“Good morning,” Sarah and Simon answered in unison, as required by good manners.

“Did you sleep well?” Simon asked.

“Sort of. Although actually that sofa needs some fixing up. Those springs…” Phelps complained, rubbing his sore back. “But anyone with a roof over his head to shelter him shouldn’t complain. Right?”

“Sounds like a priest talking,” Simon joked while chewing away on the food.

“Don’t go,” Sarah said. “There’s food for one more. Sit down,” she invited him in a friendly way.

“Ah, thank you,” he acknowledged, sitting down at their side. “The truth is I’m hungry. I haven’t eaten for hours.” He didn’t tell them it had been more than a day since he’d put anything in his mouth.

“There are scones, bread, butter, cheese…” While she was talking, Sarah passed them to Phelps, who still didn’t find what he was looking for. “Do you want some milk, coffee, tea?”

“Tea, please.”

“Good choice. It’s still hot.” She poured a little into a cup. “I’m Sarah,” she introduced herself.

“James Phelps.” He got up and offered his hand formally. “Nice to meet you.”

Sarah got up, too, and held out her hand. She wouldn’t leave him there with his hand in the air.

“Pleased to meet you.”

“Yesterday was hard,” Phelps said in an awkward attempt at generating polite conversation.

“If you two hadn’t appeared just in time, my mother would’ve been very unhappy,” Simon said convincingly as he joined the conversation.

“How do you know Rafael?” the older man asked politely, sipping a little tea and taking a small bite of a scone.

“I don’t know anyone by that name,” Simon replied immediately without thinking.

“It’s a long story, James. Excuse me, can I call you James?”

“Of course, Sarah,” he agreed.

“Who is Rafael?” Simon persisted without understanding.

“I would be delighted to know, if you want to tell me,” Phelps continued, leaving it in Sarah’s hands and ignoring Simon’s question completely.

“Later,” Rafael interrupted from the doorway. “I see you’ve all met. Now it’s necessary to dot all the i’s and tell you your jobs.”

“What jobs?” Phelps and Sarah asked at the same time.

“Do you think the danger has passed? This is only the beginning.”

42

Sarah and Rafael were late. They were due in Barnes’s office, ready for a not very cordial interrogation. That time had come and gone, and they didn’t show, except for himself, in the office. His solitude had been broken by brief visits from Staughton and Thompson reporting on the progress, which was nothing, and as the hours passed, that was worrisome. Priscilla had passed by to check on his physical state, and he’d asked her to bring him an order of roast pork with potatoes and oregano, the cravings of a body hungry for victory.

At that moment Herbert entered.

“Don’t tell me they’ve found a hole to hide in?”

“Don’t fuck around with me,” Barnes shouted with irritation. “If you were better, you wouldn’t need to walk in our shadow to do your shitty job.”

“Don’t doubt that if I were the one giving orders, I’d do it alone, with no help. You have hundreds of agents, and not one has managed to find them. As far as we know, they might have left the country.”

“They haven’t left,” Barnes insisted firmly.

“How can you guarantee that?” Herbert pressed, seeing Barnes worried.

“My word is enough. They haven’t left the country. And I’ll tell you more. They’re still in the city.”

Even the younger man’s smile was without any feelings. More a grimace, livid, lifeless.

“You’re basing that on instinct, Mr. Barnes. You Americans are very fond of luck and destiny.”

“This has nothing to do with luck. I know the suspects well,” Barnes said. Besides, I know that he’s going to find a way to let us know when he leaves the country. He didn’t speak this thought. You’ve got to have an ace up your sleeve that others don’t know about, even if they’re associates.

Herbert raised his hands in the air as if to say that Barnes’s arguments were worthless, but if he wanted to believe them, fine.

“I’ve got to inform my superior about the situation in half an hour. What am I going to say? That we haven’t expanded the radius of the search because you have a hunch?”

“Fuck what you’re going to tell him. My men are doing their job. I don’t have the least doubt that any moment now they are going to come through that door with something solid. If you want to tell him, I don’t think we are going to have any news until nightfall. So prepare him and yourself. It’s going to be a long wait.”

“Who’s the man who showed up at the hospital? This Rafael who seems to have upset you?”

Barnes paused thoughtfully before responding.

“A traitor. He infiltrated P2 in order to destroy it from the inside and almost succeeded.”

“He managed to deceive JC and the CIA?” A sarcastic smile.

“You’re in no position to laugh,” Barnes warned, chastened. “For all I know he gave your men a good looking over three times. They probably don’t even know what happened.” He laughed in an offensive way that seemed not to affect the other. He congratulated himself thinking that deep down Herbert must have been angered. Nobody could be so cool all the time.

The office door opened to let in Staughton and the pandemonium of noise from the Center for Operations. Closing the door behind him cut off the exterior noise, leaving a silent movie unfolding on the other side of the window, an agitation without meaning.

“News?” Barnes asked, leaning back in the chair to give his younger colleague an impression of calm and control.

“We’re analyzing the images on CCTV, but it’s like looking for a needle in a haystack. We can’t find any Mercedes with continental markings or the license plate in question. We see no bank transfers in the accounts of Sarah Monteiro or Simon Lloyd…”

Barnes laughed dryly.

“What do you want? Everything tied up all nice and neat for you? It won’t be there.”

“Where will it be then?” Herbert asked maliciously.

“Rest assured you’re dealing with someone who knows how we work. I get irritated, unhinged, fucked up, but we have to be rational.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“That he’s going to appear when and where it seems best to him.”

“That’s not an option. There has to be a way to find them.” For the first time a note of irritation could be detected in Herbert’s voice. Barnes was pleased and didn’t take long to show it.

“We’re doing everything possible already,” Staughton told him. “We have the CCTV on constant alert, not just in London, but over the entire country. All the police and border patrol have their photographs and know what to do if they’re spotted. The MI6 is working with us.”

“It’s okay they’re helping,” Barnes interrupted. “I don’t much like their thinking about their own interests.”

“There’s nothing else to do,” Staughton declared.

“What if we offer a reward?” Herbert suggested.

“Don’t talk nonsense,” Barnes protested. “Publicize the thing? Have the journalists and public opinion all over us? What do we gain from that?”

“Catch them sooner. People will do anything for money.”

“It might not be a bad idea,” Staughton put in.

Herbert crossed his arms and looked skeptical.

“We’ve identified the man who took Sarah and Simon to the van.”

That got the attention of Barnes and Herbert.

“He’s named James Phelps, an English priest assigned to the Vatican.”

“The what?” Barnes grumbled. “Son of a bitch.”

The three were silent for a few seconds. In this profession everything was a question of strategic analysis. Deciding what route to take to get to a determined objective, speculating about what the others would do. The more facts they had to fill in the blanks, the more accurate their speculation. When there was little information, everything was guesswork and hunches. Trusting luck was not good, but sometimes one had no choice.