The Octopus at the Vatican

# 25 - either or

Wednesday 20 - USA

After a sleepless night debating with his wife about what they should or should not do, he left for his office. He would have more leverage there than if he stayed at home. No-one knew, no-one must know where the Director of the NSA and his family lived. It was top secret. They lived under a false identity in a smart neighborhood in Washington. It was normal practice for high-ranking secret agents. He got transported by car, sheltered from rockets, he had a discreet guard. His family, his house, his neighborhood were all protected. It was clearly a paper wall for the mafia. As was his own implication in the pope's rescue. The Mob had got hold of secret defense information. A mole at the White House? In the West wing? Plausible. He was thinking this through while being driven towards Maryland.

It's not difficult to spot us, it's dead easy in fact. Trips can be put together easily with regular observation over several weeks. Even if they change all the time.

He was almost relieved by this old-fashioned hypothesis. He still had to resolve the matter of his role. What could he do to save Nelly? Inform the police? She would die long before she would be found.

Paul Burbon arrived at Fort Meade, headquarters of the NSA, at 9 a.m. With his coffee, he read the text Nancy Jones had sent from Rome at 2 p.m. He leant back in his rocking chair, asked not to be disturbed and fell asleep while thinking.

He spent all day like this, not telling anyone, in spite of the huge power of his organization. His wife had made him promise he wouldn't try anything that could put Nelly's life in danger. He had agreed. He knew of the collateral damage one was exposed to once the enormous machine was set going. For now, they had decided to wait. To see if a subtle way through turned up. He spent the day waiting for it to come up on the day's routine. There was no breakthrough. It was a black hole. Beaten. Weakened. Emptied from within. 

Thursday 21

Next morning, Burbon felt better. He and his wife had slept despite everything. It was difficult to keep their sadness and their worry from their other children; to appear cheerful. They did their best. But the kids felt something was up. During the night, they had again tried to work around possibilities to rescue their youngest one, but nothing concrete had come up.

After breakfast, the matter of the kids' safety came up while they were on their way to school. They considered moving that day to one of the NSA's safe houses. But it would be no good. The Mob had such a lever with Nelly. It wouldn't need another which would have the opposite effect. On the other hand, they needed to be ready to move afterwards. For good. Their cover had been blown. What a life his family had! Their social network would have to be started all over again. For the first time in this life, Paul thought about changing jobs. Spying wasn't an occupation for a family man.

At the office, Paul Burbon realized he hadn't informed the President of anything the day before. Nancy's message was still in abeyance. He read it again. The pope's poisoning was scheduled for the evening, in Rome time, on Thursday, September 28. It was obvious. He had to tell the President. What was wrong this time?

If the pope survived, his daughter would die. The kidnappers had been clear.

Nelly would be saved if he killed the pope. Nelly or the pope. The pope or Nelly. It was obvious. But what about his duty as an officer? His honor versus the life of a four-year-old. That was obvious, too.

Friday 22

Paul Burbon deliberately gave the President a false date. The 29 instead of the 28. If John Paul I didn't protect himself before 29, he would die on the 28 and Nelly would be freed.

He was wrong, of course, because as soon as the pope had learned that he would have poison in this chamomile, he would throw it down the loo, whatever the date. Burbon had ruined his reputation for nothing. The pope wouldn't drink his chamomile and his little girl would be killed. Thankfully for him, he was not aware of this when he left the Oval Office.

After the director of the NSA had left, President Carter called the pope. He gave him the news, with regret and compassion. A murder by digitalis was confirmed on Friday, September 29. Neither sooner nor later. The conspirators wanted all the details sorted out for a set date. The pope thanked him for his precious and disinterested support.