The Holy Bullet (25 page)

“Here are our little doves,” James sneered. “I’m anxious to have a little fun with them,” he said with his mouth right next to Sarah’s ear. She closed her eyes. He stuck out his tongue and wiggled it a few inches from her skin. She didn’t show it, but Sarah felt a convulsive nausea overwhelm her. If James didn’t pull back, her stomach would turn over, and she’d end up vomiting on him.

“And now?” James asked, turning toward Templar, who looked like someone who had just heard bad news.

Templar ignored the question and continued to look at Sarah, or at least it seemed so.

“What now, man?” James asked again. He didn’t like Templar’s glassy stare.

The behavior of his colleague in service, butcher or mercenary, in the pay of whoever opened his wallet most generously, seemed abnormal also. James approached Templar, seated on the plastic chair, put his hand on his shoulder, and gave him a push.

“Well, then?” he said. “Are you sleeping with your eyes open?”

The gun in Templar’s hand went off. Luckily it hit the ceiling where it was pointed. The vigorous push made him fall to the floor on his stomach without moving. James leaned over him in shock. Two holes in Templar’s jacket explained the rest. James looked at the chair where the two holes were repeated with a smear of Templar’s blood, dark red, the sign of death.

James panicked.

“Don’t move,” he cried. “Don’t anyone move.”

Confused, he aimed the gun randomly, turning toward every side, alert, looking for the source of danger, the origin of the bullets. He couldn’t find the shells, which meant someone had retrieved them or the shots hadn’t been fired inside.

“Don’t move,” he shouted again. “The first person who even breathes gets a shot in the head.”

“Okay, okay,” Simon agreed, uncomfortable with the panic reflected in his ex-lover’s eyes. “Be careful with that thing.”

Sarah looked around the room, trying to understand what was happening. When one lost control, one lost all dignity, she thought, watching James’s contortions.

James approached the huge window slowly and looked out, holding himself back to look at the glass.

“Oh shit,” he exclaimed.

Seconds later he was thrown back and fell on the floor. Simon let out a scream, more a howl, and saw, as did Sarah, a thread of blood flowing from James’s head. His eyes were full of panic as he died.

“Fuck,” Simon exploded. “Did you see that?”

Sarah didn’t reply. A strained, out-of-place smile came over her face as she looked out the window.

“What’s going on?” Simon asked, looking out the window for the reason for this smile.

In the glass, three small holes.

THE POLE AND THE TURK

December 27, 1983

 

T
he Holy Father never exhibited again the bright glow of former times.
The Lord gives the burden, but also the strength to bear it
. He thought of Franz Koenig, the enterprising Austrian, responsible, admittedly, for his election in October of 1978, as he climbed the stairs of the penitentiary in the direction of the cell. With him were the faithful Stanislaw, Dziwisz, his secretary, as always, and the director, some priests, and a few guards. A rigorous security perimeter was set up. There was no room for distractions after what happened two years ago in the foreign territory of Italy.
The Lord gives the burden
. . . The phrase returned to his mind. He’d thought about it a long time and come to a conclusion. What was important was not to carry, but to endure. He’d been the Shepherd of Shepherds in the Catholic world for five years and could confirm, better than anyone alive, that the papacy ages one and kills slowly. It was a constant weight, incomparable to anything else, and one had to endure it, not carry it, until one . . .

He climbed the stairs with difficulty, helped by Stanislaw. Age was another kind of burden. But it was the bullets that weakened him like this, making other such obligations and pleasures difficult.

The last step was like a victory without particular savor. It marked the beginning of recovering his strength, his breath. Wojtyla let himself be led through the gray, ugly hallway toward the cell where the young Turk paid for his notorious crime against the life of the pope, the very pope who was walking to see him.

“Are you all right, Holy Father?” Dziwisz, who’d devoted his life to the pope for many years, asked.

“Yes, I am,” the Supreme Pontiff replied, panting.

“Do you want to rest, Your Holiness?” the director asked at his side.

