The male receptionist in the lobby of the Opus Dei headquarters on Lexington Avenue
in New York City was surprised to hear Bishop Aringarosa's voice on the line. “Good
evening, sir.”
“Have I had any messages?” the bishop demanded, sounding unusually anxious.
“Yes, sir. I'm very glad you called in. I couldn't reach you in your apartment. You had
an urgent phone message about half an hour ago.”
“Yes?” He sounded relieved by the news. “Did the caller leave a name?”
“No, sir, just a number.” The operator relayed the number.
“Prefix thirty-three? That's France, am I right?”
“Yes, sir. Paris. The caller said it was critical you contact him immediately.”
“Thank you. I have been waiting for that call.” Aringarosa quickly severed the
connection.
As the receptionist hung up the receiver, he wondered why Aringarosa's phone
connection sounded so crackly. The bishop's daily schedule showed him in New York
this weekend, and yet he sounded a world away. The receptionist shrugged it off. Bishop
Aringarosa had been acting very strangely the last few months.
My cellular phone must not have been receiving, Aringarosa thought as the Fiat
approached the exit for Rome's Ciampino Charter Airport. The Teacher was trying to
reach me. Despite Aringarosa's concern at having missed the call, he felt encouraged that
the Teacher felt confident enough to call Opus Dei headquarters directly.
Things must have gone well in Paris tonight.
As Aringarosa began dialing the number, he felt excited to know he would soon be in
Paris. I'll be on the ground before dawn. Aringarosa had a chartered turbo prop awaiting
him here for the short flight to France. Commercial carriers were not an option at this
hour, especially considering the contents of his briefcase.
The line began to ring.
A female voice answered. “Direction Centrale Police Judiciaire.”
Aringarosa felt himself hesitate. This was unexpected. “Ah, yes . . . I was asked to call
this number?”
“Qui êtes-vous?” the woman said. “Your name?”
Aringarosa was uncertain if he should reveal it. The French Judicial Police?
“Your name, monsieur?” the woman pressed.
“Bishop Manuel Aringarosa.”
“Un moment.” There was a click on the line.
After a long wait, another man came on, his tone gruff and concerned. “Bishop, I am
glad I finally reached you. You and I have much to discuss.”
