An image appeared on the screen of a worn yellowed form that had been filled out by hand.
‘This is a photograph of his AFQT, his Armed Forces Qualifying Test. Fowler scored ninety-eight out of one hundred. The sergeant was so impressed that he immediately sent him to Lackland Air Force Base in Texas where he went through basic training, followed by advanced parachute regiment instruction for a Special Ops unit that retrieved downed pilots behind enemy lines. While at Lackland, he learned guerrilla tactics and became a helicopter pilot. After a year and a half of combat, he returned home a lieutenant. Among his medals is a Purple Heart and an Air Force Cross. In the report you’ll find details of the actions that earned him those medals.’
A snapshot of several men in uniform at an airfield. At the centre stood Fowler dressed as a priest.
‘After Vietnam, Fowler entered a Catholic seminary and was ordained in 1977. He was assigned as military chaplain to Spangdahlem Air Force Base in Germany, where he was recruited by the CIA. With his language skills it’s easy to see why they wanted him: Fowler speaks eleven languages fluently and can get along in fifteen others. But the Company is not the only outfit that recruited him.’
Another photo of Fowler, in Rome, with two other young priests.
‘At the end of the seventies, Fowler became a full-time agent for the Company. He retains his status as military chaplain and travels to a number of Armed Forces bases all over the world. The information I’ve given you so far could have been obtained from any number of agencies, but what I’m going to tell you next is top secret and was very difficult to come by.’
The screen went blank. In the light from the projector Orville was just about able to make out an easy chair with someone sitting in it. He made an effort not to look directly at the figure.
‘Fowler is an agent for the Holy Alliance, the Vatican’s secret service. It’s a small outfit, generally unknown to the public, but active. One of its accomplishments is having saved the life of former Israeli president, Golda Meir, when Islamic terrorists came close to blowing up her plane during a visit to Rome. The medals were awarded to Mossad, but the Holy Alliance didn’t care. They take the phrase ‘secret service’ literally. Only the Pope and a handful of cardinals are officially informed of their work. Among the international intelligence community, the Alliance is respected and feared. Unfortunately, I have little to add about Fowler’s history with this institution. As for his work with the CIA, my professional ethics and my contract with the Company don’t allow me to reveal anything further, Mr Kayn.’
Orville cleared his throat. Even though he didn’t expect an answer from the figure sitting at the end of the room, he paused.
Not a word.
‘As to your second question, Mr Kayn…’
Orville wondered for a moment if he should reveal that Netcatch was not responsible for finding this particular piece of information. That it had come to his office in a sealed envelope from an anonymous source. And that there were other interests involved who clearly wanted Kayn Industries to have it. But then he recalled the humiliating spray of mentholated mist and simply went on talking.
On the screen a young woman appeared with blue eyes and copper-coloured hair.
‘This is a young journalist named…’
7
MADRID, SPAIN
Thursday, 6 July 2006. 8:29 p.m.
‘Andrea! Andrea Otero! Where the hell are you?’
To say that the newsroom fell silent at the sound of the Editor-in-Chief’s shouts would not be entirely accurate, for the newsroom of a daily paper is never quiet one hour before going to press. But there were no voices, which made the background noise of telephones, radios, televisions, fax machines and printers seem like an uneasy kind of silence. The Chief was carrying a suitcase in each hand, and had a newspaper tucked under one arm. He dropped the suitcases at the entrance to the newsroom and walked straight over to the International section, to the only empty desk. He banged his fist on it angrily.
‘You can come out now. I saw you duck under there.’
Slowly a mane of coppery-blonde hair and the face of a young blue-eyed woman emerged from beneath the desk. She tried to act nonchalantly, but her face was tense.
‘Hey there, Chief. I just dropped my pen.’
The veteran newsman reached up and adjusted his wig. The issue of the Editor-in-Chief’s baldness was taboo, so it certainly wouldn’t help Andrea Otero that she had just witnessed this manoeuvre.
‘I’m not happy, Otero. Not happy at all. Can you tell me what the hell’s going on?’
‘What do you mean, Chief?’
‘Do you have fourteen million euros in the bank, Otero?’
‘Not the last time I looked.’
In fact, the last time she checked, her five credit cards were seriously overdrawn, thanks to her insane addiction to Hermes bags and Manolo Blahnik shoes. She was thinking of asking the accounts department for an advance on her Christmas bonus. For the next three years.
‘You’d better have a rich aunt who’s about to pop her clogs, because that’s how much you’re going to cost me, Otero.’
‘Don’t get angry with me, Chief. What happened in Holland won’t happen again.’
‘I’m not talking about your room service bills, Otero. I’m talking about François Dupré,’ said the editor, slamming the previous day’s newspaper on the desk.
Holy shit, that’s what this is about, thought Andrea.
‘One day! I take off one lousy day in the last five months, and all of you screw up.’
In an instant the entire newsroom, down to the last reporter, stopped gaping and turned back to their desks, suddenly able to concentrate on their work once more.
‘Come on, Chief. Embezzlement is embezzlement.’
‘Embezzlement? Is that what you call it?’
‘Of course! Transferring a huge amount of money from your clients’ accounts into your personal account is definitely embezzlement.’
‘And using the front page of the International section to trumpet a simple mistake made by the principal stockholder in one of our major advertisers is a royal fuck-up, Otero.’
Andrea swallowed, feigning innocence.
‘Principal stockholder?’
‘Interbank, Otero. Who, in case you didn’t know, spent twelve million euros last year on this newspaper and was thinking of spending another fourteen this coming year. Was thinking. Past tense.’
‘Chief… the truth doesn’t have a price.’
‘Yes, it does: fourteen million euros. And the heads of those responsible. You and Moreno are out of here. Gone.’
The other guilty party walked in dragging his feet. Fernando Moreno was the night editor who had cancelled the harmless story about an oil company’s profits and replaced it with Andrea’s bombshell. It was a brief attack of courage that he now regretted. Andrea looked at her colleague, a middle-aged man, and thought about his wife and three children. She swallowed again.
‘Chief… Moreno had nothing to do with it. I’m the one who put in the article just before going to press.’
Moreno’s face brightened for a second then returned to its previous expression of remorse.
‘Don’t fuck around, Otero,’ said the Editor-in-Chief. ‘That’s impossible. You don’t have the authorisation to go into blue.’
Hermes, the computer system at the paper, worked on a system of colours. The newspaper pages appeared in red while a reporter was working on them, in green when they went to the managing editor for approval, and then in blue when the night editor passed them to the press for printing.