Pope's Assassin (20 page)

    "Or take another train to another destination," Aris pointed out.

    Barry shook his head no. "Whatever they've come to do will be in London," he said, raising his voice. "Pay attention to all the exits. We're dealing with a professional who can make fools of us."

    A couple of technicians looked at Barry, amazed. Was that true? Then they turned to concentrate on the monitors. They could not afford to lose the target.

    "The suspect is in the main terminal," Staughton said. "He's going toward the north exit to Midland Road. There's a taxi stand there."

    Barry didn't miss a detail. Rafael. How long ago did he last see him? Maybe more gray hair, but, all things considered, he was in good shape, as always. Cold eyes, calculating, scanning the surroundings. He would calculate all possible exits, but only he, and he alone, knew his plan. No matter what the movies said, the CIA still could not read minds.

    "Confirm the Midland Road exit," Staughton reported. "The taxi stand is next to First Capital Connect."

    "Control the exit, Davis," Barry ordered.

    They watched Rafael leave with the still-unidentified person and wait in line for a taxi. The priest took out his phone. Someone was calling him.

    "I want to hear that call, folks," Barry demanded. "I need to hear it," he pressured.

    "Direct from Sugar Grove . . ." Staughton said.

    Rafael's voice could be heard all over the room. He was speaking Italian.
We just arrived. We'll continue directly to the location agreed
upon. We're waiting for a taxi.

    
God protect you,
the other person said, and hung up.

    An image appeared of Rafael putting his cell phone in his pocket.

    "Who was he talking to?" Barry asked agitatedly.

    "Just a minute," a voice said.

    "We don't have a minute," Barry grumbled.

    "Someone at the Vatican," Staughton answered.

    "Shit," Barry cursed. "Shit, shit, shit."

    "Why?" Aris asked.

    "We're not going to be able to find out who he called," the director said.

    "When calls are sent to or from the Vatican, that's about all we're able to know," Staughton added.

    "Why?" Aris insisted.

    "Because it's the country with most telephones per capita," a tech nician explained.

    "There are more telephones than people," Barry continued.

    Aris smiled.

    "I'm not joking," Barry said, with his eyes fixed on the enormous monitor. Rafael and his companion were next in line, only the taxi hadn't pulled up.

"Okay, here comes a cab," Staughton said.

    The image showed one of the famous London taxis pulling into the entrance for passengers.

    "Pay attention to the address," Barry warned. "Keep your ears open."

    
Great Russell Street,
Rafael was heard to say.

    "Great Russell Street. What's on Great Russell Street? Quick, folks," Barry took control of the operation.

    "Ah . . ." Staughton entered the information into the computer. "I thought so. The British Museum."

    "The British Museum. Why didn't he just say 'British Museum'? Do we have access to the cameras there?"

    "Main entrance, Great Court, and some rooms on the ground fl oor. Not all have cameras," said Davis, the person controlling the ground cameras.

    "Okay. I want a map of the place. Put some agents there just in case," the director said.

    "Okay," Aris communicated the order over the radio.

    "Does the taxi have cameras?"

    "No," Davis responded quickly. "I've already verified that, sir."

    "Call me David, Davis."

    The image showed the companion getting in the taxi, followed by Rafael, who looked around and up toward the sky before getting in.

    "What's he doing?" Barry asked curiously.

    "He's looking for somebody. Are there buildings around?" Aris observed.

    "He's looking up, Aris," Staughton put in. "Maybe he's going to pray?"

    Finally Rafael got in, and the taxi moved on to its destination.

    Barry sighed and raised his hand to his chin. "Pay attention to the taxi, Davis." He turned to Staughton. "Go back to the image and focus it more."

    Staughton pressed some keys and in seconds recovered the image of Rafael looking at the sky. With further definition it seemed as if his eyes were looking directly at the satellite camera.

    "Bastard," Barry swore.

