The Holy Bullet

by Luís Miguel Rocha

  Sarah was not prepared to discuss this. Besides, she didn’t have answers to Simon’s questions. The less he knew, the better for him, at least for now.

  “Yes, that’s what it was,” was all she said. “A problem with the installation. I apologize for that,” she excused herself awkwardly.

  “You don’t have to apologize. It’s over,” Simon replied a little condescendingly. “We can continue the trip tomorrow.” He changed the subject with a smile.

  “You’d better stay here and recover. I’ll take care of everything.”

  “No way,” he protested. “I’m fine.”

  Journalistic perseverance. A hazard of the profession. One of the first things one learns if one hopes to survive in the job.

  “Besides, there are people who are going to want to ask you questions in the next few days,” she added. She wasn’t going to give in. The danger was real. She had to be alone, not dragging more innocent people along with her.

  “More?” He moved his hand in irritation more than he should have and let out a moan. “I’m sick of answering stupid questions.”

  “Careful. Calm down,” Sarah replied, going over to him and passing her hand through his sweaty hair. “Who’s been here?” she asked, as if this were only a normal conversation.

  “Scotland Yard, the FBI, also MI6,” he sighed with annoyance. “They were right here at my bed when I woke up. After the doctors, they were the first people I saw.”

  “And what did they want?”

  “To give me instructions, but I think I can tell you. We’re in this together.”

  Sarah brought a chair over to the bed and sat down to listen carefully.

  “I’ve been the victim of a gas explosion and that’s what I have to tell anyone who comes here. If they ask me about you, I’m to say I don’t know where you were. I went to the house alone.”

  “And have you complied?”

  “Of course. With others it’s been easy. The hardest has been convincing our editor.”

  “He’s been here?”

  “Yes. And asked about you. Haven’t you gotten his calls on your cell?”

  “Where I was I couldn’t get calls.”

  “I don’t know if he was convinced, but I told him we’d split up. I’d gone to pick up some stuff at your house, while you were buying some clothes you needed. We had agreed to meet at the station. If he asks you, this is the official version. Don’t get me in trouble.” He offered a timid smile.

  “Don’t worry. You can relax. I’ll call him and confirm the story.” She carried on in a friendly manner with Simon, although her mind was seething with other matters more pressing than convincing the editor.

  “I never thought I’d be a media star. All because of a gas leak. They even apologized to me.”

  “Who?”

  “The MI6 people.” Maybe the late hour caused Simon to mix subjects of conversation, perfectly understandable. “For giving me instructions, but under the protection of the terrorism law, they didn’t want a different version of the story released to the public, based on conjecture and sensation.” He pushed himself up a little straighter, remembering not to use his injured hand, which made the movement more difficult. “Explosions scare people.”

  “And the others? Were they friendly, too?”

  “Not at all. They were assholes.” He was truly indignant just thinking about it.

  “What did they want?”

  “To know how everything happened. If I was smoking, carrying some kind of explosive, including something solid, liquid, or gas or any other substance. They’re arrogant shits and don’t seem to believe what we’re saying.”

  I know the feeling well, Sarah thought.

  “In bad moods. Especially the Americans. They think it all has to do with them.” He continued complaining. “It seems we committed a crime to make work for them. Imagine if it had been an Al Qaeda bomb. I’d be a prisoner now.” He swelled with anger.

  “Shhh. Everything’s fine. Just the fact you can complain is a good sign.”

  “How is it they let you come in at this hour?” Simon asked.

  “I came with an SIS agent,” she answered without thinking. “They wouldn’t have let me in otherwise.”

  “Yes, it’s true. A secret service agent.” He looked thoughtful. “Sorry. I didn’t think of that. How has everything gone? Do they think it’s a terrorist act?”

  “Don’t worry about that,” she answered evasively. “He’s outside waiting to be introduced. Are you up for that?”

  “You’re the boss.”

  “I’m not here casually. I’m your friend. It’s up to you.”

  Simon didn’t take long.

  “Tell him to come in.”

