Luis Rocha - Papal decree

Francesco was increasingly unhappy. Some things were better not to know.

‘That said, you’re the boyfriend of someone important in all this. Your head is always at risk… if you don’t act right,’ JC warned.

The man in the Armani suit entered the room, bringing with him a note of dread. Everything made Francesco shiver. It was surreal. The old man practically threatened him with death if he didn’t treat Sarah right.

‘How are things?’ JC asked his lame assistant.

‘Dispersed.’

The old man stopped eating and looked at him. ‘Then the time has come to bring everything together.’ He wiped his mouth on a napkin.

JC held out his arm to ask his assistant to help him up. The cripple raised him to his feet and gave him his cane.

‘Shall we go?’ JC said to everyone and no one.

‘Go where?’ Francesco asked, getting up awkwardly.

JC walked to the door of the suite, aided by the cripple on one side and the cane on the other, leaving Francesco behind. ‘Let’s take a walk. It’s time for you to play your part.’

‘What were you doing in London?’

‘What were you doing in London?’

‘I’m the one asking the questions here.’

‘You know perfectly well that you don’t have any valid reason to detain me here. Sooner or later you’ll receive an angry call from the Vatican asking to release me, and you’ll have no other choice.’

Jacopo was right, and David Barry knew it. Two countries were abusing the confidence of a third that had no idea what was happening inside its own borders.

The two men were alone in the interrogation room. Jacopo was sweating, it was so hot in the room. He’d taken off his jacket and unbuttoned his shirt halfway. He hadn’t been tortured, at least not in the true meaning of the word. No one had laid a finger on him or threatened him physically, except for the heat in the room.

David Barry sat in a chair opposite from him and rested his arms on the table. The white light shone uniformly through the small room, reflected everywhere, even on the door.

‘Jacopo Sebastiani, tell me what I want to know, or when the pope calls, I’m going to say that I have no idea what or who he’s talking about, have nothing to do with your disappearance, and when you next appear, your decomposed body will be floating in the Thames.’

Jacopo swallowed dryly at the idea of finding himself in the dirty, cold river, and shivered despite the heat.

‘I don’t understand your interest in this affair. There are no Americans involved,’ Jacopo argued, aware that this wouldn’t move things along.

‘Everything that concerns our allies concerns us.’

‘How nice. You’re just busybodies, if you ask me.’

‘Are you going to be like this all day?’ Barry was losing patience.

‘No, you have to be in Rome by eight tonight,’ Jacopo joked.

Barry banged his fist on the desk. ‘If you want to joke, I know how to joke, too. Playing with me is playing with fire.’

‘Wasn’t that what he said?’

‘Who?’

‘Rafael.’

‘What is he doing in London?’

‘Not even he knows.’

‘I’m losing patience, Mr. Jacopo.’ Barry decided to quiet his voice to calm the mood. He had more to gain if Jacopo cooperated. ‘Rafael may be in danger. We can help him if you tell me the purpose of his trip.’

‘Rafael knows the hazards of his occupation. Today we’re alive, tomorrow only God knows. Don’t worry about him.’

‘What’s your function in the Vatican?’

‘I’m a historian specializing in comparative religion.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Analyzing the similarities and differences between religions.’

‘Is a course necessary to know that?’ It was Barry’s turn to be sarcastic. ‘Why did you come with Rafael to Paris?’

‘Who said it was I?’

‘Didn’t you?’

‘I’m here. He’s not.’

An annoyed sigh escaped Barry. They were going in circles, getting nowhere.

There was a knock, then Aris’s head appeared through the half-opened door. ‘Do you have a minute, David?’

Barry gave Jacopo a dirty look and got up. ‘I’m coming.’

The door closed, leaving Jacopo alone with dozens of images of himself reflected in the mirrored walls. Sweat ran down his face and stained his shirt under his arms. He was weary. He longed for Rome, to return to the comforts of home, even for Norma’s strident voice calling him to dinner. Anything was better than this. ‘Can’t you turn off the heat?’ he grumbled to himself or whoever might be spying on him.

Then he remembered that someone was probably watching him through one of the mirrors, and smiled. Go fuck yourselves. Everything was going as foreseen. To hell with them all. The plan was almost concluded.

Barry returned to the room, out of breath. He leaned on the desk and leaned his head into Jacopo’s face.

‘What’s going on here?’

‘The heat’s on too high,’ Jacopo enjoyed replying.

‘You son of a bitch. You’re going to talk, one way or another, you bastard,’ Barry insulted him. ‘I’m going to ask you for the last time what you were doing in London. What is Rafael’s plan?’

Jacopo smiled cynically. ‘It’s incredible. All this technology, and it doesn’t help you at all,’ he confronted the American. ‘Ask him tonight. He won’t keep it secret.’

‘I don’t like being behind the curve.’

‘I know what your problem is,’ Jacopo asserted. ‘There’s a big circus going on in Ben Isaac’s house, and you don’t have any eyes or ears there. You have no idea what’s going on,’ he said. Despite being fed up with being there, that fact amused him.

‘Are you telling me that that’s all your doing?’

‘Of course. Wherever you go, we’ve been there already and know more than you.’

‘Rafael’s there, then?’

‘What a fixation, man! You still don’t see that Rafael is just a pawn in the game? He follows orders, nothing more.’

‘And the circus is part of those orders?’

Jacopo sighed. ‘Rafael has no idea what’s happening in Ben Isaac’s house. All this is much bigger than him.’

One can, and should be, suspicious of assumptions. Just because a sinner says he has a gun pointed at the head of the confessor doesn’t mean it should be believed. Empirical proof is necessary, and the wooden screen between them does not allow for that. But the confessor opened the screen and saw the barrel of a gun pointed at his head, followed by a hand and body, and identified the man holding it.

‘Rafael?’

‘Robin.’

‘What are you doing here? Drop that shit.’ He tried not to change his voice too much. Confessionals are not soundproof.

Rafael didn’t answer the question. He kept the Beretta pointed, holding it only in one hand, with the safety still on.

‘What’s going on?’ Robin asked.

‘You tell me. Put your hands where I can see them.’ He wasn’t joking.

Robin looked confused, but Rafael didn’t believe it for a second. He needed answers and was there to get them.

‘Please, Rafael. We’re men of God. Put that down, for the love of God,’ Robin argued, visibly uncomfortable.

‘Men of God don’t murder innocent people. Tell me who the Jesuit is who’s going around killing people who helped us in the past, and why.’ Rafael’s voice expressed some anger.

‘What do I have to do with that?’

‘You should know what’s going on in your society. Where can I find Nicolas?’

Robin did not reply. Rafael removed the safety. Robin remained pensive for a few moments. He considered the options, then opened the door of the confessional and got up.