The Holy Bullet

by Luís Miguel Rocha

  When she wasn’t thinking these things, wondering about her fate, or fighting a panic attack, she watched Rafael sleeping deeply. No one would imagine he was in European airspace, a prisoner of the CIA in partnership with Opus Dei or whomever. She tried to touch his hand, even with her finger, but the strap was too tight.

  Rafael didn’t sleep for the whole trip, of course. When he wasn’t sleeping, he talked to Sarah about superficial things.

  “What’s it like to be an editor of international politics?” he began asking.

  “It’s a lot of work, but the pay is good.”

  “I imagine so. I’ve read some of your stories. They’re very good.”

  “Thanks. I’ve spent the whole year wondering why.”

  “Why what?”

  “Why me? How did I get that position, almost as if I parachuted in?”

  “What conclusion did you come to?”

  “It could only be because JC put me there and gave me enough material to stay,” Sarah argued. “I don’t know why.”

  Rafael didn’t indicate agreement or disagreement. He just kept chatting pleasantly, not a word about what was going on. Sarah assumed the reason was that there were other eyes and ears intent on what they said. They talked for several hours about various things until the second stop, probably for refueling. Outside they could hear noises of trucks and machinery checking what needed to be checked for the proper running of the airplane. They were not bothered at any time. It felt like they’d been forgotten.

  An hour later the plane rolled down the runway and took off.

  Sarah looked at Rafael for the umpteenth time. He’d fallen asleep again. She realized at that precise moment that he’d only talked about her. Absolutely nothing about himself … as was to be expected.

  The door of the compartment opened, letting in a young blond man. His heavy fist landed in the middle of Rafael’s sleeping face.

  “Wake up,” Herbert shouted with a serious expression.

  Rafael opened his eyes, stunned. He had actually been sleeping.

  “You’ve given us a lot of trouble,” Herbert growled, loosening Sarah’s straps.

  “What I’ve done is make your work easier,” Rafael declared. “If I’d wanted to give you trouble, I wouldn’t be here right now.”

  “I know you’re a brave man,” Herbert accused him sarcastically, slapping him again on the same side. “That’s for the men you made me lose.”

  “You must feel sorry for them,” Rafael mocked.

  Herbert knelt down to loosen the straps binding Sarah’s legs and turned to lift her up.

  “Now we’re going to have a conversation,” the captor said, forcing Sarah to get up. “I’m taking you to see the visitors.”

  “Give them a kiss for me,” Rafael said before the door closed.

  Let’s stay at Sarah’s side, since Rafael isn’t going anywhere.

  The plane was spacious. She hadn’t noticed when they entered, considering she hadn’t assimilated any of the unfolding events. Her mind was bombarded with images of the shot to Ivanovsky’s head, the Russian eccentric who’d died in the service of his country, in an attack carried out by Chechen separatists, according to the newspaper headlines. Moscow would have to adopt more repressive measures against those terrorists who showed no respect for human lives.

  Swivel seats were distributed through the cabin of what had to be a Boeing 7-something, outfitted with just about everything.

  Sarah was pushed toward the front of the plane. Various agents were working throughout the plane, oblivious to her or Herbert. Computers, radar, flat screens reflecting graphs added to the crowded space. At the front was a closed door. Herbert opened it and pushed Sarah inside.

  It was a small office for so many people. Sarah recognized only a few, Barnes, seated behind a desk, Staughton, Thompson, although she didn’t know their names, and … Simon Lloyd.

  “Simon,” she shouted fervently.

  She tried to reach him, but Herbert held her tightly. She evaluated his condition, and it didn’t indicate good treatment. Bruises on his face, dried blood, and a swollen lower lip. Simon Lloyd had endured severe punishment, and she felt responsible, as if she’d done it herself.

  “Oh, Simon.”

  He lifted his eyes as well as he could and bowed his head again, beaten.

  There were more men in the small office, two seated, one in a wheelchair, who Sarah recognized as the man who was inside the black van they’d been put into in Moscow. Another two standing, and a woman. No sign of Phelps.

