The Last Pope

by Luís Miguel Rocha

  Because of Marcinkus’s efforts, the Church was saved, thanks to his connections with big names in finance, thanks to the pious men who had advised him well. There was nothing wrong with obtaining high profits and, in addition, collaborating in various charitable works.

  But Albino Luciani didn’t see it that way. He didn’t understand anything. In all those years, he had learned nothing. And he had threatened to destroy them all.

  At that moment, on television, Nicklaus putted for a birdie, and the ball went smoothly into the hole.

  “Brilliant! Brilliant!”

  46

  The jet cut through the air at top speed, at an altitude above 42,000 feet.

  The cabin on this plane was like the passengers’ London office, with people going back and forth, some giving orders, others bent over computers, talking on the phone, engaged in an endless variety of tasks no different from the ones they performed on land. The only difference was that they couldn’t go out for coffee, and they had to adjust to a few minutes’ rest inside the aircraft. They were confined, seat belts fastened, only during take-offs and landings.

  In heaven as on earth. Geoffrey Barnes still had a separate office from the rest of his crew, with a luxurious leather chair.

  Thompson proved to be a good recruit. He served himself coffee in the director’s office and sat on a chair considerably less comfortable than Barnes’s.

  “Sharon Stone. Damned bastards,” Barnes declared, brooding. “The guy wasn’t joking.”

  “What guy?” Thompson asked.

  “Somebody at the British Museum. It’s not important.”

  Unlike Barnes’s London office, this one lacked the glass windows that gave him an overview of his agents’ work. Even so, he liked the change, since they couldn’t see him, either, leaving him free to do as he pleased.

  Outside, Staughton applied himself to his first duty—which he preferred over any field assignment—the analysis and cross-checking of facts. Whether it was in a plane or in an office made no difference. It was always better than gathering information on the street, as he recently had to do at Hans’s flat. Staughton didn’t have the temperament for that. His weapon was the computer. The printer next to him started to vibrate, and immediately began to spew out paper at a surprising rate.

  Those guys put my nerves on edge, he thought, glancing at the four men in black sitting in the back of the cabin, completely motionless since the plane had taken off. At no point did they exchange words, looking like statues or mimes. They were identically dressed, and without a single wrinkle. Or maybe they suggested something else.

  Staughton couldn’t stand the dark suits, the agents’ formal style. He favored casual clothes, wearing whatever he felt like. It should be enough not to have three-day-old stubble and not to have messy, uncombed hair. But the day a suit and tie was required, Staughton would be the first to resign. The printer ejected the last page, and after gathering the pile into a folder, the agent headed for his boss’s office.

  “I can’t stand seeing those guys sitting there,” he complained as soon as he went in.

  “Then don’t look at them,” Thompson said.

  “Do they belong to the Guard?” Staughton asked. “They don’t look very dangerous.”

  “Lower your voice, Staughton. Those guys are beasts,” Barnes warned. “Any news?”

  “Well, something. They took the Eurostar from Waterloo to Paris, and then a plane from Orly, which landed in Lisbon two hours ago. We already have men on the ground trying to find out what they did there and where they are now.”

  “Sharon Stone,” Barnes repeated, sighing. “Damned bastards.”

  “Any idea of their reason for the trip?” Thompson asked.

  “Surely to talk with the girl’s father,” Barnes answered.

  “The army man isn’t at his Beja estate. We already searched the place. Now we’re checking relatives.”

  “This is our only chance, guys,” Barnes muttered. “They aren’t going to use their passports again. Jack won’t make that mistake.”

  “Everything’s tougher when the target is somebody who knows how to take care of things.”

  “What’s our estimated arrival time, Staughton?” Barnes asked.

  “We’ll be landing at Figo Maduro air base in two hours.”

  “Fine. Get the staff to search in hotels, car rental services, taxi companies, private planes. Have them show photos, but don’t leave the photos with anybody. We don’t want the Portuguese police getting involved, and it goes without saying, we don’t want reporters, either. Be quick, but don’t stand out. Make sure of that. We need good clues to follow as soon as we land.”

