Luís Rocha: The Holy Bullet

Two dogs sniffing out each other’s fear-if you will pardon the metaphor. Take the canine allusion as merely a metaphor to help understand the scene, not a gratuitous insult to either of those present.

“Then I’m going to have to ask you to leave and make an official appointment,” the American said coldly, sitting down and taking a Cuban cigar from a gold box on top of the mahogany desk.

“Has Bishop Marcinkus forgotten how to behave with his superiors?” the cardinal asked, lifting his eyes for the first time.

“Not at all, Your Eminence. I am only doing what my duties demand. All meetings should be previously scheduled. Besides, in this department my superior is His Holiness.”

“I know, I know,” the cardinal said without taking his eyes off Marcinkus. “And how far do you think you are going to get?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Do you believe His Holiness is going to help you when the Italian and American authorities start applying pressure? Do you believe that he, in good faith, is going to stand by you?” The cardinal got up and leaned on the desk, looking intently at the bishop.

“I don’t understand, Your Eminence.”

“Come on, drop the act. You don’t have to play dumb with me. I already know everything.”

“What, Your Eminence?”

“Everything. Everything. The financial machinations, the money laundering, the losses at the Ambrosiano. I know what’s behind it all.”

It was Marcinkus’s turn to stand up and look at the cardinal from his imposing height of six feet.

“I’ll have to ask you to schedule this meeting for another time. Do me the favor of leaving.” His deep sigh failed to disguise the fury he wanted to show.

“That won’t be necessary, Bishop.” The cardinal took his hands off the desk and moved toward the door. “His Holiness is informed.”

Before the cardinal could leave, he heard the American’s reply.

“That’s good, Your Eminence. You never know what could happen in the future.”

Showing no reaction to these last words, the cardinal left and closed the door.

All the theories end with the closing of this door, witnessed by the employee in the outer office.

Marcinkus ordered no interruption whatsoever until further notice, a decision the employee noted without understanding why. With the American you listened, shut up, and complied.

Inside, the bishop grabbed a phone and dialed a number.

“They’re tightening the circle,” he told the person on the other end of the line, not bothering with a greeting. It wasn’t the time for protocol. “We have to act quickly.”

The bishop listened for some time to the person he’d called.

“I don’t want any mistakes or excuses. I want this resolved as quickly as possible. The German, Ratzinger, just left.”

Solomon Keys was an American. In itself this was neither a fault nor a virtue, just a fact. He was eighty-seven, and those times of excessive patriotism, of America, land of opportunity, liberty, and so on, were long gone for him. Let it be clear, Solomon Keys did go for all of that in the past even until very recently. He was born in the District of Columbia-named in honor of the discoverer of the continent-the center of world politics since 1800, and Solomon Keys fought in the war of his generation, World War II, “fought” in quotations, since he never saw a front line, death, wounds, or anything similar. His field of operation was in London, in the Office of Strategic Services, decoding German messages, and, perhaps, while hurting his back as he leaned over his desk, he had saved some lives. He escaped the Blitz that darkened England’s nights and days in 1940 and 1941, for he arrived in the English capital in May 1943. Be that as it may, he served his country with dedication, competence, zeal, and obedience, like a good American.

When he returned home, he set off to New Haven, Connecticut, to enroll at Yale, where he studied law. Of course a young man born in the nation’s capital, who had served in the OSS, which, at the end of the war was converted by order of President Harry S Truman into the Central Intelligence Agency, didn’t take these steps as easily as they are described. Everything depended on knowing the right people at the right time and place, including his initiation into the secret society of Skull and Bones in 1948 in the same group as the forty-first president of the United States. Every Thursday and Sunday night there was a meeting in the Tomb, where the not-very-secret society met for notoriously secret activities, from dignified mud wrestling to the celebrated and awkward moment in which the future member was called on to reveal some secret he’d never revealed to anyone, after which and from that day on he was treated as a “bonesman.” They are the men who will be most influential in the country and even in the world, linked to one another by rites and secrets, blood brothers, in mutual service for the rest of their lives. The “gentlemen,” as the members call themselves, are chosen for taking power, for molding the “barbarians” to their will, “barbarians” being their term for all nonmembers.

But all this was part of Solomon Keys’s rich past. After decades of work and dedication, he decided to set off to meet the unknown, solely for pleasure without destination or ambitions, as these had already been abundantly achieved. And now we find him, far into his travels, in downtown Amsterdam hurrying to catch the Go London tour, which included a train to the Hoek van Holland Haven station, followed by a ferry to Harwich and, then, a train from Harwich International to London with arrival at Liverpool Street station. The trip was called the Dutchflyer, and Solomon Keys had a return ticket to Amsterdam, on this same service, departing in three days. From there he would leave immediately for Eastern Europe to explore the former Iron Curtain countries.

It’s a little embarrassing to explain that this great man found himself with his pants down in one of the station toilets, answering nature’s call. He had ninety minutes before the train left for Hoek van Holland, and it was always better to go here rather than take a chance on the train’s dubiously hygienic WCs.

Solomon Keys’s calm was interrupted by someone shoving open the entrance door, followed by noises that ended in the stall next to his until… until the noises continued with a light banging he couldn’t figure out. It would be indelicate to describe these actions and leave the elderly man ignorant of what was actually happening. Therefore, instead of making ourselves voyeurs, let’s remain next to Solomon Keys, who was trying to decipher the sounds reaching him from the other stall, as if deciphering a code in wartime. In his eighty-seven years this might have been the first time the American had listened to someone copulating like that so close by. It’s not our place to confirm or deny the theory that Skull and Bones promoted orgies or other similar activity. If they did, it never happened in his presence.

Filling the sounds reaching Solomon Keys’s ears and stimulating his imagination, the stifled moans of a woman allowed him to imagine the pleasure and passion of the two. The sliding of clothes and smacking of bodies suggested their unbridled enjoyment. A few minutes later, the frenzy died away, and the moans changed to sighs of pleasure, masculine as well as feminine, and the words we cannot repeat. The wall separating Solomon from the passionate couple began to tremble more intensely, as if something or someone were being pushed against it. A change of position? Good God , thought Solomon, who was not religious. He remained seated, quiet, his pants around his ankles, his heart hammering. He had never given in to the clutches of matrimony, not that he hadn’t enjoyed sex, of course. But he had never heard such dirty talk during coitus.