The Holy Bullet Part 13

"Okay, I'm going to leave you to your problems and go on with my own work," the coroner let them know, as he zipped the bag back up. He whistled at the door to call the technicians to carry the body to the ambulance. They were ready and began carrying it out, one on each side.

"Be careful on your way out. We don't want to appear on television or in the papers," the doctor warned as he looked at Sarah. "Good night, gentlemen," and he went out behind the stretcher men.

Without the body the room seemed emptier, floodlights illuminating the s.p.a.ce, the remnants of what was once solid construction. Sarah had moved so recently, and now she'd have to move again . . . if she survived. Something caught her attention. An object out of place. A small wooden box had survived the holocaust without a scratch or scorch. Although she couldn't see inside from where she was, she knew what she'd find there. A bottle of port, vintage 1976, the year of her birth.

She stepped around the box thrown on the floor, in the midst of the debris. Such a small, fragile box had escaped the explosion and fire. What were the odds of that? If a body couldn't even survive a blow to the head. . . . Sarah knew the front part of the box was gla.s.s to show the untouchable nectar contained inside. Simon Templar's words came to mind, Don't touch anything Don't touch anything. That wouldn't be necessary. She could see inside, through the intact gla.s.s, and she was startled to see the bottle wasn't where it should be. The box was empty. She bent over it.

"Don't touch anything," Simon Templar warned.

Sarah got back up thinking about a simple bottle of wine, as old as she, gone from the surviving wooden box. She looked at Simon Templar, to whom she'd decided to say nothing, and realized he hadn't taken his eyes off her, was watching her closely.

She was. Sarah was a woman full of mystery.

25.

The last pitiful look had always had such a devastating effect on him that he'd turned it into a bad habit. Most of those in his vast experience were pleading but the reactions were different in every case, depending on what came to mind for each victim in the final moments. Don Clemente fell into the category he most disliked. He had confronted the gun with a calm, peaceful smile, and so it had remained, even after . . .

Normally when one killed, one took from the victim what he most prized, but there were people like Don Clemente from whom one took absolutely nothing. He deferred his need to feel guilty after squeezing the trigger that summoned Death. He hadn't let himself look at Don Clemente when he'd fallen back and knocked over a row of pews with his robust body. The priest hadn't felt a thing, he was certain, as he'd placed the shot perfectly so Don Clemente would be dead before he hit the floor.

But this ordinary-looking man, a notable advantage for someone in his profession, wasn't given to introspection. Don Clemente was gone, born and dead, his body lying more than a thousand miles away in Galicia, perhaps in some morgue trying to tell the coroner the story of his death. To h.e.l.l with Don Clemente, Galicia, and Santiago de Compostela, city, cathedral, and saint, all of them.

He had time to catch the last flight to the English capital, where the plan for this phase was playing out. The days had been long but pleasant with countless trips, Rome, Amsterdam, Compostela, and now London. The boss pursued another agenda, as foreseen. Two more days and they'd have the final resolution.

He rode through the city in one of its famous London taxis. There were still targets the Beretta must erase from the map. Once he was the faithful owner of a Glock of the same caliber, nine millimeters, but this Beretta 90two had a different feel. It was like a projection of his hand, the bullets spitting from his fingers. The Glock was more brutal, made for war, and, despite causing the same destruction, it kicked back on each shot, too much for a perfectionist professional like him. He'd opted for the less temperamental Beretta. Guns don't have a conscience, only the person who uses them. They serve their owner blindly.

The vibration of his cell phone could be felt over that of the car going over the irregular surface of the street. He took a wireless hearing device out of his jacket, placed it in his ear, and pressed a b.u.t.ton to take the call. He listened wordlessly to the demand.

"I'm on my way," he said in French, then he frowned slightly.

"That's not good."

The lights of the city shone in the backseat while the cab went farther into the city. They came and went, invading the compartment, dispossessing him, making another presence in an unending play of yellow light.

"I'll take care of that. Everything will go according to plan. I have people on site. I'm certain they'll act appropriately." He disconnected.

He took the phone and pressed four numbers. Two rings later, someone picked up.

"Where are you?" he asked brusquely. "Perfect. I'm coming. Don't leave."

He turned the cell phone off and permitted himself a slight smile. Things were going well, after all. The team was good. He pressed the b.u.t.ton that let him speak to the driver.

"Change of plans. Take me to the Chelsea and Westminster Hospital."

26.

Certainly Abu Ras.h.i.+d's face had seen better days. Cut lips, a swollen eye, some internal and external bruises, especially on the body hidden under the white tunic. In spite of everything, he didn't flinch and kept the same calm expression of knowing a greater truth.