  Staughton, who had gone in with a bunch of papers, left with a bunch of tasks to do, just as he liked it. A few phone calls and he got everything going full blast, ready to gather leads as soon as possible. His only lingering hope was that Jack Payne wouldn’t outsmart them all.

  “What made them decide to go looking for her father in Portugal?” Thompson asked, still relaxing in Barnes’s office.

  “I think they’re looking for answers. And trying to determine their ongoing strategy.”

  “But doesn’t he belong to the P2?”

  “In theory.”

  “In theory?”

  “There are theoretically two tiers of people in the P2, the old and the new. Her father belongs to the old group.”

  “Then there are two lodges?”

  “Not exactly. There’s only one P2. The old members have no power at all in the present circumstances. But they exist, they are there. And they’re giving us a lot of trouble.”

  “Is all of this caused by their maneuvering?”

  “Yes. Even the Vatican is on the alert. We’ve got to get hold of those papers as fast as possible, to keep all the shit from hitting the fan. We’re part of the shit, Thompson, and we’ll be sent flying.”

  47

  What did you mean, my father lives here?” Sarah wanted to know as they trekked through the long passage dug out of the rock. It was high enough for both of them to go through fully upright, with space left over.

  “Just that,” Rafael answered, pointing the torch upward. He seemed to know the way.

  “How can that be?” she asked, unable to picture anybody able to live there.

  “You’ll see.”

  “It was true,” the young woman said, changing the subject. “The monastery had tunnels.”

  Sarah’s heart was beating faster with every step. The moment of reunion with her father was fast approaching. She realized that her image of him had been incomplete, even false. She didn’t know him at all. She had always trusted him for his exemplary behavior, his flawless social conduct. To her he was a good man—a model father, soldier, and man. Now, back in her native land, she went through the catacombs of the Mafra monastery— known only to a few, and visited by even fewer—trying to convince herself to stay strong. In spite of everything, her eyes were tearing.

  After a few minutes she caught sight of the huge wooden door that ended the tunnel. Something flew over their heads, making Sarah scream.

  “That was a bat,” Rafael reassured her.

  Sarah looked at the black opening the creature had come out of, and then the one it flew into, right in front of her.

  “What are those holes?”

  “Passages to other places.”

  “What places?”

  “This is a network of tunnels that lead into separate galleries, shelters, and other passages. I’ve never really had time to explore it fully, so I don’t know exactly where they all go,” Rafael explained, totally calm. “Did you know that during the period of the French invasions, the royal family thought about moving down here?” he asked. “But in the end, the royal family decided to go to Brazil. It was safer.”

  “And farther away.”

  They finally reached the door, and Sarah waited for Rafael to open it. He approached the giant wooden slab and struck three hard blows. One. Silence. Two
. Silence. Three. Silence.

  After waiting a few minutes, they heard the sounds of the bolts being moved. Sarah felt tremendous anxiety, which only increased as she waited for the door to open. There was a brief silence, which seemed much longer than it really was. The hinges creaked and the large door started to move. A face appeared, smiling broadly. Sarah was burning up inside but kept her nerves under control, except for a slight tremor in her arms and legs. The person greeting them was Raul Brandão Monteiro, her father.

  “How are you?” Rafael asked, pulling Raul close to him in a heartfelt hug, accompanied by firm slaps on the back. It was the reunion of two friends.

  “Fine. Everything’s going fine here.”

  Once the embrace was over, Raul looked at his daughter, his eyes glassy.

  “Sarah, my child,” he said, getting closer to her.

  Tears ran down both their faces.

  “Forgive me, my dear. Forgive me,” he pleaded, his voice torn with emotion.

  The excitement of the greetings subsided and reality set in again.

  “Let’s go,” Raul affectionately said to his daughter. “Come on in.”

  On the other side of the door, there was light at the end of a hallway lined with painted tiles representing the themes of the Portuguese discoveries. The caravels of the order of Christ in turbulent seas, the giant Adamastor, the new lands, the enemies. Each painting was separated from the next by a stanza from Os Lusíadas.

