The Holy Bullet

by Luís Miguel Rocha

  “Everything stays the same. No one leaves hurt,” George added. “Accept it and go along with it, Jim.”

  If we looked closely, we’d see a tear welling up in Phelps’s eye. Accept, conform, lose. All this work for nothing. No, this couldn’t happen. They had an agreement. Damn JC.

  “What about the tomb?” Phelps wanted to know.

  “Everything stays as it is,” the president repeated.

  “And the woman, the agent of the Vatican …”

  “Release them immediately. Now, I’ve got other things to do. I’ve given my orders. I count on you to carry them out, Littel.”

  “Of course, Mr. President.”

  “You, too, Barnes.”

  “Of course,” Barnes answered, tripping over his words.

  The call was over. Sarah was incredulous. She didn’t know whether to feel relieved or suspicious. Be that as it may, a huge about-face had happened at the right moment.

  “Bastard,” Phelps cursed, defeated.

  “Everything calculated,” Barnes analyzed. “You’ve heard the orders. Let’s close this screwed-up case.”

  “No,” Phelps stammered.

  “No? You heard the same thing I did. I’m not going to contradict a direct order of the president,” Barnes warned with certainty.

  “Before turning in the arms we should kill the prisoners.”

  “I’d love to. Especially that bastard Rafael. But the orders are explicit,” Barnes reminded him.

  “Let’s say they were already dead.”

  “Tell me something, Jim.” Littel spoke. “Suppose we do what you say. Will the transfer continue online?”

  “My word is good. Five million in cash, when and where you want it,” Phelps guaranteed him.

  “Transfer? What transfer?” Barnes asked.

  Sarah felt a shiver in her guts.

  “Ten million,” Littel said.

  Phelps looked Harvey Littel in the eye with a serious, pragmatic expression.

  “Ten million it is.”

  “Littel, what the hell are you saying? The president was very clea—”

  Before completing the sentence, Barnes lay on the floor with a bullet in his forehead. Littel looked at the body coldly, the gun with a silencer in his hand, which Barnes had forgotten on the desk. Phelps smiled diabolically, and Sarah wept for Natalie, Greg, Clemente, Rafael, Simon, her father, her mother … and Barnes. He wasn’t on her side, but he hadn’t sold out.

  “Go get the other two,” Littel ordered, looking at Sarah with a Machiavellian expression, a simple way of saying you’re next without opening his mouth. He wiped down the gun with a silk handkerchief and put it in the hand of Barnes, who stared ahead, devoid of life. What a hell of a way to die.

  70

  Tim had slept like a baby. It was a long time since he’d felt such a profound spiritual peace. The phantoms that all his life had tortured his dreams and, night after night, transformed them into nightmares had disappeared, blown by the wind far away from him. A peaceful, friendly night, impregnated with the scent of spring, between warm and cold, nature in her eternal search for the perfect balance. A perfect night he’d never imagined could exist.

  For the first time in his life he woke up sleepy, dazzled by the sunlight coming in the open window of the room in the inn, and forgot the prayers to the Creator of all things, an unpardonable fault in the eyes of the clerical tutors who molded his character in his early years. The first thought of the day should be of the Creator, God, as should be the last, and all other thoughts during the day. Nothing else existed but God, and he should think of Him all the time. So it was said and is said in the monastery where he was brought up and lived since infancy to the sound of carnivorous whips tearing his skin and that of others.

  He faced the strong morning sun and sat on the edge of the bed.

  “You slept well,” he heard a voice say. Abu Rashid, seated in the chair where Tim had seen him for the last time before falling asleep.

  “Yes.”

  “It wasn’t a question,” Abu Rashid sweetly contradicted him. “I know you slept well.”

  Tim closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The weight he felt on himself the day before had disappeared. He felt light, rejuvenated, fresh.

  “This is the true peace,” Abu Rashid affirmed. “It has nothing to do with orders, sacrifice, suffering. What you feel now is communion with God. A perfect harmony with nature, with the universe.”

  “Was it the Virgin who told you that?”

  “Any wise person comes to that conclusion.”

