Luis Rocha - The Holy assassin

‘Make your colleague lay down his gun,’ Rafael ordered.

Hearing him, Sarah got up and looked at him with luminous eyes. A year later, another encounter in the same circumstances. Couldn’t they meet another way? More normally. A dinner, a date at the movies, a cup of coffee?

‘Do what he tells you,’ Thompson told Staughton in the same firm voice as always. This clearly wasn’t the first time he’d found himself with a gun aimed at him. A warrior’s occupational hazard, Staughton thought with respect, while he tossed his gun away from him. If they knew him well, they’d know he’d never shoot at anyone.

Rafael crossed the street without taking his eyes off the two men. He never relaxed or even glanced at Sarah, who already knew how he operated. All business. There’s no diversion in the life of Rafael Santini, a sometime double agent for P2 who used the name Jack Payne.

When he got near Thompson, Rafael arched his lips in a sarcastic smile.

‘How’s Geoffrey Barnes?’

Neither agent answered, naturally. Thompson met Rafael’s look, while Staughton lowered his eyes to avoid calling undesirable attention to himself. On the computer everything was much easier.

‘Give him my best, friends,’ he said in a neutral tone. Of course, they’d never pass on that message, but Staughton was pleased to know that Rafael wasn’t going to harm them.

‘You’re totally crazy,’ Phelps protested. ‘Gun out, shooting at people? You’re completely possessed. My God, where are we? And who are these men?’ He pointed at Staughton and Thompson, who looked at him fascinated.

‘My beloved Phelps,’ Rafael called. ‘Help our two new friends into the van. It’ll be a little crowded, but where there’s a will… And don’t say anything else.’

Phelps was fuming, but Sarah’s hand on his brought him back to earth. Immediately Simon and the woman walked to the van, where they’d have to squeeze three into a seat for one. Anything can be done with the grace of God.

Rafael, ever on guard, picked up the guns thrown on the ground, unloaded them skillfully, and let them fall, keeping the clips for future use.

‘We’ll see each other again,’ Rafael informed them as he walked to the van. ‘So long.’

Before getting into the van, he pressed a pen that sent a beam of red light into Thompson’s eyes. Not everything is as it appears. Then he took off as fast as possible.

The two men remained behind, confused, seeing the van leave down Fulham Road in the direction of Fulham Broadway. Their reaction came afterward when Thompson opened the door.

‘Let’s go.’

‘Where?’

‘After them. Where do you think they went?’

The two men got in the car and took off in the same direction, or, at least, that was their intention. Thompson felt something wrong and slammed on the brakes. He poked his head outside and saw what he hadn’t noticed previously: two of the tires were flat. Rafael must have shot them out.

‘What’s the problem?’ Staughton asked.

‘Flat tires,’ Thompson explained, getting out of the car.

‘He is,’ Staughton exclaimed with a sigh.

‘He’s what?’ Thompson was not joking.

‘He is good,’ Staughton said admiringly.

Just as Thompson was about to express his anger, a London cab stopped next to the car. A young man got out with a disdainful look.

‘What happened here?’ he asked rudely.

‘Keep going,’ Thompson answered impolitely. ‘This is none of your business.’

A sarcastic, annoying smile appeared on the man’s face.

‘You must be Barnes’s men.’

‘And who are you?’ Staughton asked, unhappy with the insult.

‘I’m your boss for the next few hours. I have two men inside there. What’s happened here?’

‘Are we speaking with Herbert?’

The man nodded yes.

‘Your men should be dead. We couldn’t stop them from taking the woman away,’ Staughton confessed.

‘Who?’

‘You haven’t heard of Rafael Santini or Jack Payne?’

Herbert recognized the name. He went over to the taxi driver’s door and took out a revolver.

‘I’m out of patience. So I’m going to give you five seconds to leave the vehicle.’

The taxi driver sat astonished and immobile, but when Herbert looked at his watch and started to count, one, two, three, four, it only took a second for him to leave the taxi and start running as fast as his age allowed.

‘Let’s go now,’ Herbert ordered. He turned to Thompson. ‘You drive.’ Then to Staughton, ‘You call Barnes. We can’t let them get out of the city, even if we have to get the president after them. They can’t and won’t leave the city alive.’

‘Good Lord, who could it be at this hour?’ protested the poor sister who had to dress as quickly as possible to attend the impatient person who’d been knocking insistently at the door of the Convent of the Order of the Sacred Heart of Jesus for the last five minutes. She even crossed herself when, still in bed, she looked at the clock and saw that it was ten minutes before five in the morning, fifty-five minutes before she’d get up for the first prayers before breakfast.

Whoever it was would have to listen to her reprimand since it was highly discourteous to disturb the sleep of the sisters, even more so when the evening before they’d had a night procession with candles in honor of Our Lady. The Marian Sanctuary stood some hundreds of feet from here, and today thousands of pilgrims were expected to come to show their devotion to the Virgin and her fruit conceived without sin.

The sister descended the stairs in a bad mood. It was the Mother Superior’s orders to open the door at any time. All the devout faithful had the right to a friendly word, meal, or refuge in case of necessity. But it wasn’t the Mother who had to get up at this hour and open the door, exposed to assault by some vagrant. No, she slept on an upper floor and said her first prayer of the day in the comfort of her room, coming down only for breakfast to give the orders of the day, which were always the same as every other day.

The sister got to the door, dressed in the pure blue robe of her order with a white head scarf she arranged to appear presentable to whoever was there. She opened a small square wicket in the door. She had to get up on a small box that once held fruit in order to reach the height of the opening, a little narrower than her head.

‘Who’s there?’ she asked in a disagreeable voice to discourage any levity on the part of whoever was there on the other side of the door.

‘Good evening,’ she heard a man say. ‘Pardon my showing up at such a late hour,’ he began to excuse himself in a gentle voice. ‘I meant to arrive sooner, but I was delayed.’

‘Who is the gentleman?’ The sister strained her eyes to make out the man who was speaking.

‘I’m Father Marius Ferris. I was planning to arrive last night to sleep under the sanctified roof of this convent.’

The sister was moved upon hearing his name and changed her attitude completely.

‘Marius Ferris? Escriva’s disciple? My God!’

The prelate didn’t see the sister jump down from the fruit box or knock it out of the way with a well-aimed kick. He did hear all the sounds that accompanied these actions as well as the key working vigorously in the solid lock to reveal the friendly sister, a foot shorter than he thought, as soon as the door opened. Not everything is as it appears, thought the white-haired man whom the fawning sister invited to enter the convent.

‘Come in, please. You are welcome.’

They both went up the stairs to the convent proper, Marius Ferris more quickly than the sister, whose age didn’t permit her unanticipated climbs, the effects of half a lifetime shut up in those four walls, praying to the Lord, preparing three meals a day, and sleeping eight hours. In Marius Ferris one saw the results of his daily walks in New York City from lower Sixth Avenue to Central Park and back.