Free The Last Pope by Luis Miguel Rocha Page B

man in charge of the CIA London office. But Staughton was unruffled. Such outbursts were not unusual for Geoffrey Barnes, a man of great bulk who managed to walk incredibly lightly and noiselessly. His question came in a booming voice, and then he leaned expectantly over Staughton.
    “Zero, zilch, nada. ”
    “It’s a matter of time. Let’s hope it’ll be soon.”
    Geoffrey Barnes headed back to his office, on the same floor. A glass-and-metal panel separated him from the rest of the staff, a symbol clearly indicating who commanded and who obeyed. There were people above Geoffrey Barnes, namely the CIA director at Langley, and the president who, as a rule knew very little about most of the agency’s doings. But the president had no idea whatsoever about the present operation, and if it were up to Geoffrey Barnes, he never would.
    A phone rang on a mahogany desk that seemed totally out of place in Staughton’s futuristic setting. Of the three phones on the desk, the most important was the red one. It had a direct connection to the Oval Office in the White House, and with the president’s plane, Air Force One. The second most important was the one ringing now. Geoffrey was upset.
    “Shit,” he said while it kept ringing. “I’m coming. The boss is out. I’ll go look for him.”
    The worst thing that could happen to any intelligence service was not to have timely information when someone asked for it. How else to justify the agency’s existence, if not to supply needed information? As his predecessor used to say, “When the phone rings, you better have what they want to hear. If not, you’d better have a fertile imagination.”
    But in this case, his imagination would be of no help. Eliminating a target couldn’t be invented. It happened or it didn’t. Whether it was about to happen wouldn’t be of any help.
    “I’m coming,” he yelled at the phone, and lifted the receiver. His greeting was in Italian because the man calling him spoke the language of Dante, in addition to being fluent in a handful of dead languages that for Barnes didn’t count.
    A tense conversation ensued, in which Barnes attributed his lack of information to various external elements that caused the loss of one of his agents right when his operation was nearly completed. This had resulted in temporary confusion, allowing the target to escape. Barnes was fuming.
    “We’ve got some movement!” Staughton announced at the door.
    “Just in time,” the big bulk of a man thought. “What is it?”
    “A credit card in Victoria Station, used at McDonald’s.”
    “Did you tell the staff?”
    “They’re on location right now.”
    “Good,” he said, and relayed this to the person at the other end. After a while, he hung up, visibly upset. “Staughton, tell our people to stay in the background. Their people are going to act.”
    “What do you mean?” Staughton asked, failing to see the implications. “Are you sure, sir?”
    Barnes glowered at him, in a more than eloquent reply.
    “I’ll give the order right away, sir.”
    “And by the way, Staughton, tell them to bring me a hamburger.”

14
    The old man hung up, annoyed. “How stupid. Damned Americans!” he said to himself, getting up from the sofa with the help of his cane, and hobbling over to the small bar cabinet. He dropped two ice cubes in a glass and poured himself a drink. The death of an American agent about to complete his job brought to mind all sorts of questions, besides problems of logistics. Who knew about the previously and secretly planned proceedings? How did he know to arrive in time to save the victim? An unexpected participant had joined the game. From this, a second scenario arose. Who’s trying to interfere with our business? How did they get advance information on our plans? The two questions might have a single answer: an infiltrator. A traitor belonging to the CIA, the agency now responsible for the business of old Albion.
    No doubt the best way to