The Holy Bullet (16 page)

“It can’t be anything else, can it?”

“Enough secrets. I want to know everything.” His voice changed. Phelps was truly angry. “First you leave me waiting two hours in Schiphol, then you appear in this van with no explanation. Now we are in the middle of Belgium, and I see this. Two coffins?”

“Correct, my friend,” Rafael admitted impassively.

“What’s going on?” He was furious. “Are there people inside?”

“Of course,” the other answered. He climbed into the van and opened the two caskets. A woman was laid in the one on the right, a man on the left.

Phelps remembered the story he had read in the paper a few hours earlier. “English Couple Murdered in Amsterdam.” This was no coincidence. He couldn’t say for sure this was the same couple, but it was highly probable, confirmed by the holes in their foreheads.
This is not okay
, he thought. He noticed the agonizing pain in his left leg had returned. He touched the spot in the middle of his thigh. These were the signs of age in his body, attacking by chance without compassion or pity. In health and sickness we are all the same; no matter what treatments we receive, no matter how healthy we are, time and chance will put an end to everything and everyone. The pain made him almost double over and moan, but he managed to control himself. A few more moments and the pain went away completely.

“You ought to go and have that leg looked at,” Rafael advised without displaying any kind of compassion. A neutral tone completely out of place in someone watching someone suffer like Phelps.

“It’s nothing,” the other replied. “Who are they?” he asked in a weak voice, looking at the cadavers. The pallor of the corpses extended to his own face. He used a handkerchief to wipe away the drops of cold sweat that pearled his face.

“They are the bait,” Rafael answered, looking at him seriously.

N
ights were the worst part of the day, when he was on a high state of alert, like today. The sky was filled with stars, though, a scene he had rarely enjoyed, having been born and raised in a big city, with high buildings, many cars, people, competition, and little time to admire the sky day or night. This would be a magnificent view if he were susceptible to the majesty of the universe. He was preoccupied with the pain in his left leg that acted up on dry nights. The pain didn’t bring climatologic or esoteric foresight, it just hurt . . . nothing more. But someone had to make the rounds, watch over the property, although it was highly improbable their enemies knew where they were, and, even if they knew, it wouldn’t be easy to find them on that mountain in the middle of nowhere. Beja in Alentejo, the heart of the Portuguese plains, a little more than forty miles from the Spanish border. His Prada shoes were full of dust. Not the right shoes for this terrain. His Armani suit wasn’t right, either, but if it had been raining, it would be much worse. The sound of rain would make it impossible to hear someone approaching, to say nothing of mud getting in his shoes. The dust was better.

It was three hours before dawn. Everything was calm. He had established a surveillance perimeter of fifteen hundred yards that he covered personally every two hours. In other times he would have had several men distributed at key points, chosen by him, prepared to give the alarm and neutralize the menace. All of a sudden Kabul, Budapest, Sofia, Ramallah came to mind. Today he was alone, hindered by a bad leg, but no less lethal for all that. He got off the seat of the tractor where he had rested for a few minutes after the fourth round and covered the distance from the barn to the house.

On top of the table were three plates with leftovers from the meal, half a ham, stuck on the carving board, several glasses, some with wine, others empty but with the reddish bottoms, remnants of an apparent banquet.

Raul Brandão Monteiro rested on the sofa, covered with a light blanket. He had prepared one of the three bedrooms for the old man, JC, but refused to sleep in his own. His military background didn’t permit comfort at times of crisis. That, and his wife, Elizabeth, had given him a dirty look when she arrived home and learned the identities and intentions of the illustrious visitors. She blamed Raul for what was going on and she was right, in so far as his past was the reason for this situation. His initiation as a rebellious youth into a Masonic lodge was the cause. The effect: JC was the present Grand Master of that order and had interests that interfered with their lives and their daughter’s . . . for the second time. She was in danger, and he could do nothing. They were all in danger. This time Elizabeth was not going to forgive him.

