The Holy Bullet Part 38

"When someone eliminates loose ends," Rafael explained.

"Do you agree?" the barber asked Rafael. He was visibly interested.

"I won't say no. But why?"

"When they killed the pair in Amsterdam, that's what they wanted to make understood. Why is not easy to make out, but burning the file presupposes the elimination of elements that could undermine certain interests," he explained in a casual tone.

"Everything has to do with John Paul the Second. Isn't that what I said?" the man from the Vatican reminded them.

"Exactly," the barber confirmed.

"But John Paul the Second is dead."

"Of course he is," the other said thoughtfully. "Which takes us down other roads."

"What roads?" Rafael didn't drop his guard. Everything had to come out. Ivanovsky understood that. Confidence had been established, plainly.

"Opus Dei, as they call themselves, took care of the English couple as well as the CIA man, we believe mistakenly, a Spanish priest from Santiago de Compostela, and, presumably, Marcinkus in the United States."

"A priest from Santiago de Compostela? Are you certain?" Rafael interrupted.

"Yes. Though I didn't come across his name," Ivanovsky excused himself. "Why? Is there a problem?"

A black cloud crossed Rafael's face, but vanished soon.

"No, go on."

"We have already a.n.a.lyzed all the communications we had access to, surveillances, agents in the field, and we came up with two possibilities." He raised his finger. "Either they wanted to eliminate something based on a decision the Pole made during his life . . ."

"What?" Sarah and Phelps protested. Sarah believed the goodness emanating from Wojtyla was genuine and could not imagine ordering killings in his name to clean up anything.

"How dare you?" Phelps defended the deceased pope.

Ivanovsky ignored them and raised his other finger.

"Or Opus Dei has something rotten in its past it wants to hide. We've done an exhaustive investigation. We've done it for years and come to an interesting conclusion." He stopped speaking for several moments to increase the suspense. "There was a bishop in the Vatican, who's been mentioned, who was not what he seemed."

"No one is what he seems in any way. Especially in the Vatican," Rafael declared.

"This bishop got around quite smoothly. He used bankers, cardinals, priors, politicians, economists. He could do anything. Except pray. He was rarely seen at prayer, unless he had to say Ma.s.s. He gained the confidence of people. He was good friends with Paul the Sixth.

"The interesting fact we've discovered is that, in addition to being a member of a Masonic lodge, he was also a member of Opus Dei. We've uncovered this through facts found among his belongings. Opus Dei would never permit such a thing to be known. We also discovered an immense scheme of illegal financial manipulations done for this gentleman and his partners with the knowledge of certain members of the Vatican Curia, the Masonic lodge, and Opus Dei, although none of them knew that the others also knew about this. It was a deception carried out well by the bishop. His name was-"

"Paul Casimir Marcinkus," Rafael completed his words.

"Correct."

Him again, Sarah murmured to herself. Always him Always him.

"Marcinkus," Phelps said with hate in his voice. "He never had any respect for the Church. An arrogant egomaniac."

"You knew him?" the Russian asked.

"I knew him. I was insulted and humiliated by that man."

"When was that?" Rafael wanted to know.

"When?" he responded with a question. He was nervous. "When? When they discovered all his dirty dealings."

"Do you mean you had knowledge of what we just said?"

"A little," he replied nervously.

"You're the first person I know who knew Marcinkus was Opus Dei."

"Well . . ." He hesitated. "I didn't . . ."

Suddenly Phelps raised his hand to his chest and looked like he was in pain.

"Are you all right?" Sarah asked, worried.

Phelps said nothing. He grabbed his chest with his hand and fell from his seat, striking his head on the floor.

"Vladimir," Ivanovsky shouted.

The Englishman twisted in pain.

Rafael placed his hand on his chest. "Do you need air?"

Phelps confirmed with a gesture. He was in agony.

"Vladimir," Ivanovsky shouted again. "Let's sit him up," the barber suggested.

"No. Let him be," Rafael ordered. "We shouldn't force him."

A tear rolled down Sarah's face. "What's wrong with him?"

No one answered. The wrinkled one came into the room.

"What's happening?"

"Get the car and call Mikhail. We have to take him to the hospital."

Vladimir left the room running.

A last grimace of pain, and Phelps lost consciousness. In spite of everything, calm descended on the room instantly.

Sarah looked at him collapsed, white, and turned her glance to Rafael.

"A heart attack," he said.

"That's right," the Russian agreed.

"Oh my G.o.d," Sarah exclaimed.

"We have to get him to a hospital as soon as possible," Rafael advised.

"We're already taking care of that," Ivanovsky said. "Let's go to the veterans' hospital."

Speaking Russian, he and Rafael separated a little from Sarah.

"He knows something we need to know," he whispered.

"It seems to me there is someone someone above all of us who knows much more," Rafael reflected. above all of us who knows much more," Rafael reflected.

"Who?"

"Your friend someone someone. I think I know who he is."

The other looked at him, frightened.

"Pray to G.o.d this one survives," Rafael said, turning around next to Sarah, who was on her knees over Phelps, pressing his inert hand.

60.

The man sweated profusely. Perspiration stuck to his nude body. Pleasure required effort; with every lunge there was an answering moan. s.e.x is the mixing of bodies, in general two-but there is no limit to the human imagination-the exchange of fluids and sweat, saliva and one's desires. During the coupling almost nothing exists but the one and the other; the fire has to be put out.

"I really needed that," said the man.

"Me too. We've got to do it more often," the other suggested, grabbing a pack of cigarettes from on top of the table.

"It's dangerous," the first one cautioned. "Our uniforms could give us away."

"Don't be so hardheaded, Paul. I don't play when I'm on duty."

"We can't afford the luxury of being careless," Paul reaffirmed. He got up and sat on the edge of the bed. "Give me one."

His companion handed him the cigarette he'd already lit for himself and took another. He leaned against the bed board, almost sitting.

"They're not going to give up," Paul commented, exhaling smoke.

"Are you sure?"

"They already would have."

"That's not the impression I got when I contacted them," the other said.

The cigarette smoke created a haze in the poorly ventilated room, forming a shadowy atmosphere around the two men.

"It wasn't a good idea to call yourself the American," Paul grumbled.

"It's what popped into my head."

"You have to be careful. They might get suspicious."

"Let me worry about those things," the other said complacently. "After all, why do you want the Turk out? He's only going to create problems."

"This doesn't smell right to me. I heard the Pole was thinking about going to see him," he answered circ.u.mspectly.

"And what could happen? He doesn't know who he is," the other reiterated.

"The two of them together in the same room. It's not good."

"In the same cell, you mean," the other joked, getting a smile from Paul.

"I'd like to see the Pole in a cell. I have to find out his intentions. I think he's suspicious."

"It's just in your mind. He has no reason to distrust you," the other a.s.serted.

"It must have been JC who carried out the plan. h.e.l.l. The Turk drew me in."

"JC has other plans."

"He only does what Licio tells him."

"Licio doesn't give any orders now."

They were silent for a few moments. The sweat had dried. They'd recovered their energy.

"Did you get rid of the car?" Paul asked.

"It won't be a problem for anyone now. It was sold up north. I'm going to have to buy another one."

"Buy it. A different brand. I don't like BMW."

"I was thinking of a Mercedes."

"Good idea. Buy a Mercedes," Paul agreed.

Paul finished his cigarette and continued looking at the ceiling, his hand behind his head. He didn't say anything for several minutes, just stared at the ceiling worn from the pa.s.sage of years.

"I want you to find another one for me," he finally said.