“Gelli’s rise in the organization is a mystery,” Rafael continued. “The Lord’s ways are beyond understanding. That’s why it’s surprising how many idiots manage to gain power, glory, or fame.”
Licio Gelli was at the top of the P2 Lodge in the early seventies, and in 1971 he became one of the most powerful men in the underworld. Gelli, always with a penchant for conspiracy, founded the P1 Lodge, even more secret than the P2, exclusively to cover presidents, high dignitaries, secretaries general, and CEOs.
Some of Rafael’s older comrades told him about those meetings. As many as twenty shiny black armored cars with tinted windows would gather at a luxury hotel near Lake Como or in Geneva or Baden-Baden. The cars stayed for two or three hours, then left using back roads and eventually merged onto the European highways.
It was probably Gelli who persuaded many of the Masons from the Giustizia e Libertà organization to join the ranks of the P2. There they met with all sorts of politicians, military men, and bankers. They all felt privileged, belonging to such a select group.
“Vanity is a tragic flaw, Sarah. Gelli couldn’t resist having his picture taken with Juan Perón at the Casa Rosada.”
When Gelli found himself under judicial attack in the mid-seventies, he sealed off his organization, severing all ties with any other Masonic Lodge. That was how the P2 became a supersecret entity and Gelli himself became Grand Master. Those times were dubbed “the Cosa Nostra era.” The P2 operated exactly like mobsters or the Mafia—“the Gelli,” became their moniker. Gelli’s neofascist ideology prevented his lodge’s advancement in the divine master plan. But seen from a different angle, his work was highly effective, because his collaborators managed to infiltrate all sectors of the Italian government, in addition to the Vatican and several foreign national security agencies.
Many politicians during this period considered the real president of the country to be Licio Gelli, who manipulated the media, investigations, voting, and electoral campaigns so that the country’s top spot would be filled by his own predesignated nominee.
Rafael was watching Sarah’s reaction.
“Gelli was done in by that scumbag, what’s-his-name, Pecorelli. The Gellis dug their grave when they let the lodge’s membership list fall into that journalist’s hands.
“The judges started asking questions, and old man Gelli needed to hide out in Uruguay.
“Along came the current leadership of the lodge,” Rafael went on. “They distanced themselves from Gelli and got busy trying to get the organization back on track. Those years involved a lot of work. They had to amend the Constitution, reorganize the judiciary and the university, and influence certain men, particularly Craxi, Andreotti, and Bisaglia. It didn’t much matter what party they belonged to. The crucial factor was getting them to ‘collaborate,’ even without knowing they were doing so. Reporters, in general, were on board. They liked money,” he concluded.
The lodge was now a collection of shadow figures that nobody could uncover. It was a fantasy of conspiracy addicts, an irrational urban legend, an organization that inspired terror only among solitary investigators on the Internet. They did not exist. And nonexistence was highly recommended for someone trying to carry out a plan like his.
Sarah began to realize that the organization had grown and continued to extend its networks worldwide. Even in the Vatican, where the P2 was called the Ecclesia Lodge. When Pope John Paul I died suddenly, the lodge included numerous members carrying out their duties in the palaces of the Holy See.
“In those years, Rome was the best place in the world. Archbishop Marcinkus was involved in the finances, and everything he touched turned to gold,” Rafael continued. “Of course the investments were in pornography, contraceptives, and other businesses ill suited to the image of the Church. But the funds Marcinkus invested in arms factories, political subversion, bribes, blackmail, and money laundering proved much more productive in the long run.”
“I don’t know if you’re trying to tell me the truth or terrify me,” Sarah remarked, then fell silent.
Sarah was deep in thought, and Rafael retreated into his own reflections. A peaceful quiet ensued between them.
The flight attendant offered the snacks tray to both of them. They ate silently, buried in their thoughts.
“What I need now is a shower.” Sarah twisted in her seat, trying to wake up her numbed arms and legs.