“Let’s keep going,” Wojtyla said good-naturedly. A slight smile accompanying this wish could be taken as evidence of his sincerity.

Some dozen feet ahead they stopped in front of a gray, iron-plated door, where two guards were standing at attention, one on each side. The director ordered one of them to open the door. The subaltern obeyed quickly, not without first going down on his knees before the Holy Father and kissing his hand, as respect for the clergy demands from the faith of common men. He turned the key in the lock and entered the cell first, while his companion remained alert by the side of the door.

“Please, Your Holiness.” The director extended his hand, indicating the way in.

Wojtyla entered, followed by Stanislaw and the director, leaving the rest of the delegation at the door.

Inside, the young Turk was on his feet looking at the Pole with an ashamed expression. He couldn’t maintain it for long. He lowered his eyes at once like a good boy who has done mischief and awaits punishment.

“Holiness, take as much time as you wish,” the director instructed. “A guard will remain here at all times with the safety off on his gun.”

“Perfect.” The secretary acknowledged the security instructions.

Wojtyla had already entered another level looking indulgently at the young Turk. They waited for the director to exit the cell. They heard the lock closing from the outside, followed by silence, oppressive for some, but not for Wojtyla. He looked at the Turk, who lowered his face submissively. The pope approached him, spontaneously lifted his wrinkled hand to the Turk’s face and raised it. The dead-looking eyes of the young man had nowhere to hide, nor could he close his eyelids. They remained open, naked before the man who ought to have died two years ago, been wept over, buried, and replaced, since life continues and only those who are here matter, like these two now who must overcome cultural, religious, ideological, and other more deadly differences.

Suddenly the Turk allowed some life to revive his pale eyes. They filled with tears and seemed to give in to the pope’s scrutiny. Wojtyla’s hand lifting his chin was firm as a rock. There was neither censure nor reproach in his expression, no sign of visible condemnation, only a man, the holiest of them all, looking into the depths of the other’s soul and understanding everything without saying a word or showing emotion.

As soon as Wojtyla let him go, the young Turk knelt at his feet with such devotion the guard almost fired on him. The pope raised his hand, as if saying lower the gun, and the guard obeyed.

“Forgive me, Holy Father,” the Turk pleaded with his head bent over the feet of Peter’s worthy successor.

Wojtyla crouched to lift him up and placed his hand on the Turk’s head.

“Get up, my son. What has to be forgiven was already forgiven a long time ago.”

He helped the Turk up and led him to the bed.

“Now, sit down,” he ordered. “Take a deep breath and tell me everything, my son.”

H
arvey Littel entered the crisis office room with the confidence of a sovereign handing down laws to his people. Certainly Littel didn’t make laws or carry out regulations. His world was a world apart, a world of intelligence, counterintelligence, military, civilian, industrial, and political espionage. There was only one rule on this battlefield: conquer at any price. Imbued with this spirit, Harvey Littel took his place at the table as the windows of the door automatically darkened to block the view from outside.

“Good evening, once again, gentlemen. Any news?” he asked, taking his seat in a comfortable leather easy chair.

“We have the Russian contacts on permanent alert,” Colonel Garrison informed him. He took a cigar from his pocket and put it in his mouth.

“Perfect. Excellent.” Littel raised his hand. “I’d appreciate it if you don’t smoke in my presence. Thank you.” It was obviously an order, not a courteous request.

Stuart Garrison looked at him with the Cuban cigar unlit. He put it back in his jacket pocket for a better time.

“And Barnes? Has he given us any information?”

“He’s on the phone at this moment, Dr. Littel,” Priscilla hastened to inform him with her notebook at the ready.

“Wonderful,” Littel responded. “Let’s not make him wait any longer,” he decided. “Cil, put him on the speakerphone.”

“Geoffrey Barnes?” said Priscilla, whose affectionate diminutive was only for her boss’s use and no one else’s.

“Yes?” They heard Barnes’s guttural voice filling the room from the speakers placed in the ceiling. The phone, as in the previous room, was near Littel on the table.

