When Lucia returned to the grim cubicle she had been assigned, she thought: This place is a snake pit. The floor consisted of bare boards. The pallet and the hard-backed chair took up most of the room. She was desperate to get hold of a newspaper. Fat chance, she thought. Here they had never heard of newspapers, let alone radio or television. There were no links to the outside world at all.
But what got on Lucia's nerves most was the unnatural silence. The only communication was through hand signals, and learning those drove her crazy. When she needed a broom, she was taught to move her outstretched right hand from right to left, as though sweeping. When the Reverend Mother was displeased, she brought together the tips of her little fingers three times in front of her body, the other fingers pressing into her palms. When Lucia was slow in doing her work, the Reverend Mother pressed the palm of her right hand against her left shoulder. To reprimand Lucia, she scratched her own cheek near her right ear with all the fingers of her right hand in a downward motion.
For Christ's sake, Lucia thought, it looks like she's scratching a flea bite.
They had reached the chapel. The nuns prayed silently, but sister Lucia's thoughts were on more important things than.
God.
In another month or two, when the police stop looking for me, I'll be out of this nuthouse.
After morning prayers, Sister Lucia marched with the others to the dining room, surreptitiously breaking the rule, as she did every day, by studying their faces. It was her only entertainment. She found it incredible to think that none of the sisters knew what the others looked like.
She was fascinated by the faces of the nuns. Some were old, some were young, some pretty, some ugly. She could not understand why they all seemed so happy. There were three faces that Lucia found particularly interesting. One was.
Sister Teresa, a woman who appeared to be in her sixties. She was far from beautiful, and yet there was a spirituality about her that gave her an almost unearthly loveliness. She seemed always to be smiling inwardly, as though she carried some wonderful secret within herself.
Another nun that Lucia found fascinating was Sister.
Graciela. She was a stunningly beautiful woman in her early thirties. She had olive skin, exquisite features, and eyes that were luminous black pools.
She could have been a movie star, Lucia thought. What's her story? Why would she bury herself in a joint like this?
The third nun that captured Lucia's interest was Sister.
Megan. Blue eyes, blond eyebrows and lashes. She was in her late twenties and had a fresh, open-faced look.
What is she doing here? What are any of these women doing here? They're locked up behind these walls, given a tiny cell to sleep in, rotten food, eight hours of prayers, hard work, and too little sleep. They have to be pazzo— all of them.
She was better off than they were, because they were stuck here for the rest of their lives while she would be out of here in a month or two. Maybe three, Lucia thought. This is a perfect hiding place. I'd be a fool to rush away. In a few months, the police will stop looking for me. When I leave here and get my money out of Switzerland, maybe I'll write a book about this crazy place.
A few days earlier, Sister Lucia had been sent by the.
Reverend Mother to the office to retrieve a paper, and while there she had taken the opportunity to start looking through the files. Unfortunately, she had been caught in the act of snooping.
"You will do penance by using the Discipline," the Mother.
Prioress Betina signaled her.
Sister Lucia bowed her head meekly and signaled, "Yes.
Holy Mother."
Lucia returned to her cell, and minutes later the nuns walking through the corridor heard the awful sound of the whip as it whistled through the air and fell again and again.
What they could not know was that Sister Lucia was whipping the bed.
These fruitcakes may be into S and M, but not yours truly.
They were seated in the refectory, forty nuns at two long tables. The Cistercian diet was strictly vegetarian. Because the body craved meat, it was forbidden. Long before dawn, a cup of tea or coffee and a few ounces of dry bread were served. The principal meal was taken at eleven A.M., and consisted of a thin soup, a few vegetables, and occasionally a piece of fruit.
The Reverend Mother had instructed Lucia, "We are not here to please our bodies, but to please God."
I wouldn't feed this breakfast to my cat, Sister Lucia thought. I've been here two months, and I'll bet I've lost ten pounds. It's God's version of a fat farm.
When breakfast was over, two nuns brought dishpans to each end of the table and set them down. The sisters seated about the table sent their plates to the sister who had the dishpan. She washed each plate, dried it on a towel, and returned it to its owner. The water got darker and greasier.
And they're going to live like this for the rest of their lives, Sister Lucia thought disgustedly. Oh, well. I can't complain. This sure as hell beats a life sentence in prison.
She would have given her immortal soul for a cigarette.
Five hundred yards down the road, Colonel Ramón Acoña and two dozen carefully selected men from the GOE, the Grupo de Operaciones Especiales, were preparing to attack the convent.
CHAPTER FOUR
Colonel Ramón Acoña had the instincts of a hunter. He loved the chase, but it was the kill that gave him a deep visceral satisfaction. He had once confided to a friend, "I have an orgasm when I kill. It doesn't matter whether it's a deer or a rabbit or a man—there's something about taking a life that makes you feel like God."
Acoña had been in military intelligence, and he had quickly achieved a reputation for being brilliant. He was fearless, ruthless, and intelligent, and the combination brought him to the attention of one of General Franco's aides.
Acoña had joined Franco's staff as a lieutenant, and in less than three years had risen to the rank of colonel, an almost unheard-of feat. He was put in charge of the Falangists, the special group used to terrorize those who opposed Franco.
It was during the war that Acoña had been sent for by a member of the OPUS MUNDO.
"I want you to understand that we're speaking to you with the permission of General Franco."
"Yes, sir."
"We've been watching you, Colonel. We are pleased with what we see."
"Thank you, sir."
"From time to time we have certain assignments that are—shall we say—very confidential. And very dangerous."
"I understand, sir."
"We have many enemies. People who don't understand the importance of the work we're doing."
"Yes, sir."
"Sometimes they interfere with us. We can't permit that to happen."
"No, sir."
"I believe we could use a man like you, Colonel. I think we understand each other."
"Yes, sir. I'd be honored to be of service."
"We would like you to remain in the army. That will be valuable to us. But from time to time, we will have you assigned to these special projects."
"Thank you, sir."
"You are never to speak of this."
"No, sir."
The man behind the desk had made Acoña nervous. There was something overpoweringly frightening about him.
In time, Colonel Acoña was called upon to handle half a dozen assignments for the OPUS MUNDO. As he had been told, they were all dangerous. And very confidential.
On one of the missions Acoña had met a lovely young girl from a fine family. Until then, all of his women had been whores or camp followers, and Acoña had treated them with savage contempt. Some of them had genuinely fallen in love with him, attracted by his strength, and he had reserved the worst treatment for them.