“Stop. Give me the goggles.”

Sarah had no choice but to obey. She found herself immersed in the darkness of the stairwell. She heard some noises to the side.

“What’s that?”

Silence.

A new sound, like something dragging itself along.

“What’s that?”

“Be very quiet,” the man said with a panting sound indicating physical effort. The voice came from in front. “It’s only a little way.”

The little way had been long, or seemed so. She heard the man’s voice behind her again.

“Now take a step forward.”

A step forward.

“Another.”

Another step ahead.

“Now relax. Stay quiet.”

Sarah complied and again heard the sounds of dragging repeated.

Suddenly a white fluorescent light came on, illuminating an empty hallway. The man, almost sixty years old, was in front of her with a slightly mocking smile on his face.

“We’ve arrived. You can go on,” the unknown man said. “Keep going straight. You can’t get lost.”

The hallway had doors on only one side. They went in the second.

“Stay here a minute. I’m going to urinate.”

The man closed the door, but there was no sound of a key turning in the lock.

Strange, Sarah thought. Could it be he didn’t lock it? After a staircase in which special goggles were required to go down, this seemed amateurish. Maybe the door could only be opened from outside. That was it. That had to be it.

Spurred on by curiosity, Sarah tried to turn the doorknob, sure it wouldn’t open.

She was wrong.

She spied the hallway. Not a living thing. She started to walk down it, step by step, not knowing what to look for. An exit? Only if there were a different one, because the stairs were impossible. There was no light. She had no idea where she was. The grated door of the elevator was closed and the elevator itself empty. No alarm button was visible. She tried the doors fearfully, always alert for a sound that would indicate the return of the unknown man. She turned the knobs carefully. Two were locked. She didn’t need to check the one she’d left. The door at the side was ajar. She opened it slightly and saw Phelps and Rafael seated on chairs face downward on a square table. Red stains on the floor made a shiver run down her spine.

“Rafael,” she whispered.

“Sarah,” he answered seriously. He showed no physical weakness. “Are you okay?”

“Yes. I mean, considering the possibilities.” She was happy to see him again… see them… “Are you… all right?”

“Yes, thanks,” Rafael answered calmly.

“James is pale,” Sarah realized. “Are you all right?”

“Uh, don’t worry. It’s nerves,” the Englishman said.

“What are we doing here?” Sarah wanted to know. “Is it Bar-”

Rafael put his finger on his lips, the obvious sign to shut up.

“We are in the custody of the Russian secret service. Old guard people without technological equipment or satellite images. They’re very patient and have their own training. This is one of their old methods.”

“What method?” Phelps asked doubtfully.

“They leave us loose here without pressure, prepared to complain about our life, one to the other, to talk about what has brought us here and how everything has gone wrong for us, et cetera, et cetera.”

In fact all this sudden freedom has Seemed Strange to Sarah. It smacked of amateurism. It might have worked if Rafael were not here.

“Would you like something to drink?” Rafael asked Sarah.

“What?” She hadn’t expected this question. “Ah, if I had the pleasure of a cup of tea…”

“Three teas for us down here, please,” he shouted at the door, startling Sarah and Phelps.

“It’s not every day we receive a visit from foreigners who know our methods,” a voice answered from the door. “The foreigners who know them are not usually in the world of the living.”

Sarah recognized him as the man in his sixties who had led her to this basement.

“You?” Phelps offered this scandalized doubt.

“Me indeed,” the man answered. He turned to Rafael. “Who are you?”

They stared at each other without blinking. They measured forces, studied each other. Every gesture counted, thus the appearance of calm. Rafael seated with his elbow on the table supporting his chin as if he didn’t have a care in the world. The unknown man leaning in the doorway, a cigarette in his mouth.

“You know who I am.”

A smile filled the Russian’s mouth. Straight white teeth.

“Does the pope know you are here?”

“Why don’t you ask him?”

“Maybe I will.”

He took a drag on the cigarette and adopted a meditative expression, an empty look, supported by the silence of the moment.

“I have many questions for you, Father Rafael Santini.” A slight mocking look shone in the Russian’s eyes. It was time to show the cards.

“I haven’t come to answer but to ask questions… barber Ivanovsky.”

58

Inside every border there is an elite with limitless access to all corners of the territory. They are in control over the population whether the regime is democratic or dictatorial. The few that control the many, a minority who clap their hands and see one pair of hands turn into an immense national applause. Beyond the greedy ones of national influence, there are others who go beyond the borders of their own country and manage to make the greater part of other populations dance to the sound of their music. These are the elite of the elite, and of course they exist, since everything can be subdivided infinitely.

Marius Ferris could be considered one of these privileged few, someone who crosses borders without being inconvenienced, who enters countries through a special door without the necessity of explanations.

Work or pleasure? is what some border guards ask recent arrivals. A phrase Marius Ferris never hears. One word, one word alone, is what they tell him: Welcome. They don’t even take his diplomatic passport with the Vatican seal. It’s enough when they see it at a distance in the hand of a man of the highest importance.

He had arrived on a commercial night flight, business class, of course. He has enjoyed the privilege of a Famous Grouse whiskey, earphones to listen to music or add sound to the images on his individual monitor, an orthopedic pillow to sleep a little. After all, it was two hours and forty minutes in the air, and sleep has to be regularized. Twenty minutes’ delay from the scheduled arrival to the actual time the plane touched down on the asphalt of Leonardo da Vinci Airport at Fiumicino.

He headed immediately for the place of his personal pilgrimage. His bedroom in the Casa di Santa Marta could wait.

He found a young driver waiting for him with a paper showing the letters M.F.O.D.

Marius Ferris, Opus Dei. The prelate smiled.

“That’s me. Good evening.”

“Good… good evening… Your Eminence.”

He could have corrected him and told him that he was not yet “Your Eminence,” but he liked the deference to religious authority. In the final account he and his colleagues were the border that separates the believers from God. And nobody got to God without passing through people like him. It was worth all the money extracted from the faithful, more or less wealthy, who deposit fortunes in their hands… in the name of God.

The driver offered to take the small silver-gray briefcase he carried.

“Don’t bother. I’ll carry it,” he refused arrogantly. “Show me to the car, please.”

The car was right at the door of the arrivals terminal, a rare case today, explicable because the passenger was who he was.

Once settled into the immense backseat of the Mercedes, top line, with his briefcase in his lap, Marius Ferris sighed. A sigh of relief, of peace with himself. Things were coming together again.

“To Saint Peter’s, Your Eminence?” the driver asked, looking at him in the rearview mirror.