“We can arrange that,” Rafael assured her. “When we land, we’ll take care of it.”
“Is that a promise?” she asked, half smiling.
“No. I never make promises. But I do keep my word.”
They were silent a few moments longer. The noise of the plane’s engines drowned out the other passengers’ conversations. Sarah turned to him again.
“Do you think my father’s all right?”
“Yes. Don’t worry.” His voice was so assured that she believed him.
“What I’m afraid of now is having them catch us at the airport,” Sarah said.
“You can relax. That’s not going to happen.”
“How can you be sure?”
“It’s one of the advantages of my position. We may have half the world after us, but we know how they think. We’re always one step ahead. And what matters for us is to keep going like that. We have to keep the initiative.”
“And how do they think?”
“The first thing they’re going to do is clear the scene of the shooting and the street where I threw the tear gas.”
Somehow Rafael’s voice inexplicably calmed Sarah. To her it was a killer’s voice, the voice of a man without scruples, but its effect was reassuring.
“What will we do after talking to my father?”
“We’ll see. We’ve got to go step by step.”
“You’re always holding back information.”
“That’s true. But in this case I don’t have much more to tell you. The objective is to have you reunite with your father. That’s basic. Then we’ll see what to do next.”
“But isn’t there a risk that when we arrive in Lisbon, they’ll have photos of us in some paper? It’s possible the authorities will be looking for us.”
“Definitely not. It’s in their interest for us to go through unnoticed. Their objective is to see us six feet under. Besides, as long as we have the list, no one’s going to let us appear in the papers. If they did that, they’d lose everything.”
I hope you’re not wrong, Sarah thought.
“How did Firenzi get my address?” she asked herself out loud. “Of course, considering my father belonged to the organization, I can see why they knew my home address. What I can’t figure out is why he wrote to me.”
Rafael didn’t even seem to react to her. Once more he brought his hand to the wounded arm.
“Does it hurt?”
“Yes,” he answered, massaging the area softly. Hours before, he’d bandaged it in the bathroom on the train, and the pain had eased somewhat. But now it was bothering him again, badly.
“Do you need anything? Can I help you?”
“No, thanks, I’ll be fine,” Rafael replied.
As they circled the airport, flying over the northern part of Sarah’s native land, she felt a renewed anguish suffocating her.
“Do you know the man who broke into my house?”
“Yes.”
Rafael kept silent again, just staring out the small window.
“Who was it?” Sarah insisted.
“It was an American Secret Service agent. Actually he was a Czech-born naturalized American, though that’s irrelevant. But other people connected with you have died recently. There was a Spanish priest named Felipe Aragón, and an Argentinian one, Pablo Rincón. Both of them received information concerning John Paul I’s papers.”
“Papers like mine?”
“On the night he died, the pope had various papers with him. The list that you got is only part of it.” Rafael seemed to want to talk.
“And they also recei
ved papers?”
“Probably, but they had worse luck than you. Father Pablo couldn’t manage to get away. And unfortunately, Father Felipe died of a heart attack at almost the same time.”
“If Father Pablo received any papers, then they must be in the P2’s hands now. If, on the other hand, he received only an indication, let’s say, as to the whereabouts of the remaining documents, the P2 could also have obtained that information before killing him,” Sarah reasoned.
“That may be, I don’t know. Your father might be able to clear all of this up for us.”
“How can you be acting like that, making decisions without sufficient information?”
“In my work, we’re all small cogs in a big wheel. What counts is for us to know our part and perform effectively. As for the whole puzzle, only its inventor knows.”
“And you aren’t curious?”
“Curiosity is very dangerous.”
The plane completed its approach, and moments later landed smoothly.
“We have just landed at Portela Airport in Lisbon,” the flight attendant announced, and repeated the usual litany.
“At least they didn’t attack us with missiles midflight,” Sarah joked, trying to shake off the gripping tension.