    "But where's he looking, and what's he looking at?"Aris asked, con centrating on the image.

    Barry smiled slightly. "At us."

S
arah shivered. Cold sweat dampened her face, and fear overpowered her. She shut her eyes, but not even that stopped the sensation of imminent danger. The cold barrel of the gun pressed the back of her head, and fear gave way to panic. She could feel the end.

    "Don't do it. Please," she managed to stammer out.

    "You know too much, and at the moment you're an obstacle for us," a male voice said. "Your grave has been dug for a long time."

    How could this be the end? So slow and so fast at the same time, unforeseeable, unknown. The place was dark. She couldn't see any thing inside or out. Eyes shut, making a huge effort to keep from open ing them, she felt only herself, and the barrel of the gun.

    "Good-bye, Sarah," a voice said.

    Sarah's body tensed, but her panic vanished. She resigned herself.

    "Francesco" was the last thing she said before her face exploded in a sea of blood and fl esh.

    "Time to wake up," he heard a male voice say, followed by two slaps to the face.

    Francesco woke up from the nightmare, frightened. He was lying in a double bed. The man who had woken him up was the same one who'd approached him on Via dei Cestari. He was wearing a well- tailored Armani suit, and limped with his left leg. Francesco couldn't say whether it was the same suit or not, but then he hadn't had much time to observe. The man tossed a towel and some clothes in his direction.

    "The bathroom is out there," he pointed. "Take a shower and get dressed. You have fi ve minutes."

    "Where are we?" Francesco asked, half lying and half sitting.

    The man turned his back and left the room.

    Francesco tried to remember the strange events of the night before, Sarah's departure with the priest, the waiting, the phone call instructing him to go to Piazza di Gesù and then along Largo di Torre Argentina, where the drunk had approached him. He couldn't remem ber what had happened after that. He must have been drugged. He couldn't believe he'd have slept so easily without knowing where Sarah was. Where was she? Still in Rome? He was clearly in a luxurious hotel room, but it wasn't the Palatino. He got up and went to the window. He opened the curtain and looked out over buildings stretching toward the horizon. It was morning. Below, the traffic was building up to a frenzy. He didn't recognize any building in particular. He was not in Rome.

    He looked for his watch, but it had disappeared. D
amn.
He looked for his cell phone, but couldn't find it, either. All of his belongings had disappeared. The clothes the other one had tossed to him were new. He sat down on the edge of the bed and rubbed the back of his neck. He felt tired and disoriented. Someone had to have answers. Only he didn't know if he was ready to know them.

    He got up and took a quick shower before the crippled man returned to the room. He used the shampoo and gel from the hotel—a five-star, no doubt. He couldn't understand the words on the bottles. No matter how much he washed, he continued to feel dirty, a fi lth that stuck to him even when he dried off. He was still devastated. He wanted to know about Sarah. His heart beat fast with anxiety and exasperation. He lacked the one feeling that gave a person well-being: control. Without it, he was totally lost, more than just geographically.

    The man in the Armani suit returned to the room while Francesco was tying his shoelaces. He looked at the journalist disdainfully and opened the door.

    "Let's go." It was an order, not a request.

    Francesco went out hesitantly, unsure which way to turn.

    "Straight ahead," the other said.

    "Are you going to tell me where we are?" Francesco asked.

    "This is not the time to ask me questions," the other warned."Left."

    Francesco went left. There was a long corridor with innumer able doors, but they didn't enter any of them. He came to a hall with elevators.

    "Push the button," said the man in the Armani suit.

    Francesco obeyed. An elderly couple came out of a room and waited with them. The woman greeted them in English.

    "Hello."

    "Hello," they both replied.

    Francesco was apprehensive.

    "Don't take the next elevator," the unknown man whispered.

    A bell announced the arrival of the elevator. The two men let the elderly couple take it and waited for the next one. Francesco went in first. The man in the Armani suit pressed a button that Francesco couldn't see. The doors closed and the elevator began to rise.

