The Holy Bullet Part 22

"He hasn't yet been identified. He's an elderly man around sixty years old, but no more is known. A few minutes ago we received the images of the hospital exterior from security, and now we're working on the identification."

"It's not important," Herbert advised with his hard eyes.

"I'm the one who decides what's important," Barnes interrupted. "Here's the point: we have four people in a Mercedes van. They cannot get out of the country under any circ.u.mstances." A heavy stare swept the room to which he added his guttural, serious voice. "Every trail is important. If you find them, I repeat, if you find them, shoot first and ask questions later."

"The most probable thing is that they'll abandon the van," Thompson suggested.

"They can't," Staughton answered.

"Why not?" Barnes was curious.

"Because of the corpses," his subaltern explained.

"True, the corpses." Barnes hadn't remembered them. Everyone exchanged glances, while Barnes thought about plausible solutions. "Why the h.e.l.l do they want the corpses?"

40.

Dawn awakened with the crowing of a rooster just as it does in fairy tales. Here in this rural area, favorable to roosters and hens, pigs, rabbits, and other animals, the wake-up call was heard for a radius of hundreds of yards.

The old man slept on the sofa, a blanket protecting him from the cold that was common at night in this region.

The easy chair where the cripple had sat was now occupied by Raul Brando Monteiro, sleeping poorly, with his eyes closed, in a very light doze, waking with the smallest chirp of a cricket or crowing of a c.o.c.k, like this one. The cripple must be walking one of his disciplined rounds, since no precaution was too great when one's enemies were powerful.

Raul got up, half asleep, put on the shoes that had slipped off his feet while he tossed and turned during the night, and faced the dawn of a new day. He'd spent hours watching the phone in hope of news, ignoring the fact that the phone would be heard when it needed to be answered. He'd checked it over and over, the keypad, the receiver, to be sure the phone was working perfectly. Everything was normal. No one had called.

He went to the bedroom where Elizabeth was sleeping, but the closed door kept him from seeing how she was doing. He didn't need to see her to know she hadn't closed her eyes all night, and, certainly, she turned over in bed when he tried without success to open the door. It didn't matter. She'd come out soon to ask him about their daughter and be angry when he had nothing to tell her. Ring, telephone, ring Ring, telephone, ring, Raul wished anxiously as he returned to the room where old JC waited for him, sitting on the sofa with the blanket on his lap for security. "Already awake?" the old man said, smiling.

"I don't know how you're able to sleep as if nothing's going on," Raul said indignantly.

"The body gets used to anything, my dear captain," he explained. "Where did you see combat?"

"In Cuanza Norte in 'sixty-three," the captain answered, thinking of his induction into the army and the two-year commission he served overseas in the war between Portugal and her colonies.

"And tell me something. Did you sleep while you were there?"

He knew where JC was going. For him it was one more routine day in his long life. Nothing out of the ordinary. He adapted to periods like this when he had to change his refuge or was the target of forces as great or greater than his own. He lost no sleep over this because he knew no other reality, no other way to live. Calm and serenity, yes, these could make him lose sleep.

"There's still no news." Raul was worried.

"There will be," the old man declared calmly.

JC got up with the help of his cane and walked over to the table that still had the remains of last night's dinner on it. He sat down and looked at Raul.

"What's for breakfast?"

With a sigh, Raul went out to the kitchen to prepare the meal, normally spiced and hearty to sustain a day in the field. Today he wasn't hungry, so he'd make only enough to fill up the old man's stomach.

"Good morning, my friend. Everything okay?" JC asked the cripple, who had just come in.

"Nothing new," the younger man replied professionally and sat down at the table.

The old man poured a gla.s.s of water from a bottle on the table, took a box of pills from his pocket, selected two to place on his tongue, and helped them down with the water. The cripple watched him without saying anything.

"It's not time yet," the old man replied to the unasked question. "We're going to stay here."

The cripple got up, showing neither objection nor agreement. The old man always knew what he was doing.

"In that case I'm going to take a bath," he informed them. "This dust is sticking to me."

"Go on, go on," JC encouraged him with a certain bonhomie. Old age appeared to be having a softening effect on him, not in his combative spirit, but only in these small domestic activities he formerly would have ignored.

The cripple left the room that was now converted into an operational center for the three of them and left JC to take charge of strategy, which wouldn't change much, since he wasn't a man who liked to act on an empty stomach, unless necessary, which was not the case.

"Raul?" a female voice asked.

JC turned toward this melodious sound and found Elizabeth there. Now in the early light of morning he saw her natural complexion without makeup, and he noticed the hatred emanating from her. A perfectly natural reaction given the circ.u.mstances.

"Your husband' husband's in the kitchen making breakfast," he informed her, emphasizing the relations.h.i.+p that united them to show he'd perceived the strain in the relations.h.i.+p.