40
VATICAN GARDENS SEPTEMBER 1978
Sister Vincenza had been looking for Don Albino all afternoon. Walking the hallways of the Apostolic Palace, carrying a small tray with a glass of water and a pill on a saucer, she stopped by a window and saw him sitting on a bench in the gardens. The Holy Father was holding his head with both hands and seemed engrossed in disturbing thoughts.
“Gethsemane,” Sister Vincenza said, almost reflexively.
The old woman descended the stairs leading to the wonderful gardens, and continued on one of the gravel paths toward the rotunda. Just on the other side, Don Albino was sitting in his pure white cassock, staring down at his shoes.
Sister Vincenza stood in front of him.
“The doctors recommended that you take walks through the gardens. They didn’t say you should sit in the gardens.”
There was a hearty smile on Don Albino’s lips as he looked at his loyal nurse.
“Yes. They suggested I go for walks to get rid of this swelling in my feet. But as it happens, with my feet so swollen I can’t walk. So, what can I do?”
Sister Vincenza, well acquainted with Don Albino’s unshakable logic, admitted that the doctors’ prescription wasn’t very practical.
Without a word, the pope took the pill and the glass offered by the nun, and after looking at the medication with a resigned sigh, he swallowed it, delighting more in the cool water than in the promised benefits of the pill.
“Did you know my father, Sister Vincenza?” Don Albino asked his nurse, still standing before him. “When I went to the seminary at eleven, my father spent two months without saying a word to my mother. She was a very devout woman, but my father—”
“Don Giovanni was a rebel,” Sister Vincenza said.
“No. Don Giovanni, as you call him, was a socialist. But, considering what is going on now, I don’t know if an immigrant, a laborer, or temporary worker who has always lived in misery can be anything else. In fact, when I entered the seminary, my father said, ‘Finally, a sacrifice has to be made.’ I’d say that, for being avidly anti-Church, he had a premonition almost like a spiritual vision. That’s what I was thinking about when you came.”
“God will help you carry this burden, Holy Father.”
Don Albino glanced benevolently at Sister Vincenza. No good could have come from his starting a conversation about the poor conduct of the directors of the Vatican Bank. What would this innocent nun think after being told that the Mafia’s money was being laundered through intermediate enterprises in the stock markets of Zurich, London, and New York? What would happen to Sister Vincenza’s simple faith if she learned that, since August 6, 1966, affable Cardinal Villot’s name appeared with the number 041/3 in the archives of the P2 Lodge? How could this venerable old nun sleep, knowing that her Don Albino didn’t head Christ’s Church, but a financial conglomerate that would end up exploding in his face if he didn’t fix it? And as for himself, how could he look that good woman in the eye, knowing that his Church had been converted into a den of thieves?
“I could bear this burden, Sister Vincenza,” he added finally, “but I don’t know if others would be willing to put up with me.”
“Put your trust in God, Don Albino,” the dear old woman said, turning back on the gravel path toward the Apostolic Palace. “Trust in God.”
John Paul I stayed a few minutes longer on that bench in the rotunda, engrossed in his thoughts and looking at his swollen feet. It was time to go back to his office. He had so much to do! With a resigned shrug, he got up, and a grimace revealed the pain in his ankles as he stood.
“ ‘Finally,’ as old Don Giovanni had said, ‘a sacrifice has to be made.’ ”
And he slowly walked back to his office, hands clasped behind his back.
41
Staughton was making a supreme effort to follow his boss’s orders. The fat man’s bad mood was obvious, but Staughton couldn’t allow himself that kind of luxury. Even though he hadn’t slept all night, he had no subordinates available to relieve him. And he didn’t have any family nearby to relax with. His parents were happily retired in Boston, and women could never put up with his work patterns. Anybody who worked at the agency was so committed that, little by little, duty became all-consuming, eventually disrupting family ties, even close friendships. A true secret agent had no relationship with the outside world, and that facilitated his performance.