  Rafael closed the door, locking it again and restoring the security of their refuge. He put out the torch. It was not needed anymore, since the candelabra fixed on the wall provided enough light. Marble tiles covered the floor, lending an air of splendor to the place. Sarah now understood that the coarseness of the network of tunnels meant nothing. The passages needed no display of luxury. That was reserved for the shelters. The enormous door truly separated two worlds.

  At the end of the hallway a large balcony spread before them on both sides. Several columns supported the weight of the arches. At the bases were wrought-iron railings for anyone who wanted to admire the salon below, a tremendous space with all the comforts of daily life. Two stairways led down to it, one on each side of the balcony. A big hanging chandelier in the shape of a cupola illuminated the entire area, and the walls were covered with tapestries. There was a grand piano, various sofas with cushions, and a dining table suitable for at least twenty dinner guests. The decor fired Sarah’s imagination, leading her to picture either a palace or a harem. Only the women were missing, and the sultan.

  From the balcony, Sarah noticed three doors on each side, probably leading to private chambers.

  Raul went toward the left stairway, and as soon as they descended the marble stairs, he invited them to sit on a large sofa.

  “Would you like something to eat? To drink? I don’t have much, but surely I can find something you might like.” His voice conveyed how happy he was to see them safe and sound.

  “Are you alone here?” his daughter dared to ask, ignoring the offer.

  “Yes.”

  “And Mom?”

  “She’s fine, don’t worry.”

  “Why didn’t she come here with you?”

  “Because she wouldn’t be able to stand this solitude. There’s no television, no radio, no Internet—nothing.”

  “Where is she?” she asked, somewhat resentfully. The relief at seeing him was already gone. Her mind was back in control, recalling all that had happened, the questions, everything that was in play.

  “Your mother’s in a safe place. Near Oporto,” her father answered. “I filled her in on everything. Her reaction wasn’t the best, as you can imagine.” Nodding slightly, Sarah signaled her understanding. They both knew this woman. “She wanted to come get you in London, but once she understood the magnitude of the problem, she went along with my plan. She can’t be out there alone. If they caught her, they’d be able to use her as a bargaining chip. They know how to do that. Besides, the CIA agents involved in this are very active.”

  ”That’s right,” Rafael agreed. “But we are still a few hours ahead.”

  “Hours?” Sarah asked, not sure she’d heard right.

  “Yes, hours,” her father repeated. “These people are extremely well prepared. They can’t reconstruct our every step, but there’s always some clue left, and they are certainly going to find it.”

  Fear again overpowered Sarah, raising her heartbeat and giving her chills.

  “Can they find us here?”

  “Not here,” Rafael hastened to clarify. “But they can place us in Mafra.”

  “How?”

  “By checking with the company from which we rented the car.”

  “Then they can also find out what hotel we stayed in?”

  “Yes, theoretically. If they check the registers of all the hotels in the area. But if they locate the taxi driver who took us from the airport to the hotel, we’re not in danger, because—”

  “I know,” Sarah interrupted, remembering that as they left the airport Rafael had asked the taxi driver to take them to the Hotel Le Meridien. At the end of the trip, when Sarah thought she would finally be getting some rest, Rafael started walking away from the hotel. And when she asked him where they were going, he answered that they wouldn’t be staying there. They walked a half mile or so to the Altis Hotel. Now she understood his tactics. “They’d think we stayed at Le Méridien.”

  “Exactly.”

  “I see,” Sarah said, thinking. A moment later she looked intently at her father. “Obviously we haven’t got any time to waste, so start telling me, from the beginning, everything I don’t know, don’t leave anything out.”

  Raul sat across from them, separated by a dark, very ornate table.

  “That’s fair. You have the right to know everything. What has Rafael told you?”

  “Nothing good. Mostly horrible things, considering that I received a list of offenders that included my father’s name.”

  “Let’s be calm, my dear,” the captain asked her in a conciliatory tone.

