Sarah had no choice. Stuart Garrison in his wheelchair, a deathly stare, cold, as if he were in a theater watching a boring film. Priscilla Thomason, a notepad in her hand, closed, watching her with consternation and pain, because of Littel and his will or lack of will. Littel remained seated, with his legs crossed, reading some reports that had little to do with this case. His lack of interest in Sarah was obvious. He was there to serve the wishes of the president of the United States of America… or not. Wally Johnson, in his army uniform with the braids of a lieutenant colonel fixed to the shoulders, reminded her of a sentinel guarding the fort, firm, alert, prepared to destroy any threat. Sebastian Ford, whom Sarah recognized as the man who’d entered the cell to see Rafael. Rafael’s man on Barnes’s team. Barnes had no idea. Ford watched her with compassion, a politician with feelings. Here votes didn’t count, there was no campaign, nothing to win. Herbert, the faithful aide, seemingly everything men of power needed to do their dirty work, and also the clean work. Staughton, the man of data more than field operations. Thompson distanced from her. Habit creates defenses, the mind adapts and rejects the idea that what the person is doing is wrong. He always acted in the best interest of the American nation. Last of all, the old man with white hair who seemed out of place. He was Marius Ferris, the frail parish priest who knew New York. He couldn’t be part of that dark gang of wrongdoers. Or could he? A joking smile on his part answered Sarah’s doubts.

Barnes’s hands squeezed her face, causing an anguished feeling.

“We are the only people in the world who know you’re still alive.”

A shiver ran down Sarah’s spine.

Barnes took his gun from the holster and pressed the cold barrel against her forehead.

“Do yourself a favor and spit out all you know.”

Sarah took a breath anxiously. Her tears flowed copiously; a thread of blood ran from her lips and mouth. They could beat her to death. She had nothing to say.

The tension was broken by the polyphonic sound of the “Star-Spangled Banner” making almost all those present straighten their shoulders. The sound came from a cell phone clamoring for the attention of its owner, Harvey Littel.

“That’s illegal,” a stern-faced Barnes objected. He left Sarah and sat at the desk, leaving his gun to the side.

“Every American should have that music on his cell phone,” Littel asserted before answering it.

The assistant subdirector listened to the caller.

“Just a moment.” He lowered the phone and looked at those in the room seriously. “Leave,” he ordered.

In spite of the generality implied in the order, they all knew that the instruction applied only to the lower-level employees, Colonel Garrison, Priscilla, Wally Johnson, Sebastian Ford, Staughton, and Thompson. But no one moved.

“Ask your men to wait outside,” Littel told Phelps.

The Englishman only needed to frown, and Herbert and Marius Ferris followed in the steps of the others.

“And the woman?” Phelps asked.

“Let her stay,” Littel declared. “It’ll be another secret to carry to the grave.” Sarah preferred to leave for a change of air instead of staying with these men.

Littel set the cell phone on speaker.

“You can forward me the call.”

Barnes was filled with curiosity, as was Phelps. Who could it be?

In less than five seconds they heard the twanging voice of the Texan.

“Harvey?”

Sarah, in the midst of confusion and pain, thought she’d heard that voice somewhere. But she could have been mistaken.

“Yes, Mr. President.”

Barnes stood up straight as a pole. The president for the second time in a short while.

“Is Barnes there with you?”

“He is… I am, Mr. President,” he answered nervously, sitting down in the chair at the desk.

“Great. Great. Listen carefully. Effective immediately, I want the agency out of the operation.”

Phelps turned red upon hearing the words. He must not have heard right. Sarah felt the same for other reasons.

Littel got up suspiciously.

“Mr. President, could you repeat that?”

“I want the agency out of the operation immediately. Take your briefcases, turn out the lights, and close the door.”

“You can’t do something like that,” Phelps returned.

“Who’s speaking?” asked the most powerful man in the world on the other end of the line.

“Jim Phelps, Mr. President,” Littel told him.

“Ah, yes. Jim.” The president indicated he knew Phelps.

“What is this, sir? We have an agreement,” the Englishman reminded him.

“Our agreement required a series of conditions you haven’t fulfilled.”

“What do you mean by that? It’s not over yet. I’m about to comply.” Irritation rose more and more in his voice.

“It’s over, Jim. I want all those implicated out of this and the prisoners freed. I assure you this is best for you.”

“You don’t even know what’s best for yourself,” Phelps replied. The explosion had to happen. His world was crashing down around him. A decision like this deprived him of something he was just starting to enjoy. “You can’t agree to something and then quit in the middle.”

“The agreement was to tie up all the loose ends. You had my complete support, and for that reason you’re in Rome with my men. You painted an easy scenario, and the conclusion we’ve come to is that your enemy has all the evidence, and I’m asking you to terminate everything. If not…”

“What?” Phelps was possessed.

“What you’ve heard. JC has contacted me. He has everything. He was specific in saying he wants everything stopped or you’re going to suffer a disaster.”

Phelps was in anguish. Defeated by the old fox who’d anticipated every one of his steps. He’d dangled the carrot in front of him and manipulated him at his will.

“Everything stays the same. No one leaves hurt,” George added. “Accept it and go along with it, Jim.”

If we looked closely, we’d see a tear welling up in Phelps’s eye. Accept, conform, lose. All this work for nothing. No, this couldn’t happen. They had an agreement. Damn JC.

“What about the tomb?” Phelps wanted to know.

“Everything stays as it is,” the president repeated.

“And the woman, the agent of the Vatican…”

“Release them immediately. Now, I’ve got other things to do. I’ve given my orders. I count on you to carry them out, Littel.”

“Of course, Mr. President.”

“You, too, Barnes.”

“Of course,” Barnes answered, tripping over his words.

The call was over. Sarah was incredulous. She didn’t know whether to feel relieved or suspicious. Be that as it may, a huge about-face had happened at the right moment.

“Bastard,” Phelps cursed, defeated.

“Everything calculated,” Barnes analyzed. “You’ve heard the orders. Let’s close this screwed-up case.”

“No,” Phelps stammered.

“No? You heard the same thing I did. I’m not going to contradict a direct order of the president,” Barnes warned with certainty.

“Before turning in the arms we should kill the prisoners.”

“I’d love to. Especially that bastard Rafael. But the orders are explicit,” Barnes reminded him.

“Let’s say they were already dead.”

“Tell me something, Jim.” Littel spoke. “Suppose we do what you say. Will the transfer continue online?”

“My word is good. Five million in cash, when and where you want it,” Phelps guaranteed him.

“Transfer? What transfer?” Barnes asked.

Sarah felt a shiver in her guts.

“Ten million,” Littel said.

Phelps looked Harvey Littel in the eye with a serious, pragmatic expression.

“Ten million it is.”

“Littel, what the hell are you saying? The president was very clea-”

Before completing the sentence, Barnes lay on the floor with a bullet in his forehead. Littel looked at the body coldly, the gun with a silencer in his hand, which Barnes had forgotten on the desk. Phelps smiled diabolically, and Sarah wept for Natalie, Greg, Clemente, Rafael, Simon, her father, her mother… and Barnes. He wasn’t on her side, but he hadn’t sold out.