“My beloved Phelps,” Rafael called. “Help our two new friends into the van. It’ll be a little crowded, but where there’s a will… And don’t say anything else.”

Phelps was fuming, but Sarah’s hand on his brought him back to earth. Immediately Simon and the woman walked to the van, where they’d have to squeeze three into a seat for one. Anything can be done with the grace of God.

Rafael, ever on guard, picked up the guns thrown on the ground, unloaded them skillfully, and let them fall, keeping the clips for future use.

“We’ll see each other again,” Rafael informed them as he walked to the van. “So long.”

Before getting into the van, he pressed a pen that sent a beam of red light into Thompson’s eyes. Not everything is as it appears. Then he took off as fast as possible.

The two men remained behind, confused, seeing the van leave down Fulham Road in the direction of Fulham Broadway. Their reaction came afterward when Thompson opened the door.

“Let’s go.”

“Where?”

“After them. Where do you think they went?”

The two men got in the car and took off in the same direction, or, at least, that was their intention. Thompson felt something wrong and slammed on the brakes. He poked his head outside and saw what he hadn’t noticed previously: two of the tires were flat. Rafael must have shot them out.

“What’s the problem?” Staughton asked.

“Flat tires,” Thompson explained, getting out of the car.

“He is,” Staughton exclaimed with a sigh.

“He’s what?” Thompson was not joking.

“He is good,” Staughton said admiringly.

Just as Thompson was about to express his anger, a London cab stopped next to the car. A young man got out with a disdainful look.

“What happened here?” he asked rudely.

“Keep going,” Thompson answered impolitely. “This is none of your business.”

A sarcastic, annoying smile appeared on the man’s face.

“You must be Barnes’s men.”

“And who are you?” Staughton asked, unhappy with the insult.

“I’m your boss for the next few hours. I have two men inside there. What’s happened here?”

“Are we speaking with Herbert?”

The man nodded yes.

“Your men should be dead. We couldn’t stop them from taking the woman away,” Staughton confessed.

“Who?”

“You haven’t heard of Rafael Santini or Jack Payne?”

Herbert recognized the name. He went over to the taxi driver’s door and took out a revolver.

“I’m out of patience. So I’m going to give you five seconds to leave the vehicle.”

The taxi driver sat astonished and immobile, but when Herbert looked at his watch and started to count, one, two, three, four, it only took a second for him to leave the taxi and start running as fast as his age allowed.

“Let’s go now,” Herbert ordered. He turned to Thompson. “You drive.” Then to Staughton, “You call Barnes. We can’t let them get out of the city, even if we have to get the president after them. They can’t and won’t leave the city alive.”

38

Good Lord, who could it be at this hour?” protested the poor sister who had to dress as quickly as possible to attend the impatient person who’d been knocking insistently at the door of the Convent of the Order of the Sacred Heart of Jesus for the last five minutes. She even crossed herself when, still in bed, she looked at the clock and saw that it was ten minutes before five in the morning, fifty-five minutes before she’d get up for the first prayers before breakfast.

Whoever it was would have to listen to her reprimand since it was highly discourteous to disturb the sleep of the sisters, even more so when the evening before they’d had a night procession with candles in honor of Our Lady. The Marian Sanctuary stood some hundreds of feet from here, and today thousands of pilgrims were expected to come to show their devotion to the Virgin and her fruit conceived without sin.

The sister descended the stairs in a bad mood. It was the Mother Superior’s orders to open the door at any time. All the devout faithful had the right to a friendly word, meal, or refuge in case of necessity. But it wasn’t the Mother who had to get up at this hour and open the door, exposed to assault by some vagrant. No, she slept on an upper floor and said her first prayer of the day in the comfort of her room, coming down only for breakfast to give the orders of the day, which were always the same as every other day.

The sister got to the door, dressed in the pure blue robe of her order with a white head scarf she arranged to appear presentable to whoever was there. She opened a small square wicket in the door. She had to get up on a small box that once held fruit in order to reach the height of the opening, a little narrower than her head.

“Who’s there?” she asked in a disagreeable voice to discourage any levity on the part of whoever was there… on the other side of the door.

“Good evening,” she heard a man say. “Pardon my showing up at such a late hour,” he began to excuse himself in a gentle voice. “I meant to arrive sooner, but I was delayed.”

“Who is the gentleman?” The sister strained her eyes to make out the man who was speaking.

“I’m Father Marius Ferris. I was planning to arrive last night to sleep under the sanctified roof of this convent.”

The sister was moved upon hearing his name and changed her attitude completely.

“Marius Ferris? Escrivá’s disciple? My God!”

The prelate didn’t see the sister jump down from the fruit box or knock it out of the way with a well-aimed kick. He did hear all the sounds that accompanied these actions as well as the key working vigorously in the solid lock to reveal the friendly sister, a foot shorter than he thought, as soon as the door opened. Not everything is as it appears, thought the white-haired man whom the fawning sister invited to enter the convent.

“Come in, please. You are welcome.”

They both went up the stairs to the convent proper, Marius Ferris more quickly than the sister, whose age didn’t permit her unanticipated climbs, the effects of half a lifetime shut up in those four walls, praying to the Lord, preparing three meals a day, and sleeping eight hours. In Marius Ferris one saw the results of his daily walks in New York City from lower Sixth Avenue to Central Park and back.

“Mother Superior asked me to let her know as soon as you arrived,” the sister told him, trying to catch her breath.

“That’s not necessary,” Marius Ferris replied. “Let her rest. Show me to my room, and the sister can also rest a little more.” His friendly voice charmed her completely.

“Thank you. I’m fine. I’m going to ask them not to bother you until breakfast so you can rest.”

Marius Ferris smiled.

“Don’t trouble yourself, sister. I slept during the trip. I only need to take a bath, make some calls, and go down to breakfast.”

“Today a great number of people are expected,” the sister informed him helpfully. It’s not every day they had a dignitary of such importance. Only the pope himself could surpass this visit. With this holy thought, they arrived at the door that opened to Marius Ferris’s temporary abode, a small brown door, similar to the others along the hallway, with a cross fixed in the center.

“I know that well, sister,” the prelate replied with a friendly gesture. “Yesterday was a procession day, if I recall.”

Oh, if only the sister were not a nun. What sweet words, or at least they sounded so in her honeyed ears.

“Correct. It’s too bad you were delayed. The ceremony was beautiful.”

“I imagine so. I imagine so. I saw it many years ago, more than twenty.” His eyes expressed a nostalgia he tried to hide in vain. The past has the power of years. No one can resist it, even the boldest.

“There will be other opportunities, surely,” the sister answered with good humor. It would be a good day. She opened the door and invited him in with her hand. “You know, Your Eminence, from the twelfth to the thirteenth, between May and October. Since 1917, thanks to the Virgin Mary.” She bent down intending to kiss the cleric’s hand for his blessing, which he didn’t decline.