The Holy Bullet (18 page)

“I wasn’t expecting you today,” the coroner grumbled, anxious to hand over the corpse to the legal process and free up the rest of his day. “Can’t you see it at the morgue?”

“If we could or wanted to, we wouldn’t have told you to wait here,” Simon Templar snapped back, ready for a fight.

“Drop it, Simon,” John Fox ordered. He turned to the doctor. “It’ll be quick.”

The body was laid on a stretcher in a closed body bag.

“Let’s get this over with.” The doctor ran the zipper down to open the bag. The sooner the better.

John Fox looked at Sarah and didn’t need to say anything to prepare her. She came forward slowly toward the stretcher until the interior of the bag was in her field of vision. She didn’t have the courage to look at the face right away. She began with the chest because that was as far as the doctor had opened the zipper. She confronted her fear, turning her look closer to the side of the face. He was a large man, corpulent, who reminded her of Geoffrey Barnes, a bad memory. He was wearing a shirt and white jacket, both heavily damaged by the explosion, ripped and burned in some places, but intact enough to still be identified as a jacket and shirt. The body was in reasonable shape for someone who’d been the victim of an explosion.

“What was the cause of death?” Sarah asked.

“Who’s the lady?” the coroner asked rudely.

“I’m the owner of the house,” she answered. “I’m a journalist.”

“That’s great,” the coroner let slip. “Now is when everything gets fucked up.”

“Watch your language,” John Fox warned. “Miss Monteiro is here as a witness, and she’s not going to make public any of our conclusions unless it’s in our interests,” he concluded.

Sarah looked at last at the face of the corpse. Pale but calm. He seemed like the victim of a peaceful death.

“Homicide,” the doctor pronounced. “A blow to the head, but only the autopsy can confirm that.”

“Do you have any information on the identity?” John Fox asked seriously.

“We do. Judging by the documents in his wallet. Look for yourself,” the doctor said as he handed over a paper.

“What’s this?”

“A printout of the facts related to the victim. The wallet has been sent to the lab. They couldn’t wait for you.” He gave a laugh.

John Fox took the paper and began to read out loud.

“Grigori Nikolai Nestov, fifty-one years old, Russian from Vladi vostok, he is . . .” The words stuck in his throat. “Is this true?” he asked the coroner.

“It hasn’t been disproved yet,” the other responded, chewing some gum that showed every time he guffawed, like now. The situation amused him. The effect of working daily around death—forget sorrow.

“What’s going on?” Sarah was curious.

John Fox passed the paper to Simon Templar.

“Do you know him?” he asked Sarah.

“No. I’ve never seen him before,” Sarah replied without a shadow of doubt.

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.”

“RSS?” Simon Templar asked.

“That’s what it seems,” John Fox replied.

“RSS?” Sarah asked curiously. “What does that mean?”

“That the victim was an agent in the Russian Secret Service.”

“Russian Secret Service?” Sarah’s jaw dropped. “What was he doing in my house?” she asked, half incredulous, half scandalized.

“Okay, I’m going to leave you to your problems and go on with my own work,” the coroner let them know, as he zipped the bag back up. He whistled at the door to call the technicians to carry the body to the ambulance. They were ready and began carrying it out, one on each side.

“Be careful on your way out. We don’t want to appear on television or in the papers,” the doctor warned as he looked at Sarah. “Good night, gentlemen,” and he went out behind the stretcher men.

Without the body the room seemed emptier, floodlights illuminating the space, the remnants of what was once solid construction. Sarah had moved so recently, and now she’d have to move again . . . if she survived. Something caught her attention. An object out of place. A small wooden box had survived the holocaust without a scratch or scorch. Although she couldn’t see inside from where she was, she knew what she’d find there. A bottle of port, vintage 1976, the year of her birth.

She stepped around the box thrown on the floor, in the midst of the debris. Such a small, fragile box had escaped the explosion and fire. What were the odds of that? If a body couldn’t even survive a blow to the head. . . . Sarah knew the front part of the box was glass to show the untouchable nectar contained inside. Simon Templar’s words came to mind,
Don’t touch anything
. That wouldn’t be necessary. She could see inside, through the intact glass, and she was startled to see the bottle wasn’t where it should be. The box was empty. She bent over it.

“Don’t touch anything,” Simon Templar warned.

Sarah got back up thinking about a simple bottle of wine, as old as she, gone from the surviving wooden box. She looked at Simon Templar, to whom she’d decided to say nothing, and realized he hadn’t taken his eyes off her, was watching her closely.

She was. Sarah was a woman full of mystery.

T
he last pitiful look had always had such a devastating effect on him that he’d turned it into a bad habit. Most of those in his vast experience were pleading but the reactions were different in every case, depending on what came to mind for each victim in the final moments. Don Clemente fell into the category he most disliked. He had confronted the gun with a calm, peaceful smile, and so it had remained, even after . . .

Normally when one killed, one took from the victim what he most prized, but there were people like Don Clemente from whom one took absolutely nothing. He deferred his need to feel guilty after squeezing the trigger that summoned Death. He hadn’t let himself look at Don Clemente when he’d fallen back and knocked over a row of pews with his robust body. The priest hadn’t felt a thing, he was certain, as he’d placed the shot perfectly so Don Clemente would be dead before he hit the floor.

But this ordinary-looking man, a notable advantage for someone in his profession, wasn’t given to introspection. Don Clemente was gone, born and dead, his body lying more than a thousand miles away in Galicia, perhaps in some morgue trying to tell the coroner the story of his death. To hell with Don Clemente, Galicia, and Santiago de Compostela, city, cathedral, and saint, all of them.

He had time to catch the last flight to the English capital, where the plan for this phase was playing out. The days had been long but pleasant with countless trips, Rome, Amsterdam, Compostela, and now London. The boss pursued another agenda, as foreseen. Two more days and they’d have the final resolution.