  Sarah got up and went to the door. She opened it and looked around the hallway. There was no sign of John Fox. Strange. It didn’t make sense he would leave without letting her know. Maybe he’d gone to the bathroom. She went out into the hall for a better look, but she hadn’t been mistaken. She didn’t see him anywhere around. Sarah, worried, went back in the room. Forget it. He’ll show up.

  “He’s not there. He must have gone to the restroom. Have you had other visitors?” Sarah tried to make conversation.

  She decided to wait for John Fox for fifteen minutes. After that, so long.

  “Well, my parents came, all upset, as you can imagine, but they left more relieved. My sister was here also. But that was just the time the FBI men arrived, and she had to go. They’re so rude, arrogant …”

  “Forget it, Simon. It’s over now. It’s not worth being in a bad mood over people like them,” Sarah advised him.

  “You’re right.” He took a deep breath. “You’re right.” He smiled, a pleasant thought replacing his bad memory. “And my girlfriend visited. That was the best visit, except for my family, of course. She’s shy. She only came after the others left.”

  When Simon got going, he didn’t shut up. He would tell his whole life story to whoever was there. Poor listener. Sarah thought about this as she saw her colleague coming to life in front of her eyes. Good. One less thing to worry about.

  “Look at the present she brought me.” Simon reached over to the table and got something. “What do you think of this?”

  Sarah gazed, mouth open and astonished, at the bottle of old port, vintage 1976. It couldn’t be. It couldn’t be.

  31

  With every step Geoffrey Barnes wore out the blue carpet covering the floor. His imposing figure, the product of the good restaurants that abound in this part of Europe, contributed to this, as well as nervousness about a phone conversation he’d had with the White House not five minutes before. We ought to amend this last information, since the telephone the color of blood, or victory, was linked to the office of the president of the United States of America wherever he was, not just in the White House. This time, the red phone was on board Air Force One.

  Barnes was furious with worry, not his usual reaction after speaking with the president in person, instead of his tame lackeys.

  Staughton opened the door and felt the bad vibes coming from the chief. His curiosity would have to wait for a calmer time. It didn’t bode well, if the communication had left him in this state. But he needed to give him the message to avoid being called on the carpet.

  “Chief, the guys at Langley want you to call them.” He braced himself for a scorching blast of words.

  “What do those sons of bitches want?” This contemptuous reproach was uttered without raising his voice, but still showing irritation.

  “It was Harvey Littel who called. He asked that you call him as soon as the call with the White House was over.”

  “How did they know I was on the telephone with them?” Barnes raised his eyes to Staughton.

  “He wanted me to pass you the telephone. I had to give him a reason.”

  “You did well. You did well,” Barnes affirmed, sitting down in the chair and exhaling with relief. “I’ll call shortly. Let them wait. Fuck them.”r />
  Theresa came in with the order. Double burger with cheese, pizza, and a cold Carlsberg. Just in time. Drench his disgust in beer and fill his belly with carbohydrates. Thompson came in behind her with a stack of papers in his hand.

  “News?” Barnes asked, appraising the containers Theresa was putting on the desk.

  “Big.” Thompson shook the papers.

  “Is it going to ruin my appetite?” Barnes asked, sounding put out. “If so, you can wait outside.”

  Thompson paid no attention to his boss’s words. They were typical explosions, nothing to interfere with the work. What he had was important information, and Barnes would thank him for it later. That’s the way it worked.

  “Several hours ago there was an explosion in a house at Redcliff Gardens, near Earl’s Court,” Thompson began, as enthusiastically as a reporter with an exclusive story.

  “An explosion?” Barnes inquired, just for the sake of asking a question, his mouth full of the double cheeseburger he was savagely chewing. Immediately he raised the neck of the Carlsberg to his mouth to help him swallow the mouthful.

  “Anything else, Dr. Barnes?” Theresa asked from the door.

  “No thanks, Theresa. I’m fine.”

  She went out and left the three men alone in a silence broken only by the loud chewing and tenacious swallowing of enormous bites. In three tries, the burger disappeared. He moved on to the pizza.