The cripple sat down on a chair next to the wall with the wagon wheel on it surrounded by Alentejan handicrafts. He would rest for an hour, with one eye always open. He wouldn’t let the devil catch him napping, in a manner of speaking, of course, since the saying assumes the devil exists.

“There’s another bedroom available. You can rest there,” the captain suggested, stretched out on the sofa without opening his eyes. “I’ll keep watch.”

“I’m used to this. There’s no need,” the cripple answered, leaning back on the recliner and shutting his eyes, as well.

“As you like,” the captain replied. “Any news?”

“Not yet,” he said, nothing more. He forced his knee to flex. It seemed to ache more and more. Some days the pain interfered with his thinking. At least today was not one of them. He’d had to live with this pressing, permanent, implacable problem for almost a year.

“I’m worried,” the captain confessed with his eyes still closed. It was evident he couldn’t sleep. His daughter never left his thoughts, his daughter and his wife.

“You’re not helping anything with that,” the other said harshly. “You can only hope.”

“She should have spoken with my contact.” He opened his eyes and sat up with the blanket covering his legs.

“Don’t start talking about that,” the cripple interrupted. Raul’s mere mention of the contact provoked so much anger he forgot the pain that punished his leg.

“I understand your anger. Believe me, I understand, but this time we’re on the same side,” Raul tried to explain.

“Don’t talk nonsense. We’ll never be on the same side,” the cripple shot back.

“There is only one side,” they heard a voice say, “mine.”

They both looked in the direction of the voice and saw JC in a bathrobe, next to the door of the bedroom. He was leaning on his cane and walking toward the sofa, where Raul made room for him at his side.

“Can’t you sleep?” he asked Raul.

“I’m not the only one.” The military man looked at the cripple.

“Him? He seems awake, but he’s sleeping,” JC said, leaning on the cane.

The cripple made no response. He continued with eyes closed, stretched on the recliner, aware of the inside and outside. His capacity for keeping watch was amazing.

“Your wife hasn’t reacted well.”

“How could she?” Raul sighed. “If someone told you your daughter’s in danger, how would you feel?”

“I don’t have children. Family is a weakness,” he said coldly.

“You believe that?” Raul looked at him, horrified. Without descendants, without family, there was no humanity.

“Has it never crossed your mind that without us this world would be paradise?”

Raul didn’t answer. Now he understood why JC had no respect for human life. He considered it dispensable, unless it had some momentary utility. Only his side mattered.

“Who’s shown the courage to make the terrible JC, assassin of John Paul the First, flee?”

“Oh, my friend. Don’t attribute crimes to me that history doesn’t consider such.”

“We all know history is made by daring.” Raul returned to the attack.

“It’s what we have and what we respect,” he deliberated calmly. Raul’s words hadn’t upset him, if that was their intention. “In regard to your question, we are dealing with an unfavorable strategic combination, nothing more.”

“When you put it like that, it seems simple.”

“And it is. Consider, yesterday’s allies are today’s enemies. That’s the way the world works. There are thousands of examples in history to illustrate this, and you don’t have to look back far.”

“And enemies are turned into allies?”

“Of course.” He lay back on the sofa and leaned his cane on its side. “You don’t have to be a genius to see this easily. The relationship of the Americans with bin Laden, for example.”

“He was always the eternal enemy.”

“Or the eternal ally?” A quick question to throw Raul in doubt.

“No way is he an ally of theirs,” Raul returned.

“My dear captain, there are innumerable ways of cooperation. If I attack you, I am not necessarily your enemy. I can be an ally whose role is to seem like an enemy. But I am talking too much, excuse me. That example does not illustrate what I am saying. Look at Pakistan or Saudi Arabia. They are allies and enemies of the United States, depending on the best interests of whoever’s in power.”

“And what is your relation with those countries? Ally or enemy?” Raul touched a sore spot for JC.

His first response was a dry laugh followed by a suppressed cough that left him choking. At his age it was difficult to get enough oxygen.

