“Of them.” He pointed behind them.

“No,” Rafael replied dryly.

Phelps looked at the side mirror again, estimating the distance that seemed to have shortened more each time he looked, according to his eyes, not very trustworthy at this hour.

He wanted to ask more questions, but Rafael’s expression wasn’t encouraging. Best to wait to see if this passed; let’s hope it did with God’s help.

These doubts disappeared when Phelps saw the lights of the pursuing car almost bumping the van, leaving him worried and full of panic. The speed of the two vehicles wasn’t fast, less than fifty miles an hour, and every time he looked at Rafael, he didn’t seem willing to go faster.

“Don’t you think we should speed up?” he asked at last in a voice heavy with fear.

“There’s no danger.”

“No?”

“No. Whoever’s watching isn’t going to let us see him.”

“Are you saying they aren’t following us?”

The vehicle behind signaled the van with its lights. Phelps understood less and less what was happening. And still less when Rafael came to a complete stop.

“What are you doing?”

“Stopping.”

“Isn’t that dangerous?”

“No.” Rafael unfastened his seat belt and opened the door. “Stay here.”

Phelps wanted to protest, but Rafael closed the door, leaving him stamping his foot. He used the side mirrors to try to see what was happening. The lights of the other car were turned off, and he saw two men getting out and approaching Rafael, who waited for them calmly, leaning on the back of the Mercedes. They shook hands, which was a relief. Bad guys didn’t greet their future victims. If it wasn’t a trick. Rafael talked to the two men for a few moments. A little later one of them gave him an object Phelps couldn’t identify. Rafael turned to come back, and the Englishman managed to hear the men saying good-bye with an “À bientôt.” Strange.

Rafael climbed into his seat, started the engine, and took to the road again without offering one word of explanation.

The silence was deafening, which infuriated Phelps. Who did Rafael think he was? Someone incapable of showing the least sign of confidence in him. He was a worthy inheritor of the tricks and intrigues of the Vatican. He would make an excellent member of the Curia and had everything necessary to become one. He always kept the best to himself and deliberately weighed his words. He created an advantage over others that confounded allies and enemies, like a puzzle in which he alone knew the position of each piece in the total shape.

“So it turns out no one was following us,” Phelps said, keeping his eyes on the road. An insult to his dignity as a man and a prelate that he didn’t care to call attention to.

“I never said they were following us,” Rafael explained. “I said that someone was coming behind us.”

“One has to watch his words with you,” Phelps replied, holding back his disgust. “Not everything is what it seems.”

Nothing more to say. Silence took over for the rest of the journey, unpleasant, uncomfortable, always there. The great city of London spread before them, with more traffic. Even so, Rafael managed to pass slower cars.

Rafael’s cell phone rang. He looked at the screen identifying the caller and answered.

“Alors,” he said into the phone, indicating he knew who was calling. He listened to a message that lasted for some time. He showed no sign of interjecting either a thought or agreement. Seconds later he disconnected and, without warning, pulled the Mercedes around in a U-turn, making Phelps hit his face on the door window. He took off now at high speed in the opposite direction in the wrong lane.

“Are you crazy?” Phelps protested.

“It makes more sense with the wheel on this side,” Rafael answered, dodging vehicles coming from the other direction on the correct side, protesting vehemently with their horns and swerving away as they could. Some ended up crashing into vehicles pulled over to the shoulder of the road.

“Careful!” Phelps cried out, holding on to the seat.

Rafael continued driving, indifferent to the insults or admiration from other drivers. Phelps shut his eyes and said no more. He crossed himself and prayed silently, Our Father, Omnipotent, free me from this black sheep, separated from the flock, and put him on a better path…

Many horns and insults later, the van came to a stop at the entrance of a Victorian building in disrepair. Rafael scrutinized the surroundings carefully on all possible sides. Phelps wanted to discover where they were, but was still too upset to speak reasonably and calmly. Besides he was from Newcastle, in the north, and not obliged to know where things were in the capital of the empire.

“Where are we?” he asked Rafael.

Rafael ignored the question and took out the package given to him by the two unknown men, under the cover of night.

“What’s that?”

Rafael answered by tearing off the paper that covered something inside.

“Good God. What do you need that for?” Phelps asked, surprised.

Rafael checked the chamber of the Glock and took off the safety before looking at Phelps.

“Not everything is what it seems.” He left the van and went toward the door of the abandoned building.

34

What hurt him most was the slap, backhand, that knocked him to the floor. The physical pain was nothing compared with the empty heart and the loss of dreams of a wonderful love, beautiful, idyllic, and innocent, destroyed by harsh reality. For Simon Lloyd the idea of life as beautiful came to an end with that blow. Rage overwhelmed him, but a kick in the stomach made him rethink his priorities while the pain spread through his body. Anger could wait.

Sarah hadn’t received the same treatment because those were the orders received by Templar and his associate.

“Herbert’s coming. He says not to touch them,” Templar warned when James or “Hugh” or whatever the son of a bitch’s name was was about to apply another round of blows.

“He’d better get here soon,” James protested.

Sarah and Simon Lloyd now found themselves shut in a small window-less room completely sunk in claustrophobic darkness. Simon had received more slaps from his ex-lover, who was enraged by the bottle Sarah broke over his head. And since the asshole couldn’t take the insult out on Sarah, he hastened to do so on Simon. He, Simon, was only a job, something that guaranteed a paycheck…

Sarah heard Simon snuffling or trying to disguise his crying by mumbling in a low voice. It made her feel completely discouraged. Another victim paying for something she’d done.

“What are they going to do to us?” Simon asked, breaking the silence.

“To you, nothing,” she said confidently. She’d do everything to prevent his paying for being with the wrong person. No one ought to suffer for that.

“I was so deceived, so deceived.” A damp sound confirmed the tears that still ran down his face unseen.

Simon meant Hugh as the target of these words, but Sarah applied them to herself, since she felt them deeply. She considered herself a disappointment for everyone, beginning with the people she loved, always in danger, pleading, wounded, dead. So she repeated, “They won’t do anything to you.” She would strongly resist cooperating with this Herbert, unless he agreed to release Simon. She might be tortured, but she’d only talk when Simon was out of danger. Even if it was the last thing she did, which was possible, she intended to save Simon. The worst was if this Herbert didn’t want information from her and was only coming in order to personally carry out their killing. If that was the case, Simon would pardon her, if her lack of power wouldn’t permit heroic acts. If she found Herbert willing to negotiate, only one of them would survive. This was hard reality, not the stuff of detective novels or films. The good die before the end.