“They’re not the marrying kind,” Sarah said, smiling a little as she imagined the scenario. “They might’ve had a roll in the hay, but nothing serious.”

“And these affairs were frequent?”

“It depends. I’d call it a casual relationship. When the occasion happens.” Where is this conversation going?

“I understand.” Simon Templar took a cigarette out of the pack and put it in his mouth. “Do you mind if I smoke?”

He didn’t wait for Sarah’s reply, but flicked a silver lighter and immediately touched the end of the cigarette, lighting it. Two deep breaths made the cigarette glow, and he released a mouthful of smoke into the air.

“Are those encounters still going on?” John Fox asked.

“I haven’t seen them for two or three weeks, but I presume so.”

John Fox got up and started to walk around the room.

“Sarah, there’s no good way to say this, but-”

The telephone rang at this precise moment and made Sarah jump. The strident, continuous sound came from the cell phone on John Fox’s belt. He finally took the device and put an end to the loud torture.

“Fox,” he said into the phone. He listened to what they were saying on the other end of the line for several moments and began to show tension in his muscles. Whatever it was, it was not good news, that was certain. A dry sound marked the end of the call.

“Let’s go,” he ordered, closing the file and taking the photographs out of Sarah’s hand without ceremony or courtesy.

“Her, too?” Simon Templar asked.

“Yeah, all of us. Let’s go,” the other replied, heading for the door.

Simon got up, Sarah, as well, confused.

“Where are we going?” she inquired.

“To Redcliff Gardens,” John Fox informed them.

It took Sarah a couple of seconds to realize.

“What are we going to do there?”

John Fox punched in the code on the keyboard of the lock and opened the door before looking Sarah in the eye.

“They’ve found a body inside your bedroom.”

“A what?” She gasped.

“What I said,” he repeated and turned toward Simon. “As far as the corpses of the others…”

“The ones from Amsterdam?” he asked in confusion.

“Exactly. They disappeared from the morgue.”

Sarah listened to this exchange of words attentively and felt a chill run up her body.

“Corpses? What corpses?”

20

THE ARCHBISHOP

September 26, 1981

The paper was stamped with the pontifical seal of John Paul II, two crossed keys, one gold, the other silver, joined by a red cord, below an azure ecclesiastical shield with a yellow Latin cross. The papal tiara with three gold crowns above the shield and keys.

Paul Casimir Marcinkus, titular archbishop of Horta and secretary of the Roman Curia, was a step away from being named vice president of the Pontifical Commission for the State of Vatican City, making him the third most influential man in the Church. The only thing lacking was the signature of Karol Wojtyla, who had his gold pen poised in his hand.

“Are you completely sure?” the German asked.

With a sigh the Pole set the pen on the desk by the side of the paper.

“He seems like a capable man.”

“Think a little more.” He sat in a chair in front of the majestic papal desk. “He doesn’t inspire confidence in me.”

“You don’t trust anyone, Joseph.”

“I do. I just think we’re being manipulated.”

“That’s what brought us here,” the Pole added.

The German cardinal looked at his friend and superior condescendingly. He was right, as usual.

“I understand, Karol,” Joseph agreed. “But it troubles me to see him with more power. It seems we’re giving him full powers. I’m sure with a little more time…”

“I made a promise when I was elected, Joseph. To protect our family,” he said emphatically. “I’m not going to wander from that road,” he asserted firmly.

Joseph knew it wasn’t worth contradicting him. Nothing was going to prevent him from keeping the promise. He’d made a commitment to God, and no one in his right mind reneged on an agreement with the Creator.

“Many people write about my actions, as you well know. I cannot take a step without being judged by someone, archived for posterity. When I announced I had pardoned the boy his act, everyone criticized it. It’s hypocrisy. He’s only saying it to look good. He’s trying to be a saint. Not for a moment did they think, Who am I to judge the actions of others? Not for a moment did they say, Look, there’s a sincere gesture… As we forgive those who trespass against us.”

Silence spread through the immense papal office. The major decisions of the Catholic world were made here. A simple signature on a sheet of paper with the papal seal had the power to change consciences, begin revolutions or inspire them, alleviate in a small way hunger in the world, poverty, provide shelter for those without homes, protect those whose forefathers rejected them. Here were created priests, bishops, archbishops, monsignors, cardinals, missionaries who carried the name of Christ to every corner of the world, a friendly word, a piece of bread, a glass of drinkable water, a smile accompanied by a kiss of peace. Here what couldn’t be said was omitted, and truth embellished. Only in this way, complex, accustomed to concessions, negotiations, strategic accords, could the Church exist. The pure simplicity associated with the image of Jesus Christ was not possible to implement in the world of men, unless by a superior man, like Christ himself.

“After all they managed to blame on the Turk…” the German cardinal defended him.

“That’s precisely why I’m doing this. If in fact he was implicated, he won’t suspect our distrust. Later we can investigate at our leisure.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” Joseph conceded.

“When possible, I want to talk to the Turk personally.”

Wojtyla took the pen at the exact moment the door opened and the secretary announced the arrival of archbishop Paul Marcinkus.

“Tell him to come in.” He turned to the German cardinal. “Give me a minute, Joseph, please.”

Thwarted, Joseph got up from the chair and left the office through a side door, at the same time the American bishop entered.

“Holy Father,” he greeted him, making a motion to kiss the ring of the Fisherman on Wojtyla’s finger, but the latter didn’t extend his hand.

“Sit down, please.” He received him seriously. “Would you like something?”

“I don’t need anything, thanks,” he answered with a smile.

“Have you had news from Nestor?” the Supreme Pontiff asked.

“No. Anyway, we still haven’t finished what he required, Your Holiness.”

“Yes, yes,” he agreed misleadingly. “Remind me what he asked of us.”

“They’re interested in increasing the investment of IOR in South America and Switzerland,” Marcinkus explained. He adopted a confidential tone. “In reality he’s pressuring me. But I didn’t want to trouble the Holy Father. I’ve made excuses for the preparation of the trip to the United Kingdom, and, at the moment, I’ve managed to keep it apart. But I always live in fear they’ll make an attempt on you again, Your Holiness. It’s a torment.”

“Of course, of course. I appreciate, my good man, all you’ve done to protect me,” the Pole said. He thought for a few moments.

“You can start investing in South America as you consider best.”

“That couldn’t be better news, Holy Father.” Marcinkus smiled sincerely. “I’ll make intelligent investments that won’t hurt your good name.”

“So I expect. I don’t want another Ambrosiano, Marcinkus,” he replied firmly. “But I haven’t called you for this.”

“No?” There is more to come? Marcinkus thought.

“No.” Wojtyla got up and looked out the window. “I want to tell you I’m going to name you vice president of the Pontifical Commission for the State of Vatican City.”