The Holy Bullet Part 23

"No, stupid. So you don't know them? That one's named James Phelps. He's a man about town. The younger one who carries a gun and carried you upstairs."

"What did they ask you?"

"Well, let's say we reviewed my whole life from birth with more emphasis on last night. Truly therapeutic."

He didn't give the impression of having been pressured in any way. He was practically cheerful, smiling.

"What's funny?"

"Who could be named John Doe?" He laughed out loud.

"Tea, coffee, milk?" asked Rafael, who had entered the kitchen unnoticed. Simon's laugh froze.

"Coffee with milk." Sarah asked for one of her morning favorites.

Rafael quickly turned to a table where everything was ready. He took a cup he'd previously cleaned and rinsed and poured a little coffee in it. Then added milk. Slipped a plate underneath and carried it to the table, where he set it in front of Sarah. He pa.s.sed the sugar, offered her a clean spoon, and then went to get a tray of chocolate and nut m.u.f.fins, fresh scones, bread, b.u.t.ter cookies, orange juice, and some slices of York ham and cheese.

"Where did all this come from?" Sarah asked, curious and marveling over the delicacies.

"From the bakery three buildings down on the other side of the street," Rafael answered. "It's fresh."

"I can back that up. I've already tasted it, and I guarantee it," Simon added, feeling much better. Rafael's presence didn't seem to cause him any fear.

Rafael created a mixture of inexplicable feelings in Sarah. It was almost a year since she'd last seen him, as she never tired of reminding herself. She felt nervous fear and s.h.i.+vers in her stomach, but that could mean a lot of things. What really struck her was the idea that she'd always been with him during this period of time, never absent. Almost like friends in a cafe or pub who see each other almost every day.

Calm down. Think about it. Stop. He's a priest.

"We have to talk. I have a lot of questions that need answering . . . truthfully." She was trying to put her slippery thoughts out of her mind.

"Eat your breakfast in peace, and then we'll all have a talk," Rafael said calmly. "Ah, and if you look back and a.n.a.lyze everything that's happened, you'll see that I never said or did anything that wasn't true." He got up and went out of the kitchen, leaving her with Simon and the banquet ready to be devoured.

Sarah didn't think about the food, but about his words. She was sure that what he'd said was true. He'd never lied. Perhaps he left something out when he felt he shouldn't be the one to give her certain information, but that was far from lying. He was right. She'd probably been too hard on him.

Simon got up and grabbed some clean silverware.

"I think I'm going to help. That's a lot of food for you, and you're not going to finish it."

"He carried me to the bedroom?" Sarah wanted to know, picking at a delicious-looking chocolate m.u.f.fin.

"In his arms," Simon said mischievously with a scone stuffed in his mouth. "Don't you remember?"

No, she thought, but didn't say so. "I have a vague impression."

"And now, what's the next step?" He could barely get the words out of his stuffed mouth.

"Don't think about that," Sarah warned, sipping the coffee Rafael had prepared for her, prompting a slight smile.

Simon laughed and made her blush.

"What's going on?" she asked, a little upset. "What's going on?" she asked again when he didn't answer.

"The two of you aren't fooling anyone," Simon finally answered.

"Who?" She wasn't good at acting as if she didn't understand.

"You and John?" Another chuckle.

"Come on!" Sarah rolled her eyes.

"Good morning," a friendly voice greeted them. Phelps's peaceful theological studies didn't agree with this rebellious life his clerical destiny had led him into.

"Good morning," Sarah and Simon answered in unison, as required by good manners.

"Did you sleep well?" Simon asked.

"Sort of. Although actually that sofa needs some fixing up. Those springs . . ." Phelps complained, rubbing his sore back. "But anyone with a roof over his head to shelter him shouldn't complain. Right?"

"Sounds like a priest talking," Simon joked while chewing away on the food.

"Don't go," Sarah said. "There's food for one more. Sit down," she invited him in a friendly way.

"Ah, thank you," he acknowledged, sitting down at their side. "The truth is I'm hungry. I haven't eaten for hours." He didn't tell them it had been more than a day since he'd put anything in his mouth.

"There are scones, bread, b.u.t.ter, cheese . . ." While she was talking, Sarah pa.s.sed them to Phelps, who still didn't find what he was looking for. "Do you want some milk, coffee, tea?"

"Tea, please."

"Good choice. It's still hot." She poured a little into a cup. "I'm Sarah," she introduced herself.

"James Phelps." He got up and offered his hand formally. "Nice to meet you."

Sarah got up, too, and held out her hand. She wouldn't leave him there with his hand in the air.

"Pleased to meet you."

"Yesterday was hard," Phelps said in an awkward attempt at generating polite conversation.

"If you two hadn't appeared just in time, my mother would've been very unhappy," Simon said convincingly as he joined the conversation.

"How do you know Rafael?" the older man asked politely, sipping a little tea and taking a small bite of a scone.

"I don't know anyone by that name," Simon replied immediately without thinking.

"It's a long story, James. Excuse me, can I call you James?"

"Of course, Sarah," he agreed.

"Who is Rafael?" Simon persisted without understanding.

"I would be delighted to know, if you want to tell me," Phelps continued, leaving it in Sarah's hands and ignoring Simon's question completely.