  “He doesn’t know anything. Why have you done this?” she protested emotionally.

  “He doesn’t, but you do. Take it as a warning,” Barnes said seriously. He glanced at Herbert. “Go get the other one.”

  “With pleasure,” replied Herbert, who was not given to taking orders. Things were going well. Opening the door, he encountered Phelps, and they looked at each other.

  “Good work,” Phelps praised him.

  “You were magnificent.”

  “Have you told Marius?”

  “He’s waiting for us,” Herbert told him.

  “Perfect.”

  Herbert came close to his ear, so no one else would hear.

  “You’ll have to tell me how you did it. Everything turned out exactly as you said it would at our last meeting at the restaurant.”

  “Secrecy is the soul of business,” Phelps replied without bothering to lower his voice.

  They went their separate ways, Herbert in the direction of the cell where Rafael was, Phelps to make the narrow office even tighter.

  Sarah felt a mixture of fear and nausea on seeing him. He shot her a sarcastic smile.

  “How long before we land?” Barnes asked everyone and no one.

  “An hour to Rome,” the ever solicitous Staughton answered. “Excuse the question, but I recognize you from the Chelsea and Westminster Hospital. You were with the suspects and helped them.” There was no reproach in his voice.

  “Is that a question?” Phelps was impatient with interrogations.

  “Quiet, Staughton,” Littel interrupted. “Mr. Phelps was working as an infiltrator.”

  “You knew that?” Barnes wanted to understand, shaken.

  “Obviously,” Littel declared.

  “My name is James William Phelps. I’m a bishop of the Roman Catholic Church and administrator of the Opus Dei prelature. Any other questions?”

  “Who’s the other man you communicated with?” Barnes asked.

  “My number two. His purpose was to take care of everything while I was indisposed.”

  “Do you consider yourself a servant of the Church?”

  Phelps turned his eyes to the source of the question … Sarah. She couldn’t manage to keep quiet.

  Phelps smiled. “The Church serves a purpose that I don’t expect you to understand.”

  “It serves to kill?”

  “To kill and create. It’s much more than a house of prayer. The Church is the engine of the civilized world. The support for democracy.”

  Sarah threw him a look of incredulity.

  “There are no free states without the Church. Every sacrifice is minor if we keep that in mind.”

  “Enough demagogy,” Barnes ordered. “Let’s get to what concerns us. Where are we?” His eyes never left Phelps. He was the one being asked for explanations. There were too many chiefs in the room.

  “I infiltrated the heart of the enemy,” the bishop said. “I was singled out as an assistant to a cardinal in the Holy See, who informed me about some lost papers of Albino Luciani and other paper that belonged to Wojtyla, in addition to a complete file on the steps that led to the May thirteenth, 1981, attempt on his life.”

  “Who are Albino Luciani and Wojtyla?” asked the diplomatic adjutant, Sebastian Ford, who’d joined the group.

  “John Paul the First and John Paul the Second,” Thompson whispered.

  “As you can imagine, I never slept a night in peace after that,”
Phelps continued, repulsed by such gross ignorance. “In the pleasant conversation with my number two I learned the location of some documents. Others were within reach of the cardinal I serve, and my web of contacts got me the rest. I pulled strings to organize a competent, professional team and obtained your collaboration. It wasn’t difficult given the favors your president and his family owe me.”

  “Have you managed to acquire all of them?” Littel asked.

  “No,” he admitted disagreeably. “But I know who has what’s missing. I became an assistant for Father Rafael Santini, also known as Jack Payne, as you must know. He’s a difficult man.”

  “Who’s going to argue with that?” Barnes said.

  “But no one is invincible.”

  At that precise moment the door opened to admit Rafael and Herbert. Those standing up moved to accommodate them.

  “Speak of the devil …” Phelps said.

  “The devil speaks,” Rafael countered.

  He got a smack on the head for that.

  “Shut up. Speak when you’re told to,” Herbert warned. One has to be courteous.

