The Holy Bullet (34 page)

“You’re right in the sense that the bank belongs to the Supreme Pontiff, but Marcinkus didn’t account to anyone but himself. Because of this lack of hierarchical oversight, the business dealings of the bank touched on the scandalous.”

“Touched?” Raul asked. He knew something.

“It’s a euphemism. I don’t want to make your head swim with financial technicalities, legal or illegal. In the end who decides what can or can’t be done? Based on what assumptions? Who can deny the fact that the IWR, under the management of Marcinkus, was the owner of businesses involved in the production and sale of pornography? Or factories for contraceptives and armaments, or operations that stimulated the economy, or financed things like genocides in Africa? Who could blame him?”

“The values the Holy See defends are opposed to these kinds of businesses,” Raul said angrily, although it wasn’t the first time he had heard this. “I understand John Paul the First was going to close the bank. It has a bad reputation.”

“It’s business,” JC contradicted him. “Don’t be fooled by the official name of the Institute for Works of Religion. It is a bank; it needs to generate profits, make money . . . lots of money. Faith doesn’t run the world . . . money does. In that the Holy See has always been in the vanguard.”

“You are in favor, I presume?” Raul suggested.

“I’m not in favor or against . . . I understand; that’s different. Capitalism is not a perfect system. Nothing invented by man is. It’s a system of reaction. It needs medicine from time to time so that the markets will react and money circulate. Money must constantly be changing hands. It’s essential. An explosion in an oil pipeline so that the price of a barrel of oil goes up, the threat of war, a real war. Everything is calculated. Nothing is left to chance.”

“I never realized all this,” Elizabeth exclaimed.

“Of course you didn’t. No one realizes. Marcinkus knew nothing of economics, but he had infinite business sense, to say nothing of the blessing of God. With all that, there was no shortage of candidates to help him invest. Marcinkus’s economic games cost the Vatican treasury a billion dollars, and he was responsible for the attempt on John Paul the Second’s life.”

“He was? What about the Bulgarians? The Soviets? Not them?” a stunned Raul asked.

“You know Licio was always a master of disinformation.”

“Licio? Who is Licio?” Elizabeth asked in turn.

“Licio was the Grand Master of the order I preside over. Anything that was necessary, Licio resolved it. Is a new government necessary in Argentina? When? That would be Licio’s question. Are arms necessary to confront the British in the Falklands? Make a list, Licio would say. I have this judge on top of me, another person would say. Relax, tomorrow the pressure will be gone, Licio would advise.” His voice rose as he listed the various possibilities or memories. A man coming to terms with his past. “He had a solution for everything. And he had one for John Paul the Second.”

“For being such a great defender of Licio, you don’t sound very happy,” Raul provoked him.

“Age begins to call for rest, my dear friend. The past remains more vivid and pursues us. You’re proof of that, too.”

Silence settled in. There was too much information to assimilate all at once.

Elizabeth broke the silence. “Why did you decide to tell us all this?”

JC gave her a superior look. “You can do absolutely nothing with this information, so I have nothing to lose . . . nor you to gain. Consider it a courtesy on my part.”

“I think it is one of those things everyone wants to know, but prays isn’t true,” Elizabeth confessed.

“Ah, that is true, very true.”

“So there was no conspiracy of the Bulgarians or the Soviets to kill the pope. Everything started with Marcinkus,” Raul concluded.

“In the final analysis everything comes down to a group of less than five people. It’s the only way to guarantee that everything will be covered up.”

“And in the case of John Paul the First?” Raul asked subversively. “How many were there?”

“According to what I heard, it was his heart that conspired against him,” he said sincerely. “Don’t believe everything you read in books. What these people want is to sell.”

“So this Marcinkus was behind everything,” Elizabeth summarized, ignoring the innuendos between the two men.

“Marcinkus gave up his soul to God in 2006,” JC informed her. “Licio was the mastermind of May thirteenth, 1981.”

“But John Paul the Second didn’t die,” Elizabeth said.

“That’s true. There were many mistakes in implementing the plan. And this resulted in a profound change. But it wasn’t difficult to convince the Pole that another attempt could happen anytime and anyplace.”

