The Holy Bullet (44 page)

“Who is this friend?” Raul asked again.

“You’ll soon find out,” JC replied. “Enjoy the sights.”

They didn’t exchange another word until the end of the ride. Six minutes later, the cripple paid the fare with new Turkish lira and opened the door for the master and the couple.

The final destination wasn’t far, nor could it be, since JC no longer had the stamina of former times and couldn’t walk far. He limited himself to a few steps, at his own pace, always on flat terrain. Uphill was deadly.

They entered a secular building, rose-colored, with a group of black placards inscribed with gold letters at the entrance.

“What’s this place?” Elizabeth asked.

“A
hamam
,” JC answered, continuing ahead.

The cripple came last with his hand inside his jacket on his gun, alert as a falcon.

“What’s a
haman
?” Elizabeth asked.

JC pointed at the plaques.

“It’s in your language right here.”

And in fact it was, a plaque, recently written with tourists in mind: REAL TURKISH BATH. 300 YEARS OLD.

“We are in the baths of Cagalogl u, ordered built by Mehmet the First in the eighteenth century,” JC explained.

They stopped at the entrance.

“In these baths the sections for men and women are separated. The entrance for women is on another street,” JC said. “My assistant will stay here with you, and the captain and I will go in. Is that all right with you?”

The married couple agreed in part because there was nothing they could do. Of course Elizabeth wanted to go in, but she had to respect the cultural tradition different from her own. She couldn’t help thinking that JC did this so that she would find out what was going on secondhand through her husband. In any case, someone would have to tell her everything.

The cripple approached JC and whispered something in his ear.

“I imagined so,” the old man said in response. “Are you ready, Captain?”

Raul said nothing, but yes was understood.

The two men walked to the entrance, where JC let Raul go forward. The Portuguese sighed and continued walking into the unknown.

In the
camekan
they found the dressing rooms, small cubicles where several men changed their clothes, conversed, read newspapers, sipped tea. They were all Westerners, no Turks.

Raul stopped, expecting directions.

“Keep going,” JC ordered.

They passed the next antechamber, the
sogukluk
, without stopping and stayed in the
hararet
. The steam was dense, and the heat immediately made them sweat.

“This isn’t good for you,” Raul warned with sweat running down his face. “Nor for me,” he muttered.

“I imagined so,” JC commented. “If it’s not good for me, imagine for him.”

Who?
Raul thought.

Though the
hararet
was usually the most crowded part of the bath, there were few men that day. They made one out, stretched out on a table, being massaged expertly, but he didn’t seem the least interested in secret conversation.

“That’s enough for me,” JC grumbled with his clothes soaked and breath panting. It was too much. “Sebastiani,” he shouted.

He needed to wait only five seconds before the latter entered, an old man with a huge head of white hair dressed in a black suit, sitting in a wheelchair, pushed by a young cleric, his aide.

“JC.”

“Sebastiani,” he greeted him, suffocating, sweating, and tired. “What are we doing here?”

As incredible as it seemed, Sebastiani didn’t seem affected by the temperature or the steam; his assistant, a young man about twenty years old, was dripping water from his face, stumbling as he walked, his vision clouded, and feeling as if he might faint at any moment.

“Ah, I’m getting used to it.”

“What?”

“To hell,” the other answered without thinking about it. “Isn’t that where we’re all going? That’s what I think.” He smiled sarcastically.

“I can’t stand being here longer,” JC said, holding on to Raul. “Let’s get out of here.”

The group passed into the
sogukluk
. JC and Raul needed a few minutes to recuperate. Sebastiani waited serenely without wiping the light sweat away that had broken out on his face. He won’t have a problem surviving hell. The assistant thanked God that they had left the steam room, where they’d entered completely clothed, and sat down on the first bench he found, completely exhausted.

“Without question one should never go beyond the
camekan
in a Turkish bath. There’s something to eat and drink there, and the steam doesn’t kill you,” JC declared.

“In hell you’re not going to have to eat and drink,” Sebastiani explained.

“Do you know someone who’s been there and returned to tell about it?” JC asked.

