Elías put the pistol down and walked over. As soon as Elías was in range, Midas threw a right hook. Elías dodged easily, then leaped forward to deliver a ferocious blow to Midas’s left side. Bones cracked, and his opponent’s left arm dangled useless at his side. Midas screamed in pain and stumbled back, drooling, tears in his eyes. He snatched a box cutter from a table and charged. Elías eluded him with a basic fencing maneuver. Midas again tried to stab him but was no match for Elías’s agility.
Elías toyed with him for a few moments. Midas reeled, his eyes flickering in pain, and slashed at Elías’s throat. This time, Elías grabbed the man’s arm, wrested away the blade, and sliced his right triceps to the bone. Midas fell to the floor shrieking like a stuck pig. Elías found a roll of duct tape and made a tourniquet so the man wouldn’t bleed to death. He taped both of Midas’s arms to the table legs behind him. One more length of tape around the head immobilized the upper body.
“What are you doing?”
“Wait and see. Unless you’re in a hurry to find out.”
Elías took another bottle of sulfuric acid and poured it into a dosing flask. He placed it at the edge of a shelf above Midas’s head and turned the tap just enough to let it drip. The first drop landed on the crown of the man’s head and trickled down the right side, burning a bloody furrow and emitting the foul odor of burning flesh. Midas bellowed, shaking his head and arms in an effort to escape, but the table was bolted to the floor. Two seconds later, another drop fell, struck his forehead, and sizzled down his cheek next to his eye, leaving a bright-red track of lacerated skin in its wake. Midas’s scream was long and anguished. Elías regarded him with great calm, taking in the spectacle without a hint of emotion.
“All right!” Midas bellowed at last. “Let me go! I’ll give you what you want!”
“Give it to me first. Then I’ll release you.”
Another drop of acid and another scream. Midas shook his head in a vain effort to throw the driblet off, but his efforts just made the acid trickle faster, stripping away skin all the way to his left ear.
“There’s a safe in the container next to the entrance!”
“In a container?”
“Aaaahh!” By now, the acid had burned off all his hair and ruptured the skin beneath. Part of one eyebrow was gone, and at any moment a drop would reach an eye. “It’s more secure than the house.”
“And the keys?”
“In the glove compartment of my car!”
“And your car keys?”
“In my pocket!” Tears streamed from Midas’s eyes. “Now, goddamn it, let me go!” Elías leaned over and took the car keys from his pocket. Midas tried to kick him, but Elías grabbed his leg.
“What’s the combination to the safe?”
“Let me go! Let me go and I’ll tell you!”
Elías leaned against the wall, watching him. “Take your time. I’m in no hurry.”
The next drop took the same track down his forehead, and because there was no hair left to stop it, it went into his eye. Midas screamed and thrashed as if possessed. He struggled so hard that his head tore free of the tape but rebounded so violently against the table leg that he knocked himself unconscious. Elías closed the tap to stop the acid flow, leaned over, wound more duct tape around his victim’s head, neck, and the table leg, then threw a glassful of water in his face to revive him. Midas came to, but the fight had gone out of him. He squinted miserably with his remaining eye.
“The combination to the safe. Now.” When Midas didn’t answer, Elías reached up to open the acid tap.
“Wait!” He could hardly speak, but he gave Elías the numbers. “Now let me go.”
“First I’ll check the safe.” Elías stepped forward and again reached for the tap.
“What are you doing?”
“A torturer should expect to be tortured. Don’t you agree?”
He opened the tap twice as wide as before. Midas howled.
Elías watched for a few moments more with the serenity of a true sociopath. “You must be ashamed. Such a big tough guy, screaming like a little baby. I guess you probably know L didn’t beg. She didn’t scream even once.”
