The Holy Assassin Read online

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  The Holy Assassin

  Luís Miguel Rocha was born in Oporto, Portugal, and worked for many years in London as a television writer and producer. He now lives in Portugal, where he continues to write for television and film.

  The Holy Assassin

  LUÍS MIGUEL ROCHA

  Translated by Robin McAllister

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York 10014, USA

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  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  www.penguin.com

  Originally published in Portuguese by Paralelo 40, 2007

  First published as Bala Santa. Madrid: Suma de Letras, 2008

  Published in the United States of America as The Holy Bullet by G. P. Putnam’s Sons, 2009

  This edition published 2010

  Copyright © Luís Miguel Rocha, 2007

  Translation © Robin McAllister, 2009

  All rights reserved

  The moral right of the author has been asserted

  Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictionally, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental

  ISBN: 978-0-14-195937-5

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  This book is dedicated to

  Ioannes Paulus PP. II

  Karol Józef Wojtyla

  May 18, 1920 – April 2, 2005

  To all men of faith.

  – JC, February 26, 2007

  No bullet can kill unless it is His will.

  – SISTER LÚCIA, letter to Karol Wojtyla, April 1981

  Hitler couldn’t have been as bad as they say. He couldn’t have killed six million. It couldn’t have been more than four.

  – SAN JOSÉ MARÍA ESCRIVÁ DE BALAGUER,

  letter to the members of Opus Dei

  1

  I am writing a book in which I will tell the whole truth. Until now I’ve told fifty different stories, all of which are false.

  – MEHMET ALI AĞCA, the Turk who shot Pope

  John Paul II, Anno Domini MMVII

  Everything has a beginning.

  The start, the departure point, the zero, Sunday, the starting gun, the sprouting seed pushing through the earth for light, the splash into water, the earliest heartbeat, the first word, the first stone of a village, villa, city, wall, house, palace, church, building. Of this building in an unnamed city. A luxury restaurant occupies the ground floor and basement, as indicated by the menu displayed at the side of the door. Its status is not openly announced to the world at large, but suggested by the tinted-glass doors, always closed, and by the haughtiness of the doorman, impeccably dressed in a burgundy uniform. The absence of prices on the menu and the many phrases in French are also a sign of its exclusiveness, even if the city is located on French soil, which is neither confirmed nor denied. What is certain is that this restaurant does not need to advertise any of its services, which, in itself, presupposes an exclusive clientele.

  Any diner who wishes to enjoy the favors of this establishment must first seek approval; without such authorization he will never pass through the tinted-glass doors. Usually this can be obtained through the recommendation of a frequent client, a member of sorts, who has influence with management, or by a formal request that involves a long process of investigation into the private life of the applicant. A large bank account is useful, but not enough, since some pretentious newly rich are frequently rejected, although many members of old families are turned down also. Such rejection, and bear in mind the word ‘rejection’ is never used, is communicated by a letter in a white envelope with no return address. Once this decision is made, it can never be revoked. In the case of acceptance there will be a long list of rules. There is, for example, a provision in the statutes for the expulsion of a member in the case of serious offenses, even if such expulsion has never happened.

  Acceptance happens differently: a telephone call at home inviting him to dinner. Upon arrival, the uniformed doorman compliments him and opens the tinted-glass doors. Inside, he is treated with a deference that is never excessive. Another employee relieves him of his coat. Immediately he is led to a table that, from that day on, will be his alone, no matter the hour or day of the week. He can bring any guests he desires, as long as he informs the manager of their names five days in advance. The morality of the guests is not important. This is the privilege of the selecte
d clients, who can share whatever with whomever they desire – favors, business negotiations, intrigues, blackmail, purchases, the destiny of others, their own – without anyone pointing a recriminating finger, accompanied by food for the refined palate, breast of chicken stuffed with pâté of bacon and mushroom sauce, wine, and brandy. No financial transactions take place here, except those discussed at the table, which are many. Members pay a monthly fee by bank transfer of 12,000 euros that covers the privileges of having the kitchen available twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Thus this restaurant functions in every city of major political and economic influence in the world, as it does in this unnamed city.

  Today, at noon, the restaurant is half empty. The clients of the empty tables are occupied with their personal or professional lives. The table that matters to us is the thirteenth; the two men seated there aren’t superstitious. In their opinion the table is as acceptable as any other. What matters is the here and now. Everything else is useless, unproved theory. Above all, these men adapt to time and circumstances. Each case is unique. In a world driven by money, this philosophy has advantages, and the two of them know how to make use of it.

  Reasons of security and privacy prevent mentioning the name of the city with this restaurant, its table thirteen, and two men, seated face to face. The one with his back to the dining room is the member; he could be the father or even grandfather of the man sitting in front of him. No family ties connect them, except Adam and Eve, who unite us all. They aren’t even friends. The younger is an aide to the older, if not a servant, a term no longer used these days. Let’s not call what he’s receiving ‘orders,’ but instructions or suggestions. They’re dressed conservatively like any executive or businessman seated at the other tables. They’re eating delicious halibut with spinach, mascarpone, and slices of Parma ham, an exception to the rule that one eats little and poorly in exclusive restaurants. They’re drinking a Pinot Noir, Kaimira, 1998, chosen by the member without consulting his guest. They’re courteous, since they aren’t given to excess or speculation. The word ‘exception’ is not part of their vocabulary. Everything is what it is, here and now, always.