“Don’t question my beliefs,” Sebastiani returned. “I don’t impose my faith on anyone, but I don’t allow it to be insulted, either.”

JC respected his friend’s warning. You have to divide in order to conquer sometimes.

“This is Captain Raul Brandão Monteiro. Portuguese military.” JC made the introductions. “This is Sebastiano Corrado, cardinal of the Roman Catholic Church.”

Raul inclined his head courteously. He had never met a cardinal.

“Cardinal without right of election. I’m ninety-four years old, you know. I’m a second-class cardinal. And you, Raul, a soldier without an army?”

“In fact, yes. I’m in the reserve.” He smiled.

“You see? Our situations are similar,” he observed.

“In the conclave of 1978, I was still a bishop. In the one of 2005, I was too old.”

“It’s because you didn’t need to vote,” JC declared.

“That’s what I tell myself. There is room for only one pope at a time. But I congratulate myself that the Pole lasted so many years, although it was bad for me.”

“How are things in Fátima?” JC wanted to know.

“As always. It’s strange to see people much younger than me, and all with atrophied minds.”

“Look to your faith,” JC admonished. “Don’t offend that of others.” He couldn’t resist a gibe.

“Don’t confuse faith with psychopathology,” he answered with a guttural laugh no one else took up.

“What do you have for me?” JC pressured him.

The man opened his hand, palm upward. It was a silent message to his assistant, who placed a yellow envelope in it. Sebastiani gave it to JC.

“Is this it?”

“It is. Be careful.” It was the first time his unpleasant face showed any suspicion. “The other one must be totally confused right now. He’s discovered there’s nothing there.”

“Stupendous.”

“What’s going to happen now?”

JC took the envelope and looked seriously at everyone around.

“I’ve thrown out a lot of misinformation to make things very hard for everyone else,” he said joyously. “Now the time has come for the famous JC to appear.”

J
ames Phelps hung on to the weak thread of life with all his strength, or, at least, that’s how it seemed. He was shaken by intermittent jolts from the rusty van that rushed him to the veterans’ hospital a few blocks from the barbershop.

They’d left through one of the closed doors in the passageway that opened onto another narrow hallway with a door to an underground parking garage at the end. The escape route in case an operation went wrong.

Rafael and Ivanovsky did the carrying with Sarah comforting Phelps. They put him in the middle seat of a 1980s Daihatsu with room for nine. Vladimir drove the “smoke bomb,” as they lovingly called it for the excessive fumes that escaped through the exhaust pipe.

“Hang on,” Rafael encouraged Phelps with his hands on his head.

Ivanovsky took the passenger seat to show Vladimir the way. A Russian mania for knowing more than others or thinking they did. Sarah was in the middle seat next to the sliding door. Phelps’s feet were on her lap.

“Everything will be all right,” she told him.

“Don’t you believe in auto repair shops?” Rafael shouted so they could hear him over the turbulent engine. “The noise and fumes this car is emitting must be detectable from space,” he added.

“This van’s been retired a long time. It’s the first time it’s been used in fifteen years, or more,” Ivanovsky also shouted. “You said you know who’s behind all this?”

Sarah listened silently. Rafael knew who was behind the plot? Who?

Rafael gestured an affirmation. “I think so.”

“Who?” Sarah and the Russian asked in unison.

“I can think of only one man capable of manipulating everything and everyone with such skill. JC. Do you know him?”

Of course
, Sarah reflected.
Why didn’t I think of that?

“I’ve heard of him, but his existence has never been proved.”

“He exists,” Rafael confirmed, exchanging a long look with Sarah.

“Go down Ulitsa Varvarka,” the barber ordered Vladimir.

They passed a packed Red Square, the Kremlin on the opposite side. Next to the walls was the mausoleum where the embalmed body of Lenin serves as a national and international tourist attraction, along with great men of the nation, a little to the back, Yuri Gagarin, Maxim Gorky, Brezh nev. The cathedral of Saint Basil with its onion dome cupolas, built by Ivan the Terrible, is in front of the Museum of History, separated by five hundred yards of Red Square.