Elizabeth made no reply. Instead she began to walk around the room without taking her eyes off him. She finally sat down next to him and looked away.

"You're truly your daughter's mother," JC said in praise, although it could be understood differently.

"Is there news about my child?" Her anguish was clear.

"There will be," was all he said.

A tear slipped down Elizabeth's face, carrying all a mother's sorrow. A parent should never have to bury a child; there was no sorrow like that. JC wiped away the tear without a trace of shame.

"My father used to say that tears should be saved for the dead." He showed no condescension or sorrow for her. "You might not think so, but I also had a father at one time in my life."

Elizabeth looked at him disoriented.

"No one has died here," he said in a clear, firm voice.

"But someone could die." His certainty, for some reason, convinced her.

"We all can, my dear." That was a great truth, undeniable, unchanging.

"I can't decide if the fault for all this is her father's, if she-"

"No one is guilty," he replied decisively, as if it were a subject he'd pondered on his own in search of answers. "Is someone guilty for being born poor or with an illness or parents who neglect and exploit him? Or being born in a poor country or bad neighborhood? These are the cards we're dealt, and we have to accept them and go on playing according to our luck. No one is guilty, or we're all guilty, and fifty, one hundred years from now someone will blame us for the evil in his life." He paused so Elizabeth could take in what he was saying. "We can be thankful for being born in Europe, the most civilized part of the world, but even here there are bad things. We've inherited some of that evil. We have to shake it off, expel it, but it's hard. Only our persistence will defeat and bury it. Still, more evil will appear; we have to confront it, sooner or later."

Elizabeth listened to him closely. He spoke of certainties, not theories or idle speculation. They were intelligent thoughts about the reality of our lives.

"When will we hear from her?" Her hope increased the confidence she had in the old man's replies.

JC was silent for a few seconds without blinking or expressing any sign of doubt.

"Soon," he a.s.sured her.

"I think I'll go to my mother-in-law's house in Oporto." It was a cry for help, a motion to be approved or denied, in this case by the man in front of her.

"Don't leave us, my dear." His voice was friendlier. "Besides, we can't let you go. It would weaken our position. You're better off with us, safer, and soon you'll be able to talk to your daughter."

Raul came into the room with a tray in his hands. On top, a steaming teakettle, Alentejano bread, b.u.t.ter, local cheese, milk, and hot coffee.

"Wonderful. Your husband is trying to kill me with an overdose of cholesterol," he joked. "And I confess it's the best of deaths." A sign he'd eaten and drunk well in his life.

Raul said nothing. He hadn't expected his wife there, much less in quiet conversation with the old man. But JC had a gift for making others admire him. Looking like a frail old man helped.

"Are you all right?" She was the one who asked. It seemed the old man also had a gift for resolving conflicts between husband and wife.

"I'm better now," Raul confessed, pa.s.sing his hand tenderly over her shoulder.

The phone finally rang, startling Raul and Elizabeth. Raul ran to it before the caller could disconnect.

"Raul," he identified himself with a hysterical cry. He listened without saying anything and closed his eyes. "Thanks," was the first thing he said when the speaker stopped talking. "Thank you very much," the second. "I have complete confidence in you. I know it's not going to be easy. You have half the world after you, so be very cautious. Call tonight so we can work out a plan. And thanks again."

The conversation ended with a press of the b.u.t.ton of Raul's phone.

"What? Who was it?" Elizabeth asked impatiently.

"Rafael. She's with him." A smile from ear to ear. "She's fine. She couldn't talk because she was sleeping. But she's okay. That's what's important."

Elizabeth looked at JC, remembering his prophetic foresight minutes ago.

"This is just a pause, my dear. Nothing's resolved," the old man warned her.

"Yes, but it's something," Raul said.

"Where are they?" the mother asked, visibly relieved of the weight that was crus.h.i.+ng her heart.

"In a safe place," Raul replied with a smile. "A very safe place."

41.

She remembered parking in the garage of a house, but it seemed like ages ago. There was a car in the same garage, also deja vu. He'd asked them all to get into the vehicle. Of course, that was the difference, they were not alone this time, two or three more people were with them. She didn't bother to count. They left the garage again in this other car, a new car being used for the first time; it had that new car smell. She'd gone into the backseat with one or two others, perhaps only one, thrown her head back and rested. Rocked by the motion of the car being put to the test by the city streets, the pa.s.sing lights creating a dark, yellow glow, she'd fallen deeply asleep, leaning against a window, and ceased hearing the noise of the engine, the tires on the asphalt, breathing, life going on around her.