He rode through the city in one of its famous London taxis. There were still targets the Beretta must erase from the map. Once he was the faithful owner of a Glock of the same caliber, nine millimeters, but this Beretta 90two had a different feel. It was like a projection of his hand, the bullets spitting from his fingers. The Glock was more brutal, made for war, and, despite causing the same destruction, it kicked back on each shot, too much for a perfectionist professional like him. He’d opted for the less temperamental Beretta. Guns don’t have a conscience, only the person who uses them. They serve their owner blindly.

The vibration of his cell phone could be felt over that of the car going over the irregular surface of the street. He took a wireless hearing device out of his jacket, placed it in his ear, and pressed a button to take the call. He listened wordlessly to the demand.

“I’m on my way,” he said in French, then he frowned slightly.

“That’s not good.”

The lights of the city shone in the backseat while the cab went farther into the city. They came and went, invading the compartment, dispossessing him, making another presence in an unending play of yellow light.

“I’ll take care of that. Everything will go according to plan. I have people on site. I’m certain they’ll act appropriately.” He disconnected.

He took the phone and pressed four numbers. Two rings later, someone picked up.

“Where are you?” he asked brusquely. “Perfect. I’m coming. Don’t leave.”

He turned the cell phone off and permitted himself a slight smile. Things were going well, after all. The team was good. He pressed the button that let him speak to the driver.

“Change of plans. Take me to the Chelsea and Westminster Hospital.”

C
ertainly Abu Rashid’s face had seen better days. Cut lips, a swollen eye, some internal and external bruises, especially on the body hidden under the white tunic. In spite of everything, he didn’t flinch and kept the same calm expression of knowing a greater truth.

The foreigner went to the lavatory, and then sat toward the back, in one of the luxurious, cream-colored seats of the private jet flying over Bulgarian territory. The plan had been to return by commercial flight from Ben-Gurion airport with a stop in Frankfurt, before the final destination, Rome. Abu Rashid’s words so disturbed the foreigner’s superior that he immediately ordered a private jet prepared and a change of route. They left from Kefar Gallim in order not to raise suspicions, and Abu Rashid cooperated at every step. Perhaps that was why his face was in the condition we witness. The blood on his lip had dried, but his swollen left eye seemed to get worse with each passing moment. All this because he wouldn’t recant the words he allegedly heard from the mouth of Our Lady in a vision. Because he was Muslim, this greatly aggravated his situation. There was no mention in religious history of a Catholic saint appearing to a believer of another religion, let alone the Mother of God in person. The situation was far worse when the Virgin’s words, communicated to the world by an Arab, could cause a split in the Catholic world.

The foreigner thought through the various possibilities as he looked out the tiny window. There was nothing to see, since it was dark; night had set in for the rest of the flight, which wouldn’t be long. As God was his witness, he didn’t want to hurt the old man, but if he opened his mouth in public, everyone would suffer. He needed to be silenced, discredited, which was not difficult. A Muslim who sees Mary should be seen as a joke, cause only for laughter in the Catholic and Muslim worlds. The problem was what he was saying. If someone more intelligent were to think deeply about his words, he might easily find the truth behind them. And that couldn’t happen. They had to force the man to recant. Even if he actually saw Mary. She had to understand. There were Catholics and others, no mixture, and there never had been. The day this happened religions would come to an end. This was serious, very serious.

He got up again and went over to Abu Rashid’s seat. He rested with his eyes closed, smiling slightly.

“I know it perfectly,” the old man said without opening his eyes.

“What do you know?”

“I know where we are going. You were going to ask me that.”

The foreigner sat down on the seat beside him and sighed. He looked at the black briefcase strapped to the seat. Besides Abu Rashid, another of his responsibilities was that black case. These premonitions were unreal. Not for a moment did he think it was really the Virgin helping the old man. He’d lose all power and control if he let this idea take over. It would be her way of saying she couldn’t count on him or any other Christian. Or that in reality everyone was equal.
Shit, shit, shit
.

“It might not seem so, but I’m here to help you,” the foreigner claimed. “If you cooperate, it’ll be good for you and for us.”

“I haven’t done anything but cooperate,” Abu Rashid declared with his eyes still closed.

“I need more on your part, Abu Rashid,” he observed. “Give me what I need to intercede with my superior, and you can go free.”

A smile stretched the Muslim’s lips.

“What you want is for me to lie.”

“I want you to cooperate.”

“I’m cooperating,” Abu Rashid insisted. “It’s not my fault you’ve chosen the wrong side. But that’s your right. There are always two sides.”

“Are you saying you are defending those who want to harm the Church?”

“I am Muslim. I couldn’t be less interested in your Church.” He opened his eyes wide. “I am on her side.”

“I am, too,” the foreigner claimed.

“You are on the side of the Church.”

“The Church that represents Her. That has made her image, made her what she is.”

“Precisely,” Abu Rashid offered, turning his eyes toward the window with a sad expression.

“What do you know specifically about the place we’re going?”

“I know everything I have to know.” The old Muslim stroked his beard.

“Can you be more explicit?”

“Do you know what happened the thirty-third day after the death of the former pope?”

“I don’t know,” he sighed. “But, according to my contacts with my superiors, I don’t think you know, either.”

“Maybe it would be better for me not to know anything,” Abu Rashid confessed.

“Does that mean we are coming to an agreement? You can forget everything you believe you know?”

“My friend, you’re a politician and work for politicians. I can’t trust you. You’re capable of selling the Mother of Heaven herself.”

The foreigner got up and rolled up his sleeves. There were still a few hours of flight remaining.

LÚCIA

August 31, 1941

—
FATHER JOHN DE MARCHI,
The True Story of Fátima