The foreigner went to the lavatory, and then sat toward the back, in one of the luxurious, cream-colored seats of the private jet flying over Bulgarian territory. The plan had been to return by commercial flight from Ben-Gurion airport with a stop in Frankfurt, before the final destination, Rome. Abu Ras.h.i.+d's words so disturbed the foreigner's superior that he immediately ordered a private jet prepared and a change of route. They left from Kefar Gallim in order not to raise suspicions, and Abu Ras.h.i.+d cooperated at every step. Perhaps that was why his face was in the condition we witness. The blood on his lip had dried, but his swollen left eye seemed to get worse with each pa.s.sing moment. All this because he wouldn't recant the words he allegedly heard from the mouth of Our Lady in a vision. Because he was Muslim, this greatly aggravated his situation. There was no mention in religious history of a Catholic saint appearing to a believer of another religion, let alone the Mother of G.o.d in person. The situation was far worse when the Virgin's words, communicated to the world by an Arab, could cause a split in the Catholic world.

The foreigner thought through the various possibilities as he looked out the tiny window. There was nothing to see, since it was dark; night had set in for the rest of the flight, which wouldn't be long. As G.o.d was his witness, he didn't want to hurt the old man, but if he opened his mouth in public, everyone would suffer. He needed to be silenced, discredited, which was not difficult. A Muslim who sees Mary should be seen as a joke, cause only for laughter in the Catholic and Muslim worlds. The problem was what he was saying. If someone more intelligent were to think deeply about his words, he might easily find the truth behind them. And that couldn't happen. They had to force the man to recant. Even if he actually saw Mary. She had to understand. There were Catholics and others, no mixture, and there never had been. The day this happened religions would come to an end. This was serious, very serious.

He got up again and went over to Abu Ras.h.i.+d's seat. He rested with his eyes closed, smiling slightly.

"I know it perfectly," the old man said without opening his eyes.

"What do you know?"

"I know where we are going. You were going to ask me that."

The foreigner sat down on the seat beside him and sighed. He looked at the black briefcase strapped to the seat. Besides Abu Ras.h.i.+d, another of his responsibilities was that black case. These premonitions were unreal. Not for a moment did he think it was really the Virgin helping the old man. He'd lose all power and control if he let this idea take over. It would be her way of saying she couldn't count on him or any other Christian. Or that in reality everyone was equal. s.h.i.+t, s.h.i.+t, s.h.i.+t s.h.i.+t, s.h.i.+t, s.h.i.+t.

"It might not seem so, but I'm here to help you," the foreigner claimed. "If you cooperate, it'll be good for you and for us."

"I haven't done anything but cooperate," Abu Ras.h.i.+d declared with his eyes still closed.

"I need more on your part, Abu Ras.h.i.+d," he observed. "Give me what I need to intercede with my superior, and you can go free."

A smile stretched the Muslim's lips.

"What you want is for me to lie."

"I want you to cooperate."

"I'm cooperating," Abu Ras.h.i.+d insisted. "It's not my fault you've chosen the wrong side. But that's your right. There are always two sides."

"Are you saying you are defending those who want to harm the Church?"

"I am Muslim. I couldn't be less interested in your Church." He opened his eyes wide. "I am on her side."

"I am, too," the foreigner claimed.

"You are on the side of the Church."

"The Church that represents Her. That has made her image, made her what she is."

"Precisely," Abu Ras.h.i.+d offered, turning his eyes toward the window with a sad expression.

"What do you know specifically about the place we're going?"

"I know everything I have to know." The old Muslim stroked his beard.

"Can you be more explicit?"

"Do you know what happened the thirty-third day after the death of the former pope?"

"I don't know," he sighed. "But, according to my contacts with my superiors, I don't think you know, either."

"Maybe it would be better for me not to know anything," Abu Ras.h.i.+d confessed.

"Does that mean we are coming to an agreement? You can forget everything you believe you know?"

"My friend, you're a politician and work for politicians. I can't trust you. You're capable of selling the Mother of Heaven herself."

The foreigner got up and rolled up his sleeves. There were still a few hours of flight remaining.

27.

LuCIA August 31, 1941

Lucia was not a pretty girl. The only thing attractive about her face, which was not repellent, were her two black eyes below thick eyebrows. Her hair, thick and black, was parted in the center and fell over her shoulders. She had a snub nose, thick lips, and a large mouth.

