It wasn’t hard to guess the reason for these shining eyes and wide smile on her delicate lips. It was the happiness of fifteen innocent years.
She didn’t feel much like going to class, she was too excited, but she couldn’t ask her parents’ permission after skipping; that was out of the question. It was better to fulfill her obligations, avoid problems with her parents, and later, who knew if this job might not be the beginning of a future in the fashion world?
She entered class a little late, for which she apologized and was pardoned. Roman traffic is hell, everyone knows.
The class passed normally, new exercises to practice at home, besides the three days a week she had to come to this building to learn more material for the flute. A little after seven Emanuela called home and talked to her sister about the offer from the Avon representative. Her enthusiasm was obvious. Prudently her sister told her not to make any decisions without talking to her parents.
She walked to the stop for the bus that would take her to Saint Peter’s Square and then to her house, where she’d lived since she was born. She felt the slightly longer days, the sun that stayed a little later, setting slowly behind the buildings in an orange arc, incandescent, which Emanuela didn’t notice, at least not consciously. Nor did she lose time looking at the posters put up along the street with the photograph of a teenage girl, a year older than she, named Mirella, who had disappeared from her parents’ house on the seventh of May. The parents were anxious to see Mirella again or, at worst, to see her body appear, lifeless but touchable, to put an end to the agony of the unknown.
At the bus stop there was a woman waiting, wrapped up in her own life. Emanuela didn’t acknowledge the car sounding its horn in front of the stop, certain the horn couldn’t be for her.
‘Emanuela,’ someone called from inside the vehicle.
She heard only the second time, absorbed as she was in her own dreams, and she smiled in confusion.
‘Hi,’ she replied.
‘Do you want a ride?’ the male voice offered.
‘Don’t worry. I don’t want to trouble you,’ she excused herself sincerely. ‘I’m going to the Vatican.’
‘I’m going there, to Borgo Pio, for another interview.’ The man took his black leather briefcase off the passenger seat to make room and put it in the back. ‘Get in.’
Emanuela took two seconds to think about it, and with the same innocent smile, opened the door and got in.
The woman waiting at the bus stop didn’t even glance at the BMW that took off in the direction of the Colosseum. She remained ignorant of what was happening right in front of her. The Avon man was counting on that.
The car had already turned down Via dei Fori Imperiali and couldn’t be seen.
47
Three people got out of the black car parked in front of the Holiday Inn Express. They went into the hotel for tourists on low budgets and short stays, passed the reception desk without asking for any authorization or room key, and went up the stairs to the second floor, where an open door revealed every conceivable variety of monitors, cameras, computers, and other kinds of unconventional technology, some top secret that cannot be identified, operated by a dozen agents packed into the tight space. Paying no attention, the three made their way to a room on the side. The door was closed. They opened it without hesitation and went in. They saw four men in identical suits looking out the only window in the room. Jerome Staughton, Thompson, Herbert, and Geoffrey Barnes.
‘Good afternoon, gentlemen,’ the recently arrived Harvey Littel, accompanied by his assistant, Priscilla, and Wally Johnson in military uniform, greeted them. ‘I see there’s been some progress.’
Barnes greeted Littel with a firm handshake. He didn’t try to hide his serious expression.
‘Welcome.’
‘This is my assistant, Priscilla Thomason, and the military attache, Wally Johnson.’ He gestured toward the two, whom Barnes greeted similarly with a frown.
‘My assistants, Staughton and Thompson.’ It was an exchange of introductions that left no one unknown. ‘This is Herbert’ — he pointed toward him — ‘but you should know him better than I.’
‘What’s new?’ Littel asked, putting an end to the formalities.
‘We’ve found the van they used in a private residence in Clapham. The bodies that were missing were there, but not a sign of the woman or the-’
‘And afterwards?’ Littel interrupted.
‘We investigated the identity of the owner of the house and discovered-’
‘What?’ Littel again interrupted.
‘Are you going to be quiet and let me explain or do you want to find out everything on your own?’ It was a warning.
‘My apologies. It’s your investigation. Go on.’ Littel was sincere.
‘We’ve discovered that the house is listed in the name of a multinational branch of a telecommunications firm called Hollycom. It didn’t take much looking to find out the company doesn’t exist. It’s a cover for our friends in the Vatican.’
‘The Vatican?’ Wally Johnson asked. ‘What side are they on?’
Barnes ignored the question from the recent arrival.
‘We did an investigation of the property registered in the name of the company and came up with a Volvo only three months old. We sent out an alert, and your associate Herbert’s men here have come across it.’
Barnes asked Littel to come to the window. Staughton, Thompson, and Herbert moved aside to make room. Barnes pointed at a car parked on the other side of the street, a Volvo.
‘It’s that car.’ He raised his hand toward the house in front. ‘And Sarah Monteiro lived in that house.’
‘Then we’re on the right path.’ Littel rubbed his hands. ‘Let’s finish this. I’ll inform the subdirector, and we’ll return home today.’
‘He didn’t come?’ Barnes asked.
‘Bed’s a big adversary when you wake someone up at four in the morning. He wants to stay informed and trusts that I’m capable of resolving the problem. Which means I can’t screw up.’
‘It’s always the same shit,’ Barnes protested.
Littel agreed with a glance and turned to look at the house again.
‘Is there movement?’
‘Yes, especially on the ground floor.’
‘Then let’s not delay. Order them to go in.’ Littel dropped his eyes when Barnes looked at him from his full height.
‘Whenever you want.’
Barnes brought his radio to his mouth and pressed one of the buttons.
‘Attention, Alpha Leader. The commander authorizes you to go in. I repeat, authorization to advance.’
Several seconds later they began to hear over the radio the operation taking place. There were three teams, the Alpha Leader, the Beta, and the Gamma. Alpha would go in the front, Beta in back and from above, and Gamma remained in reserve in case they needed reinforcement. It was evident that this kind of operation didn’t follow the same rules as special forces, although in part the principle was the same. Let’s not forget we’re dealing with forced entry into a house in broad daylight by a foreign governmental service with no jurisdiction, authorization, or knowledge by the country they’re in. So what better disguise than city construction workers to attack the house from the front, the Alpha team, and electrical line workers to go over the roof and enter the back, team Beta? An operation organized in record time, without much analysis of the layout of the building, which was poor planning they’d have to ignore. They didn’t expect much resistance. Gamma team was scattered along the street inside cars, reading newspapers at the number 24 bus stop, a street sweeper cleaning the sidewalk, a mailman, tourists with suitcases and a map in hand looking for a hotel.
Barnes and the rest listened in suspense as the attack by the Alpha and Beta teams unfolded. They entered with no difficulty or alarm. Everything was over in a few minutes. While the teams searched the rooms, they alerted Barnes about the situation, offering the word ‘free’ to signify there was no one there, the area was clean. They reported just one person in the living room.