He heard the name impatiently.
‘Are you sure?’ He gave his aide time to answer. ‘Then we have a serious problem. Stay alert and prepare for everything. I don’t want delays.’ He disconnected the call immediately to review the list of numbers in the directory and dialed another one when he found it. He waited for the international connection, and even before the first ‘bip,’ someone answered on the other end.
‘Mr. Barnes, good evening,’ he greeted him. ‘Good, mine has been nothing special, either. Do I need to remind you what side you’re on in this mess?’ Two seconds’ pause to allow Barnes’s reply. ‘Perfect. I know we’re not fighting just anyone. But my money doesn’t care about sides when it comes to choosing friends. So I’m giving you this order, and I hope-’ He paused momentarily to choose his words — ‘I know you are going to do it. So find the woman and the other accomplices and get rid of them without thinking twice. Got it?’ He waited for the reaction on the other end. ‘Don’t worry about JC. He’s under control.’ Another pause. The silences were important to manage. ‘Take care of it. God wants it this way.’ He hung up.
It was time to pray for the salvation of Clemente’s soul.
39
‘Somebody explain to me how we could have had those sons of bitches in our hands and let them drive off?’ Barnes was almost shouting, at the head of an enormous table in the meeting room occupied by service agents.
‘Well,’ Staughton began.
‘You, shut up. No one asked you,’ Barnes exploded, beating his fists on the table. ‘I have the White House and Langley after my head because you’ — he pointed at them all — ‘are a gang of fuckups who don’t know how to do your jobs.’
‘And because the president owes the bastards in the clergy some favors,’ Thompson murmured, under the scrutinizing gaze of Herbert, who, with the exception of Barnes, was the only person on his feet, leaning on the wall.
‘Do you want to know what your lousy work has done? Do you?’
The room was quiet, waiting in suspense for their chief.
‘Littel is on his way. Yes, the Harvey Littel you’re thinking of, assistant to the subdirector. He’s coming to evaluate the quality of my agents. And you know what I’m going to tell him?’ He spelled it out with his teeth clenched. ‘That you guys are S-H-I-T. You can’t even wipe your ass,’ he added, turning around.
‘What’s Littel going to do here?’ Staughton whispered to Thompson, who was sitting next to him.
Thompson shrugged his shoulders as if to say he had no idea, and, at the same time, attracted undesirable attention.
‘Do you have something to say, Thompson?’ Barnes inquired in an ugly way. ‘I’m listening.’
Thompson didn’t need to be coaxed. He got up and cleared his throat.
‘I understand your irritation, boss.’
Someone at the table coughed. It sounded like a cannon, but Thompson stayed firm, unaffected by the interruption.
‘But I think I’m more useful to the agency alive than dead,’ he continued.
Barnes swelled with impatience. He was sick of excuses, but the real reason he was upset was not Langley, not the president, not even the inconvenient call he’d received a few minutes ago from Escriva’s disciple. His bad mood was named Jack Payne or Rafael Santini, whatever you want to call him, a traitor who sometimes served the CIA, on loan to the P2, blind to his own duplicity, a member of the Holy Alliance or whatever the secret service of the Vatican was called… if it ever existed. For Geoffrey Barnes, Jack Payne would always be the enemy, even though, God forbid, someday they might operate on the same side. He’d seen enough of this world to know the possibility always existed.
‘To visualize better what happened, imagine a soccer game. A forward receives the ball, completely alone, with no hope of anyone getting to him. It’s just him and the goalkeeper; the goal is guaranteed, but suddenly the forward’s attacked by a defender who comes up out of nowhere and takes the ball away, leaving the forward on the ground with no hope of recovering it.’
The room listened in silence.
‘That’s what happened at the Chelsea and Westminster Hospital before this gentleman arrived.’ He pointed to Herbert standing up, leaning on the wall, motionless, cool as a stone. Barnes sat down.
‘Can you tell me what your men did to let a wounded man and a woman get away safe?’
‘We’re still investigating,’ Herbert declared, perfectly cool, his voice indifferent, insensible to the change of mood.
‘Actually, it’s already investigated.’ It was Staughton’s turn to get up, half confident, half hesitant, thanks to the faces looking at him. The closest to him could almost make out a slight blush tingeing his face. ‘There were three bodies inside the hospital related to this case. One on the fourth floor belonging to an SIS agent named John Cornelius Fox, the other two on the first floor, Simon Templar, whose real name was Stanishev Yonsheva, a former member of the KDS-’
‘KDS?’ someone exclaimed. ‘Where have we seen anything like this?’
‘First an agent of the Russian RSS, now one from the former Bulgarian KGB,’ Barnes reflected. ‘Where is this going?’ He sat down in the chair, thinking. He had a strong desire to ease the lump in his throat, but a boss couldn’t give the impression he was disconcerted. He turned to Herbert. ‘Where did you recruit that guy?’
‘The Bulgarian was in our service, I admit. As far as the Russian you’re talking about, I have no idea who he is,’ Herbert informed him.
‘Go on,’ Barnes ordered Staughton.
‘Well, okay. The Bulgarian had two shots in the back from the same gun that left a bullet in the head of James Hugh Cavanaugh, an American mercenary who had no affiliation with or interest in any side.’
‘He was crazy for guns and money,’ Herbert concluded. ‘A failed actor who decided to try out the real world.’
‘According to MI6,’ Staughton continued, ‘the shots came from the building in front, conveniently abandoned. The glass in the window had three holes that the forensic technicians are still analyzing, but we assume will correspond to the projectiles found in the bodies.’
‘And the one on the fourth floor?’ Barnes asked. ‘How did he die?’
‘He was stabbed with six scalpels,’ Staughton explained. ‘No bullet was found in him. The individual named James had several scalpels in his pockets, so he seems a good suspect for the killing.’
‘The wrong place at the wrong time,’ Barnes suggested.
‘According to the receptionist, John Fox and Sarah Monteiro came in at four to visit the man wounded in the explosion, who’s now identified as Simon Lloyd.’
‘Good work,’ Barnes praised him. He knew Staughton was good with this sort of thing. Comparing and processing information. His development in the field would be slow and complex, but once he got there, he’d be a capable agent. There was time. ‘What do we know about him?’
‘He’s an intern at The Times, an assistant to Sarah Monteiro. Nothing out of the ordinary.’
Barnes raised his imposing bulk again to deliberate the orders. This was what was expected of a chief. Listen to the reports and decide how to bring the objectives to safe port.
‘This is the situation we find ourselves in, ladies and gentlemen. We have four people beyond our control…’ He interrupted himself. ‘Who’s the fourth?’ he asked the room.
Staughton, now seated, replied again.
‘He hasn’t yet been identified. He’s an elderly man around sixty years old, but no more is known. A few minutes ago we received the images of the hospital exterior from security, and now we’re working on the identification.’
‘It’s not important,’ Herbert advised with his hard eyes.
‘I’m the one who decides what’s important,’ Barnes interrupted. ‘Here’s the point: we have four people in a Mercedes van. They cannot get out of the country under any circumstances.’ A heavy stare swept the room to which he added his guttural, serious voice. ‘Every trail is important. If you find them, I repeat, if you find them, shoot first and ask questions later.’