When she wasn’t thinking these things, wondering about her fate, or fighting a panic attack, she watched Rafael sleeping deeply. No one would imagine he was in European airspace, a prisoner of the CIA in partnership with Opus Dei or whomever. She tried to touch his hand, even with her finger, but the strap was too tight.

Rafael didn’t sleep for the whole trip, of course. When he wasn’t sleeping, he talked to Sarah about superficial things.

“What’s it like to be an editor of international politics?” he began asking.

“It’s a lot of work, but the pay is good.”

“I imagine so. I’ve read some of your stories. They’re very good.”

“Thanks. I’ve spent the whole year wondering why.”

“Why what?”

“Why me? How did I get that position, almost as if I parachuted in?”

“What conclusion did you come to?”

“It could only be because JC put me there and gave me enough material to stay,” Sarah argued. “I don’t know why.”

Rafael didn’t indicate agreement or disagreement. He just kept chatting pleasantly, not a word about what was going on. Sarah assumed the reason was that there were other eyes and ears intent on what they said. They talked for several hours about various things until the second stop, probably for refueling. Outside they could hear noises of trucks and machinery checking what needed to be checked for the proper running of the airplane. They were not bothered at any time. It felt like they’d been forgotten.

An hour later the plane rolled down the runway and took off.

Sarah looked at Rafael for the umpteenth time. He’d fallen asleep again. She realized at that precise moment that he’d only talked about her. Absolutely nothing about himself… as was to be expected.

The door of the compartment opened, letting in a young blond man. His heavy fist landed in the middle of Rafael’s sleeping face.

“Wake up,” Herbert shouted with a serious expression.

Rafael opened his eyes, stunned. He had actually been sleeping.

“You’ve given us a lot of trouble,” Herbert growled, loosening Sarah’s straps.

“What I’ve done is make your work easier,” Rafael declared. “If I’d wanted to give you trouble, I wouldn’t be here right now.”

“I know you’re a brave man,” Herbert accused him sarcastically, slapping him again on the same side. “That’s for the men you made me lose.”

“You must feel sorry for them,” Rafael mocked.

Herbert knelt down to loosen the straps binding Sarah’s legs and turned to lift her up.

“Now we’re going to have a conversation,” the captor said, forcing Sarah to get up. “I’m taking you to see the visitors.”

“Give them a kiss for me,” Rafael said before the door closed.

Let’s stay at Sarah’s side, since Rafael isn’t going anywhere.

The plane was spacious. She hadn’t noticed when they entered, considering she hadn’t assimilated any of the unfolding events. Her mind was bombarded with images of the shot to Ivanovsky’s head, the Russian eccentric who’d died in the service of his country, in an attack carried out by Chechen separatists, according to the newspaper headlines. Moscow would have to adopt more repressive measures against those terrorists who showed no respect for human lives.

Swivel seats were distributed through the cabin of what had to be a Boeing 7-something, outfitted with just about everything.

Sarah was pushed toward the front of the plane. Various agents were working throughout the plane, oblivious to her or Herbert. Computers, radar, flat screens reflecting graphs added to the crowded space. At the front was a closed door. Herbert opened it and pushed Sarah inside.

It was a small office for so many people. Sarah recognized only a few, Barnes, seated behind a desk, Staughton, Thompson, although she didn’t know their names, and… Simon Lloyd.

“Simon,” she shouted fervently.

She tried to reach him, but Herbert held her tightly. She evaluated his condition, and it didn’t indicate good treatment. Bruises on his face, dried blood, and a swollen lower lip. Simon Lloyd had endured severe punishment, and she felt responsible, as if she’d done it herself.

“Oh, Simon.”

He lifted his eyes as well as he could and bowed his head again, beaten.

There were more men in the small office, two seated, one in a wheelchair, who Sarah recognized as the man who was inside the black van they’d been put into in Moscow. Another two standing, and a woman. No sign of Phelps.

“He doesn’t know anything. Why have you done this?” she protested emotionally.

“He doesn’t, but you do. Take it as a warning,” Barnes said seriously. He glanced at Herbert. “Go get the other one.”

“With pleasure,” replied Herbert, who was not given to taking orders. Things were going well. Opening the door, he encountered Phelps, and they looked at each other.

“Good work,” Phelps praised him.

“You were magnificent.”

“Have you told Marius?”

“He’s waiting for us,” Herbert told him.

“Perfect.”

Herbert came close to his ear, so no one else would hear.

“You’ll have to tell me how you did it. Everything turned out exactly as you said it would at our last meeting at the restaurant.”

“Secrecy is the soul of business,” Phelps replied without bothering to lower his voice.

They went their separate ways, Herbert in the direction of the cell where Rafael was, Phelps to make the narrow office even tighter.

Sarah felt a mixture of fear and nausea on seeing him. He shot her a sarcastic smile.

“How long before we land?” Barnes asked everyone and no one.

“An hour to Rome,” the ever solicitous Staughton answered. “Excuse the question, but I recognize you from the Chelsea and Westminster Hospital. You were with the suspects and helped them.” There was no reproach in his voice.

“Is that a question?” Phelps was impatient with interrogations.

“Quiet, Staughton,” Littel interrupted. “Mr. Phelps was working as an infiltrator.”

“You knew that?” Barnes wanted to understand, shaken.

“Obviously,” Littel declared.

“My name is James William Phelps. I’m a bishop of the Roman Catholic Church and administrator of the Opus Dei prelature. Any other questions?”

“Who’s the other man you communicated with?” Barnes asked.

“My number two. His purpose was to take care of everything while I was indisposed.”

“Do you consider yourself a servant of the Church?”

Phelps turned his eyes to the source of the question… Sarah. She couldn’t manage to keep quiet.

Phelps smiled. “The Church serves a purpose that I don’t expect you to understand.”

“It serves to kill?”

“To kill and create. It’s much more than a house of prayer. The Church is the engine of the civilized world. The support for democracy.”

Sarah threw him a look of incredulity.

“There are no free states without the Church. Every sacrifice is minor if we keep that in mind.”

“Enough demagogy,” Barnes ordered. “Let’s get to what concerns us. Where are we?” His eyes never left Phelps. He was the one being asked for explanations. There were too many chiefs in the room.

“I infiltrated the heart of the enemy,” the bishop said. “I was singled out as an assistant to a cardinal in the Holy See, who informed me about some lost papers of Albino Luciani and other paper that belonged to Wojtyla, in addition to a complete file on the steps that led to the May thirteenth, 1981, attempt on his life.”

“Who are Albino Luciani and Wojtyla?” asked the diplomatic adjutant, Sebastian Ford, who’d joined the group.

“John Paul the First and John Paul the Second,” Thompson whispered.

“As you can imagine, I never slept a night in peace after that,” Phelps continued, repulsed by such gross ignorance. “In the pleasant conversation with my number two I learned the location of some documents. Others were within reach of the cardinal I serve, and my web of contacts got me the rest. I pulled strings to organize a competent, professional team and obtained your collaboration. It wasn’t difficult given the favors your president and his family owe me.”