‘What’s in the case?’ Tim finally asked.
‘The fact I don’t know shows my honesty. After all, the code is your birth date. I could’ve looked in it anytime I wanted.’
They both smiled calmly. Abu Rashid was not a fake, and, taking that into consideration, Tim should have shot him. He hadn’t received instructions at the appointed time. When that happened the Sanctifier was supposed to make the most appropriate decision to safeguard the Church. But that didn’t bother Tim today. Life was giving him another chance, and he was going to take advantage of it. The dark time that he’d spent in the arms of the elite who swept their problems under the carpet was over.
‘I’m going to take you back to your house,’ he decided.
‘That’s not necessary. I know the way.’
‘It’s fair that I take you. I was the one who snatched you from your normal life.’
‘No, Tim. I said it yesterday, and I’ll say it again. You never took me away from anything. I’m here of my own free will. This isn’t over yet.’
Tim got up, startled. ‘Yes, it’s over. I don’t want to keep doing this.’
‘That’s a wise decision, but first you have to answer the phone.’
‘What-’
The cell phone on the table started to ring at that precise moment. With an instinctive move, decisively, Tim grabbed it, brought it to his ear, and listened.
‘Who’s there?’ he asked suspiciously.
The caller identified himself, explained the situation, and gave the message. That must have been what happened, but only Tim could confirm it.
‘Listen, Sebastian, I’m going to take the man home,’ Tim told him. ‘He has a special gift, but I’m not going to sentence him.’ He looked at Abu Rashid, who smiled at him. It was possible for a man to change overnight.
The person speaking on the other end said a few more words that Tim listened to attentively.
‘Affirmative. I’ll wait for him to tell him my decision,’ he stated categorically. ‘He knows where I am,’ he added. He frowned. ‘Has something happened to him?’
Sebastian presented his version of the facts, retouched, politically correct, or, on the contrary, he mentioned only Rafael’s momentary inability to talk with Tim by phone.
‘When will he be able to? Any idea?’
Another evasive, conciliatory reply from Sebastian Ford. I can’t tell you, but I hope soon. Something like that.
‘Do me the favor of telling him I’m going to take the man to Jerusalem and return to the agreed-upon place. I’ll stay there eight days. If he doesn’t show up, give him my greetings and best wishes.’ There was a new happiness in Tim’s voice, a valid reason to live. Life was beautiful, finally.
The caller hung up, and Tim did the same.
‘It’s clear,’ he declared. ‘I’m going to take a shower and we’ll go. You must miss your house,’ Tim said.
‘My house is always in my heart. I can’t miss something that’s always with me. My house is the universe,’ the Muslim said with shining eyes. ‘Today is the first day of the rest of your life.’
Even the shower felt different. It washed away the poverty of his spirit and opened his soul to new dimensions. A succession of images flowed through his mind, reviving feelings he thought didn’t exist or had been extinguished. Loneliness was not a way of life but an aberration that darkened his being and ennobled inner demons. The water washed, carried away, poured, expelled, cleaned, and refreshed. That was its nature, the amplitude of its being. He thought of love, the family he didn’t have but could begin to have. A multitude of opportunities passed through his mind.
Tim didn’t know how long he’d let the water run, since he’d lost track of the seconds, the gallons of water, the bath accessories. Renewed, he smiled when he realized he’d showered with the door open, something he’d have condemned before.
‘Ready to return-’ Tim interrupted himself.
There was no one in the room. The door was closed with the lock set, the window closed from inside. Abu Rashid had disappeared into thin air. Tim couldn’t help feeling a mixture of sadness and happiness. A smile passed over his lips, a tear came to his eye.
On top of the bed a gilded object, small, cylindrical, shining… A bullet.
71
‘Jesus Christ, what’s happened here?’ Staughton asked, surprised to see the corpse of his director stretched out on the floor with a vacant stare, dead. A tear ran down his face, a suppressed sorrow, genuine, unforeseen. ‘How could this happen?’
The rest of Barnes’s team and those of Littel and Phelps returned to the interrogation room astonished. Phelps was absent. He’d gone to find the prisoners. They all looked at Barnes’s lifeless body.
‘We’ve received a call from the Oval Office,’ Littel explained.
‘From the Oval Office?’ Sebastian Ford asked.
‘Exactly,’ Littel affirmed. He approached Sarah and used his own silk handkerchief as a gag. ‘The president in person ordered us to finish everything and leave no survivors.’ He looked at Sarah warningly.
Thompson and Staughton were in shock. They couldn’t believe their eyes. Barnes was immortal, invincible.
‘Barnes was angry with the president’s decision.’ His voice trembled with emotion. He spoke in a low voice, almost a whisper. ‘He even got rude. He said things had to be carried out to the end. It gave a bad impression. The president raised his voice and said the final word was his, and if Barnes didn’t know his place, he’d have to be better informed.’ He was silent for a few seconds, letting his words sink in. ‘As soon as the president was off the phone, he put the gun to his head and fired.’
‘My God,’ Staughton exclaimed.
‘And now?’ Thompson asked in a restrained voice. In spite of being accustomed to death, when it happened to your own, in your own house, unexpectedly, you suffered like anyone else.
‘We’re going to obey the president’s orders. Eliminate the prisoners and lock the door,’ Littel declared, condescending to the general feeling in the room.
Staughton and Thompson were the most upset, understandably, since they’d worked daily with Barnes for many years. The man had an intimidating voice, could act impulsively, eat like a savage, swear constantly, flip over the table if things weren’t going his way, but he was fair, a friend in his way, a companion, cautious. He never risked the life of an agent.
How was it possible that Geoffrey Barnes, a career man with an enviable record, used to working under pressure, could have ended his life in such… such… a cowardly way? In spite of everything, Barnes was balanced. For Staughton and Thompson this ending was like a mathematical operation, adding two and two, the result of which was five or three.
‘Nobody expected it. It was too much for anyone,’ Littel argued. ‘Staughton, Thompson, go home. Take a few days to get over it. We’ll finish the operation.’
‘No,’ Staughton dissented. ‘We want to stay with the chief.’ He didn’t take his eyes off the cadaver.
‘Staughton,’ Littel shouted. He had to get in front of him and shake him to make the traumatized Staughton look at him. ‘Staughton. Today Barnes will be on a plane going home.’
‘I want to go with him.’
‘Me too,’ Thompson declared.
‘Very well.’ He turned to the lieutenant colonel. ‘Wally, go with these two good men. Take them around Rome.’
‘To Saint Peter’s?’ Wally Johnson suggested.
‘To Saint Peter’s,’ Littel agreed. ‘Excellent idea. Pray a little, refresh their ideas, and at the end of the day put them on the same plane with their boss. It’s a promise.’
Littel gave Staughton a friendly slap on the shoulder and turned his back. Wally Johnson helped him toward the door. Thompson followed. Their last look before leaving the room was at Geoffrey Barnes, their unhappy director.
Three went out, another three came in, Phelps with the remaining prisoners, Rafael and Simon, who had an expression deeper than panic. Fear of death. Rafael could now support himself on his feet, although a little shakily. A swollen eye impeded his full vision. They were forced to sit on chairs next to Sarah.