The Holy Bullet

by Luís Miguel Rocha

  The foreigner could. Not only from his role as captor, but because that position always made him feel a certain nausea. All that submission, the abrasive demonstration of the faith of Allah, All-Powerful God, disgusted the foreigner. Not even the ordination of new priests could compare to this lying flat out, when the candidates stretched out on their bellies, kissing the floor, almost under the feet of their colleagues, and gave their lives to the Roman Catholic Church, the only true faith, no other. Nothing was more repulsive to the foreigner than this twisted gesture of Abu Rashid with his bound arms on the ground and his head beside them.

  The foreigner wanted to put a stop to it as soon as possible, but hesitated, perhaps because this wasn’t the typical hour of Islamic Sabah, although it was known to vary from one place to another. He decided to wait a moment, not out of respect for an erroneous belief, but out of suspicion. So much the better that only he and Abu Rashid were present here in the middle of this Polish forest, a cold wind chilling their bones, more his than the Muslim’s, which was also irritating.

  For a minute nothing happened, Abu Rashid on his knees on the ground and the foreigner on foot watching him impatiently.

  “There is still hope,” Abu Rashid said without moving.

  “Hope for what?”

  “Hope for you,” the other replied from the same position. “There are always two paths, as I told you already.”

  “Come on, get moving. We have to keep going. It’s not the time to pray,” the foreigner grumbled, ignoring the comment and giving him a light shove in the ribs with the flashlight, as if dealing with the unforeseen behavior of an animal. His other hand was on the revolver in the holster he carried under his jacket. One never knew; one couldn’t be too careful.

  “Every hour’s an hour for prayer, but don’t worry. I’m not praying.”

  “Then what are you doing?”

  “I’m listening,” the old man declared.

  The foreigner looked around uncomfortably. He didn’t feel or see the presence of a living soul. He squeezed his fingers tighter on the handle of the gun, insecure. Sacrilege. Sacrilege.

  “There’s no one here,” he said, hiding his suspicion that she was looking at him unfavorably.

  “Don’t be uncomfortable. She’ll always love you, no matter what you do. If she should blame you, there’d be no reason for the existence of free will. The beauty of life is that we can always choose.”

  “Shut up. Get up and keep going,” he ordered.

  Abu Rashid raised his body, remaining on his knees. His eyes were open, shining, looking into space.

  “Didn’t you hear me?” the foreigner insisted proudly.

  “You are what I don’t want to hear,” Abu Rashid said.

  Silence fell under the cover of the night, joined by wild animals that stopped their whimpers and calls at the exact same instant, as if everything felt the presence of a superior being. Only the foreigner was unable to feel anything despite being a devotee and believer in the Virgin. No, she couldn’t be there. It went against everything he believed.

  “Calm yourself, Tim. Let yourself feel the positive energy of the universe. Don’t live under pressure, frustration, doubt.”

  The foreigner was astonished. Had he heard right?

  “I’ve never told you my name,” was all he could get out.

  “I know that, Tim. I’ve known you since long before you were born.”

  “Who told you my name?”

  “She. Who else?” Abu Rashid was imperturbable.

  “Cut the shit. Who told you?”

  “The other one asked exactly the same question.”

  The foreigner, baptized as Timothy, took the gun from the holster and pointed it at the Muslim’s head, squeezing slightly. He was losing his mind.

  “What other one?”

  Abu Rashid turned toward him despite the cold barrel pressing against his head.

  “This isn’t the time, Tim.”

  52

  Geoffrey Barnes was confused by what he’d just heard from Harvey Littel about the individual named Abu Rashid, Israeli by nationality, Muslim by birth, resident of Jerusalem.

  “It’s too surreal,” he finally said after thinking for a minute. “Is there any evidence to confirm it?”

  “Some, considering the sources.”

  “We need to know more.”

  “He’s disappeared.”

  “Yeah, and the other one died,” Barnes added. “Do you think someone’s throwing down the gauntlet?”

  Littel shrugged his shoulders. “It’s hard to say. I know there’s no trace of the man. We have people on permanent surveillance, but nothing.”

  “I imagine there are plenty of people who want to find him,” Barnes said thoughtfully. “And even more who want to do away with him.”

  “True,” Littel agreed. “But imagine if he’s hiding and then one day shows up here and starts talking.”

  “No one would believe him,” Barnes asserted.

  “Except his people.”

  Barnes made a sign with his lips suggesting his doubts.

  “I don’t think it’d take much to stir up religious conflict. From there a disastrous war is only a step away,” Littel warned.

  “That’s a little apocalyptic.”

  “That’s what they pay us for, Barnes. To analyze and think up scenarios. That’s what I see.”

  “We have to find a way to bring him out. He has to show signs of life.”

  “If he’s alive.”

  “If he’s not, all the better. Case closed.”

  “But we need to be certain.”

  The two men looked at each other circumspectly and with respect. Until a body appeared, everything was left hanging.

  “A Muslim who performs miracles and has visions. This would not occur to anyone,” Barnes sighed. “How did they know about it?”

  “Who?”

  “The religious orders.”

  “Those guys know everything.”

  “And what is it that interests them?”