“No one has the luxury of having me as an enemy, Captain. If you knew me, you’d know that.”

“That’s not what it seems. If so, you wouldn’t be here.” The soldier was in fine form.

“They don’t know me, either. Soon they’ll take note of that,” the other answered in the sure, serious tone of leaders.

“And the CIA, where does it fit into all this? It has a lot of power over them.”

“We can’t count on the CIA for this battle. They’ll be on the other side of the barricades. They’re going to understand that, but not lift a hand to prejudice either side. It’s a strange way to function, but the only way to survive.”

A vibrating sound, followed immediately by Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony, filled the room. The cripple’s cell phone, which he answered without opening his eyes.

“Yes.”

Twenty seconds later he hung up without saying another word of good-bye, not a “so long,” least of all “thanks.”

“They’ve blown up her house. They still haven’t made anything public,” was all he said.

A terrible feeling, worse than a hot knife, slashed through Raul.

“And Sarah?”

“There’s no word about her.”

“Good God.” Raul put his face in his hands despairingly. A feeling of impotence filled his soul, while he tried to imagine his daughter, thrown to her fate, uncertain, including death in the most awful way. Professionals didn’t have compassion. If her death was confirmed, he hoped it had been fast.

“Don’t worry,” he heard JC say. “If something happened to her, we’d know already.”

“How can we be certain?”

“Because that would be a message they’d want us to get immediately. It would already be on television. You can be at peace. All is well,” the old man explained calmly. Such coldness sent chills down Raul’s spine.

“How can they hide an exploding house from the media?” He didn’t understand. JC’s words, such as they were, calmed him. Sarah was okay, he forced himself to think positive, and felt a little better.

“Circling off the area or saying it was a gas explosion. Right away they lose interest,” he explained. “What matters is blood and terrorism.”

“All this has to do with the murder of Luciani?” the Portuguese wanted to know.

“Ironically, no.”

“No?”

“No.”

Silence fell over the room quickly. Raul waited for a conclusion that didn’t come. The old man was irritated.

“Well then, what does it have to do with?”

“Hot tea.”

“What?”

“Hot tea is what sounds good to me now. Do you have any?”

Raul couldn’t believe that in this disorienting moment the old man could be thinking of tea, but he should have been used to it. Most of the time Raul saw him as a normal human being, a fragile elder like so many around there. Nothing could have been more of a false impression.

“Do you have any?” JC asked again.

“Herbal,” the military man replied.

“That’ll have to do. But I suggest you renew your stock of Earl Grey or Twinings for tomorrow.”

Raul got up and looked at him from above before going into the kitchen to make tea.

“Aren’t you going to answer me?”

“This has nothing to do with Pope Luciani,” JC said without looking at him. “It has to do with the Pole.”

“Wojtyla?” Raul looked at him incredulously.

The old man nodded.

“Do you consider all the popes enemies?”

“Wojtyla was not my enemy. Never. He was an old man without balls, but not an enemy.”

This reply left Raul in shock. The mystery intensified. So this had nothing to do with what he thought. It was completely beyond what was happening around him. One thing was sure. There were not many people who could make someone as influential as JC retreat to a place like Alentejo to find refuge. What was happening had to be very serious to make this brilliant strategist leave the comfort of his villa in Italy. Another thing that shook him was the older man’s attempt to protect his daughter, although he had done nothing specific except warn her. He had a faint hope in his heart that he had done it in time and that she was able to get out of the city.

“While you put the water on to boil, call your contact.”

“Sir,” the cripple cried out, awakening with his pride wounded. “Not that.”

“Sit down,” the old man ordered in a firm voice. There was no doubt about who was in charge here. “We need someone closer to what took place. Because of our strategic retreat we don’t have anyone in place to be our eyes and ears. This is the best solution.” His austere look showed that everything had already been decided and explained.

The cripple—an epithet used with no intention of insult, only an allusion to something about someone who doesn’t like to reveal his name—didn’t hide the anger in his face, but ended up sitting down without saying more.