He left behind the incoherent screams, moans, and sobs. He found the keys in the glove compartment of the man’s car and opened the padlock on the shipping container. Inside were neatly arranged shelves and books, with a safe at the back. He dialed in the combination Midas had given him, and the door swung smoothly open. Inside were photos and contracts that implicated the bishop, some of the city’s leading bankers, and several politicians. A perfect cache of evidence that documented illegal activities along with memory cards and flash drives. He took it all.
He got into his half-destroyed car to leave. Midas’s screams were still echoing inside the house.
49
Elías spent all morning preparing things, and he was haggard when he got back to Holger’s place at noon.
“Took you long enough.” L unwound from her yoga pose and went to the kitchen. She was dressed in jeans and a black turtleneck. Elías had no idea where they’d come from.
“Murcia is a mess—streets blocked off, police cars, ambulances.” A wry smile flickered across his face. “Good thing I have a special pass from the bishop.”
He’d bought all the materials the previous day, just as L had wanted. Delia had let him use her car, as his was obviously wrecked. She’d begged him to tell her what was going on, but for the first time in his life, Elías was unmoved by her cajoling.
“Did you get it all organized?”
“Yes. I know everyone in the bishop’s office. Lucky for us, my uncle—I mean, our father—hasn’t warned them about me. He must still be hoping I’ll come back to the fold.”
“Did you contact him?”
“Yes. He agreed to a meeting.”
“Did you tell him I want the pope to be there?”
“He made a few excuses at first but finally agreed. There should be no problem. As I understand it, the pope is more interested in seeing you than Uncle is.”
“Terrific. Now it’s up to me to make my move.” L squatted to open the oven, where Elías saw a baking tray piled with rock salt. “The fish’ll be ready in a couple of minutes.”
“Are you going to tell me your plan? Because if it’s what I think it is, you’re out of your mind.”
She got to her feet. “I guess I’ve never been all that sane.”
“I still say we should go to the police.”
“Don’t you get it yet?” She picked up her glass of wine and gave him one as well. “All power is linked. Religious power, political power, economic power—they’re all tied together, and they have one goal: to dominate the people and force them to obey. We’re still slaves. If you’re a good little boy, work and pay lots of taxes, they let you choose your vacation spots or the schools for your kids. We live in an updated version of the middle ages. Politicians are today’s kings, and big businessmen are the feudal lords.”
“And an assassination is supposed to fix all that? Even if you succeed, they’ll just execute you or throw you in jail.”
“This is a golden opportunity to strike a blow against one of the great powers oppressing the people, and I don’t intend to pass it up.”
“Killing the pope is regicide. Besides, they’ll just replace him, and everything will be the way it was. But worse, because you’ll be in jail.”
“So maybe I’m wrong. Maybe it won’t make a difference. But I have a moral obligation to try.”
“Moral? In what world is this moral?”
“Elías, wake up! Religions and governments proclaim love out of one side of their mouths, and with the other, they send us off to war and suffering for their own ends. They ignored lynchings. They said the Inquisition was moral, and the Crusades! My morality is my own, shaped by my life experience as a woman, an Agote, an outsider. Freedom isn’t won with dialogue and flowery speeches! The oppressor will never yield of his own free will. It’s the oppre
ssed who must fight and kill and demand their rights. Laws exist only to protect the powerful. So yes, Elías, in my world, murder is moral when you’re killing the oppressor to set the people free.”
Elías thought of Artemisia Gentileschi’s wrathful painting of Judith. “It’s just that I”—he embraced her—“I don’t want to lose you.”
They stood there silent and unmoving for a long time. At last, Elías said, “The bishop told me they found some others from your village. A couple who do something with fire?”
“Festo and Gaya.” Pain momentarily disfigured L’s face. “Are they dead?”
“They probably are, because he said you’re the last one left. That, with you, the circle closes and the drug vanishes forever.”
“Perfect.” L had regained her composure.
“Don’t you understand?” Elías felt grief about to overwhelm him. “If you go, you’ll never get out alive. You told me already: That drug is a direct threat to the Church. Let me go with you.”