It wasn’t the first time Rafael had visited the city, but Sarah would’ve preferred another situation to enjoy the cultural, historical, and social attractions Moscow has to offer.

“Turn onto Ulitsa Varvarka.”

“It’s longer that way,” Vladimir observed in Russian.

“Do what I tell you.” Ivanovsky turned around to the back again. “What’s the plan of this JC?”

“He has his own agenda,” Rafael answered. “But this web is typical of him. He gives information to you, us, Opus Dei, a few clues to the Americans and English, and we all start moving, thinking we’re the only ones.”

“Where does this Spanish priest fit in?”

“I still don’t know that. It doesn’t mean everything’s interconnected,” Rafael said in a meditative way. Phelps let out a distant moan.

Sarah stroked his leg up to his thigh, with no untoward intentions, despite her uncomfortable attraction to men of the Church, albeit younger ones.

“You’re going to be all right,” she murmured.

“We have to find out what his plan is,” Ivanovsky declared.

“Of course,” Rafael agreed.
I know very well how to do that
, he thought. You can’t share everything.

“Accelerate this piece of shit.” Ivanovsky angrily turned to Vladimir. “The guy can’t die on us. He has to tell us what he knows.”

“It won’t go any faster,” Vladimir said as he floored the accelerator, unable to get past seventy.

Another moan from Phelps, this time more intense, almost louder than the engine noise of the Daihatsu.

“Stay calm. We’re almost there,” Rafael told him.

Sarah stroked his leg and thigh again, the right one, to be more precise, until something caught her attention, a rise, a projection about a centimeter in diameter running completely around his leg. Like a belt fastened to his thigh . . . very tightly.

What’s this?
she asked herself. At that precise moment Phelps opened his eyes and looked at her in a way he never had before. The thin, timorous old man completely lost consciousness.

A bang on the windshield snapped her out of the lethargy she’d sunk into. Phelps’s eyes were closed. Perhaps it was her imagination, except the belt pressing into his thigh was real.

There was no time to think. A new bang made the Daihatsu roll toward the driver’s side. Ivanovsky started to shout, along with Rafael, who grabbed the seat to avoid falling over Sarah, as he pressed down on Phelps with all his strength so that his dead weight wouldn’t crush her.

“Damn,” Rafael swore.

“What’s going on?” Sarah cried.

Ivanovsky, leaning on the front panel, pulled two guns.

“They killed Vladimir,” he warned. “Bastards.”

Given the slow speed of the van, it stopped after a few yards and rolled over onto the side of the dead driver.

“What’s going on?” Phelps’s weak voice asked.

“Stay quiet. We’re going to get you out of here,” Rafael ordered, red from the effort of supporting him.

“Let’s lower him slowly,” Sarah suggested, drawing back to leave room. She noticed the glass in the sliding door was broken, and she was standing on the asphalt of the street.

Rafael put Phelps down carefully. He now had some control over his body, although he still had a hand on Phelps’s chest. A few seconds later the Englishman was on the ground next to Sarah.

“What’s happening?” he asked.

“We’re being attacked,” Sarah informed him, realizing for the first time the seriousness of the situation.

Rafael turned to Ivanovsky. “Give me one of those pieces.”

The Russian hesitated, but finally tossed him one of the guns. He opened the door and looked around. Rafael broke the glass in the window that had been at the side before but now was the roof and stuck his head outside. This model had only one sliding door, on Sarah’s side, now the floor of the van after it turned over. A shot pierced the frame a few inches from his face. The same happened to Ivanovsky. Both ducked back inside the van.

“Snipers,” Rafael explained.

“That’s right,” the barber agreed.

“Russian mafia?” Phelps asked, still suffering.

“No,” Ivanovsky contradicted him. “Americans. They can only be Americans. I can smell them,” he lamented.

“Barnes,” Sarah whispered.

“We have to do something,” Rafael declared. The shots came from two places in front and behind the van.

He tried to get to the back where the window was intact. He watched for a long time.