The Holy Bullet (47 page)

“Then she’s screwed.” Barnes didn’t mince words.

“Everything is as it needs to be. We know who has what. And I’m counting on your help to throw out some bait for JC,” Phelps announced victoriously.

“What?”

“Ah . . . well. I want to talk to you about that,” Littel said to Barnes, and got up. “We know you’ve worked with P2.”

“P2?” Sebastian Ford asked again.

“JC’s organization,” Littel told him. “We need you to mount a plan to catch them.”

“I can’t do that,” Barnes warned circumspectly.

“You have to,” Littel argued. “It’s an order.”

Barnes snorted like a racehorse waiting to take off when the pistol fires.

“It’s not like that. We have to separate things. We can’t turn our back on some people only to benefit outside organizations. I understand your dilemma, Barnes, but we have no choice.”

“I knew you weren’t coming here just to be on my side.”

Silence reigned in the room for a few moments, just enough not to last.

“At least we’re in agreement,” Phelps said with a mocking smile. “Anyone else have a question?”

“Why couldn’t you sleep in peace?”

The glances turned toward Sarah, who had asked the question, then to Phelps.

“It’s you who are going to be interrogated now, my dear,” he answered uncomfortably.

“You don’t want her to know that one of your members was behind the assassination attempt,” Rafael interjected.

“Shut up,” Phelps ordered.

Herbert smacked Rafael in the face again, harder this time.

“Who?” Sebastian Ford wanted to know.

“Paul Marcinkus,” Rafael answered.

“Shut up, I said.” Anger reddened Phelps’s face.

“Marcinkus was P2,” Barnes affirmed.

“And Opus Dei. They were the ones who recommended him to Paul the Sixth as IWR administrator.”

“Don’t say another word,” Phelps yelled. “Get him out of here.”

Herbert grabbed him and began to drag him out. It wasn’t easy, even with Rafael handcuffed.

“You’re protecting a murderer and a pedophile. That’s what he doesn’t want you to know.”

Priscilla put her hand to her mouth, shocked. Littel and the others didn’t seem surprised. Only Barnes’s men showed no previous knowledge of this.

Phelps brought his hand to his mouth and sighed.

“Enough. This is going to be done the way we agreed. Is there any problem?” He spoke to Littel.

“Not on our part,” he answered, looking at Barnes.

“Very well. Take those two to the cell. They’ll be interrogated on the ground,” Phelps commanded.

“Did you hear what he said?” Barnes demanded. “Staughton, Thompson, lend a hand.” He looked at Rafael. “This time there’s no accord to save you. I want to be the one who sends you from here to hell.”

Rafael smiled provocatively.

“Where’s the Muslim?” Phelps wanted to know.

“What Muslim?”

“Abu Rashid.”

“We don’t have him,” Littel informed them. “He disappeared from Jerusalem days ago.”

Phelps looked at him astonished.

“You don’t have him?”

“No.”

“The Russians don’t have him. I heard the conversation they had with our friend here. He also seems to have never heard of him. I thought he could only be in your custody.”

“He never has been,” Littel asserted. “We have no idea where he could be.”

“We’ll have to resolve this,” Phelps added.

“What about the journalist?” Garrison wanted to know.

“Kill him,” Phelps said without thinking twice. “Let’s go. Move.”

Staughton and Thompson helped Herbert carry Sarah and Rafael. She shot a last look at Simon Lloyd, who couldn’t disguise the panic in his eyes.

“No one’s going to kill anyone for now.”

Everyone looked at Rafael.

“Oh, no?” Phelps mocked.

“No.”

“And why not?”

You save your ace for the right moment.

O
ver the years the American archbishop had visited the papal office in the Apostolic Palace many times, most frequently during the era of his protector, Paul VI. One phone call was enough to find out the pope’s schedule, and the gates opened immediately if there was an available time. He visited once during the short reign of Albino Luciani, on the evening of his death, to appeal to the pope not to accuse him of fraud and other more serious crimes. That visit was a complete failure. In the pontificate of Wojtyla, which had lasted twelve years so far, the visits could be counted on his two hands, decidedly fewer than a dozen. This was the first in the last five years.