“Barnes, how are you?” Littel greeted him with audible friendliness.

“Littel, good, thanks. You? Shut up in the second basement without seeing the full moon?” His voice expressed confidence, which in itself calmed everyone who was listening.

“You know how things are. We just get by. I bet you’re sitting at your desk on the sixth floor watching the lights of the city, knife and fork in hand, ready to devour some roast pheasant.”

“You’re mistaken about the food, but it’s a good idea.”

“Well, all right. How does it happen that one of our own has been killed in Amsterdam?” He suddenly took a serious tone of voice.

“My people have been there. I was, too, last night, and I can affirm that the victim, Solomon Keys, was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Solomon Keys. It’s confirmed.” Littel corroborated the information Barnes gave him with what he already had.

Some sighs were heard in the room in recognition of the name. Most had heard him spoken about. Others knew him personally. Peace to his noble soul.

“Yes. Well, he died because he was in the Amsterdam Centraal station, in one of the restrooms, specifically when a British couple came in to satisfy their carnal desire.”

Some listeners began to laugh nervously. It was humorous to hear Barnes tell a story like this with complete professionalism.

“Someone came in to eliminate the couple, and Keys paid the price,” Barnes concluded.

“Okay, in any case we’re going to ask for his service order to confirm whether the motive of his trip was tourism or an operation,” Littel said, while gesturing for Priscilla to carry out that task. She agreed and wrote it in her notebook.

“He was over eighty years old,” Barnes commented in the sense of excusing the old agent of the company of any blame.

“It wouldn’t be the first time, Barnes,” Littel clarified. “Sometimes they return to activity for a mission or two.”

Although separated by thousands of miles, both of them imagined the same thing. Little old men with canes, arthritic and breathing with difficulty, but, if the agency needed them . . . That was their life, the best marriage they ever made, until death do them part.

“I agree,” Barnes said. “But you probably won’t find anything. The subjects of this operation were two English journalists, Natalie Golden and Greg Saunders.”

“Who are they?”

“Prestigious journalists.”

“Is the motive known?” Littel asked.

“We’re tracking that down. We’ll know something soon.”

“Natalie Golden and Greg Saunders,” Littel said to the room. “I want you to find out everything about them, from where they were born to who they hung out with. The smallest detail is important. Get working on it.”

A group left the room to follow up on the order.

“Barnes, what else do you have for me?”

“There’s been an explosion this afternoon here in London.”

“In . . .” Littel consulted his notes on the table. “Redcliff Gardens. We’re current on that.”

“Okay. The explosion was of criminal origin and resulted in a death and an injury.”

A certain uneasiness filled the room.

“We’re already trying to question the injured party.”

“And the death?”

“An agent of the RSS, a certain Nestov.”

“Nestov?” Colonel Stuart Garrison exclaimed. “This was why he wasn’t answering his phone.” The colonel looked pale.

“Whose house was it? What was he doing there?”

Barnes didn’t answer. A murmur rose in the room.

“Silence,” Littel said. “Barnes, are you there?”

“I am.”

“Then do me the favor of answering. What was he doing in the house?”

Barnes again showed no sign of answering. When that happened, it could only mean one thing. Littel understood and picked up the receiver of the phone while disconnecting the loudspeaker.

“Okay, Barnes, now it’s just you and me.”

It was clear the other listeners didn’t like the idea of being excluded from the conversation. It meant greater secrecy, increasing their curiosity.

Littel listened attentively to what Barnes was telling him. His face began to change from perturbed and dark to an expression of irritation and unease.

The others noticed this change of mood and felt even more frustrated.

“Is this the president’s position?”

Hearing Washington mentioned, everyone perked up his ears in vain. They continued hearing the same thing: nothing.

Seconds later Littel put down the receiver and disconnected the call. They could see a couple of drops of sweat running down his face. And it wasn’t the fault of the air-conditioning. Something was bothering Littel, and if something worried him, it would soon worry everyone.