  “Calm? You’re asking me to be calm? Some guys are following me, guys who killed important people, who even liquidated a pope! See if you can be calm.”

  “Fine. Now you’re going to be quiet and listen to what I have to say. But first I’m going to serve us all some port, understood?” Finally the military tone appeared in Captain Monteiro’s voice. He got up to keep his word, filled three glasses with a Ferreira Vintage port, and handed one to each of them.

  Rafael remained serene, unaffected, sitting next to Sarah. Raul finally returned to his place and took a sip of his drink.

  “Every man makes mistakes in the course of his life. And I’m no exception. In 1971 I was admitted into the P2 because I thought that by doing so I would be helping my country. We had a dictatorship in Portugal, and the P2 offered me the chance to try to change that situation. Or at least that’s what I wanted to believe. When I discovered the true objective of its leaders, I separated very quickly from the lodge. Unfortunately, no one gets to leave the P2 of his own free will. I wasn’t the only Portuguese member, as you must have seen from the list. And there were many more who had the good luck not to appear either on that list or on the one published in 1981.”

  “I recognize that,” Sarah agreed. “Some of our most famous political figures.”

  The captain disregarded his daughter’s remark.

  “My relationship with the P2 ended in 1981. Mine and many other people’s. But the organization continues to exist, as you had the chance to witness in the worst possible way. During the eleven years that I belonged to it, I never put anyone’s life in danger, and I didn’t kill anybody.” He uttered this last statement looking straight into his daughter’s eyes, so there wouldn’t be the slightest doubt. “I kept an eye on many people in Portugal, people the organization wanted to keep under constant surveillance. Some were foreigners or transients. But as far as I know, only one of those people ended up dead, but not by my hands.
One of them was Sá Carneiro.”

  “Oh, my God,” Sarah said, and gasped, bringing her hand to her mouth. “The prime minister. He died in a plane crash.”

  “That story put an end to my involvement with the lodge.”

  “And when does mine begin?”

  “We’re getting to that. First I’ve got to explain what those papers are. We’re talking about thirteen pages.”

  “Thirteen? But I only have two. I mean three. I had three but lost one, in a man’s stomach.” She turned to Rafael. “The one with the code.”

  “What code?” her father quickly asked. “No, wait, we’ll talk about that afterward. Let me finish. Those thirteen pages include the list you received, four pages with information concerning high officials in the Vatican, and another list with the pontiff’s future appointees, some of whom were going to be put in place the day the pope died. The papers also contain his various annotations concerning papal measures—short, medium, and long term—for a controversial papacy. And there is also the Third Secret of Fátima.”

  Sarah was perplexed. “The one that John Paul II revealed in 2000?”

  Raul shot a surprised glance at Sarah.

  “Of course not. The true third secret, which reveals the death of a man dressed in white at the hands of his peers.”

  Some people thought that the third part of the secret of Fátima had not been published in its entirety. What Sister Lucía had written referred to an appeal by the Blessed Virgin Mary, who had warned, “Repent, repent, repent!” She had then seen a bishop dressed in white, which she identified as the Holy Father. She also saw other bishops, priests, monks, and nuns climbing a steep mountain, at the peak of which was “a great cross of rough beams, as if they were of cork oak, still with the bark on.” Before arriving at that cross, the pope, or the figure that Sister Lucía identified as the pope, went through a great city in ruins. The pontiff seemed to be “trembling, his gait unsteady, overwhelmed by pain and sorrow as he prayed for the souls of the corpses he found by the road.” The vision continued, always according to what the Vatican published, describing how the man dressed in white arrived at the mountain peak, knelt at the foot of the great cross, and was murdered “by a group of soldiers who shot him several times using guns and crossbows.” The prophetic vision concluded with the assurance that other bishops, priests, nuns, and monks died with him in the same way, including many men and women of different stations. Beneath the arms of the cross were two angels, according to Sister Lucía, each of them holding a large glass vessel in which they retrieved the martyrs’ blood.