attention to all the exits. We’re dealing with a professional who can make fools of us.’
A couple of technicians looked at Barry, amazed. Was that true? Then they turned to concentrate on the monitors. They could not afford to lose the target.
‘The suspect is in the main terminal,’ Staughton said. ‘He’s going toward the north exit to Midland Road. There’s a taxi stand there.’
Barry didn’t miss a detail. Rafael. How long ago did he last see him? Maybe more gray hair, but, all things considered, he was in good shape, as always. Cold eyes, calculating, scanning the surroundings. He would calculate all possible exits, but only he, and he alone, knew his plan. No matter what the movies said, the CIA still could not read minds.
‘Confirm the Midland Road exit,’ Staughton reported. ‘The taxi stand is next to First Capital Connect.’
‘Control the exit, Davis,’ Barry ordered.
They watched Rafael leave with the still-unidentified person and wait in line for a taxi. The priest took out his phone. Someone was calling him.
‘I want to hear that call, folks,’ Barry demanded. ‘I need to hear it,’ he pressured.
‘Direct from Sugar Grove…’ Staughton said.
Rafael’s voice could be heard all over the room. He was speaking Italian. We just arrived. We’ll continue directly to the location agreed upon. We’re waiting for a taxi.
God protect you, the other person said, and hung up.
An image appeared of Rafael putting his cell phone in his pocket.
‘Who was he talking to?’ Barry asked agitatedly.
‘Just a minute,’ a voice said.
‘We don’t have a minute,’ Barry grumbled.
‘Someone at the Vatican,’ Staughton answered.
‘Shit,’ Barry cursed. ‘Shit, shit, shit.’
‘Why?’ Aris asked.
‘We’re not going to be able to find out who he called,’ the director said.
‘When calls are sent to or from the Vatican, that’s about all we’re able to know,’ Staughton added.
‘Why?’ Aris insisted.
‘Because it’s the country with most telephones per capita,’ a technician explained.
‘There are more telephones than people,’ Barry continued.
Aris smiled.
‘I’m not joking,’ Barry said, with his eyes fixed on the enormous monitor. Rafael and his companion were next in line, only the taxi hadn’t pulled up.
‘Okay, here comes a cab,’ Staughton said.
The image showed one of the famous London taxis pulling into the entrance for passengers.
‘Pay attention to the address,’ Barry warned. ‘Keep your ears open.’
Great Russell Street, Rafael was heard to say.
‘Great Russell Street. What’s on Great Russell Street? Quick, folks,’ Barry took control of the operation.
‘Ah…’ Staughton entered the information into the computer. ‘I thought so. The British Museum.’
‘The British Museum. Why didn’t he just say “British Museum”? Do we have access to the cameras there?’
‘Main entrance, Great Court, and some rooms on the ground floor. Not all have cameras,’ said Davis, the person controlling the ground cameras.
‘Okay. I want a map of the place. Put some agents there just in case,’ the director said.
‘Okay,’ Aris communicated the order over the radio.
‘Does the taxi have cameras?’
‘No,’ Davis responded quickly. ‘I’ve already verified that, sir.’
‘Call me David, Davis.’
The image showed the companion getting in the taxi, followed by Rafael, who looked around and up toward the sky before getting in.
‘What’s he doing?’ Barry asked curiously.
‘He’s looking for somebody. Are there buildings around?’ Aris observed.
‘He’s looking up, Aris,’ Staughton put in. ‘Maybe he’s going to pray?’
Finally Rafael got in, and the taxi moved on to its destination.
Barry sighed and raised his hand to his chin. ‘Pay attention to the taxi, Davis.’ He turned to Staughton. ‘Go back to the image and focus it more.’
Staughton pressed some keys and in seconds recovered the image of Rafael looking at the sky. With further definition it seemed as if his eyes were looking directly at the satellite camera.
‘Bastard,’ Barry swore.
‘But where’s he looking, and what’s he looking at?’ Aris asked, concentrating on the image.
Barry smiled slightly. ‘At us.’
32
Sarah shivered. Cold sweat dampened her face, and fear overpowered her. She shut her eyes, but not even that stopped the sensation of imminent danger. The cold barrel of the gun pressed the back of her head, and fear gave way to panic. She could feel the end.
‘Don’t do it. Please,’ she managed to stammer out.
‘You know too much, and at the moment you’re an obstacle for us,’ a male voice said. ‘Your grave has been dug for a long time.’
How could this be the end? So slow and so fast at the same time, unforeseeable, unknown. The place was dark. She couldn’t see anything inside or out. Eyes shut, making a huge effort to keep from opening them, she felt only herself, and the barrel of the gun.
‘Good-bye, Sarah,’ a voice said.
Sarah’s body tensed, but her panic vanished. She resigned herself.
‘Francesco’ was the last thing she said before her face exploded in a sea of blood and flesh.
‘Time to wake up,’ he heard a male voice say, followed by two slaps to the face.
Francesco woke up from the nightmare, frightened. He was lying in a double bed. The man who had woken him up was the same one who’d approached him on Via dei Cestari. He was wearing a well-tailored Armani suit, and limped with his left leg. Francesco couldn’t say whether it was the same suit or not, but then he hadn’t had much time to observe. The man tossed a towel and some clothes in his direction.
‘The bathroom is out there,’ he pointed. ‘Take a shower and get dressed. You have five minutes.’
‘Where are we?’ Francesco asked, half lying and half sitting.
The man turned his back and left the room.
Francesco tried to remember the strange events of the night before, Sarah’s departure with the priest, the waiting, the phone call instructing him to go to Piazza di Gesu and then along Largo di Torre Argentina, where the drunk had approached him. He couldn’t remember what had happened after that. He must have been drugged. He couldn’t believe he’d have slept so easily without knowing where Sarah was. Where was she? Still in Rome? He was clearly in a luxurious hotel room, but it wasn’t the Palatino. He got up and went to the window. He opened the curtain and looked out over buildings stretching toward the horizon. It was morning. Below, the traffic was building up to a frenzy. He didn’t recognize any building in particular. He was not in Rome.
He looked for his watch, but it had disappeared. Damn. He looked for his cell phone, but couldn’t find it, either. All of his belongings had disappeared. The clothes the other one had tossed to him were new. He sat down on the edge of the bed and rubbed the back of his neck. He felt tired and disoriented. Someone had to have answers. Only he didn’t know if he was ready to know them.
He got up and took a quick shower before the crippled man returned to the room. He used the shampoo and gel from the hotel — a five-star, no doubt. He couldn’t understand the words on the bottles. No matter how much
