He’d had other guests like this in the past, whose traces were deliberately covered over or never left. In those situations one didn’t ask intrusive questions of any kind; one took the money, signed the register, and forgot that a man named Timothy Elton accompanied by an old man had once stayed in the inn.

Behind the closed door with the number 206 fixed in the wood was a scene of one-sided nervousness. The younger man paced from one side to the other with his cell phone in hand with no call sent or even about to be made. Abu Rashid sat in a chair, distanced, free, watching the other’s nervousness.

“I’m like the only responsible one,” Tim said. “I can’t get hold of my boss.”

Sweat covered his face, an occupational hazard for men who work under specific instructions.

Abu Rashid closed his eyes and sighed. He withdrew from Tim’s negative energy. He remained in that state many minutes, hours, concentrating on himself, peace, and good thoughts. He forgot there was someone else in the room, stopped hearing the frenetic pacing and complaints. He understood Tim’s doubts, the dilemma, the disgust, solitude, sudden confusion. It was like having the umbilical cord cut while still inside the maternal womb.

When morning broke and entered the sinister hour of sepulchral silence, broken by cries and unknown sounds, Tim’s steps were no longer heard in the room waiting for the call that hadn’t come.

Abu Rashid felt a cold, cylindrical object pressed against his head. He knew what it was and didn’t bother to open his eyes to see the menace.

“Who told you about the tomb?”

“You know as well as I do, Tim.”

“Don’t call me Tim,” he shouted.

“What do you want me to call you? Timothy?”

Tim drew the gun away from Abu Rashid’s head and scratched his head with the hand holding it. He took a deep breath and thought. He made sure the cell phone was closed. Everything was correct. Only the instructions were lacking.

“Who else knows about the tomb?”

“You, me, and whoever is giving you orders. Not even those directly involved know.”

“But someone else has to know.” Tim’s voice stammered, confused. He was very tired, and Abu Rashid was not an easy prisoner. “The Americans? The Russians? With their secret satellites?”

“You know satellites, as advanced as they may be, cannot keep track of millions of people. They only keep watch on a small part of the globe. They only see one thing at a time. And while they’re focused on one objective, they see nothing else. The idea that they can monitor everything and everybody every hour and minute is absurd. An attempt to frighten us. Only God can be in all places at all times, and so He helps us in all we want to do.”

“Don’t blaspheme,” Tim cried, sitting on the edge of the bed. “This conversation about technology only proves that you know how things work.” He pointed the gun at him.

“Why don’t you try to kill me if that’s your final judgment?”

Tim lowered both his eyes and the gun. He looked again at the cell phone on the bedspread.

“Don’t worry. He’ll call you,” Abu Rashid assured him.

There was visible disturbance in Tim’s face, a boy taken from his mother and father to be given orders and shown the path. Only orphan boys gathered into the bosom of the Catholic community could be initiated into the secret order of the Sanctifiers. Of those, very few were chosen to fill the sparse ranks of the elite group. Innumerable tests and discipline were necessary-thousands of hours of prayer to the Lord, theological, anthropological, sociological study, punishment of the flesh, several hours a day, religiously. A few blows of a whip striking the flesh and immediately the sharp pain vanquished evil thoughts, feelings, and other degeneracy.

Tim got up and took some white plastic cords out of the pocket of his jacket. He went over to the dreamy Abu Rashid and tied him to the chair to prevent him from getting away. That done, he opened the bathroom door and took off his jacket.

Abu Rashid opened his eyes.

“God is and always will be synonymous with love. Man is the one who has created sorrow and the dogma that suffering is the remedy for everything.”

Tim ignored him and shut himself in the bathroom. The water ran in the tub and sink, strong streams to cover up the held-back moans. Return me to the right road, Lord, he murmured, bent over in the liberating pain. Return me to Your Way.

He turned off the faucets. Silence returned. Tim opened the door that separated the bathroom from the bedroom with his shirt on and buttoned. More self-possession was impossible, given the circumstances. He found Abu Rashid in the same position he’d left him. Eyes open, looking at him without blame… without the cords that had tied him. He looked closer. It couldn’t be. He confirmed it. He squatted down to pick one up; it was cut. He took the gun he had left in his jacket on top of the bed. An irresponsible act, he recognized.

“Who cut the cords?”

“Our Lady,” Abu Rashid answered.

The punch struck him full in his face.

“Who cut the cords?” Timothy repeated.

He opened the door of the room, gun in hand, and looked around. Everything was quiet. He did the same at the window. It was too dark to see anything.

“Our Lady,” Abu Rashid said again.

Tim returned to the center of the room and sighed. I’m going crazy. He took in what had occurred and analyzed the cord again.

“Why didn’t you run away or take the gun?” he finally asked.

“I don’t need to,” Abu Rashid declared, looking at him profoundly.

“You still don’t understand, Tim. I’m not your prisoner. I’m here of my free will. Sleep now. Tomorrow will be an important day.”

64

A thin line separates patriotic duty from the temporary illusion of a comfortable life free of financial problems, as if money were the magic solution for earthly happiness. Even on a border as rigidly controlled as the Russian, greasing palms with dollars is sufficient stimulus. It’s never been a question of honor or dignity, but of price.

As soon as they left Moscow, they went in civilian helicopters somewhere close to the border with Ukraine. From there they caught a plane that in a matter of seconds crossed the border, leaving the Russian authorities to deal with the dead agents. It would open a diplomatic conflict between America and Russia, but without proof the Westerners could deny any responsibility.

There were two stops on the long flight, but Rafael and Sarah couldn’t calculate how long. They only knew they’d been traveling for hours. During the first stage they were blindfolded and forced to change planes. There the blindfolds were taken off, but even so there was nothing to orient them. They flew together in a compartment that was essentially a cell without windows. There was hardly space for the two seats where they sat tied with straps and chains above and below. You couldn’t be claustrophobic and survive in such a narrow space. Even someone who’d never suffered previous symptoms would end up suffering, as happened to Sarah, who felt her nose and throat begin to close up. Being handcuffed didn’t help. It didn’t matter that they’d removed the blindfold. It wasn’t really necessary since the walls around them were barely visible. Her respiratory panic increased when Rafael fell asleep. She felt alone, incapable of sleeping, consumed by her thoughts and speculations. In this case she had no control of the situation. Without any aces there was no way to negotiate. The only thing she could do was trust Rafael, who seemed to be sleeping the sleep of the innocents, completely carefree, as if he didn’t expect an unforeseen torture session. Barnes was not going to forgive them, much less whoever was working for him.

How can he sleep? She couldn’t get James Phelps out of her mind during the long flight. How was such deception possible? To gain their confidence, listen, suffer physically with them, only to gain some strange influence, whatever it was. A courteous man with an adorable frailty, who could be her father, until he looked at her with those cold eyes, repugnant, a taker of lives. There was a Portuguese proverb about he who sees faces, doesn’t see hearts. There was no better way to illustrate the manipulative power of that Englishman. To think she’d been genuinely worried about his health. She couldn’t help a certain negativity come over her, a loss of hope for humanity.