"The Last Pope" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rocha Luis Miguel)

21

The Bentley was moving slowly on an unpaved narrow road, lined by trimmed hedges. The road connected somebody’s private estate with the main highway.

Almost two miles from the highway, the car slowed in front of a pair of imposing automated gates, which immediately opened to receive the Bentley. Whoever was inside the car had to be very close to the lord of the manor. The driver didn’t really have to stop fully or even announce the passenger in the backseat.

The car finally stopped by the three steps leading to the entry landing. The passenger didn’t even wait for the driver to open the car door, as etiquette dictated, and just burst out of the vehicle. He didn’t ring the door-bell, either, but pressed a six-digit code in a panel on the wall. Before going inside, he carefully dusted his elegant Armani suit and straightened his jacket.

The lord of the manor, or more precisely, the Grand Master, was waiting for him in a salon, not because this would be the usual or most convenient place, but because the operations to be carried out that night required space. The old man, his face livid, was listening to someone on the phone.

It didn’t take a lot for the new arrival to see that things weren’t going well. If the information he received about the success of the mission had been accurate, Geoffrey Barnes must have made a serious error. The assistant cleared his throat to make sure his presence was noticed. The old man lifted his eyes and greeted him with a nod. The newcomer sharpened his ears, trying to pick up some of the conversation as he prepared two vodka drinks. When the old man hung up, his assistant quietly handed him the drink and sat down.

“I understand there have been some changes since we talked,” he said.

With a deep sigh, the old man sat down. It was unusual to see him sighing like this, though lately it happened more frequently. The assistant suddenly realized that for more than fifteen years he had been close to this man, and that during this time he had observed his progressive decline, a painful experience for someone who had witnessed the Master at his full physical and mental vigor.

“Things have changed in an incredible manner,” the old man said after taking two sips of vodka. “What happened was quite unexpected, not at all part of the original plan I mapped out.”

“I heard you mention an infiltrator.” There were no secrets between them. “Geoffrey Barnes had a traitor in his ranks?”

The old man emptied his glass.

“That would have been better,” he muttered.

“But how come?” Great anxiety and incredulity showed in the assistant’s eyes. The answer was obvious.

“What’s going on should never have happened.”

“An infiltrator here, among us? I can’t believe it.”

“You’ll have to.”

“But where? Here in Italy? One of the new members?”

“No. In the Guard.”

“In the Guard? Holy shit. Any idea who it could be?”

The old man nodded, “He has revealed his identity.”

“Who is it?” the assistant asked anxiously. “I’ll kill him with my bare hands. And first I’ll make sure he knows why I’m sending him to hell.”

“Jack,” the old man answered coldly.

“Jack? Jack who?”

“Jack Payne,” the Master added, and kept silent for a few moments, letting the assistant absorb the information.

“And who is he, really?”

“I’ve ordered an investigation, but it won’t go anywhere. His true identity must be well covered up.”

“It must be. Or else we’d already have discovered him.”

The old man sighed again.

“This is unexpected, but we have to act fast.”

The assistant got up, still recovering from the shocking news. He felt it was time to make coolheaded decisions.

“Anyway, we should first focus on eliminating the target, as planned. How’s that going?”

“You don’t really understand. She’s with him. If we get one, we’ll get the other one, too,” the old man said, standing up.

“Do you think this calls for a trip to London?”

“I don’t think that’s necessary. Let’s stay close to the plan but on maximum alert. An infiltrator might bring surprises. Sooner or later, the CIA will catch them.”

“That may take some time.”

“Anyway, a trip to London will only put more pressure on Barnes and make him nervous.”

“What do you suggest, then?”

“Get the plane ready for the trip we planned. We’re going to let Barnes do his job. Don’t worry, they’ll be caught. No one can live without leaving some clues.”

“Especially in London. But let’s not forget she’s with someone who knows how to evade us.”

“Yes, I know. But if you know Jack as well as I do, you’ll know that even if he’s switched sides, he’s not the kind of man to avoid a fight. I don’t think he’d want to become a fugitive for life.”

“I’ll give orders to the crew.”

As his protégé was leaving the room, the sound of an incoming fax started. The machine swallowed a white sheet, spitting it out the other end, with a text and a photo. The old man took it and looked at the image of Jack Payne, the same man who called himself Rafael. At the bottom of the sheet, a phrase in all capitals appeared.

NO DATA AVAILABLE

Clenching his fist, the old man crumpled the paper, but after a moment his initial anger returned.

“You won’t get away, Jack,” he promised. Leaning on the cane that supported his bad leg, he got up and left the room. There were other things to take care of. He looked again at the crumpled piece of paper and, before throwing it away, muttered: “She’ll bring you back to me.”