“You know perfectly well you can’t. You have to follow the plan.”
Elías turned away. “It’s a harebrained scheme that won’t do anyone any good.”
She came close and forced him to look into her eyes. “Please, Elías. Promise me you’ll follow the plan.”
He looked into her luminescent green eyes. At last, he nodded and clutched her in his arms. “And you—promise you’ll come back to me.”
L kissed his lips, but didn’t answer.
50
The taxi let her off at Gran Vía.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but we can’t get any closer—all this security for the pope, you know. After he leaves tomorrow, everything’ll be back to normal.”
L paid the fare and got out with a folder tucked under her arm. A ten-minute walk got her to the Plaza del Cardenal Belluga. As she passed Murcia Cathedral, she noticed that the Vélez Chapel was cordoned off. Legend said it had been carved from a single block of stone, and the unknown mason had been struck blind as soon as he finished so he’d never be able to create such a marvel again. L considered him a symbol of subjugation to law, money, and religion. She was aiming to break a link in one of the three strong chains that bound the population; maybe this would be the first step in inciting popular rebellion against the others. She was cautiously optimistic.
Police officers were everywhere. She even spied some disguised as visiting countryfolk. Their presence didn’t intimidate her. She paused before the bishop’s palace, a salmon-colored, rococo building from the eighteenth century, its façade adorned with coats of arms and its windows framed in aquamarine blue. It was cold out, but she wore only jeans and a thin sweater. It hadn’t occurred to her that the temperature in Murcia could be almost twenty degrees lower than in Cartagena. She walked toward the door, but a ruddy-faced man intervened.
“Excuse me, ma’am. You’re not allowed here.”
She pointed to the entrance. “I’m expected.”
The man narrowed his eyes. He stepped aside and spoke to someone through his earpiece. Then he came back. “Your name?”
“L.”
“Follow me.”
They went to the entrance, and the door opened. L stepped in, and he shut it behind them. A pair of hulking guards manned a newly installed metal detector. This seemed like a lot of trouble to protect someone who talked to God every day and was expected to ascend directly into His glorious reign. She went through the detector without setting it off. One man stayed on duty. The other, dressed in a black suit and clerical collar, bowed slightly.
“Please come with me, ma’am.”
She followed him through the cloister opposite the majestic stairway, then through another door and down a narrow passage to the lower level. Elías had told her the meeting would probably be in the basement gallery the bishop had converted into a private museum. They walked the length of a wide hall hung with religious paintings. She spotted works by Murillo, Caravaggio, Goya, and Rembrandt. At the far end, her escort stopped in front of a door and knocked.
A sudden chill of dread made her want to flee. But the thought of the innumerable injustices committed in the name of the Church gave her the strength she needed.
Display cases in the center of the room held objects of gold or silver set with precious stones. The bishop sat in a thronelike chair on a platform at the back. Next to him was a robust young priest whose mind seemed to be elsewhere. The one who’d escorted her guarded the door. Though they were on opposite sides of the room, L detected the sour stink of the bishop’s body odor.
“The prodigal daughter returns.”
“And the merciful father receives her with open arms.”
“If in fact you have repented of all your sins.”
“You’ve mixed up your Bible stories. I wasn’t the one who left, Papa.”
“Defiant eyes, a proud heart, and impious thoughts. No, you have not repented. You are the living image of sin itself.”
“You dare talk to me about sin? You? Living here in ostentation, surrounded by luxury and wealth?”
“One is born naked and one is reborn naked. Jesus made it very clear that none of us takes anything with us into the heavenly kingdom. Nevertheless, he also taught that material goods are gifts of God the Father. Our duty is to use them with righteousness and moderation, for they should assure a life of dignity and assist the needy.” He lectured with a slight lilt, a tone obviously developed and perfected in Sunday sermons.
“That’s true. Jesus doesn’t reject wealth as such, but rather the devotion to wealth. In your case, it’s obvious wealth is something you use to help only yourself.”
