The elevator began a slow descent. Phelps saw Ivanovsky rise up, although he was the only one moving, and noticed a sardonic smile before disappearing and descending into complete darkness.

The motor growled, and the whole elevator creaked as it passed down floors. Without light he couldn’t figure out how fast he was going, but with his heart in his throat he calculated that thirty seconds had passed. However slow the elevator, he must surely have descended several floors.

It stopped suddenly, almost making Phelps fall. He’d forgotten his fatigue and only worried about the unknown. He opened the door of the cage cautiously-the lighting was bad-took a step forward, a second, a third, and stopped in a hallway. He tried to see enough not to bump into the walls. The hallways, except for some architectural decoration, were all the same. They crossed the building, opening into the main rooms. This one was no different, with several doors all on one side.

“This is the museum?”

A click turned on some fluorescent lights, white and strong, just above him. He was startled and stopped walking. They must be photoelectric cells, he thought. He took another couple of steps out of range of the light and another lit up. That confirmed it. The walls were gray and bare. Except for four doors there was nothing more, no pictures, tapestries, tables, absolutely nothing.

Phelps went forward a little more, and the lights turned on at each step, while those behind went out automatically, creating a shadowy atmosphere.

Farther ahead Phelps began to hear voices coming from inside one of the rooms off the hallway. He immediately identified Rafael’s but not the other two. They spoke Russian, or some other Eastern European language, that was certain. This Rafael was surprising. The Vatican wasn’t scanty with its service. It prepared its people so they could control any terrain lacking nothing, without errors or imperfections.

He approached the door in question, which was only closed a little, but understood nothing since it was all in Russian. He tried to see inside the room, but the crack was narrow. All he could see were shadows.

Suddenly the door opened, revealing a blond man with a wrinkled face covered by a week’s growth of beard. He carried a Kalashnikov and began a one-sided conversation in Russian with Phelps. He shouted, spraying shots of saliva in every sense of the word. The thought occurred to Phelps that the gun was unnecessary, since his breath was so bad it could knock down any enemy.

“He doesn’t understand Russian,” he heard Rafael say in English.

The man stopped his babble and looked inside.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

The Russian dragged Phelps into the room. A sixty-watt bulb hung from a wire attached to the ceiling right in the center, shining down on a square table in bad shape with blotches of dried blood on the laminated wood. Phelps made out another man with a Kalashnikov pointed at Rafael, seated, but, from what could be seen, unhurt. Next to a wall was an open armory. Inside were three shelves full of various makes of guns, grenades, radios, a satellite telephone, a machine for resuscitation or torture, depending on the intended purpose. Phelps felt panic at the sight.

“Is this everyone?” asked the man who was pointing the gun at Rafael’s head. He was stronger and older.

“The woman is missing,” the wrinkled man said, shoving Phelps against the wall and pressing the barrel of the gun into him. Immediately he searched him minutely. “He’s clean.”

The older man took the radio and pressed a button.

“Everything clean. The woman’s missing.”

No reply was heard in the first seconds. Only the uncomfortable silence of uncertainty.

“Good work,” a man’s voice said at last. “The woman’s with me. Take care of the others.”

56

He knows.”

One of the crucial principles for secret services that claim to be competent and in the vanguard of technological development is the capacity to construct a command post wherever necessary. In spite of the fact that the enormous headquarters of the agency in Langley occupies tens of square miles and besides secret facilities spread all over the planet, each one with specialized functions, it’s common to see small units organized to respond to the demands of the world of espionage. Whether below water, above it, on land or in the air, the CIA is always prepared to act.

In this case the men under the supervision of Barnes and the astute gaze of Harvey Littel found themselves at forty thousand feet flying over Poland. And don’t anyone imagine they’re in their seats with their seat belts fastened. Here seat belts were only buckled during takeoff and the final stage of landing. The hurried activity was the same as that on land at the Center of Operations. Men and women concentrated on monitors and keyboards, listening devices in their ears, shouts, conversations, printers spewing information. This was a unique room. Organization was maintained, rigid and responsive, adapted to the reality of the space. The airplane in question was a Boeing 727 with the registration DC-1700WJY, plain white, belonging to the CIA, not registered with any airline whatsoever. Nor could it be. The American government wouldn’t permit it. Secrets of state must be guarded by the state. Besides the paraphernalia and technicians who occupied the part we’d call economy class, there was an office for Geoffrey Barnes in the business class section, strategically located next to the pilot’s door.

Here in that office, shielded from the Center of Operations, we find the same people as always. Barnes, seated in a chair identical to the one he has in London, reclining with his hands behind his head at a more modest desk. Harvey Littel, also seated in an armchair, legs crossed, a thoughtful look on his face. And the rest of the team, Thompson, Herbert, Priscilla, and Wally Johnson. Only Staughton was away, directing the work in the economy section of the plane.

“He knows,” Barnes repeated, more to himself than to those present in the small office.

“How can he know?” Herbert asked, irritated.

“He chose Moscow by chance? Coincidence?”

“Even if he does know, we can’t risk it,” Littel advised. “What do the Russians say?”

“They don’t say. They’ve decided not to cooperate,” Thompson reported. “If it were up to them, we wouldn’t have authorization to enter the country. Which still isn’t guaranteed. Oh, and they deny they’re in Russia.”

“Bastards,” Barnes swore.

“Shit,” Littel exclaimed. “Why have they changed their attitude now?”

“They always have a card up their sleeve. You can’t trust the Russians,” Barnes said.

“One thing is certain,” Thompson affirmed. “They’re better documented than us.”

“Could they have the Muslim?” Wally Johnson suggested.

“For our sake they better not,” Littel declared. “That would be terrible.”

“Why?” Thompson wanted to know.

“Because we’d have to rescue him,” Herbert explained. “And something would probably go wrong and they’d all die during the operation, the hostage included,” he added ironically.

“If it were up to you, even we’d be wrecked,” Barnes murmured just loud enough for Herbert to hear. The expression Herbert directed at Barnes in return confirmed the murmur had hit its mark.

Staughton entered suddenly, opening the door violently, something out of character for him.

“We have a problem,” he said.

“Another one,” Barnes exploded.

“The Russians won’t permit us to fly over their airspace. Much less land in their territory.”

“What?”

“Now this. Can’t you do something?” Herbert asked.

“Only if your commander has friends in Russia,” Barnes informed him. “And at the highest level.”

Littel looked at the floor, withdrawn, pensive.