Luis Rocha - The Holy assassin

‘Who cut the cords?’ Timothy repeated.

He opened the door of the room, gun in hand, and looked around. Everything was quiet. He did the same at the window. It was too dark to see anything.

‘Our Lady,’ Abu Rashid said again.

Tim returned to the center of the room and sighed. I’m going crazy. He took in what had occurred and analyzed the cord again.

‘Why didn’t you run away or take the gun?’ he finally asked.

‘I don’t need to,’ Abu Rashid declared, looking at him profoundly. ‘You still don’t understand, Tim. I’m not your prisoner. I’m here of my free will. Sleep now. Tomorrow will be an important day.’

A thin line separates patriotic duty from the temporary illusion of a comfortable life free of financial problems, as if money were the magic solution for earthly happiness. Even on a border as rigidly controlled as the Russian, greasing palms with dollars is sufficient stimulus. It’s never been a question of honor or dignity, but of price.

As soon as they left Moscow, they went in civilian helicopters somewhere close to the border with Ukraine. From there they caught a plane that in a matter of seconds crossed the border, leaving the Russian authorities to deal with the dead agents. It would open a diplomatic conflict between America and Russia, but without proof the Westerners could deny any responsibility.

There were two stops on the long flight, but Rafael and Sarah couldn’t calculate how long. They only knew they’d been traveling for hours. During the first stage they were blindfolded and forced to change planes. There the blindfolds were taken off, but even so there was nothing to orient them. They flew together in a compartment that was essentially a cell without windows. There was hardly space for the two seats where they sat tied with straps and chains above and below. You couldn’t be claustrophobic and survive in such a narrow space. Even someone who’d never suffered previous symptoms would end up suffering, as happened to Sarah, who felt her nose and throat begin to close up. Being handcuffed didn’t help. It didn’t matter that they’d removed the blindfold. It wasn’t really necessary since the walls around them were barely visible. Her respiratory panic increased when Rafael fell asleep. She felt alone, incapable of sleeping, consumed by her thoughts and speculations. In this case she had no control of the situation. Without any aces there was no way to negotiate. The only thing she could do was trust Rafael, who seemed to be sleeping the sleep of the innocents, completely carefree, as if he didn’t expect an unforeseen torture session. Barnes was not going to forgive them, much less whoever was working for him.

How can he sleep? She couldn’t get James Phelps out of her mind during the long flight. How was such deception possible? To gain their confidence, listen, suffer physically with them, only to gain some strange influence, whatever it was. A courteous man with an adorable frailty, who could be her father, until he looked at her with those cold eyes, repugnant, a taker of lives. There was a Portuguese proverb about he who sees faces, doesn’t see hearts. There was no better way to illustrate the manipulative power of that Englishman. To think she’d been genuinely worried about his health. She couldn’t help a certain negativity come over her, a loss of hope for humanity.

When she wasn’t thinking these things, wondering about her fate, or fighting a panic attack, she watched Rafael sleeping deeply. No one would imagine he was in European airspace, a prisoner of the CIA in partnership with Opus Dei or whomever. She tried to touch his hand, even with her finger, but the strap was too tight.

Rafael didn’t sleep for the whole trip, of course. When he wasn’t sleeping, he talked to Sarah about superficial things.

‘What’s it like to be an editor of international politics?’ he began asking.

‘It’s a lot of work, but the pay is good.’

‘I imagine so. I’ve read some of your stories. They’re very good.’

‘Thanks. I’ve spent the whole year wondering why.’

‘Why what?’

‘Why me? How did I get that position, almost as if I parachuted in?’

‘What conclusion did you come to?’

‘It could only be because JC put me there and gave me enough material to stay,’ Sarah argued. ‘I don’t know why.’

Rafael didn’t indicate agreement or disagreement. He just kept chatting pleasantly, not a word about what was going on. Sarah assumed the reason was that there were other eyes and ears intent on what they said. They talked for several hours about various things until the second stop, probably for refueling. Outside they could hear noises of trucks and machinery checking what needed to be checked for the proper running of the airplane. They were not bothered at any time. It felt like they’d been forgotten.

An hour later the plane rolled down the runway and took off.

Sarah looked at Rafael for the umpteenth time. He’d fallen asleep again. She realized at that precise moment that he’d only talked about her. Absolutely nothing about himself… as was to be expected.

The door of the compartment opened, letting in a young blond man. His heavy fist landed in the middle of Rafael’s sleeping face.

‘Wake up,’ Herbert shouted with a serious expression.

Rafael opened his eyes, stunned. He had actually been sleeping.

‘You’ve given us a lot of trouble,’ Herbert growled, loosening Sarah’s straps.

‘What I’ve done is make your work easier,’ Rafael declared. ‘If I’d wanted to give you trouble, I wouldn’t be here right now.’

‘I know you’re a brave man,’ Herbert accused him sarcastically, slapping him again on the same side. ‘That’s for the men you made me lose.’

‘You must feel sorry for them,’ Rafael mocked.

Herbert knelt down to loosen the straps binding Sarah’s legs and turned to lift her up.

‘Now we’re going to have a conversation,’ the captor said, forcing Sarah to get up. ‘I’m taking you to see the visitors.’

‘Give them a kiss for me,’ Rafael said before the door closed.

Let’s stay at Sarah’s side, since Rafael isn’t going anywhere.

The plane was spacious. She hadn’t noticed when they entered, considering she hadn’t assimilated any of the unfolding events. Her mind was bombarded with images of the shot to Ivanovsky’s head, the Russian eccentric who’d died in the service of his country, in an attack carried out by Chechen separatists, according to the newspaper headlines. Moscow would have to adopt more repressive measures against those terrorists who showed no respect for human lives.

Swivel seats were distributed through the cabin of what had to be a Boeing 7-something, outfitted with just about everything.

Sarah was pushed toward the front of the plane. Various agents were working throughout the plane, oblivious to her or Herbert. Computers, radar, flat screens reflecting graphs added to the crowded space. At the front was a closed door. Herbert opened it and pushed Sarah inside.

It was a small office for so many people. Sarah recognized only a few, Barnes, seated behind a desk, Staughton, Thompson, although she didn’t know their names, and… Simon Lloyd.

‘Simon,’ she shouted fervently.

She tried to reach him, but Herbert held her tightly. She evaluated his condition, and it didn’t indicate good treatment. Bruises on his face, dried blood, and a swollen lower lip. Simon Lloyd had endured severe punishment, and she felt responsible, as if she’d done it herself.

‘Oh, Simon.’

He lifted his eyes as well as he could and bowed his head again, beaten.

There were more men in the small office, two seated, one in a wheelchair, who Sarah recognized as the man who was inside the black van they’d been put into in Moscow. Another two standing, and a woman. No sign of Phelps.