Pope's Assassin (17 page)

    Francesco ignored all this, thinking only about Sarah, not what was waiting for him in the Piazza di Gesù. The man spoke with a Tuscan accent, which in itself meant nothing. Sarah was a mystery. How she was able to make such influential contacts in the inner circles of the church and politics, he had no idea. Only she could say, and she never did. She was very reserved, and Francesco's hot blood, even if it boiled, always respected her will and her space. He'd be excluded entirely if Sarah felt he was invading her privacy.

    He crossed the Piazza Venezia to the left side and walked beside the Palazzo Venezia, which had once served as the Venetian embassy. He rounded the corner and walked down Via del Plebiscito.

    At the end, the small Piazza di Gesù, dominated by the Church of the Gesù.

    Two beggars slept next to the church door, rolled up in dirty clothes that covered them to their heads. With the exception of these two souls, forgotten by God, he saw no one else. From time to time a car or motorcycle passed. A bus emptied out its few passengers, on their way to work.

    Where could Sarah be? Or the man who had called him? Was she in danger? He put the thought out of his mind. Absurd. Sarah left with a priest. What danger could come of that? It was true there were many examples of despicable acts committed by the church, but they wouldn't have the courage to hurt a journalist, or two, if they consid ered him.

    He tried not to think about it for a while. His mind always looked for patterns, labeled situations, good, bad, cold, hot, comfortable, uncomfortable, restful, uneasy. He was nervous now because he let his mind elaborate on innumerable theories about what would happen next. Not one true because the future is always unknown . . . always.

    His phone pinged, indicating a text message. He took it out and looked at the screen: C
ontinue toward Largo di Torre Argentina.

    The sender was unknown. Had they called him to come to this location and were now changing it? What did it mean? He'd asked to talk to Sarah when they called, but the man said she was busy, but wanted to see him. Later they called him on his cell, which meant they had his number. Sarah could have given it to them, or, of course, who ever was responsible for this could have his own methods for fi nding out his number. His curiosity was greater than his fear, so he turned toward the Largo di Torre Argentina, which was close by. According to legend, it was in these Roman ruins of the Theater of Pompey, pro tected by a wall, that long ago some conspirators, including Decimus Junius Brutus Albinus, stabbed Julius Caesar twenty-three times. No place was more opportune for a meeting.

    The yellowish light from the streetlamps created a mysterious atmosphere. A group of drunken partiers passed him, singing louder than was appropriate for the hour. Finally he reached his destination after covering several yards on Corso Vittorio Emanuele II. Some peo ple were wandering out from a bar after the alcohol they'd enjoyed had awakened their spirit of adventure.

    "Do you have a match?" a completely drunk man startled Francesco.

    "I'm sorry. I don't smoke."

    The guy mumbled some unintelligible curse and continued limp ing in the direction of Via dei Cestari, where he disappeared.

    Small groups came and went, but didn't stop. This was a passage way, not a place to linger.

    "Do you have a light?" the drunk again asked. He had suddenly reappeared.

    "I just told you I don't smoke," Francesco repeated with irritation.

    "You're a son of a bitch," the man insulted him, turning back toward Via dei Cestari. "You're not the man for her, you bastard," he murmured before disappearing.

    
What did he say? Did he say what I thought he said?
Without think ing, Francesco followed the drunk, who continued down the street, limping with his left leg. He didn't notice Francesco, who gained ground on him with each step. Had the idiot been talking about Sarah, or just muttering nonsense? He wasn't exactly credible, having downed countless drinks. At a certain moment he lost his balance and almost fell. He laughed hard at himself.

    That guy couldn't know anything about Sarah. At least that's what Francesco thought. He followed along out of nervousness and anxiety. It would be better to turn back. This was the place specified in the mes sage he'd received. He gave a half turn and sighed. A
h, where are you,
Sarah?
he asked himself, but unfortunately there was no reply.

    "Do you have a light?" Behind him, Francesco heard the voice of the drunk, who should have left him behind by now.

    Francesco walked faster and didn't reply.

    "Do you have a match, you fool?"

    Francesco ignored him. It was the alcohol talking. He didn't have to listen to someone in that state. It was a mistake to have followed him.

    "You're not the man for her," he said again.

    Francesco stopped and looked at the man. "What did you say?"

    Francesco lost control and grabbed the drunk, but when he recov ered, it was he who was pressed against the wall by the other, who drove a powerful hand into his throat. He tried to free himself, but couldn't.

    "Now you're not so brave, are you?" The words were no longer slurred, but fi rm and dry, his movements precise. He was more sober than Francesco.

    "What . . . what do you want with me?" Francesco asked fearfully, his voice constricted by the hand on his throat.

    "Me, nothing," answered the man close to his face, with a Tuscan accent.

    Francesco could smell his breath.

    "But Sarah does," he added.

    "What?" Francesco was confused. What was he saying? "Sarah?"

    The man loosened his grip. "Is Sarah important to you?"

    "What?"

    "Can't you say anything else?" the man joked. "Is Sarah important to you?"

"Yes," Francesco replied with diffi culty.

"Would you die for her?"

"Yes."

    The man released him completely. He took off a dirty jacket and dropped it on the ground, revealing an impeccably tailored Armani suit. He straightened his jacket, shook off the dust, and assumed a cool but annoyed expression.

    "Good. Let's see if she'll do the same for you."

"Let this warning be added to that of our brother

Leo X so that they know these new developments

nearly set us back. I plead with my successors not

to liberalize the regulations. If possible make them

more restrictive. The traitors have to be silenced."