"Later," Rafael interrupted from the doorway. "I see you've all met. Now it's necessary to dot all the i i's and tell you your jobs."

"What jobs?" Phelps and Sarah asked at the same time.

"Do you think the danger has pa.s.sed? This is only the beginning."

42.

Sarah and Rafael were late. They were due in Barnes's office, ready for a not very cordial interrogation. That time had come and gone, and they didn't show, except for himself, in the office. His solitude had been broken by brief visits from Staughton and Thompson reporting on the progress, which was nothing, and as the hours pa.s.sed, that was worrisome. Priscilla had pa.s.sed by to check on his physical state, and he'd asked her to bring him an order of roast pork with potatoes and oregano, the cravings of a body hungry for victory.

At that moment Herbert entered.

"Don't tell me they've found a hole to hide in?"

"Don't f.u.c.k around with me," Barnes shouted with irritation. "If you were better, you wouldn't need to walk in our shadow to do your s.h.i.+tty job."

"Don't doubt that if I were the one giving orders, I'd do it alone, with no help. You have hundreds of agents, and not one has managed to find them. As far as we know, they might have left the country."

"They haven't left," Barnes insisted firmly.

"How can you guarantee that?" Herbert pressed, seeing Barnes worried.

"My word is enough. They haven't left the country. And I'll tell you more. They're still in the city."

Even the younger man's smile was without any feelings. More a grimace, livid, lifeless.

"You're basing that on instinct, Mr. Barnes. You Americans are very fond of luck and destiny."

"This has nothing to do with luck. I know the suspects well," Barnes said. Besides, I know that he's going to find a way to let us know when he leaves the country Besides, I know that he's going to find a way to let us know when he leaves the country. He didn't speak this thought. You've got to have an ace up your sleeve that others don't know about, even if they're a.s.sociates.

Herbert raised his hands in the air as if to say that Barnes's arguments were worthless, but if he wanted to believe them, fine.

"I've got to inform my superior about the situation in half an hour. What am I going to say? That we haven't expanded the radius of the search because you have a hunch?"

"f.u.c.k what you're going to tell him. My men are doing their job. I don't have the least doubt that any moment now they are going to come through that door with something solid. If you want to tell him, I don't think we are going to have any news until nightfall. So prepare him and yourself. It's going to be a long wait."

"Who's the man who showed up at the hospital? This Rafael who seems to have upset you?"

Barnes paused thoughtfully before responding.

"A traitor. He infiltrated P2 in order to destroy it from the inside and almost succeeded."

"He managed to deceive JC and the CIA?" A sarcastic smile.

"You're in no position to laugh," Barnes warned, chastened. "For all I know he gave your men a good looking over three times. They probably don't even know what happened." He laughed in an offensive way that seemed not to affect the other. He congratulated himself thinking that deep down Herbert must have been angered. n.o.body could be so cool all the time.

The office door opened to let in Staughton and the pandemonium of noise from the Center for Operations. Closing the door behind him cut off the exterior noise, leaving a silent movie unfolding on the other side of the window, an agitation without meaning.

"News?" Barnes asked, leaning back in the chair to give his younger colleague an impression of calm and control.

"We're a.n.a.lyzing the images on CCTV, but it's like looking for a needle in a haystack. We can't find any Mercedes with continental markings or the license plate in question. We see no bank transfers in the accounts of Sarah Monteiro or Simon Lloyd. . . ."

Barnes laughed dryly.

"What do you want? Everything tied up all nice and neat for you? It won't be there."

"Where will it be then?" Herbert asked maliciously.

"Rest a.s.sured you're dealing with someone who knows how we work. I get irritated, unhinged, f.u.c.ked up, but we have to be rational."

"What do you mean by that?"

"That he's going to appear when and where it seems best to him."

"That's not an option. There has to be a way to find them." For the first time a note of irritation could be detected in Herbert's voice. Barnes was pleased and didn't take long to show it.

"We're doing everything possible already," Staughton told him. "We have the CCTV on constant alert, not just in London, but over the entire country. All the police and border patrol have their photographs and know what to do if they're spotted. The MI6 is working with us."

"It's okay they're helping," Barnes interrupted. "I don't much like their thinking about their own interests."

"There's nothing else to do," Staughton declared.

"What if we offer a reward?" Herbert suggested.

"Don't talk nonsense," Barnes protested. "Publicize the thing? Have the journalists and public opinion all over us? What do we gain from that?"

"Catch them sooner. People will do anything for money."

"It might not be a bad idea," Staughton put in.

Herbert crossed his arms and looked skeptical.

"We've identified the man who took Sarah and Simon to the van."

That got the attention of Barnes and Herbert.

"He's named James Phelps, an English priest a.s.signed to the Vatican."

"The what?" Barnes grumbled. "Son of a b.i.t.c.h."

The three were silent for a few seconds. In this profession everything was a question of strategic a.n.a.lysis. Deciding what route to take to get to a determined objective, speculating about what the others would do. The more facts they had to fill in the blanks, the more accurate their speculation. When there was little information, everything was guesswork and hunches. Trusting luck was not good, but sometimes one had no choice.