  Tim looked around, inspecting the room, used to the intense light now. The white, strong sun embracing the world with energy. For a moment, not seeing the black briefcase, he felt a weight in his stomach.

  “It’s under the bed,” Abu Rashid told him. “I don’t want you to miss anything.”

  Tim squatted down and grabbed the briefcase. The key code and lock didn’t look tampered with.

  “Didn’t you want to see what was inside?” he asked curiously.

  “I know what’s in there,” the Muslim confirmed. “I don’t have to see it.”

  “Or maybe your visionary powers couldn’t decipher the code?” he said in a challenging way.

  “I like to see you calmer, Tim. You seem different.” Abu Rashid deliberately ignored the provocation.

  “I feel strange,” Tim confessed. “As if I were the father of a large family I needed to support with a lot of sacrifice, I alone, and suddenly they don’t need me, and I can live my own life. A life I didn’t know I had.”

  Tim looked, amazed, at the old Muslim. He’d never opened up to anyone, much less a stranger. He’d learned to hold all his frustrations and confusions within himself, since that was one of the teachings of the monastery. He’d summarized his whole existence in one statement to a man he’d wanted to kill the day before.

  “What’s in the case?” Tim finally asked.

  “The fact I don’t know shows my honesty. After all, the code is your birth date. I could’ve looked in it anytime I wanted.”

  They both smiled calmly. Abu Rashid was not a fake, and, taking that into consideration, Tim should have shot him. He hadn’t received instructions at the appointed time. When that happened the Sanctifier was supposed to make the most appropriate decision to safeguard the Church. But that didn’t bother Tim today. Life was giving him another chance, and he was going to take advantage of it. The dark time that he’d spent in the arms of the elite who swept their problems under the carpet was over.

  “I’m going to take you back to your house,” he decided.

  “That’s not necessary. I know the way.”

  “It’s fair that I take you. I was the one who snatched you from your normal life.”

  “No, Tim. I said it yesterday, and I’ll say it again. You never took me away from anything. I’m here of my own free will. This isn’t over yet.”

  Tim got up, startled. “Yes, it’s over. I don’t want to keep doing this.”

  “That’s a wise decision, but first you have to answer the phone.”

  “What—”

  The cell phone on the table started to ring at that precise moment. With an instinctive move, decisively, Tim grabbed it, brought it to his ear, and listened.

  “Who’s there?” he asked suspiciously.

  The caller identified himself, explained the situation, and gave the message. That must have been what happened, but only Tim could confirm it.

  “Listen, Sebastian, I’m going to take the man home,” Tim told him. “He has a special gift, but I’m not going to sentence him.” He looked at Abu Rashid, who smiled at him. It was possible for a man to change overnight.

  The person speaking on the other end said a few more words that Tim listened to attentively.

  “Affirmative. I’ll wait for him to tell him my decision,” he stated categorically. “He knows where I am,” he added. He frowned. “Has something happened to him?”

  Sebastian presented
his version of the facts, retouched, politically correct, or, on the contrary, he mentioned only Rafael’s momentary inability to talk with Tim by phone.

  “When will he be able to? Any idea?”

  Another evasive, conciliatory reply from Sebastian Ford. I can’t tell you, but I hope soon. Something like that.

  “Do me the favor of telling him I’m going to take the man to Jerusalem and return to the agreed-upon place. I’ll stay there eight days. If he doesn’t show up, give him my greetings and best wishes.” There was a new happiness in Tim’s voice, a valid reason to live. Life was beautiful, finally.

  The caller hung up, and Tim did the same.

  “It’s clear,” he declared. “I’m going to take a shower and we’ll go. You must miss your house,” Tim said.

  “My house is always in my heart. I can’t miss something that’s always with me. My house is the universe,” the Muslim said with shining eyes. “Today is the first day of the rest of your life.”