  “Everything is of interest to those people … even that which is not of interest.”

  “It could be of interest to the orthodox,” Barnes suggested.

  “For what? To blackmail the Vatican? That game’s over. History.”

  “You never know. A more ambitious priest. He hears things here and there. A Muslim miracle man who knows secrets about the Catholic Church.”

  “Presuming it has secrets.”

  “It’s enough. Presumption has always served as an excuse for a lot of things. Even torture and killing.”

  “I don’t think it’ll start from there.”

  “If you have people taking care of that, all we can do is wait until something happens. Aside from that, we have more important things to take care of.”

  “We have to resolve this mess as soon as possible. Very strange things are happening,” Littel said.

  “You’re telling me.”

  At that moment they heard the tumult of the Center of Operations outside the office again. The two men looked at the door and saw Staughton with his hand on the knob.

  “We have a location,” he told them hurriedly.

  The two got up.

  “Finally,” Barnes protested, suddenly animated. “Where?”

  “Saint Paul’s Cathedral.”

  “They’re pretty brazen,” Barnes complained, putting on his jacket. “Going to a sacred place after so much blood. Those people are such hypocrites.”

  “Are you a believer?” Littel asked, joining Barnes as he left the office at a fast pace.

  “In our work we don’t have that luxury.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s obvious, Harvey.” Thou shalt not kill is hard to avoid.

  They passed through the Center of Operations, ignoring the busy employees, the running around, the disconnected cries that crossed the room forming the noisy background of voices and equipment that was heard.

  Staughton and Herbert join
ed them with Priscilla and a group of eight agents.

  “And the CD?” Barnes asked Staughton.

  “It’s still being processed.”

  “Order them to finish it.”

  “They can’t go any faster.”

  “And Thompson?”

  “He’s already gone on ahead,” Staughton informed him promptly.

  “Wally?” Littel wanted to know.

  “Same.”

  They got to the elevators, the secret four that opened onto the floors the agency used, and descended to a private garage with space for eighteen vehicles. There were three other public elevators, but these four only stopped on the floors occupied by this American institution. The floors weren’t identified by any sign. Everything was perfectly organized, since as soon as the doors open to the garage, we can see four black automobiles, with tinted windows, license plates covered, doors open, the engines running, and drivers at the wheels ready to accelerate. American efficiency in all its splendor.

  The garage door opened as soon as they’d all gotten into the vehicles. Harvey Littel and Geoffrey Barnes traveled in separate cars, logical rules of protocol. In the case of an attack it was more probable that one of them would manage to escape, thereby avoiding a crisis of leadership and any unanticipated promotions. Another fact of no minor importance was to ride in the middle, shielded from the car’s exterior by the other agents. This works for both democracy and dictatorship, capitalism and communism, the weak and the strong, intelligent and stupid—to always protect the most important person with one’s body, life, and soul. All the rest, Staughton, Priscilla, Thompson, Wally Johnson, and the remaining agents in the field, were expendable. Barnes and Littel were the ones who had to be protected at all cost, although it was improbable that something would happen to these two. The generals make war far from the front; there are no differences in the field.

  Barnes assumed the position of generalissimo, since Littel had given him precedence, and they communicated by way of microphones on the sleeves of their shirts. They also had wireless earpieces placed in their ears.

  “What’s your position, Thompson?”

  Static.

  “Thompson, what’s your position?”

  “They … in one … direction … Luton,” were the disconnected words they heard over the phone. It was Thompson’s voice.

  “We have interference. Repeat, Thompson,” Barnes ordered.

  “The subjects have entered a taxi and driven off toward Luton,” Thompson announced. “I’m behind them, near Hemel Hempstead on the M1.”

  “Okay. Did you hear, gentlemen? Go toward Luton fast.”

  In Barnes’s car were Herbert and Staughton, who immediately began to find fault with the plan.

  “Will he be waiting there?” Staughton asked.

  “Who?”

  “Rafael.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Don’t you remember what the journalist said?” he reminded him. “He’ll wait for you there.”

  Barnes thought about it for a few moments. He scratched his head and beard and breathed heavily.

  “Charades. I am sick of games,” he grumbled. “Do you have something on the CD?”

  “I have people working on it. As soon as they know something, they’ll tell me.”

  “Why is that giving us so much trouble? He doesn’t have as many resources, and he managed to decipher the content.”

  “We’ve stumbled on a code. He must have set it in order to delay us,” Staughton answered, excusing the men working under his orders.

  “Son of a bitch,” Barnes swore. “How much time do you think it’ll take to break it?”

  “In Langley it’d already be broken with the computer. One or two hours more,” Staughton guessed.

  “Do it in less than an hour,” Barnes deliberated. And said nothing more about it.

  “Thompson here. We just lost the subjects.”

  Barnes raised the microphone hidden in his sleeve up to his mouth.

  “How could that have happened?”

  “We’re here in the airport at Luton, and a truck almost ran into us. We lost sight of them.” Thompson’s voice constricted with frustration. He hated to fail.

  “Keep searching. It’s obvious they’re in the airport. Look in every corner, all commercial and private planes.”

