“Have you managed to acquire all of them?” Littel asked.

“No,” he admitted disagreeably. “But I know who has what’s missing. I became an assistant for Father Rafael Santini, also known as Jack Payne, as you must know. He’s a difficult man.”

“Who’s going to argue with that?” Barnes said.

“But no one is invincible.”

At that precise moment the door opened to admit Rafael and Herbert. Those standing up moved to accommodate them.

“Speak of the devil…” Phelps said.

“The devil speaks,” Rafael countered.

He got a smack on the head for that.

“Shut up. Speak when you’re told to,” Herbert warned. One has to be courteous.

“Go on. Who has what we need?” Barnes announced.

At that moment they heard over the intercom: “Gentlemen, this is the pilot here. We are descending into Rome. Landing in twenty minutes.”

Phelps looked at Rafael, who looked back without blinking.

“Our friend here has the file.”

“Him?” Barnes protested, pointing at Rafael.

“What’s the matter, Barnes?” Littel asked.

“Good luck. I hope you have an alternative plan because he’ll carry that information to the grave.”

“What are you saying?” Now it was Phelps who didn’t understand.

“My dear sir, this man is trained for the most dangerous missions. Unless you have some hold over him, the only thing torture will get from him is body parts and organs.”

Phelps smiled. He understood the American’s worry.

“Don’t worry. He’s going to tell us everything. We have the woman.”

“What woman?” Sebastian Ford asked.

“Her.” He pointed with irritation at Sarah Monteiro.

The room looked in silence at Phelps. What did the woman have to do with Rafael?

Phelps assumed the attitude of a teacher. Was he the only one who noticed?

“There are certain feelings between the two of them.”

Sarah blushed.

Barnes looked at Rafael and Sarah, then at Littel.

“Do you believe it?”

“Phelps is the one who knows them,” Littel answered with a shrug.

“And the rest of the documents?”

“My number two has discovered that the cardinal betrayed us. So they can only be in JC’s hands.”

“Then she’s screwed.” Barnes didn’t mince words.

“Everything is as it needs to be. We know who has what. And I’m counting on your help to throw out some bait for JC,” Phelps announced victoriously.

“What?”

“Ah… well. I want to talk to you about that,” Littel said to Barnes, and got up. “We know you’ve worked with P2.”

“P2?” Sebastian Ford asked again.

“JC’s organization,” Littel told him. “We need you to mount a plan to catch them.”

“I can’t do that,” Barnes warned circumspectly.

“You have to,” Littel argued. “It’s an order.”

Barnes snorted like a racehorse waiting to take off when the pistol fires.

“It’s not like that. We have to separate things. We can’t turn our back on some people only to benefit outside organizations. I understand your dilemma, Barnes, but we have no choice.”

“I knew you weren’t coming here just to be on my side.”

Silence reigned in the room for a few moments, just enough not to last.

“At least we’re in agreement,” Phelps said with a mocking smile. “Anyone else have a question?”

“Why couldn’t you sleep in peace?”

The glances turned toward Sarah, who had asked the question, then to Phelps.

“It’s you who are going to be interrogated now, my dear,” he answered uncomfortably.

“You don’t want her to know that one of your members was behind the assassination attempt,” Rafael interjected.

“Shut up,” Phelps ordered.

Herbert smacked Rafael in the face again, harder this time.

“Who?” Sebastian Ford wanted to know.

“Paul Marcinkus,” Rafael answered.

“Shut up, I said.” Anger reddened Phelps’s face.

“Marcinkus was P2,” Barnes affirmed.

“And Opus Dei. They were the ones who recommended him to Paul the Sixth as IWR administrator.”

“Don’t say another word,” Phelps yelled. “Get him out of here.”

Herbert grabbed him and began to drag him out. It wasn’t easy, even with Rafael handcuffed.

“You’re protecting a murderer and a pedophile. That’s what he doesn’t want you to know.”

Priscilla put her hand to her mouth, shocked. Littel and the others didn’t seem surprised. Only Barnes’s men showed no previous knowledge of this.

Phelps brought his hand to his mouth and sighed.

“Enough. This is going to be done the way we agreed. Is there any problem?” He spoke to Littel.

“Not on our part,” he answered, looking at Barnes.

“Very well. Take those two to the cell. They’ll be interrogated on the ground,” Phelps commanded.

“Did you hear what he said?” Barnes demanded. “Staughton, Thompson, lend a hand.” He looked at Rafael. “This time there’s no accord to save you. I want to be the one who sends you from here to hell.”

Rafael smiled provocatively.

“Where’s the Muslim?” Phelps wanted to know.

“What Muslim?”

“Abu Rashid.”

“We don’t have him,” Littel informed them. “He disappeared from Jerusalem days ago.”

Phelps looked at him astonished.

“You don’t have him?”

“No.”

“The Russians don’t have him. I heard the conversation they had with our friend here. He also seems to have never heard of him. I thought he could only be in your custody.”

“He never has been,” Littel asserted. “We have no idea where he could be.”

“We’ll have to resolve this,” Phelps added.

“What about the journalist?” Garrison wanted to know.

“Kill him,” Phelps said without thinking twice. “Let’s go. Move.”

Staughton and Thompson helped Herbert carry Sarah and Rafael. She shot a last look at Simon Lloyd, who couldn’t disguise the panic in his eyes.

“No one’s going to kill anyone for now.”

Everyone looked at Rafael.

“Oh, no?” Phelps mocked.

“No.”

“And why not?”

You save your ace for the right moment.

65

Over the years the American archbishop had visited the papal office in the Apostolic Palace many times, most frequently during the era of his protector, Paul VI. One phone call was enough to find out the pope’s schedule, and the gates opened immediately if there was an available time. He visited once during the short reign of Albino Luciani, on the evening of his death, to appeal to the pope not to accuse him of fraud and other more serious crimes. That visit was a complete failure. In the pontificate of Wojtyla, which had lasted twelve years so far, the visits could be counted on his two hands, decidedly fewer than a dozen. This was the first in the last five years.

The Pole was distracted, scrawling on a piece of paper, and hadn’t invited him to sit down. Courtesy demanded he not do so on his own, especially in the office of the Supreme Pontiff, when he was right in front of him.

He stamped his signature on the lower part of the page printed with the papal seal, put down the gold pen, and looked, for the first time, at the American.

“Good evening, Nestor.”

“Excuse me?” Marcinkus turned red with shame. Had he heard correctly?

“Nestor,” the Pole repeated. “Isn’t he your alter ego?”

“I don’t understand, Your Holiness.” The archbishop’s uneasiness was obvious. He hadn’t expected this reception.

“Don’t play dumb.” Wojtyla got right to the point. “I’ve known everything for a long time.”

“All what, Your Holiness?”

“Well… let’s go over the parts. I thought it was strange when I removed you from the IWR last year that you never came to ask for an explanation.”

“The decision was yours to make, Your Holiness. I was in charge of the bank for eighteen years. It was normal that the time had come to leave,” he responded naturally.

“All right, Nestor.”

“Don’t call me Nestor, Your Holiness.”