  Even the shower felt different. It washed away the poverty of his spirit and opened his soul to new dimensions. A succession of images flowed through his mind, reviving feelings he thought didn’t exist or had been extinguished. Loneliness was not a way of life but an aberration that darkened his being and ennobled inner demons. The water washed, carried away, poured, expelled, cleaned, and refreshed. That was its nature, the amplitude of its being. He thought of love, the family he didn’t have but could begin to have. A multitude of opportunities passed through his mind.

  Tim didn’t know how long he’d let the water run, since he’d lost track of the seconds, the gallons of water, the bath accessories. Renewed, he smiled when he realized he’d showered with the door open, something he’d have condemned before.

  “Ready to return—” Tim interrupted himself.

  There was no one in the room. The door was closed with the lock set, the window closed from inside. Abu Rashid had disappeared into thin air. Tim couldn’t help feeling a mixture of sadness and happiness. A smile passed over his lips, a tear came to his eye.

  On top of the bed a gilded object, small, cylindrical, shining … A bullet.

  71

  Jesus Christ, what’s happened here?” Staughton asked, surprised to see the corpse of his director stretched out on the floor with a vacant stare, dead. A tear ran down his face, a suppressed sorrow, genuine, unforeseen. “How could this happen?”

  The rest of Barnes’s team and those of Littel and Phelps returned to the interrogation room astonished. Phelps was absent. He’d gone to find the prisoners. They all looked at Barnes’s lifeless body.

  “We’ve received a call from the Oval Office,” Littel explained.

  “From the Oval Office?” Sebastian Ford asked.

  “Exactly,” Littel affirmed. He approached Sarah and used his own silk handkerchief as a gag. “The president in person ordered us to finish everything and leave no survivors.” He looked at Sarah warningly.

  Thompson and Staughton were in shock. They couldn’t believe their eyes. Barnes was immortal, invincible.

  “Barnes was angry with the president’s decision.” His voice trembled with emotion. He spoke in a low voice, almost a whisper. “He even got rude. He said things had to be carried out to the end. It gave a bad impression. The president raised his voice and said the final word was his, and if Barnes didn’t know his place, he’d have to be better informed.” He was silent for a few seconds, letting his words sink in. “As soon as the president was off the phone, he put the gun to his head and fired.”

  “My God,” Staughton exclaimed.

  “And now?” Thompson asked in a restrained voice. In spite of being accustomed to death, when it happened to your own, in your own house, unexpectedly, you suffered like anyone else.

  “We’re going to obey the president’s orders. Eliminate the prisoners and lock the door,” Littel declared, condescending to the general feeling in the room.

  Staughton and Thompson were the most upset, understandably, since they’d worked daily with Barnes for many years. The man had an intimidating voice, could act impulsively, eat like a savage, swear constantly, flip over the table if things weren’t going his way, but he was fair, a friend in his way, a companion, cautious. He never risked the life of an agent.

  How was it possible that Geoffrey Barnes, a career man with an enviable record, used to working under pressure, could have ended his life in such … such … a cowardly way? In spite of everything, Barnes was balanced. For Staughton and Thompson this ending was like a mathematical operation, adding two and two, the result of which was five or three.

  “Nobody expected it. It was too much for anyone,” Littel argued. “Staughton, Thompson, go home. Take a few days to get over it. We’ll finish the operation.”

  “No,” Staughton dissented. “We want to stay with the chief.” He didn’t take his eyes off the cadaver.

  “Staughton,” Littel shouted. He had to get in front of him and shake him to make the traumatized Staughton look at him. “Staughton. Today Barnes will be on a plane going home.”

  “I want to go with him.”

  “Me too,” Thompson declared.

  “Very well.” He turned to the lieutenant colonel. “Wally, go with these two good men. Take them around Rome.”

  “To Saint Peter’s?” Wally Johnson suggested.

  “To Saint Peter’s,” Littel agreed. “Excellent idea. Pray a little, refresh their ideas, and at the end of the day put them on the same plane with their boss. It’s a promise.”

  Littel gave Staughton a friendly slap on the shoulder and turned his back. Wally Johnson helped him toward the door. Thompson followed. Their last look before leaving the room was at Geoffrey Barnes, their unhappy director.

