37
Geoffrey Barnes hadn’t slept a wink the whole
night. Despite the fact that the one giving the orders was an
Italian, or at least spoke in Italian, Barnes was more worried than
if it had actually been the president of the United States giving
the orders. He could handle the president better than this
character from the P2.
While the old man was in flight, Barnes had spoken
with him twice. First, he explained what had led him to the
decisions he was making. The man didn’t react with any kind of
feeling, but limited himself to a singular theme.
“What’s essential is to recover those papers.
Obviously we underestimated our adversaries, but that won’t happen
again. Use all necessary means. Once the papers are in your
control, get rid of all witnesses. Understood?”
“Of course, sir,” Barnes affirmed.
The second call was to remind him that he mustn’t
lose sight of the adversaries, not even for a moment. He needed to
follow those orders, whatever the cost.
“Should there be collateral damage, put the blame
on any Arab group.
The next day, have some protest marches, paying
homage to the victims and condemning terrorism. Problem solved,”
the Italian said, with no tinge of irony whatsoever.
“That’s what we’ll do,” the CIA agent agreed.
Barnes knew that in the course of operations there could be a stray
bullet, or several of them. A bomb might explode at the wrong
moment. And targets could pick up reinforcements. That’s how it
was.
“One more thing. Wait for my instructions. Don’t do
anything without my authorization.”
And the Master hung up in the abrupt manner to
which Barnes had grown accustomed. It was five o’clock in the
morning.
SARAH AND JACK were driving in circles around
London, forcing the agents who trailed them to retrace a tourist’s
itinerary through the historic central city. Several times they had
gone by Buckingham Palace, then followed the Mall to Trafalgar.
Again they took Charing Cross Road or any other street. And
finally, back to the beginning. All at a leisurely pace, as was
required for an enjoyable visitor’s tour. And that was the
impression Barnes got every ten minutes from Staughton’s methodical
reports.
“It’s strange that they haven’t even attempted to
flee,” Barnes thought out loud, alone in his office. “They haven’t
stopped for gas. At some point they’ll have to,” his soliloquy
continued while he awaited new information. “I need something
decent to eat.”
Jack Payne was a legend in the P2 Lodge, so much so
that the CIA recruited him for some of its most delicate work. His
name meant competence, work well done. The P2 was an arrogant
organization. It would not hesitate to demand that certain forces
in the CIA serve its purposes, a useful means of gaining the
benefits of American technology and of charging a monthly fee on
top of that, but he didn’t approve, then or now, of the lending of
its members to Uncle Sam’s agency, especially its top performers
such as Jack. At times, however, when this Masonic Lodge thought it
could gain something from the practice, it simply authorized the
use of some of its members, as happened with Jack on three or four
operations that he completed under Barnes’s orders. Jack Payne was
the kind of man a director liked to have in his ranks. Barnes had
even made the proposal for his admission to the CIA.
What a huge mistake. It’ll be my downfall at the
agency, Barnes reflected, leaning back in his chair, exhausted by
all the events of the long night. He realized that he’d be fired
from the job he’d earned through so much blood, sweat, and tears.
It was for good reason that Americans said, “No pain, no gain.” His
position at the agency was truly the result of a lot of effort, a
lot of pain, a lot of hours without sleep, and without a decent
meal, like today. If there was anything that this night reminded
him of, it was the uncertain times of the cold war, when the world
was crazy.
“You must have been crazy, Jack, when you decided
to follow me,” the great bulk of a man muttered resentfully to
himself.
Suddenly the door opened and a weary Staughton
appeared, putting an abrupt end to Geoffrey Barnes’s musings.
“Sir.”
“Staughton.”
“They’ve disappeared.”