question.
“English,” he said finally, “and Italian, obviously. I’m reasonably fluent in French as well. Why do you ask?”
“Because you will be relaying my instructions to the contractors who will be carrying out the work.”
“That was not my understanding,” Morini replied, in surprise. “I believed that your organization would take over and resolve this problem. You must have people who can speak as many languages as I can.”
“I do, but they will not be employed for this job. Either you translate my instructions as I have ordered or I’ll take no further part in this situation and you can solve the problem yourself, using whatever resources you have. I will not allow the Vatican to deny their involvement if this matter ever makes the news. We won’t be your scapegoat anymore.”
“But I have no resources,” Morini protested. “You know that.”
“Then it should not be a difficult decision for you.”
“I really don’t like this.”
“I’m not asking you to like it. I’m just telling you to do it. I expect to receive your detailed text message within the next fifteen minutes.”
The line went dead, and Morini stepped out of the telephone booth with a feeling of relief, and a hint of apprehension.
He had all the information to hand, some in his head, other pieces of data—such as the IP address of the Egyptian market trader in Cairo—written down on a folded piece of paper tucked inside his wallet. He walked a few yards down the road to one of the cafés that dot the streets of Rome, sat down and ordered a drink, and then quickly composed a message that included all the information that the Englishman had demanded. He read it through twice to make sure that he’d covered all the details, then pressed the button that would send the text into the ether.
Rather sooner than he’d expected, his phone beeped to signal the arrival of not one, but two text messages. The first one listed the times of day when Morini was to be available on his mobile phone and outside the physical limits of the Vatican City. When he saw these, Morini knew it was going to be difficult for him, but it was at least possible. The second message was longer. It contained a name and a telephone number in Cairo and then a very detailed list of orders, which Morini was to pass to this man.
When he read through this section of the message—and began to understand the implications of the instructions he was about to give—Morini’s resolve began to waver. The cold and clinical directions sent by the Englishman admitted of only one possible result. Morini knew, without the slightest hint of a doubt, that if—when—he contacted the P2 representative in Cairo, within a matter of days, or possibly even hours, a human being, a man he’d never met, was going to die.
For several minutes, Morini walked the streets of Rome, lost in thought and struggling to reconcile what he knew had to be done with what his conscience was screaming at him. Eventually, he stopped on the corner of a narrow alleyway where a wood and metal seat was positioned, and sat down with a deep sigh. He clasped his hands in front of him and bowed his head in prayer.
But whatever help or inspiration he was seeking didn’t materialize, and after a short time he stood up again, a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, and took his mobile out of his pocket. He knew he really had no choice. No choice at all.
He made sure he could not be overheard, and then dialed the number he had been given for a man named Jalal Khusad in Cairo.
For a few seconds after he’d ended the call Morini didn’t move, just bowed his head in prayer again, his lips moving silently.
13
“Can you do it, Ali?” Anum Husani asked.
He was sitting with a man in a small café near the center of the city. Ali Mohammed was a slightly overweight man with a round face and delicate, almost effeminate, features and wearing a crisp white suit. He wasn’t Husani’s only contact on
“English,” he said finally, “and Italian, obviously. I’m reasonably fluent in French as well. Why do you ask?”
“Because you will be relaying my instructions to the contractors who will be carrying out the work.”
“That was not my understanding,” Morini replied, in surprise. “I believed that your organization would take over and resolve this problem. You must have people who can speak as many languages as I can.”
“I do, but they will not be employed for this job. Either you translate my instructions as I have ordered or I’ll take no further part in this situation and you can solve the problem yourself, using whatever resources you have. I will not allow the Vatican to deny their involvement if this matter ever makes the news. We won’t be your scapegoat anymore.”
“But I have no resources,” Morini protested. “You know that.”
“Then it should not be a difficult decision for you.”
“I really don’t like this.”
“I’m not asking you to like it. I’m just telling you to do it. I expect to receive your detailed text message within the next fifteen minutes.”
The line went dead, and Morini stepped out of the telephone booth with a feeling of relief, and a hint of apprehension.
He had all the information to hand, some in his head, other pieces of data—such as the IP address of the Egyptian market trader in Cairo—written down on a folded piece of paper tucked inside his wallet. He walked a few yards down the road to one of the cafés that dot the streets of Rome, sat down and ordered a drink, and then quickly composed a message that included all the information that the Englishman had demanded. He read it through twice to make sure that he’d covered all the details, then pressed the button that would send the text into the ether.
Rather sooner than he’d expected, his phone beeped to signal the arrival of not one, but two text messages. The first one listed the times of day when Morini was to be available on his mobile phone and outside the physical limits of the Vatican City. When he saw these, Morini knew it was going to be difficult for him, but it was at least possible. The second message was longer. It contained a name and a telephone number in Cairo and then a very detailed list of orders, which Morini was to pass to this man.
When he read through this section of the message—and began to understand the implications of the instructions he was about to give—Morini’s resolve began to waver. The cold and clinical directions sent by the Englishman admitted of only one possible result. Morini knew, without the slightest hint of a doubt, that if—when—he contacted the P2 representative in Cairo, within a matter of days, or possibly even hours, a human being, a man he’d never met, was going to die.
For several minutes, Morini walked the streets of Rome, lost in thought and struggling to reconcile what he knew had to be done with what his conscience was screaming at him. Eventually, he stopped on the corner of a narrow alleyway where a wood and metal seat was positioned, and sat down with a deep sigh. He clasped his hands in front of him and bowed his head in prayer.
But whatever help or inspiration he was seeking didn’t materialize, and after a short time he stood up again, a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, and took his mobile out of his pocket. He knew he really had no choice. No choice at all.
He made sure he could not be overheard, and then dialed the number he had been given for a man named Jalal Khusad in Cairo.
For a few seconds after he’d ended the call Morini didn’t move, just bowed his head in prayer again, his lips moving silently.
13
“Can you do it, Ali?” Anum Husani asked.
He was sitting with a man in a small café near the center of the city. Ali Mohammed was a slightly overweight man with a round face and delicate, almost effeminate, features and wearing a crisp white suit. He wasn’t Husani’s only contact on
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