  Three went out, another three came in, Phelps with the remaining prisoners, Rafael and Simon, who had an expression deeper than panic. Fear of death. Rafael could now support himself on his feet, although a little shakily. A swollen eye impeded his full vision. They were forced to sit on chairs next to Sarah.

  “Take that body out of here,” Littel ordered no one in particular.

  Since the only helpers worthy of the name in the room were Priscilla and Herbert, there was no doubt to whom the task fell. Herbert approached Barnes, took him by the feet, and dragged him toward the door.

  “That’s not the most dignified way to treat the body of a director of the CIA,” Colonel Garrison warned. “There is protocol—”

  “That can’t be observed at the moment,” Littel interrupted.

  “If you want, I can take him by the arms,” Herbert malevolently challenged.

  Stuart Garrison shot him a look of hate. Under other circumstances that boy would eat those words one by one.

  Herbert continued the operation, dragging the corpse in stages. Immediately sweat began to run down his face. Barnes was very heavy.

  “Now us.” Littel turned toward Simon, Rafael, and Sarah.

  Phelps faced them euphorically. These three deaths were going to be expensive, but at least the loose ends had been tied up for three out of four. JC alone was missing, the astute old man. One only had to find the right time.

  Sarah and Simon closed their eyes, anticipating the worst.

  “Herbert,” Littel called. “Do the honors.”

  Herbert promptly left off what he was doing. Barnes wasn’t going anywhere, after all. He drew his gun from the holster.

  “With pleasure.”

  “Do you want to say anything?” Littel asked with a sarcastic smile.

  The silence spoke for itself. Simon didn’t dare open his mouth, Sarah was gagged. Even though she didn’t want to be silent, she had to be.

  “Courage is stupidity in this case,” Phelps said. “I have a question, if you don’t mind.” He was speaking to Rafael. “Who did you speak with in the apostolic apartments that morning in the Vatican?”

  Rafael smiled bleakly. “No one.”

  “You won’t answer?” Phelps was furious.

 
“I am answering. No one. We were only there to arouse your curiosity. I knew that would draw you in more. You think you fooled us all, even the pope. It was completely the opposite.” His smile changed to a loud laugh.

  Littel gestured with his head that Herbert was authorized to summarily execute the prisoners. Soon they’d only be names that passed from earth without leaving their marks on history. Rafael Santini, Sarah Monteiro, Simon Lloyd, forgotten by the world, would cease to count or even figure in the death statistics.

  Herbert removed the safety on the gun, provided with a silencer, but Phelps grabbed it from his hand, infuriated, and pointed it at Rafael.

  A shot.

  Two shots. Whispered.

  Before they understood anything, we see Herbert grab his chest and fall. The same for Phelps, who was already dead before he fell. A thin stream of blood ran from a hole in the middle of his head. He died without knowing how.

  Rafael got up before any reaction. Priscilla screamed in panic. Sarah and Simon opened their eyes to see this hellish scene. Three corpses on the floor, Colonel Garrison trying to draw his gun, Marius Ferris shocked, completely astonished, Rafael behind Littel, his gun pressed into the assistant subdirector’s head.

  “Do you want to say anything?” he asked close to Littel’s ear.

  “Don’t do anything stupid,” Marius Ferris said.

  “More than you’ve done would be impossible.” He pressed the barrel harder against Littel’s head. “Be calm,” Rafael advised him. “Look what you’ve done.”

  “Me? I need to warn you it’s a serious crime to interfere with an agent of the federal government.”

  “I’m not going to interfere. I’m going to kill you,” Rafael warned, grinding his teeth.

  “Let’s be reasonable,” Garrison argued. “Surely we can come to an agreement without wasting more lives.”

  “Are you concerned about your own, Colonel?” It was a rhetorical question. “I don’t remember seeing you concerned about lives in Moscow,” he added bitterly.

  Garrison lowered his head.

  Rafael looked at Sarah.

  “Take off that gag.”

  Sebastian Ford obeyed the order, shook out the silk handkerchief, and let it fall on the floor. Littel turned red. Sarah breathed in desperately, like someone had just pulled her from underwater.