has to be somewhere around here.”
“What?”
Set in the rock, or dirt wall, Sarah couldn’t tell, was a stick with a cloth wound around one end. A primitive torch.
Seconds later, using a lighter, Rafael ignited it. The fire spread an orange light that partly lifted the darkness. Before them was an enormous tunnel that looked endless, dug out of the rock.
“Where are we?”
“Welcome to the catacombs of the Mafra monastery,” Rafael said, noticing Sarah’s bewildered expression. “Shall we go?”
Sarah didn’t answer for a moment, stunned into silence.
“My father’s coming to meet us here?” she finally asked.
“No, your father lives here.”
45
GOLF AND MONEY MATTERS SEPTEMBER 1978
There’s certainly nothing like the blue smoke of Havana cigars. It traces beautiful, unpredictable swirls, slow-moving and soulful, and their fragrance permeates rooms with an incomparable, refined elegance.
Paul Marcinkus was savoring a Havana cigar in his Rome office, while watching the television recap of a round of golf. Just at that moment, while an elegant golfer in a yellow jersey competed in the tournament against the all-powerful Jack Nicklaus, a bitter workday was coming to an end. Only the Masters at Augusta or the British Open could soothe life’s troubles. Although there’s nothing like Wimbledon, of course. he thought
False holiness made the Illinois archbishop sick, and he couldn’t understand certain cardinals’ disgust with life’s pleasures. “Holy rubbish!” was his usual response when some humble priest reminded him that the Church’s elaborate display wasn’t exactly the best model for the world’s faithful. In those cases, even if the observation came from a member of the Curia, Archbishop Marcinkus reminded them of a passage from the Gospels that always disarmed his opponents. “The Son of man, who ate and drank, came, and people said, ‘This is a gluttonous drunkard, friend of sinners and carousers.’ But his deeds bore witness to his wisdom.” Luckily for him, the prelates reproaching him never mentioned the passage where Jesus warned that one could not serve two masters, particularly if one of them was God and the other gold.
“That’s a three-iron,” Marcinkus said, when the RAI commentator didn’t know which club the golfer was using.
Pope Paul VI entrusted him with the directorship of the Vat
ican’s finances in 1971, when he was only forty-seven. Marcinkus could still remember the ailing pope’s admission, after Vatican Council II, that the coffers of the Holy See were full of cobwebs. It was a divine mission, Marcinkus thought, grinning ironically. The institute for religious works, the IOR, really housed distinct financial organizations that needed updating and renovation.
One of the first modern banking institutions depending on the Holy See was the Banco Ambrosiano, founded by Monsignor Tovini in 1896. That financial entity, as Marcinkus read in various old reports, was intended to “support ethical organizations, beneficial work, and religious groups devoted to charity.”
“Naturally,” the cardinal said out loud, remembering that one of the former Banco Ambrosiano directors had been a nephew of Pope Pius XI. “Charity matters most.”
During the 1960s the Banco Ambrosiano moved its central offices to Luxembourg, a country that worshiped money. “Small countries are such delights: Luxembourg, Monaco, Andorra, the Vatican, the Bahamas.” In Luxembourg, Banco Ambrosiano Holding was formed, with its beneficial work being diversified around the world.
The smile on Marcinkus’s face showed he was thinking of those pleasant sixties, when Michele Sindona, incomprehensibly labeled the Mafia’s banker, began to develop friendly ties with Roberto Calvi. According to the cardinal, Sindona was not a terribly clever man. He had been arrested in the United States, and found guilty of illegal financial activities in Italy. But as for Calvi, Marcinkus could only find him worthy of admiration. Based on that, strong ties developed between the IOR and the Banco Ambrosiano. Marcinkus decided, through a series of high-finance maneuvers, to absorb the Banca Cattolica del Veneto, then headed by an ignorant cleric named Albino Luciani. Marcinkus had to make a superhuman effort to recall his brief, and acrimonious, exchanges with the Venetian patriarch at that time. And, years later, when Luciani was elected pope, Marcinkus assumed the Venetian had his mind set only on revenge. Now he had been able to prove he was right. Luciani had accused a good number in the Curia of moral corruption, and intended to make a clean sweep in the heart of the Church. Fortunately, the P2 was taking care of that at this very moment.
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