Luis Rocha - The Holy assassin

What bothered her wasn’t the control the Holy Father and bishop exerted over her visions, but the fictitious 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 God 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.

The ferry ride was no added relief for James Phelps. Three and a half hours of travel had left his seat numb.

The breeze was a little chilly, but that didn’t matter. The sky was clear and full of stars, which he admired, since people rarely look at the stars in the sky unless they are astronomers, amateur or professional. He’d felt absorbed into the forces of the universe for some time. Rafael was talking to the captain of the boat inside the tiny pilot-house. In the darkness he could make out the lights dotting the coast of Dover, the beginning of the British Empire. He had all the ingredients for feeling at peace with his God, but he was uneasy. Rafael was a man of mystery and didn’t confide in him; that was obvious. Otherwise he would have told him about the bodies they transported in the van. At least they sleep the sleep of the just.

They hadn’t exchanged a word since the service station in Antwerp, but Phelps had worked out his own plot, hundreds of guesses and theories, trying to understand even the smallest part of the puzzle. Still, he only managed to feel his seat get more numb as each mile went by. They had entered France and covered the north coast to Calais at high speed, where this ferry waited for them. Everything very well organized and Phelps, as always, a spectator involved in the plot but completely outside the plan.

‘Enough,’ he heard himself say in the emptiness.

He reached decisively into the inside pocket of his jacket and took out his cell phone. He had a right to have the latest technology, unless it was a corrupter. It had advantages when used with sense and moderation, like everything. He ran through the list of numbers for the name of the person he wanted to call. As soon as he found it, he pressed the green button that began the call. He glanced over at the bridge where Rafael continued a friendly conversation with the captain, who apparently was an acquaintance.

‘I’m still completely in the dark,’ he said the second someone answered the phone. ‘I don’t know anything. They ordered me to accompany him, but he doesn’t open his mouth about anything. It’s difficult like this. If he doesn’t talk, I think Monsignor has a duty to inform and alert me.’ He gave the said monsignor an opportunity to accept the suggestion. It might seem by the decisive tone of voice that Phelps had had enough, since it would never cross his mind to give orders to anyone, let alone a monsignor. ‘Yes, of course. I beg your pardon, but I’ve been in the dark since we left Rome.’ Pause. ‘It was not my intention,’ he excused himself submissively. ‘I beg your pardon, but please understand, we are carrying corpses with us. You have to agree that is not normal. I’m not used to-’ He was interrupted on the other end of the line. ‘You heard right, Monsignor. Bodies. According to what I know, an English couple.’ A new pause. Surely he had pricked the curiosity of the prelate. ‘In the English Channel on the way to Dover.’

He felt a painless pressure on the back of his hand that made him open it, involuntarily, and release the cell phone into another hand, Rafael’s. He hadn’t heard him come up.

‘How dare you?’ cried Phelps, reddening. He couldn’t tolerate this man anymore. He hadn’t the least respect for people or for age, which surely deserves dignity.

Rafael threw the phone out in an arc that was lost in the darkness of the night. It fell into the waters of the Channel, causing an inaudible splash confused with the noise of water thrown up by the prow of the ferry.

‘Are you crazy? How dare you?’ Phelps was possessed, looking at the water where the voice of the monsignor had just drowned.

Rafael looked at him with that indifference characteristic of his style. He said nothing, unaffected by his companion’s anger.

‘I… I… I…’ Phelps insisted in his shocked litany.

He regained his customary calmness. His reproaches dried up quickly before his tongue was tired. The flush of fury would certainly have been worth seeing, if the light had been favorable, since even a gentleman like Phelps had the right to be carried away by passion by an insult like this. Or no? It was a cell phone, his own, and he was in the middle of a conversation. There could be no greater insult.

Rafael put a hand on Phelps’s shoulder and looked him in the eye seriously. ‘Turn the other cheek,’ he said. ‘Turn the other cheek.’ He returned to the bridge to resume his conversation with the captain.

Exactly fourteen minutes later, Rafael was sitting behind the wheel of the Mercedes van again, and Phelps, silent, in the passenger seat, prepared to continue on to the unknown destination, unknown at least to all the Phelpses of the world.

Phelps consulted his watch, which Rafael hadn’t yet thrown overboard, or in this case out the window. It was still on Roman time, an hour ahead of old Albion, an easy calculation. It was 3:03 in the morning. The night was half over, as was his anger. If things continued like this, he was going to lose respect for his calling, dishonor Almighty God the Father, and slap this Rafael in the face… or maybe it would be better not to start down that road. Surreptitiously he prayed his bad thoughts away. It was incredible what this man managed to arouse in him. The road in front was deserted, marked by the light poles on the sides. Only the noise of the van’s engine disturbed the harmony of the night.

‘When are you going to stop treating me like a puppet?’ he asked finally in a calm tone to try to get some information in another way, although it was clear nothing mattered to this man driving the Mercedes.

‘I’m not treating you like a puppet,’ Rafael answered without taking his eyes off the road.

‘No?’ For a moment he lost his self-control, and this negative reply left his lips louder than he intended. He continued to appeal to calm to reunite his efforts and take back control of his body and spirit. ‘I don’t know where we’re going or who the corpses are we’re transporting or what’s going to happen to them. It’s a sacrilege, you ought to know, to profane corpses in this way. They deserve eternal rest.’ He enumerated with his fingers, remembering not to raise his voice. How could Rafael maintain that cool posture? That was another thought that went through his mind and upset his serenity. It was irritating. ‘You had the gall to throw my phone in the Channel.’ Here his voice began to change. Simply remembering brought back his anger. ‘I can’t tolerate this situation any longer.’ He vented his feelings. ‘I feel lost, I don’t know what I’m doing here… I want to help, don’t get me wrong, but I don’t know how.’ He sighed. ‘If you want to know the truth, I feel like a prisoner. I’m in your custody, and I don’t know why, or what punishment awaits me.’

A sudden slamming on of brakes scared away Phelps’s thoughts and left him shaking with anxiety. The van stayed perfectly stopped in place.

‘What’s going on?’ Phelps asked, his instincts awake, looking around on all sides.