In this regard, Staughton was no different from the rest, although he did maintain some ties with his parents and other family members. Recently he contacted his mother to tell her he was doing fine. To her, Staughton was a software specialist in the London office of an American company, a cover containing a grain of truth. His childhood friendships had been shrinking over time. Concerning women, Staughton did make an effort. Twice he came close to putting a ring on his finger, with the usual marriage commitment before the laws of God and country. He failed the first attempt on September 11, 2001. His fiancée couldn’t be faulted, because Staughton spent three months without returning to his country after the World Trade Center attack, and he limited himself to a skimpy weekly phone call, always promising he would be back the following week. The same was to happen with another woman in 2003, before the second Gulf War. The wedding was scheduled for April 9, the same day the combined forces reached Baghdad. But Staughton was, in effect, incommunicado for five months, during which he mailed an occasional letter to report his mental and physical well-being, and to say that he would be back the next month.
When he finally returned, his sweetheart had moved to another city, so utterly crushed that she wouldn’t answer or return a single one of his many calls. He decided then to be done with long-term relationships, and now, at thirty-two, he lived just for work, hoping the day would come when he could have a family, with time to love and care for it. He lived in terror of becoming another Geoffrey Barnes, with no love life, no interests outside work, except to fill his stomach in any restaurant where he could eat well. To Staughton, Geoffrey Barnes was an insensitive, unscrupulous son of a bitch.
“Is it ready?” Barnes asked, leaning over the screen of the computer Staughton was using.
“Not yet, but almost.”
“Do you already have something?”
“What I have is in the printer.”
Barnes headed for the printer next to the window, and grabbed the handful of papers in the tray. There was a lot of information that would take hours to process. He looked toward the outer room, which was bristling with activity. Men and women moving from one side to the other. There were shouts, orders, phone calls. Three young agents were engaged in a very lively conversation.
“Hey, you three,” Barnes called out. “I want you to analyze this in full deta
il. And when you finish, there’s more.”
All smiles instantly vanished, but they promptly complied with the order.
“Keep Staughton posted on whatever you find.”
“Yes, sir,” one of them answered.
Barnes withdrew to his office. The day was flying by and there was no news.
The young men sat at a table to carry out the work order. One, the most outgoing, went over to Staughton.
“Haven’t you eaten today?”
“I haven’t eaten, or drunk, or slept, or fucked,” Staughton spat out, his eyes still glued to the computer screen.
“We’re ready.”
“Pray that we find them soon, because if we don’t, you can’t even imagine how ready we’ll be.”
The agent leaned toward Staughton, as if to share a secret. “I came in today, man. I haven’t the slightest idea what we’re looking for.”
“For Jack Payne, a traitor, and for Sarah Monteiro, a very skillful reporter. They want them alive.”
“Jack Payne? The famous Jack Payne?”
“The one and only.”
“I once worked with him. He saved my life.”
“Now you can be sure he wouldn’t do that anymore. Go on, Thompson, there’s no time to waste,” Staughton said, dismissing him.
“What are you doing?”
“Searching the lists of passengers who left the country this morning. An endless job.”
“Like looking for a needle in a haystack. They will have false documents.”
“I’m aware of that. But for the time being, it’s our only option. We’ve got to find that needle, by whatever means.”
“Let me make a call. I’ll be right back,” Thompson said, moving toward a secretary whose phone was free.
Sitting in his chair, Barnes observed the outer room through the window. He needed to have all those people working on the operation, but this, unfortunately, was impossible. It was a big world, and for the United States there were other priorities, or at least that’s what the president’s cabinet members thought. He considered requesting additional forces from Langley. They wouldn’t be denied, but it was like giving up, tantamount to admitting failure to headquarters. So, for now, he’d leave things as they were. If the fugitives hadn’t shown up by the end of the day, his decision would need to be reviewed. Meanwhile, something out there caught his attention. More precisely, the lack of something. He got up, heading at a furious pace for the main room, to the table with the two men analyzing the passenger lists for flights that left the United Kingdom before the airspace was declared closed.
The Last Pope Page 15