“Don’t you understand, Clemente?” He looked hard at him. “Don’t you understand that the soldiers of Christ have to reach every level of society?” He looked around the majestic nave of the cathedral. “Your purpose is to win the poorest. Mine, the richest.”

“Soldiers? Conquer? This isn’t a war, Marius.” His reserved tone reflected an attempt to calm the troubled waters of the conversation.

“There you’re deceived. This is a war. A strategic war. We have enemies outside and inside the Church. And we have to eliminate them all.”

“Listen to yourself, Marius.” The attempt to calm him had not worked. The dialogue had broken down in this confessional conversation. “War? Eliminate enemies?”

“The experience of the last year has made me realize that there are other groups operating in the inner halls of the Vatican. Our Holy See is scheming with these people. And what do they offer us? Nothing. They are not even believers. They only want the money and power they gain from this collaboration.”

“Very well, Marius. You are here to confess, not to complain. Go on, please.” Don Clemente offered these words coolly. No one changes anyone, he thought. As much as you might think the contrary.

Marius Ferris continued, irritated with not having been understood.

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” he said coldly.

“Tell me that sin,” the other said.

“I was an accomplice in the death of a man.”

Silence. Don Clemente gestured for Marius Ferris to go on.

“And what evil did this man do you?”

“He attacked our Holy Mother Church.”

“And in what way did he commit this act so offensive to our Holy Mother Church?”

“He repudiated the teachings of the Lord and sold his soul to the devil.”

Don Clemente moved about impatiently on the pew. He didn’t like what he was hearing, but so many complaints had passed through the confessional already, on such different subjects, in his long years of service that his mind and heart were immune to shock. What perturbed him was that it was a friend, though long separated from daily familiarity by his work, who offered this nonsense.

“And how did he repudiate the teachings of the Lord?”

“He tried to kill a pope. One of ours tried to murder the Supreme Pontiff. Do you believe it?”

“What are you saying?” Don Clemente must not have heard right.

“You heard right. He tried to murder a pope.” He added nothing more, although the confessor continued to stare intently at him.

“Well… today you don’t cease to amaze me.” He didn’t know what to say.

“What type of penitence does such an act merit?”

Don Clemente pondered the question for a long time. He would never have imagined seeing Marius Ferris again that day, nor that he’d tell him so many things he would prefer not to know. That Pope Luciani was murdered wasn’t news. And the way the Vatican handled the matter was reprehensible. But that was thirty years ago, and Don Clemente was not the sort of man to question the actions of his superiors. It was also widely known that plans to attack the pope continued to this day. Every pope had been a victim of attempts, even if only in thought, on paper, as a project. In practice few had succumbed or been wounded in one. Nevertheless, out of the last three popes, two suffered attacks, one dying and the other gravely wounded, but this was general knowledge. Which of these was Marius Ferris speaking about?

“It isn’t considered a sin when the cause is the sacred institution of Holy Mother Church. So, although complicity in a murder is a grave sin, I can’t assign any penitence for the act,” Don Clemente decreed.

“Thank you, Brother. That is what I wanted to hear,” Marius Ferris said, kissing his hand. “How’s your nephew?”

“He’s well,” the other answered with an expression of appreciation for the memory.

“In that case I won’t take more of your time and will say good-bye. Until we meet again.”

Don Clemente got up, seeing the other do the same, and walked toward the great door of the cathedral.

“Good-bye, Marius.”

Marius Ferris didn’t look back and left the sacred building. Don Clemente, staring vacantly at the door where his colleague had left, remained in the pew, his mind in turmoil. He didn’t notice the man dressed in black approaching him.

“May I help you,” he asked when he noticed the visitor.

“Yes, thank you,” the man responded cordially, while he took something from inside his jacket. “I want you to tell me where the dossier on the Turk is.”

“The what? I have no idea what you are talking about,” Clemente answered, confused.

“Then I don’t need help.”

“In that case, good night.” And with that Don Clemente turned his back on the visitor, shrugging his shoulders.

“It’s not considered a sin when the cause is the sacred institution of Holy Mother Church,” the man said. Don Clemente turned around toward him in time to see a Beretta with a silencer in his hand.

In the room where Sarah Monteiro waited, daybreak couldn’t be seen, only deduced. There were no windows, only clocks. The ever prudent Simon Templar had brought her to the installation at Vauxhall Cross, the general headquarters of the SIS, Secret Intelligence Service, the complete name of the British secret service, more commonly known as MI6, its previous name. During the Second World War the British secret service was divided into various departments charged with different operations. These were denoted by MI, Military Intelligence, followed by the number that identified the service; they went from MI1, charged with breaking codes, to MI19, in charge of extracting information from prisoners of war. In the middle were the famous MI5, charged with security within the border, and MI6, which took charge of intelligence abroad. The names changed, but the conduct and objective were the same, aided in the present by technology exclusively. Simon had asked whether she wanted something to eat and drink, but she’d declined the offer. They asked her to wait. This had been almost nine hours ago.

The room where she waited was bare of any decoration, only the essential furnishings, a square table, big enough for two people on each side, but at this moment with only three chairs.

Sarah was seated on a small black sofa, uncomfortable, since it tipped back. Five clocks hung on the walls with plaques lower down identifying the place to which they referred. From left to right, it was three hours and three minutes in the morning in London, four and three in Paris, twenty-two and three in Washington, six and three in Moscow, and the same time in Baghdad. Time may be different, but it never stops.

Sarah’s sigh expressed fatigue and discomfort. The hours of waiting had already been long. She had no idea why. Now she wished she’d accepted the offer of food, but since Templar had left at six o’clock, no one else had bothered to offer any. Sarah spent the time sunk into the sofa or pacing. She tried to call Simon Lloyd and the paper, but the calls wouldn’t go through, in spite of a signal for the network on the cell phone. Luckily the room had a small bathroom, clean, thank God, that Sarah used twice. If the idea of all this was to break her down psychologically, it was working. She would have said anything they wanted and signed whatever they put in front of her. She had looked at the door several times without approaching it. The numerical key box next to the lock required a code to open it, but Sarah hadn’t wanted to see whether the lock was in fact activated. It was a way to avoid feeling like a captive. During the first hours she went over the possible questions they might ask her. There were many things. She couldn’t think of a reason why they might be concerned with the murder of Pope Luciani. No, that secret was well guarded, and it was not in JC’s interest that the British interfere in that subject. It had to be something else. But what? Six digits were pressed into the keypad outside the room. Finally, the answers were coming.