Luis Rocha - Papal decree

‘Now you’re not so brave, are you?’ The words were no longer slurred, but firm and dry, his movements precise. He was more sober than Francesco.

‘What… what do you want with me?’ Francesco asked fearfully, his voice constricted by the hand on his throat.

‘Me, nothing,’ answered the man close to his face, with a Tuscan accent.

Francesco could smell his breath.

‘But Sarah does,’ he added.

‘What?’ Francesco was confused. What was he saying? ‘Sarah?’

The man loosened his grip. ‘Is Sarah important to you?’

‘What?’

‘Can’t you say anything else?’ the man joked. ‘Is Sarah important to you?’

‘Yes,’ Francesco replied with difficulty.

‘Would you die for her?’

‘Yes.’

The man released him completely. He took off a dirty jacket and dropped it on the ground, revealing an impeccably tailored Armani suit. He straightened his jacket, shook off the dust, and assumed a cool but annoyed expression.

‘Good. Let’s see if she’ll do the same for you.’

Perinde Ac Cadaver

(Just like a corpse. Loyola demanded a vow of complete obedience to the pope, perInde ac cadaver.)

‘Let this warning be added to that of our brother Leo X so that they know these new developments nearly set us back. I plead with my successors not to liberalize the regulations. If possible make them more restrictive. The traitors have to be silenced.’

— Pius IX, August 13, 1863

David Barry liked to get up early. Even before the first hint of sunrise he could be seen on his morning jog in Hyde Park. A full hour around the serpentine path at a fast pace, rain, shine, or drizzle. A thick fog limited his field of vision but not his desire to keep his usual pace. He trusted his reflexes to get him around any obstacle — a slower runner or a morning walker. Even on nice days it was unusual to see a lot of people. The park started to fill up when David finished his daily run.

His morning routine continued with a hot shower and shave. He put on blue tweed slacks, a blue shirt, and a blazer without a tie. He had a light breakfast, just coffee and toast. He didn’t have children to take to school or a wife to kiss before leaving, since they were 3,663 miles away on the other side of the Atlantic in Washington, D.C., and still sound asleep.

His office was ten minutes away by car, depending on the traffic. Learning to drive on the wrong side of the street was not as tricky as he had first thought. After three days it was as if he’d done it his whole life. He’d even started to think the English were right in the first place. He entered his building at ten minutes before eight. The doorman said good morning, and he returned the greeting, waited for the elevator, got in, and pressed a random button, then swiped his ID card through a digital reader that accessed a floor that did not appear on any button. Seconds later the doors opened on a floor filled with activity.

The CIA headquarters for Europe.

‘Good morning, David,’ a man in corduroys and a T-shirt greeted him.

‘Morning, Staughton. Quiet night?’

‘Weird,’ Staughton commented, before disappearing into a room full of monitors.

Aren’t they all? David thought as he went to his office.

The frenzied activity at that time of morning was incredible. People were shouting into telephones, at each other, into microphones and monitors. People walked with others, or alone, from every side of the office to another, holding a stack of papers, files, trays with Starbucks cups, empty trays, sandwiches, and cameras. Fuck, fuck off, fucking work, go fuck yourself, fucking Iraqis, fucking Afghans, fucking Russians, fucking Israelis, fucking Muslims, fucking Osama, fuck them all. We’ll make America safe.

Every day was the same. It wasn’t a job for just anyone, only for the best of the best, men like David Barry, who at forty years old had the qualifications to replace Geoffrey Barnes, the former station chief who had died in service, may God rest his soul.

The director barely had time to enter his office and hang up his coat.

‘David,’ a harried woman called.

‘Good morning to you, too, Samantha,’ he greeted her pleasantly.

‘Good morning, David. Sorry.’ Samantha’s hair was mussed up, but David chose to ignore it. ‘We have a problem.’

‘We always do,’ he said dismissively, then immediately showed her a smile. ‘Talk to me.’

‘Last night two priests died in a church in Paris,’ she told him.

David sat down and gestured for Samantha to join him.

‘Two priests in Paris,’ he said, as if making a mental note.

‘But there’s more.’

There always is.

‘According to our sources, this happened while they were being questioned by inspectors from the Surete Nationale.’

David frowned. ‘The French police? What were they questioning them for?’

‘Two other murders that had occurred earlier.’

‘That’s complicated,’ David yawned. ‘Let’s take one thing at a time. Who killed the priests?’

‘We don’t know yet.’

‘We don’t know a lot, do we?’ he said, a little disgustedly. ‘We can’t waste resources on unimportant things, Sam.’ He sighed and smiled to lighten his condescending tone. He liked his people happy. ‘Anything else?’

Samantha was reluctant to say the rest, and David was an expert at reading people’s expressions.

‘Out with it.’

‘Jack… Jack Payne was with them,’ she finally said.

David’s eyes got wider. ‘Rafael?’

Samantha nodded and lowered her eyes.

‘Was he one of the victims?’

‘We still don’t…’

‘Know,’ he finished her sentence, irritated. He got up. ‘Call Aris, please.’

Samantha got up and left the office to do it.

Jack Payne, aka Rafael Santini, was a legend in the recent history of the CIA. A real son of a bitch who had been exposed as a double agent in the service of the Vatican. A priest of sorts. David Barry had been close to him, a friend, and felt betrayed when he discovered the truth in 2006. He felt hurt, and he wasn’t alone. He still hadn’t gotten over it.

Two minutes later a huge, heavyset man in a well-fitting suit came in. ‘David,’ he greeted him.

The two shook hands in support and loyalty.

‘Tell me everything you know,’ the director asked. ‘Something new with Rafael?’ The name still stuck in his throat.

‘My team is on the ground, but those French bastards aren’t going to be open with us.’ He took out a cigarette and lit it. ‘But we know that the Surete was there at the time and the questioning involved two other murders in Paris and Marseille.’

‘What’s in the news?’

‘This is interesting, too. Nothing, because they know nothing.’

‘The French are fuckers,’ David considered scornfully. ‘No press, then?’

‘Not yet,’ Aris said, taking another draw on his cigarette before putting it out in the ashtray on David’s desk.

‘Do we know who the other victims were?’

‘I should have that information within the hour,’ Aris replied.

‘Do we know whether Rafael was among the victims in the church?’ He felt no sympathy for a Judas.

Aris shook his head no. ‘But there’s a simple way to find out.’

Barry waited for his suggestion.

‘Call him up,’ Aris said with disdain.

‘Who?’

‘You.’

Barry sat back down in his chair. What a hell of an idea. It was the logical thing to do. Aris was intelligent and pragmatic. He was good at analyzing situations, seeing the options, and coming up with solutions.

‘This could scare off the game,’ Barry objected.