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No reply was heard in the first seconds. Only the uncomfortable silence of uncertainty.

‘Good work,’ a man’s voice said at last. ‘The woman’s with me. Take care of the others.’

56

‘He knows.’

One of the crucial principles for secret services that claim to be competent and in the vanguard of technological development is the capacity to construct a command post wherever necessary. In spite of the fact that the enormous headquarters of the agency in Langley occupies tens of square miles and besides secret facilities spread all over the planet, each one with specialized functions, it’s common to see small units organized to respond to the demands of the world of espionage. Whether below water, above it, on land or in the air, the CIA is always prepared to act.

In this case the men under the supervision of Barnes and the astute gaze of Harvey Littel found themselves at forty thousand feet flying over Poland. And don’t anyone imagine they’re in their seats with their seat belts fastened. Here seat belts were only buckled during takeoff and the final stage of landing. The hurried activity was the same as that on land at the Center of Operations. Men and women concentrated on monitors and keyboards, listening devices in their ears, shouts, conversations, printers spewing information. This was a unique room. Organization was maintained, rigid and responsive, adapted to the reality of the space. The airplane in question was a Boeing 727 with the registration DC-1700 WJY, plain white, belonging to the CIA, not registered with any airline whatsoever. Nor could it be. The American government wouldn’t permit it. Secrets of state must be guarded by the state. Besides the paraphernalia and technicians who occupied the part we’d call economy class, there was an office for Geoffrey Barnes in the business-class section, strategically located next to the pilot’s door.

Here in that office, shielded from the Center of Operations, we find the same people as always. Barnes, seated in a chair identical to the one he has in London, reclining with his hands behind his head at a more modest desk. Harvey Littel, also seated in an armchair, legs crossed, a thoughtful look on his face. And the rest of the team, Thompson, Herbert, Priscilla, and Wally Johnson. Only Staughton was away, directing the work in the economy section of the plane.

‘He knows,’ Barnes repeated, more to himself than to those present in the small office.

‘How can he know?’ Herbert asked, irritated.

‘He chose Moscow by chance? Coincidence?’

‘Even if he does know, we can’t risk it,’ Littel advised. ‘What do the Russians say?’

‘They don’t say. They’ve decided not to cooperate,’ Thompson reported. ‘If it were up to them, we wouldn’t have authorization to enter the country. Which still isn’t guaranteed. Oh, and they deny they’re in Russia.’

‘Bastards,’ Barnes swore.

‘Shit,’ Littel exclaimed. ‘Why have they changed their attitude now?’

‘They always have a card up their sleeve. You can’t trust the Russians,’ Barnes said.

‘One thing is certain,’ Thompson affirmed. ‘They’re better documented than us.’

‘Could they have the Muslim?’ Wally Johnson suggested.

‘For our sake they better not,’ Littel declared. ‘That would be terrible.’

‘Why?’ Thompson wanted to know.

‘Because we’d have to rescue him,’ Herbert explained. ‘And something would probably go wrong and they’d all die during the operation, the hostage included,’ he added ironically.

‘If it were up to you, even we’d be wrecked,’ Barnes murmured just loud enough for Herbert to hear. The expression Herbert directed at Barnes in return confirmed the murmur had hit its mark.

Staughton entered suddenly, opening the door violently, something out of character for him.

‘We have a problem,’ he said.

‘Another one,’ Barnes exploded.

‘The Russians won’t permit us to fly over their airspace. Much less land in their territory.’

‘What?’

‘Now this. Can’t you do something?’ Herbert asked.

‘Only if your commander has friends in Russia,’ Barnes informed him. ‘And at the highest level.’

Littel looked at the floor, withdrawn, pensive.

‘This is all very strange.’

Staughton left the door and put a file on the desk in front of Barnes.

‘What’s that?’ he asked, abandoning his restful position and bending over the report.

‘The content of the CD.’

There were a few dozen pages inside the folder. A considerable pile.

‘So much?’ he protested.

‘And I’ve selected only the most important.’

Barnes turned the pages with no desire to read them.

‘Make a summary,’ he ordered Staughton.

‘I can’t.’

Barnes raised his eyes in amazement.

‘Why can’t you?’

‘This is confidential information. There are people in the room not authorized to hear or read it,’ he explained with authority, resorting to the laws that guide the agency and looking at Herbert.

‘Okay, let’s read this carefully,’ Littel confirmed. ‘Regarding the refusal to let us fly over and land…’

‘We could try the diplomatic route,’ Barnes suggested.

‘No. They know something. They’re going to tie our hands and end up denying the authorization.’

‘While we lose any trace of the woman and the others. They must already have them in custody,’ Barnes said in a circumspect tone.

‘But something intrigues me.’

‘What?’

‘He’s left a trail of bread crumbs so we can follow him. Why?’

‘He hasn’t left the bread crumbs for us,’ Herbert asserted.

‘For who, then?’ Barnes asked with no patience for the colleague butting in.

‘For the mole.’

‘The mole again?’ Barnes shouted with irritation.

‘There’s a mole among us,’ Herbert insisted.

‘Then leave me in peace,’ Barnes answered, indicating the subject was closed. I’m not going to let you bring this up again, his tone suggested.

‘We have a problem, gentlemen. We can’t enter Russia,’ Barnes announced in a loud voice. ‘What do we do? Anyone have a suggestion?’

There was silence for a few moments. No one said anything.

‘Think what this is costing the taxpayers. Everybody out,’ Barnes ordered. ‘Out of my sight.’

Obviously the order didn’t pertain to Littel, since he remained in the same position he’d been in for a long time, seated, legs crossed.

The rest left the office silently, depressed, tired. It was the downside of this work. When you did well, no one appreciated it or said a word of encouragement, but if things went badly, the finger was pointed and the criticism never ended. In a short time only Littel and Barnes remained.

‘We’re screwed,’ the fat man said.

‘No,’ Littel considered. ‘We have people in Russia. We don’t need to go there personally.’

With a triumphant smile Littel went to the satellite phone on Barnes’s desk and dialed several numbers. He waited for the connection to be established, and the shining in his eyes redoubled when he heard a response. He placed the call over the loudspeaker.

‘Colonel Garrison. It’s a pleasure to hear you.’

‘The pleasure is mine.’

‘Are you where we agreed?’

‘I’m having a coffee precisely in Red Square.’

‘Perfect. Start the operation.’

‘I’ve already started it, my friend. I’ve already started it.’

57

A year later the same fear has returned, panic, and the feeling of impotence. She remembered the abandoned warehouse in New York, the heavy chains that hung from the ceiling to which they fastened her wrists, along with the others. Rafael, who wouldn’t be quiet, trying to draw the torture to him, away from her father and the old priest. What was his name? Marius Ferris. That was it. She hadn’t thought of the pleasant old man, fragile, mistrustful, chained up the same way she was. Nor had she thought of their captors, Barnes and company, but of who really dealt the cards — the man in the Armani suit, with the dark, icy stare, a killer without conscience, and his helper, a Pole of the same type. In charge of everyone, incontestable, untouchable, cruel, JC, the same person with whom she now collaborated and who, a year ago, wanted them all dead. There were no absolute truths, only the moment.