God's Spy (22 page)

She calmly went over her notes on the spokesman: a doctor who’d taken up journalism; a member of Opus Dei; born in Cartagena, Spain; according to all reports, deadly serious and something of a cold fish. He was nearly 70 years old, and from what an unofficial source had told her – a source who’d never failed her yet – he was one of the most powerful men in the Vatican. For years he’d heard news directly from John Paul’s lips before passing it on to the wider public. If he decided that something was secret, secret it stayed. There were no leaks with Balcells. His CV was impressive. Andrea read the list of prizes and medals he had been awarded: Knight of this order, Prince of that, Member of the Holy Cross of something or other. His achievements took up two full pages, a different award on every line. He’d be a tough bone to gnaw on.

‘But I have sharp teeth, damn it.’

She was trying to hear herself think over the increasing murmur of voices when the press room suddenly exploded. First one sounded – the initial raindrop that signals the downpour; then three or four. Finally, a great cacophony of ringing as dozens of mobile phones seemed to go off at the same time. The noise lasted some forty seconds. The journalists all grabbed their handsets and tilted their heads. Now and then a loud complaint was heard.

‘OK, we’re on hold. Fifteen minutes’ delay, which leaves us exactly no time to edit the story.’
Andrea heard a voice speaking Spanish a few feet away from her. She elbowed her way over and saw that it was a woman journalist with brown skin and delicate features. Her accent led Andrea to believe she was from Mexico.
‘Hello, I’m Andrea Otero, from El Globo. Listen, can you tell me why all the mobile phones started ringing at once?’
‘It’s a message from the Vatican Press Office. They send us an SMS whenever there’s important news. It’s the latest innovation, the hassle being the noise when we’re all in the same place. The news that Balcells is going to be delayed is what just came in.’
Andrea was impressed. Getting information out to thousands of journalists couldn’t be easy.
‘Don’t tell me you haven’t signed up for the phone service?’ The Mexican journalist was surprised.
‘Well no, not yet. Nobody told me anything about it.’
‘Don’t worry. See that girl over there?’
‘The blonde?’
‘No, the one in the grey jacket, carrying the file. Go over to her and tell her you want to register for their phone service. In less than half an hour they’ll have you on their database.’
Andrea went over to the woman and mumbled all the pertinent information in Italian. The girl asked her for her press card and typed her mobile phone number into a handheld device. ‘This connects to the main data bank.’ The young woman was proud of the technology but her smile was tired. ‘In which language would you like to receive your communications from the Vatican?’
‘Spanish.’
‘Castilian Spanish or a variant?’
‘Oh, just the everyday sort.’
‘Scusi?’ the woman responded haughtily .
‘I’m sorry. Castilian, please.’
‘In about fifty minutes you will be registered on the service. I just need you to sign this form, if you would be so kind, authorising us to send you the information.’
The journalist scrawled her name at the bottom of the page without looking at any of the small print. She then thanked the girl and said goodbye.
Otero went back to where she’d been standing and tried to read more about Balcells, but then a buzz went round the room that he was about to arrive. Andrea focused on the main door, but the spokesman had slipped in using a door hidden behind the stage. He calmly pretended to be organising his notes, which gave the cameramen a second to frame their shots and the journalists time to sit down.
Andrea cursed her luck and once again elbowed her way to the front, this time as far as the stage, where the Vatican spokesman stood behind a dais. It wasn’t easy, but while everyone else was taking their seat, Andrea managed to get close to Balcells.
‘Mr Balcells, I’m Andrea Otero from the paper El Globo. I’ve been trying to get in touch with you all week but—’
‘Later.’ The spokesman didn’t even look at her.
‘But, Mr Balcells, you don’t understand. I need to verify some information—’
‘Miss, I’ve already told you: later. OK, let’s get started.’
Andrea was dumbstruck. He hadn’t even looked at her once, which infuriated her. She was used to getting men to do what she wanted, usually with just a flash of her blue eyes.
‘But, Mr Balcells, I represent an important Spanish newspaper . . .’ She was trying to gain traction by mentioning that she represented the Spanish media, but it didn’t work. Balcells shot her an icy look.
‘What did you say your name was?’
‘Andrea Otero.’
‘From which paper?’
‘El Globo.’
‘And where is Paloma?’
Paloma, the regular correspondent for Vatican assignments; the woman who had had the extremely unfortunate mishap of falling and breaking her leg, thereby giving Andrea her place. It wasn’t a good sign that Balcells had asked after her – not good at all.
‘She couldn’t come; she had a problem . . .’
Balcells furrowed his brow as only a lifelong member of Opus Dei could. Andrea was caught off guard and took a short step backwards.
‘Young lady, please take a look at the people behind you, if you would,’ Balcells said, gesturing to the packed rows of seats. ‘These are your colleagues from CNN, the BBC, Reuters . . . Some of them were already accredited journalists here at the Vatican before you were born. And all of them would like this press conference to get under way. Please do us all the favour of taking your seat, now.’