The Pole was distracted, scrawling on a piece of paper, and hadn’t invited him to sit down. Courtesy demanded he not do so on his own, especially in the office of the Supreme Pontiff, when he was right in front of him.

He stamped his signature on the lower part of the page printed with the papal seal, put down the gold pen, and looked, for the first time, at the American.

“Good evening, Nestor.”

“Excuse me?” Marcinkus turned red with shame. Had he heard correctly?

“Nestor,” the Pole repeated. “Isn’t he your alter ego?”

“I don’t understand, Your Holiness.” The archbishop’s uneasiness was obvious. He hadn’t expected this reception.

“Don’t play dumb.” Wojtyla got right to the point. “I’ve known everything for a long time.”

“All what, Your Holiness?”

“Well . . . let’s go over the parts. I thought it was strange when I removed you from the IWR last year that you never came to ask for an explanation.”

“The decision was yours to make, Your Holiness. I was in charge of the bank for eighteen years. It was normal that the time had come to leave,” he responded naturally.

“All right, Nestor.”

“Don’t call me Nestor, Your Holiness.”

“Paul and Nestor are the same person. A true chameleon, if you will.” He looked at him gravely. “You tried to kill me.”

“No, Holy Father,” he contradicted him, but without much conviction.

“Sit down,” he invited him. “Sit down and listen to a story.”

Paul Marcinkus accepted Karol Wojtyla’s request and sat down, while the pope got up and walked around the desk until he stopped behind the American, who felt threatened.

“About two years ago I received a mysterious phone call that led to an even more mysterious visit. Someone wished to discuss subjects of interest to me. Perhaps you’ve heard of this person. He calls himself JC. At the time I thought he might be comparing himself to Jesus Christ, but I don’t think he had that grand pretension. I don’t believe he has the same beliefs we do.”

“I’ve never heard of him, Your Holiness,” Marcinkus denied, without turning toward the Pole.

“No? Well, look, he knows you very well. He told me about your adventures in Masonry . . .”

“I can explain, Your Holiness.” He turned to the pope, alarmed.

“You can? Belonging to a Masonic lodge results in direct excommunication without the right of explanations. Do you know anything about that, Nestor, 124, of the Loggia of Rome?”

Nestor . . . Paul hid his face in his hands.

“You can’t believe just any person who appears so suddenly, Your Holiness. Many people wish us ill.”

“You know something? You’re right. That’s exactly what I told your friend.”

He raised his voice. “He’s not my friend.”

“And he was ready to prove what he’d said. Days later something was entrusted to me in a pretty packet that contained so many things that, even today, with the years that have passed, all of the ramifications and operations described have still not been analyzed.”

Marcinkus sank into his chair.

“That was the reason for removing you from the IWR last year, which, I confess, I thought would be enough to see you go voluntarily. I was deceived. You didn’t feel affected by these things. Therefore I’m going to summarize what came in the packet in one single statement. You’re a criminal.”

The American took his hands from his face and got up, stung by the insult.

“How dare you call me that!”

“I’m not the one calling you that, Paul. It’s in the evidence. You can’t contradict the facts.” Wojtyla remained firm and certain.

“Evidence. Evidence. Don’t throw evidence in my face,” he spoke proudly. “I’ve given a lot to the Holy See. You’ve lost nothing.” He disregarded completely the courtesy the pope deserves.

“Do I need to remind you how much your speculations at the Ambrosiano in the eighties cost us? Your absolution in ’eighty-four was less than peaceful and even less well explained.”

Marcinkus stared at him with hate in his eyes.

“I knew that sooner or later you’d throw that in my face. I admitted the error when it happened.”

“And why don’t you admit it now?”

“The Holy Father is popular all over the world. The most popular pope in history. Who do you think makes that possible? Who finances your trips, the luxury in which you live?” he asked angrily.

“The faithful,” Wojtyla replied.