“You are mistaken, my daughter. The Church needs wealth in order to extend itself across the globe, to help those in need no matter how remote, to carry the word of Christ to the multitudes.”
“Jesus said: You cannot serve both God and Mammon. He who subjugates himself to material possessions forgets the word of God. Jesus made it perfectly clear: It’s easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the Kingdom of Heaven.”
“Interpretation is everything. The Church needs riches not only to help the needy, but also to combat evil. Do you think this collection of degenerate art could have been assembled without money?” He gestured toward the huge pile of cardboard tubes to his right. “These paintings are a scandal. They should be destroyed or at least kept in the custody of someone impervious to vice and corruption. We must remain vigilant for the good of the people.”
He settled back in his throne, apparently bored with the topic. “Enough.” His mellifluous tone was gone, and now his voice was harsh. “Did you bring the painting?”
“Of course. But I was very clear that I would turn it over only to the pope in person.”
“Don’t worry. He’ll be here. He’s especially interested in making your acquaintance.” She heard a touch of malice in his voice. “A feeling I shared. I wanted to take a look at the greatest mistake I ever made.”
“I agree entirely. It’s a travesty for someone like you to reproduce.”
“I still ask myself how you survived your mother’s suicide.”
“Thanks to the intervention of the devil, no doubt.”
“I’m happy that at least you acknowledge his existence.”
“Is this her?”
The room fell silent, and L turned toward the deep voice that had come from the doorway. The pope stood there in the ceremonial solemnity of his vestments. He had to be more than eighty years old. He was hugely fat. He moved with firmness and assurance as he crossed the room, his heels clattering against the floor. L felt colder still. The end was near, and yet there were so many loose ends. Only fate could tie them off.
The pope stopped next to one of the bodyguards and looked at her.
The bishop spoke again. “Did you bring the painting, child?”
“Of course I brought it.” L took out a plastic bag and emptied it. Shredded bits of canvas fluttered to the floor.
>
“You’re trying to make us think you destroyed it?” The bishop’s lips twitched. “I don’t believe that for a second.”
“I’m not like you people. I feel no attachment to material things. The painting itself is of no value to me. Its only worth is what it represents, and that will last forever. Those paintings on our labels opened the way to new forms of art, and none of you can ever change that.”
The bishop signaled his bodyguard, who collected the fragments of canvas and delivered them to him for inspection. He looked up, incensed. “You’re insane!”
“Don’t you people like to destroy degenerate art? I did it for you.” She needed to raise the tension as much as possible. Her palms were sweating. The critical moment was near.
“You were right, Francisco Javier,” said the pope with a smile. His round face and pleasant tone gave him the air of a bemused grandfather. “She’s a devil. A witch straight from hell!”
“I’m sorry you won’t be able to complete the collection, Papa,” she said as the bishop dropped the shreds of canvas to the floor. “Yes, I know all about it. You’ve hunted down my people to steal our paintings. Mine was the last one, wasn’t it? You were counting on it to make your revenge complete. Oh, yes, you wanted to pay us back for the pain and humiliation of my people’s farewell gift. I imagine you still think of us every time you take a shit.”
The bishop clenched his fists and glared at her, obviously furious to learn she knew of his humiliation.
L turned to the pope. “I assume you’ve all gotten everything perfectly organized. The paintings packed with care on the Vatican’s private jet. No customs officers to deal with. Who’d ever believe that the pope is the world’s greatest art trafficker?”
“Degenerate art must be kept locked away.” The pope seemed cheerful, unaffected by anything she said or did. “Only those of enlightened spirit may be allowed access to it, to use it as a reference so as to explain what is unacceptable.”
“The enlightened?” asked L sarcastically. “Where are they?” She made as if to approach the pope, but the young priest stepped between them with a menacing expression. She backed away. “The Nazis invented the term degenerate art. You all have a lot in common with them.”
The Dark Circus Page 29