  “Yes, sir,” Thompson obeyed. He had expected a bigger outburst.

  “Gentlemen, get to Luton fast,” Barnes ordered.

  “They can’t leave the country, Barnes,” Littel advised through the transmitter. They were all in direct communication and heard everything the other said. A true technological feat.

  “I know, Harvey. I know.” He didn’t know anything else.

  It’d be complicated if they lost their trail again and they left the country. Still, there was something in all this that made him even more uneasy.

  “Who was it that located them in Saint Paul’s?” he asked Staughton.

  “I have no idea. We sent out an alert. I think it was one of the Metropolitan guys,” he replied uncertainly.

  “That’s irrelevant,” Herbert protested from the passenger seat. “We’ve lost them again,” he attacked incisively.

  “Do you want to walk?” Barnes’s nostrils flared. It wasn’t a shout, more a threat without feeling, but, at the same time, full of anger, if this was possible.

  “I’m sure I’d get there sooner,” the other muttered, not daring to answer in the same tone.

  Barnes spoke into the tiny microphone. “Thompson, inform us of the situation.”

  “Thompson here. We’re still searching.”

  “Hurry up.” The instruction was for Thompson, not the driver. “Look on the runway and order all the planes stopped, if necessary,” he said in a figurative sense, of course, but if he could …

  “Roger that,” the other answered, conscious of what was possible and what was not.

  It took forty-two minutes and eighteen seconds for Barnes, Littel, and company to reach the airport at Luton. Night had fallen, with a cold wind. Then three minutes and forty-three seconds to reach Thompson in the department of the LCDL. He was with a thin man dressed in a suit too wide for his frame, a cigar in hand with a long hanging ash burning away the tobacco. Needless to say, smoking was not permitted there … except for him.

  “This is the director of the London Luton Airport, McTwain,” Thompson introduced him. “He’s placed the airport and all employees at our disposal,” he added.

  It can’t be helped, Barnes thought. But he wasn’t interested in making another enemy. He had enough already.

  “Thanks,” he only said.

  Thompson passed Barnes a clipboard.

  “This is the list of flights today,” he explained.

  “Anything out of the ordinary?” Barnes wanted to know.

  McTwain, besides thin and a smoker, trembled like a leaf. Not out of fear, since he wouldn’t be the director if he didn’t know how to fight panic, but from stress. An airport can ruin anyone’s nerves.

  “My subordinates are looking at every detail, but so far it seems everything is legal.”

  “Any flight requested at the last minute?”

  “Daily we have four or five requests. Among the private flights, of course.”

  “Any at the last minute?”

  “Define the last minute.”

  The trembler must think he’s a comedian, Barnes said to himself.

  “We only authorize private flight requests a minimum of five hours ahead. Unless it’s a serious situation,” McTwain clarified pedantically.

  “We need to know all the touch-and-gos requested in the last twenty-four hours,” Herbert ordered.

  “Aren’t we neglecting the commercial flights?” Staughton alerted them.

  “I have the team distributed throughout the airport. If they’re on a commercial flight, they’ll still be in the terminal and will be seen,” Thompson informed them.

  “Why do I have the feeli
ng someone is making fun of us?” Barnes showed his irritation, once again, nothing new.

  “What do you mean, Barnes?” Littel asked.

  “It just seems to me we’re where he wants us to be.”

  Wally Johnson joined the group waving a paper in the air.

  “I think I’ve found them,” he said.

  “Where?”

  “A Learjet 45 from an Italian rental company landed less than two hours ago,” he told them.

  “Let me see that.” Herbert grabbed the paper from Wally Johnson’s hand. It wasn’t the time to observe courtesy. He ran his index finger down the page. “In the name of Joseph Connelly?”

  “Exactly.”

  “What does this ass have to do with anything?” Barnes asked impatiently.

  “What called my attention was not the name, but the flight code.”

  Herbert looked again at the page and identified the code. He passed it to Barnes.

  “Son of a bitch.” He turned suddenly to McTwain. “Contact the tower and see if they’ve taken off.”

  The director took the radio.

  “Attention, tower. McTwain here. Code 139346.”

  “Code 139346. Tower here. I’m listening.”

  “Tower, what is the current situation with flight JC1981?”

  “One moment.”

  The whole group was in suspense, ears fastened, in a figurative sense, to the radio.

  Scarcely five seconds passed, but they seemed interminable. Finally …

  “Code 139346, McTwain, authorization for takeoff of flight JC1981, accelerating down runway 26.”

  “Tower, abort the authorization for takeoff. I repeat, abort the authorization for takeoff.”

  “Code 139346, McTwain. Understood,” the tower responded.

  Barnes looked at the pretentious trembler with other eyes. It was clear why he was the director. Decision and rapid reaction, a praiseworthy quality in any profession.

  More seconds waiting. Agonizing.

  “Code 139346, McTwain. Negative on aborting flight JC1981 on runway 26. Flight JC1981 is at two thousand feet with instructions to rise to eleven thousand.”

  “Tower, Code 139346, McTwain here. Communication terminated.” He turned to Barnes. “It’s not in my hands, sir. As you know, my power ends when the plane takes off. You’ll have to contact the NATS.”