Pope's Assassin (21 page)

    He frequently used a personal ritual with Him. He shut the holy book and thought about some extremely important event in his life, then immediately opened it at random and placed his finger on a verse. God would tell him what to do through those prophetic words, sanc tioning what would occur; He never failed, since He was omnipotent.

    He did the same when he looked at the first name on the list of three below the words De
us vocat.
He shut the Bible and opened it at random. Put his finger on a verse and read it. He smiled.
I know well
what you can do, and none of your desires will be denied,
from the Book of Job.

    God had made His judgment.

    He hit the brakes as he reached his destination. He looked at his watch and unbuckled the seat belt. Right on schedule.

A
re you sure it'll work?" Jacopo asked.

"No," Rafael answered.

    Jacopo sighed. The cold London morning penetrated to his bones. They hadn't stopped since yesterday. He needed to rest. He'd tried to sleep on the train, but with no success. He wasn't used to seeing people killed in front of him. Gunter and Maurice were the first, and it wasn't pleasant. He admired Rafael's presence of mind. He had helped Gavache with the investigation, answered every question succinctly, as if he had not been present at a tragedy and lost a friend. Probably he'd lost so many in such different ways that one more didn't matter. Life can make us immune to anything. He shivered at the image of a shot exploding in his own brain. He didn't want to be Rafael's next friend to die . . . one more.

    "I can't believe I'll ever get to Rome," Jacopo confessed.

    "Tonight you're going to be sleeping with Norma," Rafael asserted.

    "I hope so," Jacopo replied, thinking of his wife, whom he normally didn't have the patience to put up with. Her shrill voice asking him for money to go shopping wasn't so unpleasant anymore.

    "Did you remember everything?" Rafael wanted to check.

    "I'm a historian. Of course I remembered everything," he joked to lighten the mood.

"A historian tends to remember things his own way."

"Do you think we'll be successful?" A serious question.

Rafael didn't answer.

    "Fighting with Ben Isaac and Jesus Christ," the historian said, "is not going to be easy."

    "If it were easy, we wouldn't be here," Rafael replied.

    Jacopo had to acknowledge this. The Holy Father would not have sent him just anywhere. The truth was that the Holy Father didn't know he'd sent him anywhere. Jacopo was too insignificant for the pope even to know his name. The secretary was the one who gave the orders, the mediator between the earth and the god who rested in the Apos tolic Palace. Despite not being a believer, Jacopo was the one Tarcisio relied on most to carry out the duties asked of him, evaluating works of art and ancient documents. This work was the reason for his loss of faith. Thousands of parchments, papers, bones, pottery jars, and coins passed through his hands. If a document said one thing, another soon appeared to contradict the fi rst. There was an erroneous understand ing of the people who had lived in antiquity. Most imagined them as savages, not very hygienic, who lived short lives, killed one another, and were always at war. This could not be further from the truth. The ancients were as intelligent as modern people. Everything the world was today, for better or for worse, was due to them.

    "Great Russell Street," the taxi driver informed them.

    "Okay," Rafael said, immediately looking at Jacopo.

    "I'm ready."

    "That's good. Don't forget that not everything is what it seems."

    "Look who's talking," Jacopo said eagerly. "I hope Robin will col laborate. Don't let them kill him."

    "That doesn't depend on me," Rafael asserted. "You take care of your part, and let him decide how to do his."

    "Is that how it works?"

    "That's how you survive."

N
ot everything is what it seems. Who would guess that a simple London taxi, one of thousands cruising the British capital every day, would be the target of intense surveillance by the CIA?

    David Barry remained at his command post, monitoring every detail transmitted on the screens and simultaneously anticipating and providing for every eventuality.

    "Great Russell Street," Staughton alerted them.

    "Is the team on the ground?" Barry asked.

    "Affirmative," Aris assured him. "Prepared and waiting."

    "Remember, we're only going to observe. Any change in the plan must come from me and me alone. I don't want any extemporizing, understood?"

    Aris, Staughton, Davis, and the other technicians answered with an okay, so there would be no doubt.

    Samantha burst into the control center at precisely that moment. Barry looked at her.

    "What do you have for me?"

    Samantha made a brief report on each of the victims and their

professional and personal background. Barry listened carefully while keeping his eyes on the monitors.

    "Jesuits?" Barry commented when Samantha was through report ing. "What's the common denominator?"

    "All worked for the Vatican, but at different times," Sam informed him.

    "Is that all?" Barry didn't want anything to escape him.

    "Apparently so. I'm still checking on what they did for the Holy See. They could have even been working on the same project at different times," she replied.

    "Well done," he said, raising his voice. "Do we have the museum cameras?"

    "They're with me," Davis said.

    "Staughton, man the satellite. We're going to depend on it for the first few yards."

    "It's secure. No one will get away," the technician assured him.

    "Stand by, folks," Barry alerted them.

    The taxi entered Gower Street and then turned to the left at Great Russell Street, where the museum appeared on the right. The taxi pulled over. For a few moments nothing happened, but then two pas sengers got out into the cold.

    "They're with you, Staughton."

    The technician, so used to these situations, handled the joystick calmly. The image focused to show the two men crossing the street and entering the gates of the museum, which at that hour already had thousands of visitors. It was a great archive of human history, with thousands of objects from every continent, the most remote locations, and the most ancient civilizations.

    The Ionic columns stood imposingly at its entrance, marking a sepa ration between two worlds, the frenetic, modern one and the dead past.

    "Alert the agents on the ground," Barry ordered.

    Aris communicated with his men.

"Don't be careless. I don't want them to detect us," the director said.