  “Go on. Who has what we need?” Barnes announced.

  At that moment they heard over the intercom: “Gentlemen, this is the pilot here. We are descending into Rome. Landing in twenty minutes.”

  Phelps looked at Rafael, who looked back without blinking.

  “Our friend here has the file.”

  “Him?” Barnes protested, pointing at Rafael.

  “What’s the matter, Barnes?” Littel asked.

  “Good luck. I hope you have an alternative plan because he’ll carry that information to the grave.”

  “What are you saying?” Now it was Phelps who didn’t understand.

  “My dear sir, this man is trained for the most dangerous missions. Unless you have some hold over him, the only thing torture will get from him is body parts and organs.”

  Phelps smiled. He understood the American’s worry.

  “Don’t worry. He’s going to tell us everything. We have the woman.”

  “What woman?” Sebastian Ford asked.

  “Her.” He pointed with irritation at Sarah Monteiro.

  The room looked in silence at Phelps. What did the woman have to do with Rafael?

  Phelps assumed the attitude of a teacher. Was he the only one who noticed?

  “There are certain feelings between the two of them.”

  Sarah blushed.

  Barnes looked at Rafael and Sarah, then at Littel.

  “Do you believe it?”

  “Phelps is the one who knows them,” Littel answered with a shrug.

  “And the rest of the documents?”

  “My number two has discovered that the cardinal betrayed us. So they can only be in JC’s hands.”

  “Then she’s screwed.” Barnes didn’t mince words.

  “Everything is as it needs to be. We know who has what. And I’m counting on your help to throw out some bait for JC,” Phelps announced victoriously.

  “What?”

  “Ah … well. I want to talk to you about that,” Littel said to Barnes, and got up. “We know you’ve worked with P2.”

  “P2?” Sebastian Ford asked again.

  “JC’s organization,” Littel told him. “We need you to mount a plan to catch them.”

  “I can’t do that,” Barnes warned circumspectly.

  “You have to,” Littel argued. “It’s an order.”

  Barnes snorted like a racehorse waiting to take off when the pistol fires.

  “It’s not like that. We have to separate things. We can’t turn our back on some people only to benefit outside organizations. I understand your dilemma, Barnes, but we have no choice.”

  “I knew you weren’t coming here just to be on my side.”

  Silence reigned in the room for a few moments, just enough not to last.

  “At least we’re in agreement,” Phelps said with a mocking smile. “Anyone else have a question?”

  “Why couldn’t you sleep in peace?”

  The glances turned toward Sarah, who had asked the question, then to Phelps.

  “It’s you who are going to be interrogated now, my dear,” he answered uncomfortably.

  “You don’t want her to know that one of your members was behind the assassination attempt,” Rafael interjected.

  “Shut up,” Phelps ordered.

  Herbert smacked Rafael in the face again, harder this time.

  “Who?” Sebastian Ford wanted to know.

  “Paul Marcinkus,” Rafael answered.

  “Shut up, I said.” Anger reddened Phelps’s face.

  “Marcinkus was P2,” Barnes affirmed.

  “And Opus Dei. They were the ones who recommended him to Paul the Sixth as IWR administrator.”

  “Don’t say another word,” Phelps yelled. “Get him out of here.”

  Herbert grabbed him and began to drag him out. It wasn’t easy, even with Rafael handcuffed.

  “You’re protecting a murderer and a pedophile. That’s what he doesn’t want you to know.”

  Priscilla put her hand to her mouth, shocked. Littel and the others didn’t seem surprised. Only Barnes’s men showed no previous knowledge of this.

  Phelps brought his hand to his mouth and sighed.

  “Enough. This is going to be done the way we agreed. Is there any problem?” He spoke to Littel.

  “Not on our part,” he answered, looking at Barnes.

  “Very well. Take those two to the cell. They’ll be interrogated on the ground,” Phelps commanded.

