“Did you get your instructions?” Abu Rashid asked suddenly.

“It was a private conversation,” the foreigner protested.

“About me,” he asserted.

An ironic smile crossed the foreigner’s lips. “I didn’t know you knew Italian.”

“I don’t, but I’ve known the content of that conversation longer than you have to live,” he said powerfully.

The attitude in those words struck the foreigner. Something was going on here. “Well, do you know what’s going to happen next?”

“We’re going to take a trip,” he continued with a serious expression.

“What else has she told you?” He tried to change the subject, lightly, ignoring the old man’s hitting the mark.

“That neither she nor her Son worry about communism or any other political conviction. They never divide the world between good and evil people. Everything bad in the world is created only by us, by our free, spontaneous will. So that when one prays to God to protect us, one really ought to pray to man to defend him from himself.”

The foreigner got up and went over to Abu Rashid, looking down at him from his almost six feet of height.

“Careful what you say,” he warned.

“I’m not afraid.”

“I see that nothing is news to you.”

“Well, no.”

“Is there anything else you want to tell me?”

“I know what they did with the body of the Pole,” Abu Rashid said.

Confused, but trying not to show it, the foreigner put the gag that hung from the neck of the Muslim back in his mouth and made sure that the ropes tying his body to the chair were tight to prevent him from escaping.

14

NESTOR

August 18, 1981

I’m so happy to see you recuperating, Your Holiness.”

“Thank you, Marcinkus.”

The two men were sitting on a scarlet sofa in the papal office. Wojtyla had seated himself with difficulty. The scars of the attempt on his life remained engraved in his body.

“To what do I owe the honor?” the Pole wished to know.

The American sipped a little tea that the Holy Father had amiably sent for, the plate in one hand, the cup in the other.

“A subject I fear will not please you, Your Holiness.”

The High Pontiff frowned, showing complete attention.

“Tell me.”

Marcinkus arranged his black cassock on the sofa before speaking.

“Well, I’ll be direct and concise, as the Holy Father deserves. I’ve been contacted by a man who calls himself Nestor and claims to belong to the KGB. He’s informed me that he was behind the assassination attempt of a year ago, and you can prepare yourself for others if you don’t comply with his demands.”

The pope’s face took on a look of disgust and suspicion.

“And what are these demands?”

“That you immediately stop financing Solidarity and stop pressuring the Iron Curtain. Suspend all the audits of the IWR. Increase investments in South America in a way he’ll specify.”

The pope closed his eyes and sighed.

“Is that it?”

“Immediately,” Marcinkus replied.

“And why did he contact you?”

“Because I represent the IWR. I manage the money. He was specific,” Marcinkus warned, taking a more serious tone. “Cease the donations immediately or you could be the victim of a new attempt and, he guarantees, this time-”

“I understand,” the pope interrupted with a raised hand. “What’s the time limit?”

“The first offer was fifteen days, but I’ve managed to get a month.”

“I’m grateful to you,” offered Wojtyla, who got up and walked painfully through the office.

With his hands behind his back, cold sweat made the pope tremble, but Marcinkus didn’t notice. Being pope was more difficult than one thinks. Besides countless obligations, his life was always in danger, always.

“What did you say this agent calls himself?”

“Nestor, Your Holiness.”

“Nestor, yes.”

“Have you heard his name, Your Holiness?”

“No, no.”

The pope walked slowly to the red sofa and looked at Marcinkus.

“A month. We’ll talk again.”

“Naturally, Your Holiness.”

Marcinkus got up, kissed the ring of the Fisherman, and left the office.

The pope let him leave in silence and remained silent for some time. Later, he got on his knees in the middle of the office and kissed the rosary he always carried with him.

“Help me, Mary.”

15

Geoffrey Barnes was the CIA man in Europe. This was the simple way of explaining countless responsibilities and tasks. The specific name for the imposing position is the Director of Operations and Manager of Intelligence for Continental Europe. The principal headquarters was in the city of London in a perfectly normal building, very central, and for which we cannot give an address for reasons of national security. Thus, we designate it the Center of Operations only.

Geoffrey Barnes had hundreds of people in his charge spread over the continent, from subdirectors to department chiefs, agents, technicians, and collaborators, all on Uncle Sam’s salary. Their pockets were filled with money to keep them dancing to his tune. He who can, can, and he who cannot, quits. Like it or not, the best secret information always came from this side of the Atlantic, to be sent later to be expurgated in Langley, a place that can be publicized without fear of reprisals since it is of public, and even historic, knowledge. Barnes had only two superiors in the chain of command, the director general in Langley and the president of the United States. There was also intelligence sharing among other agencies, in particular Mossad or other secret entities generously patronized by them.

Today the problem was the agency’s alone, the death of a longtime agent in the central station of Amsterdam in doubtful circumstances. The trip to the Dutch capital had been quick, without incident. The distance from London to Amsterdam was negligible. Accompanying Barnes was Jerome Staughton, promoted to Geoffrey Barnes’s personal assistant a year ago, who found his old position of data analyst in real time more to his liking. Being towed in Barnes’s wake was like carrying a tunneling machine on your back, subject to his caprice and mood swings, his deep guttural voice full of contemptuous reproach, and his desire to feed his gigantic body at all hours. Beyond the evident differences between being an analyst and an assistant, working on the ground was always more dangerous than being seated at a desk. It was career progress that wasn’t always welcomed, except for the pay at the end of each week. In any case, in spite of the seriousness of the situation, Barnes has been calm, in no way truculent, even convivial, not a very natural trait in a man who has to protect great secrets.

On landing at Schiphol, they found the cars waiting for them. Everything was planned to the minute. The cars were middle-range models to avoid raising suspicions, and they would obviously not appear to be CIA but rather FBI agents trying to learn more about what had happened and offer their service to every extent possible. One of the disadvantages of the disguise was their having to drive in the middle of traffic instead of opening a free lane. If they had been in the States or even the UK, they would have swept everything out of the way, but here they had to preserve appearances and good conduct, since the Dutch were known not just for tulips but also for hospitality. So the trip took them an hour. As soon as the station was in sight they noticed the presence of Agent Thompson, who had come ahead of time to survey the situation.

As soon as they got out of the cars, Barnes put his hands on the small of his back, stretching as if to make some discomfort or cramp go away.

“This screws me up,” was all he said. “This job is going to kill me.”