  “What about this explosion?” Barnes asked with his mouth full.

  “The authorities are talking about a gas leak.”

  “Then there’s no story,” Barnes concluded.

  “No,” Staughton agreed.

  “My men have been to the site and put together some information. It wasn’t a gas leak. It was a bomb,” Thompson threw out dryly, immediately capturing the attention of the other two. Barnes stopped chewing.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely. And there’s more. MI6 is involved in the cover-up of everything.”

  “Why? What do they gain from that?”

  “I don’t know yet. But they know the way we are. We like to sniff around … and what have we discovered, off the record?”

  Barnes and Staughton waited in suspense for him to finish his statement.

  “They found a corpse in the debris. It belongs to Grigori Nestov. Do you know the name?”

  “Grigori Nestov,” they repeated, searching their memory.

  Staughton gave up. “I have no idea.”

  “I’ve never heard the name,” Barnes said with certainty.

  “Nor I,” Thompson finished with a triumphant smile. “But it turns out Nestov is part of a unit of the RSS.”

  “Wow!” Staughton responded. “RSS?”

  Barnes and Thompson looked at him reprovingly. What’s so special about being RSS when they were CIA?

  “We have the RSS in the middle of an explosion. What does that mean?” Barnes wondered, raising the last piece of pizza to his mouth.

  “But it gets better, and this will get you out of your seat,” Thompson anticipated.

  “What?” Barnes asked expectantly.

  “The house. It’s in the name of Sarah Monteiro. Does that tell you something?”

  “What?” This question came in a deafening shout with Barnes on his feet leaning on the desk.

  “Wow,” Staughton repeated. “Confirmed?”

  “Completely confirmed,” Thompson clarified, holding out the papers and handing over the first page to Staughton so he could see with his own eyes.

  “What bastards,” an enraged Barnes said. “Who are these English? Who do they think they are? They’re only good for wiping our asses, and now they want to leave us out of the picture? Assholes.”

  “What’s happened to the girl?” Staughton asked, as he handed the paper to Barnes, who grabbed it roughly out of his assistant’s hand.

  “Her location’s unknown. There’s one injured, checked into the Chelsea and Westminster Hospital, but it’s not her.”

  “Go there immediately,” Barnes ordered. “And I want her in front of me before the morning is over. Find out what a Russian agent was doing in her house. That’s top priority. Understood?” He didn’t wait for an answer. Of course he’d been understood. “Is there news about Jack?”

  “On my part, nothing,” Thompson said with some frustration. “Payne is a stone in our shoe and knows how to irritate us.”

  “Not much,” Staughton replied with some confidence. “We’ve located a reservation for a Mercedes Vito van rented out at Fiumicino and left at Schiphol.”

  “Amsterdam,” Barnes said out loud to himself. He sat down again looking thoughtful.

  “The reservation was made in the name of Rafael Santini,” Staughton continued.

  “Rafael Santini?” Thompson asked. “Do you think that could be him?”

  “It’s him,” Barnes affirmed with certainty. “His real name, it seems.” Anger rose in his voice.

  “Why haven’t we discovered this before?” Thompson asked curiously. The individual had always caught his attention.

  “Because he hasn’t wanted us to,” Barnes clarified. “A good double agent, infiltrated, a traitor, a son of a bitch, only reveals himself when it’s good for him.” He turned to Staughton. “Where is he?”

  “We don’t know.” He looked down.

  “We don’t know?”

  “No. He’s been seen in Antwerp, Dunkirk, and we’ve lost all trace of him after that.”

  Barnes raised his hand to his chin, thinking.

  “He’s heading this way,” he said at last.

  “What?”

  “How?”

  “He’s coming here,” Barnes repeated. “He picked up the van in Amsterdam, went for the bodies, was seen in Belgium and France. He’s coming here, and I want a welcoming committee to meet him when he arrives. No mistakes.”

  “How can you be so sure?” the ever-calculating Staughton asked.

  “Because of something we don’t have the luxury to fight at this time.”

  “What?” his assistants wanted to know.