She couldn't tell how long they'd been in the car, minutes or hours, but remembered a light caress in her hair at some part of the trip that made her feel as if she were floating suspended above the ground. She'd opened her eyes a moment and saw herself levitating over some familiar, dark wooden stairs inside a house that made a s.h.i.+ver run down her spine. She felt a body against hers, strong arms around her, and, finally, a soft pillow and sheets shutting out the cold. Voices whispering in the distance she couldn't make out but one, both close and far away, she managed to understand, Not now, she's sleeping Not now, she's sleeping, before she gave in to the absolute rest of body and mind. Sleep, body, because the fight has only begun. It renewed her energy, relaxed her nerves, cured her wounds, and forced her fear to retreat. After a very few hours, Sarah Monteiro opened her eyes and awoke.

It was already day. Suns.h.i.+ne entered the room between the red curtains. She looked around trying to recognize the place, a large bedroom, antique decor. An enormous dark wooden closet, familiar, took up one whole wall. She sat on the edge of the bed and put her feet on the soft green carpet that covered the wood floor. She risked getting up and brought her hand to her mouth, incredulously. A tear in her eye showed her emotion. This was her room in the old house on Belgrave Road. There wasn't the slightest doubt. It had been almost a year since she last stayed here. Her uncertain steps made the wood creak from her weight, not that she weighed much, not at all, but it's natural that such old wood would react to the slightest touch.

"Good morning." She heard Rafael's voice. He was standing in the door. "Better?"

"What are we doing here?" she asked sharply.

"We're safe. n.o.body's going to look for us here," he answered confidently. "I have breakfast ready downstairs." He left.

"Whose house is this?" Sarah had time to ask, raising her voice so he could hear her.

"Mine," she heard him say before his steps told her he was going downstairs.

She was astonished. She took a deep breath and inspected the bedroom. It was the same as she'd left it that night when life spun out of control.

She thought about what Rafael had revealed and decided he'd chosen to give her the easiest answer, the one that needed no more explanation, but he was very mistaken. He wasn't going to get away so easily.

He appeared again in her life at a crucial time. This time she wouldn't be satisfied with an excuse. She wanted to know everything . . . now.

She left the room impetuously in her night clothes, which were from the previous day, and b.u.mped into the open door of the bathroom. Set across from a clear gla.s.s window, a bathtub challenged her decision to go downstairs immediately and demand satisfactory answers. She stopped and decided she might not have another opportunity to take a much needed bath. Better take advantage now than be sorry later. She returned to the bedroom and opened the closet. She was surprised to recognize the clothes she hadn't worn since she'd abandoned the house and sold it with the furniture and furnis.h.i.+ngs to avoid any further contact with that traumatic environment. Now, forced to but also grateful, she chose what to wear from her old clothes. It had to be practical. She picked out pants and a blouse, nothing fancy, took some underwear from the drawer, recovering little by little the habits and gestures the bedroom demanded of her when she lived there, as if she'd never left. All she needed was a towel from the bottom drawer, and she went into the bathroom, delighted by the prospect.

Twenty minutes later Sarah wrapped herself in a towel and left the bathroom, rejuvenated and smiling. Her glance crossed the windowpane, and in an instant she felt a s.h.i.+ver of fear. Two holes like those she'd seen in the Chelsea and Westminster Hospital, before these, that brought back the past and confirmed she was awake. It wasn't a bad dream-if only it had been. She looked around the room fearfully, much more well-lit in the morning light than on that night. She could see the body of the man fallen over her.

Forget it, forget it. It's over, she made herself think.

Everything was exactly as she'd left it, which amazed her. She'd left the house a long time ago. It wasn't normal for some change not to have taken place, especially since she'd only had the most basic furniture for someone who didn't need much, was at the beginning of her career, and wanted to save money for something better. It was all very strange.

The lower floor consisted of a living room and kitchen. In the living room where the stairs came down was a big sofa, pushed against the wall with a window. Stretched out on it was the friendly older man she still hadn't been introduced to. In the kitchen, Simon Lloyd, more relaxed, was leaning on a table reading the paper. There was no sign of Rafael.

"Do you feel better?" Sarah asked, sitting down on one of the chairs.

"Oh, good morning." He raised his eyes from the newspaper. "I'm much better. You?"

"Not bad," she replied, looking around. "Yesterday I completely disappeared. Sorry," she excused herself.

"You did well. After the night we spent . . ." He changed the subject. "Who are these people?" Simon asked in a whisper, like a child who didn't want to be caught.

"They're friends," was all she said. "Did you sleep some?" A change of subject is always useful when you don't want to say more.

"A little," he replied, scratching his head. "I spent more than an hour answering John's questions. It was an interrogation like in the movies."

"John? Who's John?" Is he the old man lying on the sofa? Is he the old man lying on the sofa?

"John Doe. The one who saved us in the hospital."

"The one lying on the sofa?"