  ‘I haven’t had the opportunity to ask you how the investigation in the United States is going,’ the older one asked.

  ‘It’s been filed in the archives, of course. Natural causes.’

  ‘Perfect. May I deduce that no trace of evidence was left at the location?’ The older man revealed his calculating mind. He’s not given to imponderables or last-minute surprises.

  ‘Complete security. I collected everything before the authorities arrived. His age also helped to close the case rapidly,’ the younger man explained in a cold, professional tone.

  ‘Perfect.’

  They continued eating in silence. Anyone noticing the tone of the conversation wouldn’t characterize it as an interrogation, at least at this stage, although this wasn’t a friendly dinner, either, but a meeting with an agenda planned by the older one. Both ate slowly, taking small forkfuls and pausing to chew without hurry.

  ‘The second part of the plan begins immediately,’ the older man began. ‘It’s going to be more and more demanding. There can be no mistakes.’

  ‘There won’t be,’ the younger man, quite confident, assured him.

  ‘How’s the team?’

  ‘Already in place for several weeks, as you directed. All the subjects are under constant surveillance, except one.’

  ‘Good, very good.’ He would’ve rubbed his hands with pleasure if he were a man given to expressing himself with gestures. He guarded his emotions and never shared them. ‘And in London?’

  ‘Our man has privileged access to the subject,’ the younger one explained. ‘As soon as I give the okay, the way is open.’

  ‘These are the hardest parts of the plan to implement. London and JC,’ the man with his back to the dining room said firmly.

  ‘Hasn’t he shown his face yet?’ the younger man wanted to know.

  ‘No, he’s an old fox, like me. But we have to make him appear; otherwise the plan is compromised.’

  ‘We’ll make him appear. London will bring him out.’

  ‘Yes. As soon as he emerges, don’t think, act. If you give yourself the luxury of thinking, even for only a second, by the time you’re ready to move, he’ll have already won.’

  The young man couldn’t imagine such a situation. He was prepared for everything. The idea that they were up against such fast-thinking people seemed unlikely to him. Besides, we’re talking about an old man more than seventy years old. What danger could he represent? He didn’t reveal such thoughts to the old man seated at the table, or rather, his table.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking,’ the old man warned. ‘All humans have weaknesses. Mine is the Church, yours is self-confidence. It’s a flaw. Take your ego out of the equation. That’s the only way to guarantee you won’t fail.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘You must. If things don’t work out, you won’t be the one looking at their corpses. In London, honestly, it won’t be easy.’

  ‘I have a very efficient man there who’ll clear the way for me to do my work.’

  ‘Let me clarify something before we continue. At the moment I have no reason to criticize or censure your work. One hundred percent efficient, but you haven’t yet dealt with what you’ll have to contend with this time.’

  ‘The plan is practically infallible,’ the young man dared to answer back.

  ‘There’s no such thing,’ the other argued. ‘You have a plan where everything has to come together precisely and you can’t make a mistake. Infallible? Not even the pope.’

  ‘Of course, but—’

  ‘To finish my point,’ he interrupted, ‘just a little warning.’ He waited for the young man to look him in the eye, holding his complete attention. ‘JC is the man who murdered John Paul the First in 1978, and, even so, he was unable to kill the pope in London. He, too, had never failed.’

  The young man took in his words and thought about them for a few moments. The old man was right. Overconfidence was the enemy of avoiding mistakes. That was the message the other man wanted him to get.

  ‘I understand. I won’t give anyone a chance to try something.’ He also realized that if he failed, he wouldn’t survive. Whether through the intervention of JC or through this frequent client of the restaurant located in the unnamed city, he wouldn’t live to see the next day. It was time to change the subject.

  ‘What about Mitrokhin?’

  ‘I’m on that,’ the old man replied. ‘My contacts in Moscow are taking care of it at this very moment.’

  ‘What about the Turk?’

  ‘Let him stay a prisoner. He won’t be hurting anyone. Don’t forget, we won’t communicate again until the plan is concluded.’

  ‘Yes, I understand. I won’t forget. Only one thing is missing—’

  ‘The Vatican,’ the older man interrupted. ‘I’ll take care of them personally.’ For the first time the old man smiled faintly.

  Everything has a beginning.

  2

  Wojtyla

  May 13, 1981

  Among those twenty thousand people, not one would be able to say with certainty if it rained or the sky was clear on that thirteenth day of the fifth month of the year of Our Lord 1981. Perhaps if they made an effort, they could say with some degree of certainty that it was a day of brilliant sun, pleasant spring warmth, in spite of its having rained a little in the middle of the afternoon, not much, barely five minutes. Of those twenty thousand people, more than half wouldn’t remember the pleasant spring warmth or the sun, but they would not forget the rain. They’d feel it wetting their bodies, soaking into their bones, just as it did on the day in question. Some would even doubt it had rained only five minutes. No. Five minutes doesn’t soak you like that. But those twenty thousand people wouldn’t remember the rain or sun. They would feel the tears running down their faces, and the sharp sound of each shot still vivid in th
eir minds, one, two, three, four, five, six. And the impact that tore the flesh and made twenty thousand people scream with sorrow, as much as the victim himself. That they would remember. What does the sun or the rain matter in a calvary like that? What does the exact hour matter, if the pope could have died?