30
The subject was sitting in a black van, in the
middle of Sixth Avenue in New York. He always answered when his
cell phone rang, since it could be from the man who was calling
now, and that caller could never be kept waiting. Once again the
conversation unfolded in Italian, though it couldn’t exactly be
called a dialogue, since the man in the dark overcoat restricted
himself to occasional interjections and assents, listening, acutely
tuned to the message—its order, its information, and its
news.
The capacity for synthesis was an intrinsic quality
of the speaker, who in a matter of seconds parceled out all the
information, making it perfectly comprehensible, leaving not even
the slightest doubt on the listener’s end. The one who listened
considered him a lion, someone born to dominate men. Though he
would like to see the man in person, just thinking about him made
his hair stand on end. Not many other people could achieve that
effect.
He hung up the phone, infused with a kind of
ecstasy, as if he had just finished speaking with God. But he
immediately pulled back to his usual bearing, not wanting his
associates—in this case, the driver of the van—to catch him so
awestruck.
“Any news?” The driver had tremendous respect for
the Master, with whom he had never spoken. His respect escalated to
fear when he observed, sitting beside him, the incredible reverence
that his superior, a man of few feelings, showed toward him. “Any
news?” he repeated.
“Things have gone badly again in London.”
“Is it so difficult to kill that wretched woman?
Even with the help of the CIA?”
“We had an infiltrator.”
“Who? One of our own, in the Guard?”
The man in the overcoat didn’t answer right away.
He watched the moving traffic of the city that never sleeps, the
neon lights flashing their advertisements, their invitations to
consume. It was all for money. Also working for money were the
doormen guarding the entrance of a building. Even the sack of Rome
was paid for, as was the elimination of Father Pablo in Argentina.
Ideals did not fill anyone’s stomach. Nothing was done for
free.
“Jack,” he finally replied.
“Jack? Are you sure?”
“He fled with her. He didn’t come back, and he
killed Sevchenko.”
“The driver?”
He just nodded.
“Goddamn bastard,” the man at the wheel
cursed.
“Jack. Who would have thought it? This complicates
things a great deal.”
“Indeed. So much so that the Master’s coming
over.”