    "They're going into the building," Staughton said. "Now it's up to you, Davis."

    The cameras of the Great Court, an enormous dome with windows, became the eyes of the control center. Various angles of the Great Court appeared on the central monitor.

    "There they are," Davis said.

    "Where can they be going?" Barry asked.

    Staughton superimposed a map of the museum on his monitor, defined the specified location, and designated the possible exits.

    "There are several possibilities," Staughton said."They could go into the Reading Room, the circular library in the middle of the Great Court that only has one entrance and one exit. To the right they could go to the King's Library, left to the ancient Egypt room, or straight ahead to the Wellcome Trust Gallery. Each location connects with other rooms."

    "We have the Great Court well covered with cameras, so it's bet ter to place the agents at the exits. We don't want to lose them," Barry ordered. "What are they doing there?" he was asking himself more than the others. "What's your plan, Rafael?"

    "It's a good place for a meeting," Aris suggested."You have to admit it."

    Barry said nothing but silently agreed.

    The images continued to show the two men, the dark one and the white-haired man.

    "Define the image more, Davis," the director asked.

    "It's at maximum."

    The maximum wasn't much, and, additionally, the cameras lacked the resolution of the satellite image. They were not made for surveil lance but only to save money and dissuade theft.

    "They're going toward the cafeteria," a voice over the radio alerted them. "They're passing me."

    "Okay, Travis," Aris said. "Keep your distance."

    There were two cafés next to each other at the extreme north end

of the Great Court. They served hot and cold drinks, sandwiches for every taste. Jews, Arabs, and believers of other faiths, including those of the church, could find something to eat there. No one was left out. The two targets chose the cafeteria on the right that had a line of about fi ve people.

    Barry was impatient. Too much suspense and too little informa tion. He needed more than he had.

    "Are they going to eat?" he wondered.

    "Looks like it," Staughton confi rmed.

    Barry looked at the technician as if he'd just had an inspiration. "Can you see through the glass of the Great Court?"

    Staughton sat down in his chair and began playing with the con trols. "If it's not reflecting too much sun."

    The image that showed the outside of the building focused over it until it met the glass. The refl ection on the east part was too much and obscured the image, just a white brilliance, but when it passed the Reading Room, it cleared and captured movement below.

    "Good," Barry said. "Go to them next and focus the image."

    Staughton executed the order quickly, and in seconds the image displayed the two men. Jacopo in the front of the Court Café line, Rafael behind.

    Something was wrong about the picture. Barry smelled something funny and shook his head.

    "What's going on?" Aris asked about the gesture.

    "Something's not right," Barry said.

    Aris looked at the image, just like all the others. He felt he was miss ing some detail the director had noticed. What? All those cameras and agents, and the director saw more than they did.

    "What's the matter, David?" Aris insisted.

    Jacopo and Rafael stood in line. There were two people in front of them waiting to be helped.

    "Son of a bitch," Barry swore.

    The others continued in their ignorance. Barry grabbed his cell phone and dialed a number, then engaged the speaker so the whole room could hear. A beep indicated the call was beginning. The agents still didn't understand.

    "What's wrong with this picture?" Barry asked.

    No one answered. They looked blankly at the director and the image.

    "Does anyone know?" Barry demanded.

    Aris was the first to see it. "The phone isn't ringing there."

    "Order your men to go in, Aris. Detain them, w
ithout making a
scene,"
Barry emphasized.

    Aris gave the order over the radio. From the various internal cam eras in the museum, agents could be seen converging on the cafeteria on the right.

    "Without making a scene," Barry repeated.

    "What's going on, David?" Staughton insisted.

    Barry raised his hand to ask for silence. His eyes never left the cen tral monitor.

    The two men saw the six agents coming from different sides with their eyes fixed on them. They wasted no time leaving the line and starting to run away.

    "There they go, making a scene," Barry criticized, and then turned to Staughton. "The taxi. Can you get it?"

    Staughton looked at him without understanding.

    Jacopo and Rafael were caught quickly and brought outside the building.

    "Check their identity," Barry ordered. "Quickly."

    The images showed one of the agents searching the men. "We have here a Jacopo Sebastiani, Italian, and a . . . Steve Foster, English . . . taxi driver."

    Staughton finally understood Barry's question. "It's going to take time to find him," he said apologetically.

"That son of a bitch," Barry swore again.

    "Uh!" Travis interrupted over the radio. "Rafael would like to give the director some information."

    "What is it?" Aris asked.

    "Eight o'clock, the Osteria de Memmo I Santori, number twenty two, Via dei Soldati. Don't be late."

    Barry was furious, but he tried not to show it to the team. Rafael had made fools of them.

    Not everything is what it seems.

T
hat story sounds like a cheap thriller written by a hack writer."

"It's the pure truth, Jonas," Ursino said.

    The scene could only be the Relic Room, which Ursino oversaw religiously every working day.

    Jonas was seated comfortably in a chair, legs crossed, in a dark suit with a matching shirt and shoes of the same color, listening to his friend recount the events of the night before. There were no secrets between them, and their friendship transcended the difference in their age, despite Jonas's being half as old as Ursino.

    "So they killed a priest in Jerusalem and kidnapped Ben Isaac's son?" Jonas summarized with his hands behind his head, in a re laxed pose.

    Ursino gave Jonas's upper leg a little kick in reproach. "And that's just the half of it, kid. There was also a Turk and a German in France." He raised a finger to his lips. "Don't repeat this to anyone."

    It was Jonas's turn to look offended. "When did I ever repeat any thing said in here? And you talk a lot."