Andrea spun around, feeling ashamed and flustered. The journalists in the front row chuckled at her expense. A few of them did look almost as old as Bernini’s damn colonnade. As she pushed her way to the back of the room, to the spot where she had left her bag and her laptop, she overheard Balcells joking in Italian with the ancient scribblers in the front row. Hollow guffaws echoed behind her back. She had no doubt that the joke was on her. More people turned around to look at her, and Andrea went red right up to her ears. She felt as if she was swimming through an ocean of bodies as she made her way, her head down and her arms extended, through the narrow passage to the door. The woman who’d taken all her information walked over and put a hand on her arm.
‘Just remember: if you go, you won’t be able to come back in until after the press conference. The door is locked. That’s how it works.’
‘Like a theatre,’ Andrea thought to herself. ‘Just like a theatre.’
She slipped out of the woman’s grasp and exited the press room. The door swung closed behind her, slamming in a way that did nothing to diminish her embarrassment.
She felt a little better now that she was outside. She desperately needed a smoke, so she rummaged through all her jacket pockets until her fingers found a packet of mints – her consolation in the absence of her old friend nicotine.
‘What a fucking time to give up.’
She opened the mints and popped three into her mouth. They didn’t really taste any better than vomit, but at least they kept her mouth busy. Even so, they didn’t help much with the withdrawal.
Andrea Otero would recall this moment many times in the future. She would remember standing in that doorway, leaning against the stones framing the entrance; she would remember trying to calm herself down and cursing herself for having been so stupid, for having embarrassed herself like a child.
But none of this was the reason why she would remember it. She’d remember it on account of the terrible discovery that nearly cost her her life, and which finally put her in touch with the man who would change that life, whom she ran into thanks to the fact that she decided to wait for the mints to dissolve in her mouth before she hurried away – just so she could calm down a bit. How long does it take for a mint to dissolve? Not very long. For Andrea it seemed an eternity. Every inch of her body was begging to go back to the hotel and slide as far under the bedsheets as possible. Yet she forced herself to stay where she was, if only because she didn’t want to watch herself flee through the streets like a beaten dog.
There was just a little bit left of one of the mints, a thin sliver perched on her tongue, when a messenger came barging around the corner. He was wearing a bright-orange boilersuit and a baseball cap, and had a large bag slung over his shoulder. He was in a hurry and walked right up to Andrea.
‘Excuse me, but is this where they hold the press conferences?’
‘It is.’
‘I have an urgent package for the following: Michael Williams of CNN, Bertie Hegrend of RTL—’
Andrea interrupted him. She didn’t want to listen to all those names. ‘Don’t kill yourself, buddy. The press conference has already started and you’re going to have to wait at least an hour.’
The messenger looked at her, crestfallen. ‘No way. They told me that—’
The journalist found a kind of malign satisfaction in taking her problems out on someone else. ‘You understand. That’s the way it works.’
The messenger rubbed his hand across his face. He really was desperate. ‘You don’t understand, signora. I’ve already missed a few deadlines this month. The urgent deliveries have to get to their destination within one hour, or we don’t get paid. There are ten Manilla envelopes here at thirty euros each. If I’m late with this job, my agency’s going to lose the Vatican route and I’ll get kicked out on my backside – no doubt about that.’
Andrea softened. She was a decent person. Impulsive, thoughtless and capricious, yes, and at times she used lies – with a heavy dose of luck – to get what she wanted; but she was a good person. She read the messenger’s name printed on the ID card hanging from a pocket of his suit. Another of Andrea’s traits: she always called people by their names.
‘Listen, Giuseppe, I’m sorry but you couldn’t open that door even if you wanted to. It only opens from the inside. See for yourself. There’s no lock and no door handle.’
The messenger grunted in despair. He put his hands on his hips either side of a prominent belly that was visible even through his work clothes: he was trying to think. He stared down at Andrea. She was sure he was stealing a look at her breasts – she’d gone through this disagreeable experience almost every day since puberty; but then she saw that his eyes were concentrating on the press badge dangling from her neck.
‘Listen, I’ve got an idea. I’ll leave the envelopes with you and we’re done.’
Her badge had the Vatican shield on it and he must have thought she worked there.
‘Look, Giuseppe—’
‘Enough with the Giuseppe. Call me Beppo,’ the messenger said, rooting around in his bag.
‘Beppo, I really can’t—’
‘Look, please just do me this one favour. Don’t worry about signing. I’ll sign the delivery slips with a different squiggle on each line and that’s it. You just have to promise you’ll deliver the envelopes as soon as they open the door.’
‘It’s just that—’
But Beppo had already handed her the ten envelopes in question. ‘Each one has the name of the journalist it’s going to. The client was sure they’d all be here, so don’t worry. OK, I’m off. I’ve just got one more delivery to make at the Corpo di Vigilanza, and another on Via Lamarmora. Ciao bella, and thank you.’
Before Andrea could say a word, this strange individual had turned on his heels and taken off. Andrea was left standing there, staring at the ten envelopes. She was a little confused. They were addressed to the ten most important media companies in the world. Andrea knew four of the journalists by reputation and had recognised at least two of them inside the press room.
The envelopes were half the size of a normal page and all of them were identical except for the addressee. The thing that awakened her journalist’s instinct, and set alarm bells ringing, was the phrase that appeared on all of them. In the upper left corner, written by hand:

‘EXCLUSIVE – OPEN IMMEDIATELY’.

Andrea’s moral dilemma lasted all of five seconds. She resolved it with a new mint. She looked to the left and to the right. The street was deserted: no sign of any witnesses to possible postal fraud. She picked one of the envelopes at random and then opened it as carefully as she could.

‘Simple curiosity.’

There were two items inside the envelope. One was a Blusensbrand DVD with the same phrase as on the envelope written in magic marker on the sleeve. The other was a note, written in English:

‘ The content of this disk is of the utmost importance. It is likely to be the most important news of the year, perhaps of the century. Someone will try to cover it up. Watch this disk and disseminate its content as soon as possible. Father Victor Karosky’.

Andrea acknowledged the possibility that it was a joke, but there was only one way to find out. She slipped her laptop out of her bag, turned it on and pushed in the disk. She cursed the operating system in every language she knew – Spanish, English and bad Italian – until it finally booted up. She saw that her DVD was a film.

Forty seconds into the film she was overwhelmed by the urgent need to vomit.

Saturday, 9 April 2005, 1.05 a.m.

Paola had been looking everywhere for Fowler. Still, it was hardly a surprise when she found him in the basement, a pistol in his hand, his dark jacket neatly folded over a chair, his clergyman’s collar hanging from a peg on the wall and his sleeves rolled up. He was wearing headphones to protect his hearing, so Paola waited for him to finish a round before walking up to him. His utter concentration fascinated her – the way his body assumed the firing position so completely. His hands were strong, in spite of the fact that he was 0 years old. The barrel of the gun pointed straight ahead without wavering so much as an inch.

She watched him empty not one, but three, rounds. He took his time firing, didn’t hurry in the slightest, his eyes bearing down, his head tilted just so to the side. He finally noticed her presence in the training room, which consisted of five booths separated by heavy wood, from which the cables holding the targets extended. The targets could be set at a maximum distance of forty yards through a system of pulleys.

‘Good evening, dottoressa.’
‘Kind of a strange hour for target practice, isn’t it?’
‘I didn’t want to go back to my hotel. I knew I wasn’t going to get

any sleep.’

Paola understood him perfectly. Being on their feet without doing anything throughout the funeral was bad enough, but the night was guaranteed to give them no rest. Paola was going crazy trying to think of something useful to do.
‘Where’s my beloved superintendent?’
‘Oh, he got an urgent call. We were going over the report on