“There is a question, though, that has still not been asked,” Simon said, analytically, hesitantly. “What is Opus Dei’s interest? We’re talking about a costly operation with a lot of resources. And what does the CIA have to do with this?”

“We’ll talk about that later,” Rafael decided. “Now we have to discuss what happens next.”

A vibrating sound interrupted them. Rafael’s cell phone. He listened without offering a word and disconnected in the same way.

“Um, by the way, I have to call home. Can I?” Phelps asked cowardly. “I have to reassure my family. I talk to them every day.”

“Of course,” Rafael granted. His voice was serious, professional.

“Don’t worry. I know well what I cannot say.”

“Me too,” Rafael informed him. “But before that, Sarah has to make a call.”

“Me?” She was not expecting this.

“Yes. We need to set your father’s mind at rest. I told him you’d call.” He put the cell phone in her hand. “And, in passing, ask him to tell his associate we need a plane for tonight.”

46

EMANUELA

Wednesday, June 22, 1983

It wasn’t difficult to guess the reason for those shining eyes and that wide smile on her rosy lips. It was the happiness of fifteen years parading before the marvels of life, the promises, the future, which resembled a bouquet of roses. Destiny was the color of a rose.

The reason for her enthusiasm was her first job opportunity. A small job, part-time, but honest, an opening, her first salary, hers alone. She could hardly wait to get home and tell her family. She needed to hurry because the music class had already begun at the institute. Oh, how beautiful Rome was! A salesperson for Avon cosmetics at a fashion show. Who would have thought this opportunity would be in reach?

“Emanuela has the looks for this position. She’s what we’re looking for,” the representative had praised her minutes before on the terrace, as she was enjoying the taste of a soda.

He didn’t get around to opening the black briefcase at his feet, with the handle on top, new and well cared for, the odor of leather blending with the fresh summer breeze. He was around forty, more or less, and had the confident look of someone who knew what to do as a recruiter.

“I’ll have to ask my family,” she’d said. But she’d wanted to accept without bothering with parental permission. “But I think you can count on me,” she concluded with a smile.

“Wonderful, wonderful. But don’t forget. Your parents’ approval is necessary. Without it there can be no contract,” he said seriously.

The man finished his drink and got up, took the briefcase by the handle, and held his hand out professionally.

“It’s been a pleasure, Emanuela. I hope I can count on you.”

The girl responded to the gesture with a smile, constant, delicate, passionate.

“Do you think you can give me an answer tomorrow?” he asked.

“Absolutely,” she answered. “Shall I call you at the office number?”

“No,” he hastened to say. “We can meet here tomorrow at the same time.” It wasn’t a question and Emanuela understood.

“Of course. I’ll be here. Same time,” the girl answered.

“Tomorrow,” he specified to avoid any mistake.

“Tomorrow.” The same bright smile. “See you tomorrow. I’m running late.”

The farewell was quick. The man stood on the terrace with a thoughtful expression, waiting for the next meeting, in his hand the key to the BMW parked in front, another job interview, who knows. He saw her turning the corner running toward the Pontifical Institute of Sacred Music.

It wasn’t hard to guess the reason for these shining eyes and wide smile on her delicate lips. It was the happiness of fifteen innocent years.

She didn’t feel much like going to class, she was too excited, but she couldn’t ask her parents’ permission after skipping; that was out of the question. It was better to fulfill her obligations, avoid problems with her parents, and later, who knew if this job might not be the beginning of a future in the fashion world?

She entered class a little late, for which she apologized and was pardoned. Roman traffic is hell, everyone knows.

The class passed normally, new exercises to practice at home, besides the three days a week she had to come to this building to learn more material for the flute. A little after seven Emanuela called home and talked to her sister about the offer from the Avon representative. Her enthusiasm was obvious. Prudently her sister told her not to make any decisions without talking to her parents.

She walked to the stop for the bus that would take her to Saint Peter’s Square and then to her house, where she’d lived since she was born. She felt the slightly longer days, the sun that stayed a little later, setting slowly behind the buildings in an orange arc, incandescent, which Emanuela didn’t notice, at least not consciously. Nor did she lose time looking at the posters put up along the street with the photograph of a teenage girl, a year older than she, named Mirella, who had disappeared from her parents’ house on the seventh of May. The parents were anxious to see Mirella again or, at worst, to see her body appear, lifeless but touchable, to put an end to the agony of the unknown.

At the bus stop there was a woman waiting, wrapped up in her own life. Emanuela didn’t acknowledge the car sounding its horn in front of the stop, certain the horn couldn’t be for her.

“Emanuela,” someone called from inside the vehicle.

She heard only the second time, absorbed as she was in her own dreams, and she smiled in confusion.

“Hi,” she replied.

“Do you want a ride?” the male voice offered.

“Don’t worry. I don’t want to trouble you,” she excused herself sincerely. “I’m going to the Vatican.”

“I’m going there, to Borgo Pio, for another interview.” The man took his black leather briefcase off the passenger seat to make room and put it in the back. “Get in.”

Emanuela took two seconds to think about it, and with the same innocent smile, opened the door and got in.

The woman waiting at the bus stop didn’t even glance at the BMW that took off in the direction of the Colosseum. She remained ignorant of what was happening right in front of her. The Avon man was counting on that.

The car had already turned down Via dei Fori Imperiali and couldn’t be seen.

47

Three people got out of the black car parked in front of the Holiday Inn Express. They went into the hotel for tourists on low budgets and short stays, passed the reception desk without asking for any authorization or room key, and went up the stairs to the second floor, where an open door revealed every conceivable variety of monitors, cameras, computers, and other kinds of unconventional technology, some top secret that cannot be identified, operated by a dozen agents packed into the tight space. Paying no attention, the three made their way to a room on the side. The door was closed. They opened it without hesitation and went in. They saw four men in identical suits looking out the only window in the room. Jerome Staughton, Thompson, Herbert, and Geoffrey Barnes.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” the recently arrived Harvey Littel, accompanied by his assistant, Priscilla, and Wally Johnson in military uniform, greeted them. “I see there’s been some progress.”

Barnes greeted Littel with a firm handshake. He didn’t try to hide his serious expression.

“Welcome.”

“This is my assistant, Priscilla Thomason, and the military attaché, Wally Johnson.” He gestured toward the two, whom Barnes greeted similarly with a frown.

“My assistants, Staughton and Thompson.” It was an exchange of introductions that left no one unknown. “This is Herbert”-he pointed toward him-“but you should know him better than I.”