  “The fact he’s scattered the clues so we can easily pick them up. That bothers me. He wants us to find him.” Barnes changed the subject. “Go to the hospital and see what condition the injured man is in. I want a thorough interrogation. His mouth can’t be injured. Make him spill everything. It’s time to satisfy Langley.”

  “What about the White House? Anything worth mentioning?” Thompson asked. He had held that question back since he came into the office, waiting for the right moment … this one.

  Barnes took a last swallow of Carlsberg before answering.

  “A weapon of mass destruction, my friends. A weapon of mass destruction.”

  32

  Who … who gave you that?” She couldn’t look at anything but the bottle. “Can I see it?”

  Sarah took the bottle from his hand before Simon could reply. She analyzed it in detail. Even the provenance was identical, Real Companhia Velha. It couldn’t be.

  “My better half.” Simon was puzzled by his boss’s behavior. Sarah was a woman full of mysteries. One of them was the way she was examining the gift bottle. “Does it remind you of Portugal? I didn’t realize you were so sentimental,” Simon teased, discreetly, fearfully. Little by little he was regaining confidence. Little by little.

  I wish it were just sentimentality, Sarah thought. With the bottle in hand she went to the door and opened it a little. She looked around the hallway with all senses alert. No one. No John Fox. Panic gave her goose bumps. She closed the door slowly and confronted Simon, who looked at her inquisitively.

  “Your girlfriend gave you this bottle?” she asked again. “You’re sure?”

  “You could say that,” Simon answered, beginning to react, still puzzled.

  “Either she did or she didn’t.” It was not worth getting annoyed with him. She had to remain cool in order to think logically. Quick thinking meant staying alive.

  “It was … not
my girlfriend.”

  “You said it was from your girlfriend,” Sarah interrupted. “So who was it?” The hell with this guy not getting to the point. It must be the medication.

  “I know what I said… . He’s my boyfriend,” he explained reticently.

  Fear thickened in Sarah. That explained a lot.

  “You have a boyfriend?”

  “Yes.”

  “And he gave you this bottle?”

  “I’ve already told you yes.” Simon observed Sarah for signs of disapproval, but didn’t detect any. Only confusion … in both of them.

  “Simon, do you trust me?”

  “Of course,” he answered without a trace of doubt.

  “Good.” She looked at him seriously. “Get up and let’s go.”

  “What?” What a ludicrous suggestion. “When?”

  “Now.”

  “Sarah, what’s going on?”

  Sarah went over and put her hand on his shoulder to encourage him.

  “Simon, trust me. Our lives are in danger. If we don’t get out of here right now, we’re going to die. I don’t know how else to say it.”

  Simon was unable to say a word. Doubts swept through him, making him collapse back on the bed. Sarah would have to explain better than she had.

  “Simon, do what I tell you. Get up.”

  Simon didn’t move.

  Sarah sighed and shut her eyes before making a decision.

  “It wasn’t a gas leak.” Thy will be done. “It was a bomb set to go off when the key was turned.”

  “What?” he blurted out, astonished. “Who would do that?”

  “Who doesn’t matter at the moment, Simon. If we wait here to find out, it’s all over for us.”

  It took Simon two seconds to decide. The new facts were relevant. He got up, put on the hospital slippers, and dragged himself to the door. Sarah would have to support him. He leaned against her side. It’d be easier for Simon, slower for the two of them. There was no time to waste.

  “Wait here,” Sarah told him, helping him to a chair at the side of the door next to him. Simon preferred leaning on the arms to sitting down. Sarah opened the door slightly and looked from one side to the other. The way was clear.

  “Let’s go.”

  Sarah returned to serve as a crutch for her injured colleague, and they started down a dark, deserted hallway. All the groans, cries, and whispers of the patients and machines were a catalyst for fear. One step at a time, a sweaty, dragging pace, looking around in search of danger. The end of the hallway seemed to stretch out forever, eliminating hope of getting outside. Even their shadows made them afraid someone would jump out of the darkness, without warning, and put an end to everything.