—Pius IX, A
ugust 13, 1863

D
avid Barry liked to get up early. Even before the first hint of sunrise he could be seen on his morning jog in Hyde Park. A full hour around the serpentine path at a fast pace, rain, shine, or drizzle. A thick fog limited his field of vision but not his desire to keep his usual pace. He trusted his refl exes to get him around any obstacle—a slower run ner or a morning walker. Even on nice days it was unusual to see a lot of people. The park started to fill up when David finished his daily run.

    His morning routine continued with a hot shower and shave. He put on blue tweed slacks, a blue shirt, and a blazer without a tie. He had a light breakfast, just coffee and toast. He didn't have children to take to school or a wife to kiss before leaving, since they were 3,663 miles away on the other side of the Atlantic in Washington, D.C., and still sound asleep.

    His office was ten minutes away by car, depending on the traffi c. Learning to drive on the wrong side of the street was not as tricky as he had first thought. After three days it was as if he'd done it his whole life. He'd even started to think the English were right in the fi rst place. He entered his building at ten minutes before eight. The doorman said good morning, and he returned the greeting, waited for the elevator, got in, and pressed a random button, then swiped his ID card through a digital reader that accessed a floor that did not appear on any button. Seconds later the doors opened on a fl oor filled with activity.

    The CIA headquarters for Europe.

    "Good morning, David," a man in corduroys and a T-shirt greeted him.

    "Morning, Staughton. Quiet night?"

    "Weird," Staughton commented, before disappearing into a room full of monitors.

    
Aren't they all?
David thought as he went to his offi ce.

    The frenzied activity at that time of morning was incredible. Peo ple were shouting into telephones, at each other, into microphones and monitors. People walked with others, or alone, from every side of the office to another, holding a stack of papers, files, trays with Starbucks cups, empty trays, sandwiches, and cameras. Fuck, fuck off, fucking work, go fuck yourself, fucking Iraqis, fucking Afghans, fucking Rus sians, fucking Israelis, fucking Muslims, fucking Osama, fuck them all. We'll make America safe.

    Every day was the same. It wasn't a job for just anyone, only for the best of the best, men like David Barry, who at forty years old had the qualifications to replace Geoffrey Barnes, the former station chief who had died in service, may God rest his soul.

    The director barely had time to enter his office and hang up his coat.

    "David," a harried woman called.

    "Good morning to you, too, Samantha," he greeted her pleasantly.

    "Good morning, David. Sorry." Samantha's hair was mussed up, but David chose to ignore it. "We have a problem."

    "We always do," he said dismissively, then immediately showed her a smile. "Talk to me."

    "Last night two priests died in a church in Paris," she told him.

    David sat down and gestured for Samantha to join him.

    "Two priests in Paris," he said, as if making a mental note.

"But there's more."

There always is.

    "According to our sources, this happened while they were being questioned by inspectors from the Sûreté Nationale."

    David frowned. "The French police? What were they questioning them for?"

    "Two other murders that had occurred earlier."

    "That's complicated," David yawned. "Let's take one thing at a time. Who killed the priests?"

    "We don't know yet."

    "We don't know a lot, do we?" he said, a little disgustedly. "We can't waste resources on unimportant things, Sam." He sighed and smiled to lighten his condescending tone. He liked his people happy. "Anything else?"

    Samantha was reluctant to say the rest, and David was an expert at reading people's expressions.

    "Out with it."

    "Jack . . . Jack Payne was with them," she fi nally said.

    David's eyes got wider. "Rafael?"

    Samantha nodded and lowered her eyes.

    "Was he one of the victims?"

    "We still don't . . ."

    "Know," he finished her sentence, irritated. He got up. "Call Aris, please."

    Samantha got up and left the office to do it.

    Jack Payne, aka Rafael Santini, was a legend in the recent history of the CIA. A real son of a bitch who had been exposed as a double agent in the service of the Vatican. A priest of sorts. David Barry had been close to him, a friend, and felt betrayed when he discovered the truth in 2006. He felt hurt, and he wasn't alone. He still hadn't gotten over it.

    Two minutes later a huge, heavyset man in a well-fitting suit came in. "David," he greeted him.

The two shook hands in support and loyalty.

    "Tell me everything you know," the director asked. "Something new with Rafael?" The name still stuck in his throat.

    "My team is on the ground, but those French bastards aren't going to be open with us." He took out a cigarette and lit it. "But we know that the Sûreté was there at the time and the questioning involved two other murders in Paris and Marseille."

    "What's in the news?"

    "This is interesting, too. Nothing, because they know nothing."

    "The French are fuckers," David considered scornfully. "No press, then?"

    "Not yet," Aris said, taking another draw on his cigarette before putting it out in the ashtray on David's desk.

    "Do we know who the other victims were?"

    "I should have that information within the hour," Aris replied.

    "Do we know whether Rafael was among the victims in the church?" He felt no sympathy for a Judas.

    Aris shook his head no. "But there's a simple way to fi nd out."

    Barry waited for his suggestion.

    "Call him up," Aris said with disdain.

    "Who?"

    "You."

    Barry sat back down in his chair. What a hell of an idea. It was the logical thing to do. Aris was intelligent and pragmatic. He was good at analyzing situations, seeing the options, and coming up with solutions.

    "This could scare off the game," Barry objected.

    "On the other hand we'll find out if he was one of the victims and if he's trying to hide something. Either way we win."

    Barry thought a few moments. What would Rafael be doing in Paris with the Police Nationale? Was he being questioned by them? Had he died? When he came to himself again, he took out his personal cell phone and checked his contacts under the letter R. No number for Rafael. Strange. He knew he had his number and hadn't deleted it. A CIA agent never deleted anything, since he never knew when he'd need it someday. Finally he remembered. He pressed J, and after several Jacks, Jack Payne appeared. He was listed under the name by which Barry had first known him. The bastard.