Small groups came and went, but didn’t stop. This was a passageway, not a place to linger.
‘Do you have a light?’ the drunk again asked. He had suddenly reappeared.
‘I just told you I don’t smoke,’ Francesco repeated with irritation.
‘You’re a son of a bitch,’ the man insulted him, turning back toward Via dei Cestari. ‘You’re not the man for her, you bastard,’ he murmured before disappearing.
What did he say? Did he say what I thought he said? Without thinking, Francesco followed the drunk, who continued down the street, limping with his left leg. He didn’t notice Francesco, who gained ground on him with each step. Had the idiot been talking about Sarah, or just muttering nonsense? He wasn’t exactly credible, having downed countless drinks. At a certain moment he lost his balance and almost fell. He laughed hard at himself.
That guy couldn’t know anything about Sarah. At least that’s what Francesco thought. He followed along out of nervousness and anxiety. It would be better to turn back. This was the place specified in the message he’d received. He gave a half turn and sighed. Ah, where are you, Sarah? he asked himself, but unfortunately there was no reply.
‘Do you have a light?’ Behind him, Francesco heard the voice of the drunk, who should have left him behind by now.
Francesco walked faster and didn’t reply.
‘Do you have a match, you fool?’
Francesco ignored him. It was the alcohol talking. He didn’t have to listen to someone in that state. It was a mistake to have followed him.
‘You’re not the man for her,’ he said again.
Francesco stopped and looked at the man. ‘What did you say?’
Francesco lost control and grabbed the drunk, but when he recovered, it was he who was pressed against the wall by the other, who drove a powerful hand into his throat. He tried to free himself, but couldn’t.
‘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.’
PART TWO
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
27
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?’
