Luis Rocha - The Holy assassin

‘If you don’t mind,’ Barnes replied sarcastically.

Herbert faced those present for the first time, enraged. He wasn’t used to losing control of a situation.

‘It’s obvious you have a mole on your team.’

Littel got up angrily.

‘Watch your mouth, my friend.’

‘For stating the obvious?’ He launched a verbal attack. ‘Gentlemen, do I have to reiterate the fact that he was expecting us? He welcomed us as if he were laughing at us.’

No one denied the observation. They kept silent, accepting the reprimand from Herbert, the agent of Opus Dei in that room and, perhaps, the head of the whole organization one day.

‘I don’t like that he’s a step ahead of us and sending us messages. We’ve got to review things and find the mole.’

Littel assumed his position as the senior officer in the room. ‘This… what’s your name?’ he asked the man from Opus Dei.

‘Herbert Ross.’

‘Herbert is right. This is not good work.’ He glanced at Barnes. ‘We have to catch this mole as quickly as possible.’

‘And how do you propose we do that? A mole is not caught in an hour or two,’ Barnes said. ‘Unless you know some new way, the most I can do is start an investigation.’

‘This isn’t a question of investigating,’ Herbert protested, going to the door and opening it to let in the noisy adrenaline from the Center of Operations.

‘Where are you going?’ Barnes asked.

‘To make my report. The Master’s not going to like the news.’ He closed the door loudly.

‘I am sick of Masters,’ Barnes snorted.

‘I don’t know if it was a good idea to let the reporter go,’ Littel confessed, thoughtfully changing the subject.

‘He’s of no interest, believe me. He knows nothing Rafael doesn’t want him to know.’

Rafael. This name still sounded false and every time he said it, it was hard to get out of his mouth. He and Jack Payne, one and the same.

‘Even so…’ Littel didn’t seem convinced.

‘Besides that, Roger’s on our side. He’ll do what’s necessary. And keep tabs on the journalist,’ Barnes claimed.

‘Who’s Roger?’

‘Roger Atwood,’ Barnes repeated, amazed at the ignorance. ‘The chief editor of the newspaper.’

This was a valid argument to Littel and convinced him that Barnes had been right to let Simon Lloyd go free. He was of the old guard, this Barnes.

‘And the mole? What do we do?’ Littel asked.

‘Don’t worry. We’ll find him,’ Barnes confidently asserted. ‘It’s always been that way, and always will be.’

‘Priscilla, go get us some coffee, please,’ Littel said.

Priscilla’s supreme dedication and competence were well known, so she left, leaving the two top men of the agency alone.

‘How do you feel about this?’ Littel wanted to know.

‘Never worse,’ the other answered with a sigh. He stretched, cupping his hands behind his head. ‘Everything will be resolved one way or another.’

‘True,’ commented Littel, looking into space for a few seconds before focusing on Barnes again. ‘Tell me something. Have you ever heard the name Abu Rashid?’

Abu Rashid continued his personal calvary, his supernatural mission, a captive of the intransigent foreigner whose conscience didn’t bother him. The good name of the Roman Catholic Church would always be the foreigner’s top priority.

These were the options that everyone chose based on the facts available at the moment; that’s how life works, a wheel of selections, of luck and lottery, where intelligence and talent have some weight, but not much.

No, the Virgin would never appear to a Muslim. This was a case for psychiatry, for internment in a hospital for mental cases. It was legitimate and normal to confuse religion with schizophrenia, visions with hallucinations, revelation with fantasy. The best thing was that he’d be able to prove it in a few minutes as soon as they had their feet on the ground again. The foreigner held on to that hope. It would serve as an argument before his superiors, and there’d be no need for execution, speaking of Abu Rashid, of course. That was never his strength. He never did it, but he knew people who’d snuffed out a human life for less reason than Abu Rashid had provided. But those were other characters and personalities, more energetic and less patient men. It was essential to always protect the image and good name of the Church, and thus the existence of those protectors with no lives of their own, angels who covered thousands of miles to fight the threats the world produces. They were called Sanctifiers and, as far as the world was concerned, didn’t exist, never existed, and never would exist. They had turned over their souls to the Church, to Christ, and beyond that they knew nothing. Sometimes we find gentler souls among the Sanctifiers, like this foreigner, but the optimists and defenders of human life shouldn’t delude themselves. He wouldn’t hesitate, if he decided Abu Rashid was truly a threat to his beloved Catholicism, or if he received orders to do so. He’d squeeze the trigger or cut his throat without blinking. Christ always came first, second, and third. There was no higher priority in his life.

When they had landed in Krakow, the plane had been directed to a remote area of the John Paul II International Airport, reserved for private planes, where a car waited without a driver, as he’d requested. Not a luxury model with a lot of horsepower, calling attention to itself, but a white Lada, more than twenty years old, with none of the conveniences of today’s cars, but which passed completely unnoticed in the immense Polish territory they covered that night.

The trip was hardly fifty miles to the south of Krakow, although in the Lada it took longer than he expected. What was important was that they’d arrived, and so we see them following the well-traveled road on foot, Abu Rashid first, with his hands tied, shoved along from time to time by the foreigner, not for walking too slowly, but to remind him he was a captive. Besides a nudge in the ribs, nothing too rough.

The handcuffs fastened the black briefcase to the foreigner’s wrist as if it were an extension of his body.

Anyone else would have asked where they were going, but not Abu Rashid. We can almost make out a satisfied smile on his sweaty, beat-up face.

They climbed the path up the mountain aided by the light of a flashlight that dimly penetrated the veil of obscurity. The foreigner pointed the light slightly in front of Abu Rashid’s feet.

‘We’re getting there,’ he let him know almost cordially.

‘I know that,’ the Muslim replied.

A few feet ahead, another jab in Abu Rashid’s ribs made him fall to the ground this time. The foreigner was alarmed and poised for action. He hadn’t used enough force to cause that reaction, he was sure of that. Something, or someone, had caused the fall.

Abu Rashid was on his knees with his head down. It was hard to tell if he was kneeling toward the Kaaba in Mecca, given their disorientation, the cover of night without stars, and the lack of a mihrab, but certainly the Muslim had adopted the position of prayer, strange in those hours before dawn, but who could criticize a believer for prostrating himself in a moment of affliction?

The foreigner could. Not only from his role as captor, but because that position always made him feel a certain nausea. All that submission, the abrasive demonstration of the faith of Allah, All-Powerful God, disgusted the foreigner. Not even the ordination of new priests could compare to this lying flat out, when the candidates stretched out on their bellies, kissing the floor, almost under the feet of their colleagues, and gave their lives to the Roman Catholic Church, the only true faith, no other. Nothing was more repulsive to the foreigner than this twisted gesture of Abu Rashid with his bound arms on the ground and his head beside them.