Any theory was possible, though probably none could even remotely approach the truth. There was one unquestionable fact: the CIA sustained and covered up all of his decisions, and lent its men, even whole units, to the organization headed by this fragile old man with a harsh demeanor. It was a vicious cycle. If the all-powerful U.S. Central Intelligence Agency placed itself at the service of a man like this, making its agents available to him, there was no need to inquire any further.

For his own personal service he always had a man with him, usually impeccably dressed in a black Armani suit, whose name, like that of the old man, could not be revealed because provoking the anger of such powerful men was dangerous. They were always together, except on the rare occasions when it was imperative that the assistant execute some special assignment.

And as for the old man, he was often seen walking around the gardens of his city or his hometown (whose names could not be revealed, either). There was a time when the old man had to stay abroad longer than he would have liked, but that was over when finally he could afford not to travel anymore. New communication technology had made this possible, though he still couldn’t do without reliable help where his interests lay. There was nothing comparable to the air of his homeland, his dear Italy, and his city and estate.

At this moment the old man was sitting on his terrace at home, his gaze split between the Corriere della Sera and the distant horizon. From there he enjoyed watching the sea of green extending far beyond his own lands, vanishing behind a hill, disappearing like the sun’s burst of orange at the time of its setting, in its unequal battle against the darkness, which increased with every passing moment.

The garden lights, with photoelectric sensors, were coming on all around, programmed to activate slowly and progressively for a continuous transition in harmony with the prolonged sunset. The lamps warmed their filaments until there was no more natural light. Even dusk didn’t prevent him from reading the paper as the sea of green lapsed into total darkness, lit only sporadically by a sprinkling of fireflies in midair. “No artificial light has the power to illuminate the world,” the old man mused. “Perhaps only faith has the power to brighten it.” Lately his mind was more likely to follow a spiritual tangent. He might begin with a purely physical theme, which after going around and around always ended up touching on the spiritual. Only Heaven knew why. At an age often deemed appropriate to beg forgiveness for the sins of a lifetime, he was still not one accustomed to pleading for mercy. Nor was he a compassionate man. It had been God’s will that he had lived so many years, facing so many dangers, doubts, and frustrations. The sufferings he had had to go through, which he was still experiencing, were God’s will. The main difference now was the detachment with which he now received the provocations that the Almighty never failed to send. Whether it was a small sign or a great revelation, this old man, sitting there alone, with his newspaper as his sole companion, understood it all very well.

Unlike most mortals, he had no fear of God. Many had perished at the hands of this old man with a cane, or following his orders. He made others believe he used them thoughtlessly, when in fact he couldn’t take a step without their help. Time was inflexible to all, without exception.

His assistant was nowhere around. He was surely abroad, engaged in resolving some matter of interest for the old man. Rather than an assistant, he was in fact his personal secretary. All powerful men, the pope included, had one.

A few years ago the old man could indulge the pleasure of lighting a cigarette and enjoying it to the end, letting out big puffs of smoke while reading the paper. But now he had to resign himself to just reading the paper, as his lungs no longer tolerated the pleasure of smoking. Heavy coughing would interrupt the calmness of his nights. He felt quite capable of resisting the temptations of the flesh as well as those of the mind. Many other matters distressed him, but he wasn’t a man to be annoyed by small things. His motto had always been that everything had a solution.

Lost in a flurry of thoughts, he didn’t notice the invasive presence of a maid trying to hand him a phone.

“Sir?”

Since there was no answer, she had to repeat her words.

“Yes, Francesca,” he said, as if awakened from a dream.

“A phone call for you.”

After handing the phone to her boss, the maid left quickly, leaving him to resolve his own affairs, not wishing to meddle in his private life.

“Pronto,” the old man said forcefully, with the formidable tone of someone used to being in charge.

He recognized the even-tempered voice of his assistant, reporting in. In contrast to the voice of his master, the assistant’s monotone made his competent report sound like a litany. The ability to get to the backbone, to what really counted, was a virtue he had acquired by listening to the old man. He knew that his master wanted only precise, fast explanations.

“Fine, come back. We’ll handle it all from here,” he said after a few moments of silence, interrupted by some whistling chirps on the phone. “He’ll do a good job. It should be easy to locate Marius Ferris, provided he did as I ordered behind the scene. I’ll be expecting you.”

Ending his international call, he put his cell phone on the table, only to pick it up again. More and more often, he forgot what he was going to do next. For a few seconds his mind went blank, and the cold clarity of his reasoning, so dear to him, clouded over. So far, this had caused no damage since it happened at home, and not too often. But he knew it was only a matter of time, that little by little the white cloud in his mind would expand, gradually consuming his faculties. How soon? He couldn’t say. Months? Years? A mystery. It was life’s revenge.

He made a new call and, without waiting to hear the sound of a voice, knew who would answer.

“Geoffrey Barnes. The neutralization of the target can be effected. I’ll await confirmation.” And he hung up, without another word. Leaving the phone on the table, he went back to his newspaper. One thought kept pressing him: That Monteiro girl’s time has come.