  “Did you hear what he said?” Barnes demanded. “Staughton, Thompson, lend a hand.” He looked at Rafael. “This time there’s no accord to save you. I want to be the one who sends you from here to hell.”

  Rafael smiled provocatively.

  “Where’s the Muslim?” Phelps wanted to know.

  “What Muslim?”

  “Abu Rashid.”

  “We don’t have him,” Littel informed them. “He disappeared from Jerusalem days ago.”

  Phelps looked at him astonished.

  “You don’t have him?”

  “No.”

  “The Russians don’t have him. I heard the conversation they had with our friend here. He also seems to have never heard of him. I thought he could only be in your custody.”

  “He never has been,” Littel asserted. “We have no idea where he could be.”

  “We’ll have to resolve this,” Phelps added.

  “What about the journalist?” Garrison wanted to know.

  “Kill him,” Phelps said without thinking twice. “Let’s go. Move.”

  Staughton and Thompson helped Herbert carry Sarah and Rafael. She shot a last look at Simon Lloyd, who couldn’t disguise the panic in his eyes.

  “No one’s going to kill anyone for now.”

  Everyone looked at Rafael.

  “Oh, no?” Phelps mocked.

  “No.”

  “And why not?”

  You save your ace for the right moment.

  65

  Over the years the American archbishop had visited the papal office in the Apostolic Palace many times, most frequently during the era of his protector, Paul VI. One phone call was enough to find out the pope’s schedule, and the gates opened immediately if there was an available time. He visited once during the short reign of Albino Luciani, on the evening of his death, to appeal to the pope not to accuse him of fraud and other more serious crimes. That visit was a complete failure. In the pontificate of Wojtyla, which had lasted twelve years so far, the visits could be counted on his two hands, decidedly fewer than a dozen. This was the first in the last five years.

  The Pole was distracted, scrawling on a piece of paper, and hadn’t invited him to sit down. Courtesy demanded he not do so on his own, especially in the office of the Supreme Pontiff, when he was right in front of him.

  He stamped his signature on the lower part of the page printed with the papal seal, put down t
he gold pen, and looked, for the first time, at the American.

  “Good evening, Nestor.”

  “Excuse me?” Marcinkus turned red with shame. Had he heard correctly?

  “Nestor,” the Pole repeated. “Isn’t he your alter ego?”

  “I don’t understand, Your Holiness.” The archbishop’s uneasiness was obvious. He hadn’t expected this reception.

  “Don’t play dumb.” Wojtyla got right to the point. “I’ve known everything for a long time.”

  “All what, Your Holiness?”

  “Well … let’s go over the parts. I thought it was strange when I removed you from the IWR last year that you never came to ask for an explanation.”

  “The decision was yours to make, Your Holiness. I was in charge of the bank for eighteen years. It was normal that the time had come to leave,” he responded naturally.

  “All right, Nestor.”

  “Don’t call me Nestor, Your Holiness.”

  “Paul and Nestor are the same person. A true chameleon, if you will.” He looked at him gravely. “You tried to kill me.”

  “No, Holy Father,” he contradicted him, but without much conviction.

  “Sit down,” he invited him. “Sit down and listen to a story.”

  Paul Marcinkus accepted Karol Wojtyla’s request and sat down, while the pope got up and walked around the desk until he stopped behind the American, who felt threatened.

  “About two years ago I received a mysterious phone call that led to an even more mysterious visit. Someone wished to discuss subjects of interest to me. Perhaps you’ve heard of this person. He calls himself JC. At the time I thought he might be comparing himself to Jesus Christ, but I don’t think he had that grand pretension. I don’t believe he has the same beliefs we do.”

  “I’ve never heard of him, Your Holiness,” Marcinkus denied, without turning toward the Pole.

  “No? Well, look, he knows you very well. He told me about your adventures in Masonry …”

  “I can explain, Your Holiness.” He turned to the pope, alarmed.

  “You can? Belonging to a Masonic lodge results in direct excommunication without the right of explanations. Do you know anything about that, Nestor, 124, of the Loggia of Rome?”