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.”