“He threatened him?”

“Not exactly.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Ah, that’s where the Bulgarians, the Soviets, the East Germans, and also the Poles come in. They were all informed by your friend that an attack on the life of the pope was imminent. There are innumerable reports that indicate the presence of agents of the KGB, KDS, Stasi, and Poles in Saint Peter’s Square that day. It was a masterful move,” he proudly asserted.

“He thought he was being threatened by the Eastern Bloc,” Raul concluded thoughtfully.

“And he was. But not directly. For that, Marcinkus, Licio, and I fabricated a scenario of constant menace. We invented a contact with a man who presented himself as Nestor, an agent of the KGB, who used Marcinkus to contact the pope and present the Soviet interests.”

“But the Soviet Union collapsed at the end of 1991.”

“Yes, but that was because someone helped the Pole then. You know in this profession you can’t trust anyone for long.”

“Whose help?” Raul and Elizabeth asked, almost at the same time.

“Mine.”

L
ondon is the most closely monitored city in the world. There are cameras in the streets, alleys, buildings, and public transport, constantly recording, since no effort is ever enough, and it’s the nature of people, not just sworn enemies, to always test the defenses.

There is a small park, St. Paul’s Churchyard, next to Christopher Wren’s masterpiece, accessible through Paternoster Row, which is usually closed after eight at night. Today should have been no exception, but the black gate yielded to Rafael’s push, and didn’t even squeak when he opened it completely, testimony to its frequent use and the attentive maintenance of the prelates of St. Paul’s Cathedral, one of the treasures of this beautiful city.

“What are we doing here?” Sarah protested. “We should go straight to the airport. It’s still far off.”

“We have time. It’s only ten minutes.”

“Ten minutes for what?” James Phelps asked.

Rafael ignored the question and rang a bell set in the side of a solid wooden door. He waited.

To get here they’d taken three different kinds of transportation. They got on the number 24 bus, from the stop in front of the house on Belgrave Road. They got off on Lupus Street and went into the Pimlico to Euston tube station. Later they took a taxi to the Tower of London. They walked the rest of the way along Cannon Street in a roundabout way only Rafael understood. Along the way Sarah had taken charge of asking JC for a plane, which he quickly attended to. Was there nothing he couldn’t make happen? She’d spoken a little to her father and mother, putting them at ease, although the somewhat unusual request for an airplane had left Elizabeth worried.

“Nobody heard,” Sarah impatiently said. “Ring it again.”

“They heard, don’t worry. We have to wait.”

Sarah sat down on one of the wooden benches throughout the small but well-cared-for park. She realized her nerves were getting the better of her, as well as doubts, undermining, conspiratorial, and alarming. Unfortunately she’d experienced enough so far to know she shouldn’t take time to think at these times, lest she . . .

“Will Simon be all right?” The question was more for herself than for the two men. It was a spontaneous worry.

“Better than us, you can be sure,” Rafael guaranteed.

“What if they torture him . . . or worse?” Sarah insisted. “I shouldn’t have visited him in the hospital,” she lamented.

“Don’t talk nonsense. If you hadn’t gone, he’d have been worse off by far. Or maybe he’d be better, but his family—”

“I understand,” Sarah interrupted, raising one of her hands to shut him up.

“How do you know they haven’t hurt him?” Phelps asked, helping Sarah and, at the same time, satisfying his curiosity.

“The same way I knew we’d been found on Belgrave Road.”

“Do you have somebody spying on Barnes?” Sarah got up. “I don’t believe it. It can’t be.” She showed her incredulity and the curiosity typical of a journalist. “Who is it?”

Phelps’s anxious glance moved between Rafael and Sarah.

“Do you admit it, Rafael?”

The door opened at last after a key was heard turning in the lock.

“There are various ways of knowing your enemies’ steps,” Rafael said. The open door revealed a bald, fat man, dressed in pajamas with tiny blue polka dots.

“What do you want?”

“Excuse the late hour, Brother,” Rafael said respectfully.