-FATHER JOHN DE MARCHI, The True Story of Fatima

There was a certain urgency in the writing. The words surged forth, under pressure, hurled out by the ink of the pen, sliding in a precise, correct form, without unacceptable blots. These weren't characters written with pleasure, elaborated or adorned in execution. It was work, a duty, an obligation. A copy of something already written by someone else. It lacked the spirit of her own creativity. The pages were white, unlined, some written on, others about to be. Those filled with the mother tongue, Portuguese, were separated into two piles, set on the left side. The reason for this separation was unknown, but it had an intrinsic curiosity that would call the attention of more perceptive persons, if there were any in the room. The pile on the right presented a beautiful handwriting, innocent, nothing scratched out, born of a pure hand, perhaps ingenuous, young. The other was like this page that was now being written, under pressure, captive to a vague obligation, as if she knew she shouldn't transcribe those words that weren't hers. The two stacks of ma.n.u.script pages were written in the same hand, but the difference between them stood out.

Why?

The same woman was writing them, seated in a dark wooden chair, bent over a small table, by the light of a candle, her head looking at the sheet of paper from a few inches away, though she didn't see it clearly. Not that this was the reason for the difference in handwriting. The page at her right side was what needed to be copied in her hand.

The emissary in a black ca.s.sock came into the narrow cell, silently, with quiet steps toward the woman and deposited another pile of pages on the right side.

"These are the last, my daughter," he said in a low voice to avoid disturbing her.

"You can leave them." The young woman stopped writing and gave the man a worried look. "Are you sure about this? It doesn't seem right to me."

"Don't worry, Lucia. You are doing the right thing under G.o.d's direction, through His intermediary, His Eminence Don Alves Correia da Silva."

"But I don't understand this secrecy. Our Lady-"

"Calm yourself," the emissary interrupted. "The faithful have to be led. We have to be very careful how we pa.s.s on the information so that we don't risk ridicule, while we reach the most people."

"I don't understand. You speak of secrets. Our Lady has never spoken of secrets."

"I am going to explain it to you again. The pope has decided to divide the revelations into three secrets. First, the vision of Inferno. Second, the end of World War One and the prophecy of World War Two, if we continue to offend G.o.d and Russia does not convert. Third, the secret we haven't succeeded in interpreting. I ask you not to write about that one now."

"I understand. But Our Lady has never shown me any vision of Inferno, nor spoken about the World War Two, nor of Russia's reconversion . . ."

"As I have told you, it is necessary to prepare the faithful. Trust the Holy Father. He knows what to do."

"I trust him," Lucia declared.

The emissary settled into a chair.

"Has Our Lady appeared to you?" he asked timidly.

"Every month."

"Don't forget to put down everything she tells you. It could be important."

"Everything Our Lady says is important," Lucia muttered.

"Of course . . . That's what I meant to say," the man mumbled. "But the way the message is communicated to the world has to obey the orders of the pope. Only he knows how to divulge it to the faithful."

Lucia agreed with a nod.

"I shall follow the instructions of the Holy Father and the bishop. Please, tell them that which . . ." She reflected. "That which they call the third part of the secret should be revealed no later than 1960."

"I'll share that with the bishop," the emissary continued. "Everything Our Lady communicates should be put on paper and sent through me to the Bishop of Leira, who will decide how to proceed."

Lucia listened attentively. She understood nothing of the rules that regulated the Church. Things should be simpler. When Our Lady appeared to her, wrapped in an aura of peace and happiness, simplicity reigned. She didn't ask for secrecy. In truth she didn't ask for the Church's direction. This happened on its own, since it was natural the clergy would want to be cautious. Still, she'd never thought the control would be so intense, guarding her from public life, alleging she needed protection, instructing her what she should say about herself and the Virgin. She had nothing against that, no criticism. She even liked the obsequious attention she was shown by the Church. They treated her like a fragile gla.s.s bubble that might break with the slightest touch. There were days, though, when she couldn't avoid the feeling of being a prisoner, suffocated. It was the destiny G.o.d reserved for her and couldn't be attained without sacrifice.

What bothered her wasn't the control the Holy Father and Bishop exerted over her visions, but the fict.i.tious elements they attributed to Our Lady, which she never mentioned in her apparitions. The emissary's explanation was satisfactory. They knew better than anyone how to spread Our Lady's message.

"Don't forget. Never talk about this with anyone whatsoever. You'll return to Portugal soon and enter the order of the Carmelite sisters. That's the will of G.o.d and Our Lady."

She would obey the vow of silence. Meanwhile, she'd write what they asked her with the certainty that soon Our Lady would appear again, and she'd be able to put on paper the felicitous words the Virgin offered. Those were the happiest moments in her life.

28.