    It was only a few moments, but to Francesco it seemed an eter nity. He felt more anxious and alarmed as they ascended. The thought struck him that the unknown man would tie him up on the top fl oor, and he imagined falling down the stories, desperate, helpless, until he struck the fl oor below. On the other hand, it was hardly credible that whoever was behind this would plot such a complicated scheme for so simple an ending. They could have killed him more easily anytime.

    
Stop thinking about it,
he ordered himself.
Whatever will be will be.

    The doors opened onto another corridor full of rooms. Francesco went out first, completely ignoring the luxurious decor.

    "Left," said the other one following him. "Keep straight ahead."

    Francesco complied, with careful steps, neither too fast nor too slow, expecting the worst.

    "Here," the other said, moving ahead to a door and lightly knock ing twice.

    From inside came a "Come in."

    The man in the Armani suit, always with an unfriendly expression, opened the door and let Francesco enter. Then he shut it, leaving him alone with whoever was inside the room.

    Francesco found himself in an enormous suite. He couldn't see who had told him to come in.

    
"Buon giorno,"
he heard a man say. "Come closer."

    The voice came from a room on the right. Francesco found a very old man, seated in a chair, looking out a large window. He was dressed in white. He spoke perfect Italian without an accent.

    "Closer, Francesco," the old man insisted.

    Francesco approached cautiously, never taking his eyes off the man. Who was he?

    "Who are you, sir?" he finally worked up enough courage to ask.

    "Who I am is not important," the old man replied.

    He got up painfully with the help of a cane with the gold head of a lion on the top, and approached the window. Francesco stood by him and looked out at the city spread before them. This time Francesco recognized it. He'd never visited it. He recognized the gold dome from news broadcasts. In front of them lay the holy city of Jerusalem.

    "Where's Sarah?" was a more important question.

    "In the service of God."

    What a ridiculous answer. What did he mean by that?

    "You in the service of God, too?" he asked somewhat recklessly.

    "I?" he smiled. "I have no master. Call me JC."

"JC? What do you mean by that?"

"JC," the old man repeated.

Francesco pointed toward the city.

"What are we doing here?" He couldn't hide his irritation.

    JC didn't answer right away. He looked at the city for a few moments and then sighed deeply, before he finally spoke, as coldly as an iceberg. "Jerusalem. It was here everything began. . . . It'll be here that every thing ends."

T
he Bible.

        The most prodigious book ever written. The majority of its words were inspired by God, and those that were not were written by His own hand.

    He always carried it with him in a paperback edition worn out from so much reading. He gave special attention to the synoptic gospels, especially John, as well as the Acts, but what really satisfied his soul was the Apocalypse. He chose specifi cally for today J
esus said to him: I am
the way, the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father but through
Me,
from the Gospel of John. He read it and re-read it until he didn't need to read it again, it was so deeply fixed in his memory. He looked at another paper with the names of those whom God was calling to Himself and he had the pleasure of dispatching. Three names, three people who would come before the God of judgment. God would deal with them as He knew best.

    He had no great admiration for the Old Testament, though he'd read it several times with the greatest respect. Certain passages struck a deep chord with him, especially the story of Abraham, who in cer tain respects resembled him, since he obeyed the will of God without question. He had no doubt that he would kill his father, mother, and children, if he had any, if it were asked of him. The Exodus from Egypt was one of his favorites, and he found great wisdom in the Book of Proverbs, written by the great Solomon, the son of the no lesser David. The Book of Job, the prophecies of Jeremiah and Ezekiel, Jonah in the belly of the whale, Noah, Absalom, Jacob, Joseph, and many others, the history of the Chosen People, who deserved all the suffering they endured. Caiaphas was guilty of sending the Son of God to His death. He considered himself an avenger, or rather, an avenging angel, a savior, freeing His world from evil. Thanks to Him, he did it extremely well.