“Don’t make me laugh,” Marcinkus joked with a sour smile. “It’s thanks to people like me who wisely administer the goods of the Church over the centuries. The Holy Father wouldn’t exist without me. I’m the true pope of all this. And if you intend to prosecute me, something can always happen,” he threatened.

The pope walked around the desk and picked up the piece of paper with the seal. He sighed deeply.

“Effective immediately, the archbishop is removed from all the functions that occupy the Holy See. He will return to his archdiocese, from which he will not return again.”

“You can’t do that to me,” he shouted.

Wojtyla ignored his tone.

“You’ll be taken by helicopter directly to the Fiumicino airport, where you’ll continue on a flight that will take you to the United States.”

“You’re playing with fire.”

“The press will be told of your voluntary retirement because of fatigue and homesickness. It’s my wish that this case be closed immediately without scandal. The proof will be deposited in the Secret Archives of the Vatican without more investigation. If this decision doesn’t please you, I’ll be happy to hand you over to the Italian authorities, who are eager to charge you. The choice is yours,” Wojtyla concluded peremptorily, turning his back.

Marcinkus let himself sink in the chair. Tears of rage welled up in his eyes and ran down his face. He sat there for several minutes, breathing in the oppressive silence. He had come to Rome in 1950 and had never left. Living in the United States was unthinkable, like a prison sentence. He decided to get up and walk toward the office door. He opened it and remained without moving, defeated, old.

Karol Wojtyla looked out at the plaza, hidden by the white curtains.

“Ten o’clock tonight at the heliport. Don’t be late.”

I
stanbul had as much movement at night as during the day. Life swirled through the streets and alleys, allied to the nocturnal mysteries that fill this enigmatic city.

The group led by the old man with the cane, whose handle formed the gold head of a lion, mingled with the thousands of tourists who crammed the tourist spots. An old man with a married couple and another man—they could easily pass for close family members, if it was in their interest to create that image.

They passed through the Hippodrome, whose obelisks still survived, although the amphitheater that seated a hundred thousand people had to be imagined. They went into Hagia Sophia, the cathedral converted into a mosque and then into a museum, where emperors and sultans were once crowned. It served Greeks and Ottomans, survived Constantinople, and remained a symbol of the city and Turkey. They dined at Cati in Beyoglu, at a table next to a window with views of the Bosporus. They began with
corbasi
, yogurt soup, with vegetables; then, as the main course, had
hunkar begendili köfte
, meatballs with eggplant puree, mixed with cheese, and a variety of kebabs.

Raul and Elizabeth had many questions, but didn’t ask any. They were astonished at the way JC delighted over the food he was serving.

“Turkish Palace cooking,” he said. “Delicious.”

The couple scarcely tasted the food. They picked at it more out of courtesy and sympathy than hunger, even though they hadn’t eaten well for days.

The cripple maintained his cool pose. He ate, but not like a savage. He was always the same. Polite, silent, he ate to survive, no other reason, and looked around from time to time to assure himself of the old man’s safety. That was his only preoccupation; everything else was secondary.

“What time is our meeting?” the old man asked him.

“He’ll call us as soon as he arrives.”

“Tell him to come here.”

“All right.”

The cripple got up and left with his cell phone in his hand. A private call away from the chaos of the restaurant.

“Who’s coming?” Elizabeth asked.

“Another friend?” Raul added.

“An ally . . . I hope,” he replied, not paying attention, bringing a meat-ball to his mouth. “Hmm . . . delicious.”

“How can you live like this?” Elizabeth asked, scandalized.

“How do you mean, my dear?”

“Like this.” She didn’t know how to explain it. “Walking a tightrope.”

“Don’t be fooled, Mrs. Monteiro. Politicians are the ones who live on a tightrope. Presidents, prime ministers, senators, representatives walk a tightrope. They know that living at the will of the electorate is thankless. No matter what they do the public is never grateful. That’s why they sell themselves to corporations and lobbies. In short, they take care of their future. People like you also walk a tightrope. I don’t.”

“Do you call this a life of peace and quiet?” Raul put in.

“What more could you desire? Dining at the finest restaurant in Istanbul after a guided tour. Tomorrow, who knows, Amsterdam, Bangkok.”