“Get back in the van right now,” the guy ordered. “I won’t ask you again.”
“I can’t. Do you know why?”
“Do I look like I’ve got any interest in knowing?”
“If you don’t, you ought to.” He paused for a moment to let the words sink in. “I’m the only one who knows where the papers are.” Another brief silence before the crowning touch. “The woman doesn’t know anything.”
60
Are you going to tell me or not?”
“Tell you what?”
“What you left out.”
“What I left out?”
“Do you want me to be more direct? What else did you do behind my back?”
“Why do you think I’m hiding something?”
“The piece of the puzzle, remember?”
“If you tell me what piece is missing from your puzzle, maybe I can tell you which one I’ve got, assuming it exists.”
“I’m not missing anything.”
“You aren’t?” She thought for a moment. “Then I’m not, either.”
Sarah Monteiro and Rafael were sitting in a black Range Rover en route to the supposed hiding place for the papers.
The thug had reported Rafael’s words to his superiors, and received the order to bring him before His Excellency, who awaited him in the lobby of the hotel. Rafael was suddenly next to the bishop, who seemed authentic.
His name was Francesco Cossega. As strange as it might seem, Rafael instinctively made the gesture to kiss his hand.
“God bless you, my son,” the prelate said, the way real bishops respond.
“Is Your Excellency the messenger from His Holiness?”
The beating must have really gotten to him, Sarah thought. Or else he’s up to something.
“You’re safe with me, my children,” he said, then looking directly at Rafael. “Are you going to take me to where the documents are?”
“Of course, Your Excellency,” Rafael responded rapidly. “I’d like to ask you to release the two men outside in the van. One of them needs medical attention.”
“And I need emergency psychological attention,” Sarah said to herself, stunned. She was consumed with anguish, not knowing how her father was going to be after that terrible torture. All she wanted was to be done with this farce and to rush to his side.
“Of course.” The prelate signaled by hand to one of his assistants, who immediately went outside.
That explained how the two of them came to be sitting in the backseat of the Range Rover, with a driver whose inevitable black suit would not clash with those of the other agents. The bishop followed them in a late-model Mercedes, armor-plated and with tinted glass.
The caravan’s destination was 460 Madison Avenue. That was the address Rafael had given Cossega in the lobby of the Waldorf. Upon leaving, they didn’t see the van where the captain and Ferris were sitting.
“How do you know the papers are at that address?” Sarah asked in a low voice. She didn’t want the thugs to hear her.
“You’ll soon see.”
“Do you know this bishop? You seemed very devout in his presence.”
Rafael delayed in answering.
“I’ve never seen him. But a bishop is a bishop. We have to show respect.”
“Do you think he’s actually under J.C.’s orders?”
“I think Cossega organized all of this.”
“How?”
“I still don’t know. I’m guessing.”
They kept quiet for a short while, until they were a few blocks from their destination.
“Listen,” Rafael said in a low voice after gently touching her arm to get her attention. “I need you to stay calm until I tell you. If you don’t do that, I won’t be able to protect you.”
“What are you planning?”
“I still don’t know.”
“How can you still not know? Are you going to try to negotiate our freedom in exchange for the papers?”
“I’ll know very soon.”
“What else will you know?” Sarah asked, annoyed. “Leave the negotiations to me.”
Rafael was astonished, but there was no time to ask her anything because they’d reached their stop. Everyone was getting out and going into the enormous building that rose before them, Saint Patrick’s Cathedral, with its gigantic towers more than three hundred feet tall. James Renwick, the architect, had imitated the French Gothic style in 1879 to make this the site of the most imposing Catholic cathedral in the United States.
The church was empty. Only the imposing columns and vaults of the sacred place would be witnesseses.
“Guide us,” Bishop Francesco Cossega said.
If there was any remaining doubt about him, it dissolved with the appearance of his driver and the man riding shotgun in the late-model Mercedes that had followed the Range Rover. They were none other than the familiar agents Staughton and Thompson.
“You can stop worrying. You’re doing the right thing. I guarantee that nobody will bother you again,” the bishop assured them.
Something in his voice made Sarah feel safe. She would have liked for him to be a good man, a truly pious man of the Church. It was a shame that he was on the wrong team. Sarah finally realized that all of this could only be a plan orchestrated by J.C. One had to admit it was a good plan, and probably would have succeeded if she, again, weren’t a step ahead.
Rafael led the group through the wide nave. He advanced with authority, seemingly very sure of what he was doing.
“Is it much farther?” the bishop asked, looking a bit weary.
Rafael said nothing but kept walking.
“Do you have any idea what you’re doing?” Sarah asked in a low voice, staying right beside him.
“Not yet. Keep going. We’ll think of something.”
“Things could get ugly if they discover we’re not going anywhere,” she warned. Then she asked what she most wanted to know. “What makes you think that this bishop is fake?”
Rafael smiled.
“This bishop isn’t fake.”
“Really?”
“No. He’s Francesco Cossega. He’s a real bishop. But he’s not a messenger from the Holy See.”
The young woman thought for a few moments.
“What makes you think he’s not a messenger from Rome?”
Rafael hesitated before answering.
“Because I’m the messenger from Rome.”
“What?” Sarah could barely hold back a scream.
“And you?” he quickly responded.
“Me what?”
“Why do you think the bishop can’t be a messenger from the Vatican?”
“Who says I think any such thing?” She didn’t like to admit defeat. Rafael the savior, the feared Jack Payne from the files of the CIA and of the P2-was he the messenger from Rome?
Soon they reached the transept. The vault rose above their heads, and Sarah couldn’t avoid gazing at the high arches of the cathedral. The first assistant followed the prelate. But Agent Thompson, the next in line, was knocked unconscious by a violent blow from Rafael, who, without missing a step, threw a strong punch at Staughton that left him inert on the floor. Poor Staughton.
The bishop and the assistant looked back. Too late, because Rafael had seized control of the situation. Though Thompson tried to get up, a kick from Sarah put him back on the sacred floor. She was surprised by her own bravery-I’m not in the habit of kicking anybody, she thought, but he deserved it.
“Take away his guns,” Rafael ordered.
Sarah handed one gun to Rafael, tucking the other into her waistband.
“You were going to tell me why you think he’s not a messenger from Rome,” Rafael said, as they doubled back in order to hide next to a column.
“Can’t you wait?”
“Of course,” he assented. “Hide back there.”
He was pointing to a vacant confessional.
Behind one column they could see a gun barely sticking out, ready to be fired. As if Saint Patrick himself planned it, a sudden, heavy blow landed on the gun-wielding arm, and Rafael neutralized the gunman with a well-aimed punch. Only one bishop was left.
“I’m waiting for you,” Rafael said cheerfully.