Late hour?
Sarah asked herself.
It’s eight-thirty
.

“We came to speak with Brother John,” Rafael continued.

“John who?” He was still rude. He must have been sleeping.

“John Cody.”

“And who are you?”

“Excuse my distraction. I’m Brother Rafael . . . from Rome.”

“Why didn’t you say so,” the brother gatekeeper grumbled. “Come in, come in.”

Once inside the building, Sarah felt transported into another age, around the end of the seventeenth century and the beginning of the eighteenth, well after the great fire of 1666, which left the cathedral in ruins, like the rest of the city. That tragedy showed itself in this monumental building, in this medieval-looking hallway Sarah walked down with respect and admiration, contrary to the others, who only saw a hallway, like a lot of other hallways, dark, somewhat sinister, closed to the public in general, since the people who live here need their privacy.

“I’m going to take you to the sacristy, where you can wait for John Cody,” the porter informed them, who in spite of his frown seemed friendlier.

“I appreciate it,” Rafael said with the same respectful tone of someone who didn’t want to hurt feelings or create unnecessary confusion.

The brother opened a heavy door into the immense transept, a place for visiting and prayer.

“Magnificent,” Phelps whispered. “It never ceases to appear magnificent to me, and I’ve come here many times.” He was speaking to Sarah in a low murmur in order not to disturb a holy place.

They stopped in the chancel, the center of the majestic cathedral. At the back to the west the immense nave spanned the history of centuries, witness of royal weddings and state funerals. Resting place of many of the great personalities of the kingdom, among them the Duke of Wellington; Arthur Wellesley, the great architect of Napoleon’s downfall; Lord Nelson, the lamented admiral, victor of Trafalgar; Thomas Edward Lawrence, better known as Lawrence of Arabia; Florence Nightingale, to name just a few, and, ah, of course, Christopher Wren, on whose tomb could be read:
Lector, si monumentum requiris, circumspice
. Above, the magisterial dome with its lantern of 850 tons below the gigantic cupola, where one could admire Thornhill’s frescoes and whose exterior was featured on the obligatory postcards of the city and in television correspondents’ reports. It was unmistakable. Its height of 110 feet was surpassed only by Michelangelo’s cupola in Saint Peter’s Basilica.

“Stay here,” Rafael ordered Sarah and Phelps.

“Why?” Sarah asked indignantly.

“Because I say so,” Rafael replied with a certain arrogance. “Look around. There’s a lot to see,” he added, his back turned to them following the steps of the brother porter.

Sarah and Phelps obeyed the order, although clearly they weren’t happy being forced to the side of whatever was going on. Sarah couldn’t rest until Rafael answered everything.

“And now?” Phelps asked, visibly uncomfortable.

“We have the cathedral all to ourselves. Why don’t you give me a guided tour?”

“With pleasure, but let me find a restroom first.”

“That’s fine. I’ll wait for you.”

Phelps left the chancel, the vast open space below the cupola, but at the third step his right thigh cramped up, and he bent down with sharp cries. Sarah ran to help him.

“What’s the matter, James?” she asked anxiously.

“Don’t worry. It’ll go away in a second.”

“Come and sit down,” she suggested, taking him by the arm and helping him to the nearest pew on the north side of the transept.

He followed her advice and let himself be helped.

“This happens to me sometimes.”

“Do you know what it is?”

“Not really.” He smiled like a mischievous child.

“You should have it checked as soon as possible. You can’t play around with your health,” a concerned, maternal Sarah advised him.

They sat in the large, varnished wooden pew. Phelps stretched out his painful leg, still holding his thigh.

“It’s already going away,” he repeated, more to reassure her than anything else. He’d learned to live with this pain before.

They waited several minutes in silence, Sarah at Phelps’s side, attentive, forgetting their future tasks and the secrets of Rafael, someplace in the sacristy with Brother John Cody, discussing private matters, which concerned her, Phelps, and Simon. May God protect them . . . if He can.

“I’m better now,” Phelps declared, getting up with difficulty. Sarah helped him.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. This goes away as fast as it comes.” He put some weight on his leg to see how it went.