Luis Rocha - Papal decree

‘Where’s Sarah?’ was a more important question.

‘In the service of God.’

What a ridiculous answer. What did he mean by that?

‘You in the service of God, too?’ he asked somewhat recklessly.

‘I?’ he smiled. ‘I have no master. Call me JC.’

‘JC? What do you mean by that?’

‘JC,’ the old man repeated.

Francesco pointed toward the city.

‘What are we doing here?’ He couldn’t hide his irritation.

JC didn’t answer right away. He looked at the city for a few moments and then sighed deeply, before he finally spoke, as coldly as an iceberg. ‘Jerusalem. It was here everything began… It’ll be here that everything ends.’

The Bible.

The most prodigious book ever written. The majority of its words were inspired by God, and those that were not were written by His own hand.

He always carried it with him in a paperback edition worn out from so much reading. He gave special attention to the synoptic gospels, especially John, as well as the Acts, but what really satisfied his soul was the Apocalypse. He chose specifically for today Jesus said to him: I am the way, the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father but through Me, from the Gospel of John. He read it and re-read it until he didn’t need to read it again, it was so deeply fixed in his memory. He looked at another paper with the names of those whom God was calling to Himself and he had the pleasure of dispatching. Three names, three people who would come before the God of judgment. God would deal with them as He knew best.

He had no great admiration for the Old Testament, though he’d read it several times with the greatest respect. Certain passages struck a deep chord with him, especially the story of Abraham, who in certain respects resembled him, since he obeyed the will of God without question. He had no doubt that he would kill his father, mother, and children, if he had any, if it were asked of him. The Exodus from Egypt was one of his favorites, and he found great wisdom in the Book of Proverbs, written by the great Solomon, the son of the no lesser David. The Book of Job, the prophecies of Jeremiah and Ezekiel, Jonah in the belly of the whale, Noah, Absalom, Jacob, Joseph, and many others, the history of the Chosen People, who deserved all the suffering they endured. Caiaphas was guilty of sending the Son of God to His death. He considered himself an avenger, or rather, an avenging angel, a savior, freeing His world from evil. Thanks to Him, he did it extremely well.

He frequently used a personal ritual with Him. He shut the holy book and thought about some extremely important event in his life, then immediately opened it at random and placed his finger on a verse. God would tell him what to do through those prophetic words, sanctioning what would occur; He never failed, since He was omnipotent.

He did the same when he looked at the first name on the list of three below the words Deus vocat. He shut the Bible and opened it at random. Put his finger on a verse and read it. He smiled. I know well what you can do, and none of your desires will be denied, from the Book of Job.

God had made His judgment.

He hit the brakes as he reached his destination. He looked at his watch and unbuckled the seat belt. Right on schedule.

‘Are you sure it’ll work?’ Jacopo asked.

‘No,’ Rafael answered.

Jacopo sighed. The cold London morning penetrated to his bones. They hadn’t stopped since yesterday. He needed to rest. He’d tried to sleep on the train, but with no success. He wasn’t used to seeing people killed in front of him. Gunter and Maurice were the first, and it wasn’t pleasant. He admired Rafael’s presence of mind. He had helped Gavache with the investigation, answered every question succinctly, as if he had not been present at a tragedy and lost a friend. Probably he’d lost so many in such different ways that one more didn’t matter. Life can make us immune to anything. He shivered at the image of a shot exploding in his own brain. He didn’t want to be Rafael’s next friend to die… one more.

‘I can’t believe I’ll ever get to Rome,’ Jacopo confessed.

‘Tonight you’re going to be sleeping with Norma,’ Rafael asserted.

‘I hope so,’ Jacopo replied, thinking of his wife, whom he normally didn’t have the patience to put up with. Her shrill voice asking him for money to go shopping wasn’t so unpleasant anymore.

‘Did you remember everything?’ Rafael wanted to check.

‘I’m a historian. Of course I remembered everything,’ he joked to lighten the mood.

‘A historian tends to remember things his own way.’

‘Do you think we’ll be successful?’ A serious question.

Rafael didn’t answer.

‘Fighting with Ben Isaac and Jesus Christ,’ the historian said, ‘is not going to be easy.’

‘If it were easy, we wouldn’t be here,’ Rafael replied.

Jacopo had to acknowledge this. The Holy Father would not have sent him just anywhere. The truth was that the Holy Father didn’t know he’d sent him anywhere. Jacopo was too insignificant for the pope even to know his name. The secretary was the one who gave the orders, the mediator between the earth and the god who rested in the Apostolic Palace. Despite not being a believer, Jacopo was the one Tarcisio relied on most to carry out the duties asked of him, evaluating works of art and ancient documents. This work was the reason for his loss of faith. Thousands of parchments, papers, bones, pottery jars, and coins passed through his hands. If a document said one thing, another soon appeared to contradict the first. There was an erroneous understanding of the people who had lived in antiquity. Most imagined them as savages, not very hygienic, who lived short lives, killed one another, and were always at war. This could not be further from the truth. The ancients were as intelligent as modern people. Everything the world was today, for better or for worse, was due to them.

‘Great Russell Street,’ the taxi driver informed them.

‘Okay,’ Rafael said, immediately looking at Jacopo.

‘I’m ready.’

‘That’s good. Don’t forget that not everything is what it seems.’

‘Look who’s talking,’ Jacopo said eagerly. ‘I hope Robin will collaborate. Don’t let them kill him.’

‘That doesn’t depend on me,’ Rafael asserted. ‘You take care of your part, and let him decide how to do his.’

‘Is that how it works?’

‘That’s how you survive.’

Not everything is what it seems. Who would guess that a simple London taxi, one of thousands cruising the British capital every day, would be the target of intense surveillance by the CIA?

David Barry remained at his command post, monitoring every detail transmitted on the screens and simultaneously anticipating and providing for every eventuality.

‘Great Russell Street,’ Staughton alerted them.

‘Is the team on the ground?’ Barry asked.

‘Affirmative,’ Aris assured him. ‘Prepared and waiting.’

‘Remember, we’re only going to observe. Any change in the plan must come from me and me alone. I don’t want any extemporizing, understood?’

Aris, Staughton, Davis, and the other technicians answered with an okay, so there would be no doubt.

Samantha burst into the control center at precisely that moment. Barry looked at her.

‘What do you have for me?’

Samantha made a brief report on each of the victims and their professional and personal background. Barry listened carefully while keeping his eyes on the monitors.

‘Jesuits?’ Barry commented when Samantha was through reporting. ‘What’s the common denominator?’