Two hundred yards.
Without prior warning, Rafael stopped the car in the middle of the street.
“This is it, Captain.”
Raul looked at his daughter.
“Give me the papers,” he said.
“What are you going to do with them?” Rafael asked. “They mustn’t end up in their hands.”
“Don’t worry. The glove compartment has a secret hiding place. They won’t find it easily, and that will earn us a little time. Give me the papers,” Raul repeated to his daughter.
It depends on the cards we get to play at a given moment, Sarah thought, now less tense.
“The papers?” Raul said again.
“I don’t have them. I only have copies,” Sarah answered, holding out two white sheets with a copy of the list.
“Where are they?”
“Stored in a safe place.”
Rafael cracked a half smile.
“Right. That being so, what do we do?” he asked Raul.
“Well, this changes things a bit.”
“It’s our trump card,” Sarah said.
“Without a doubt,” her father admitted.
A man left one of the vehicles and was walking, alone, toward the Volvo. His firm, decisive steps held up a mountain of flesh.
“Okay, the games are about to begin,” Rafael said, pointing at the man who was getting close.
The man reached the Volvo, approaching the driver’s window.
“Well, if it isn’t the famous Jack.”
“Geoffrey Barnes. We meet again.”
“Look around you, Jack,” Barnes ordered. “Everybody look. Look at all the work you made us do.”
Other agents came up to the car, opened the doors, and pulled Raul and Sarah out.
“Do you need help getting out of the car, Jack?” Barnes asked sarcastically.
Barnes’s men kept to their auxiliary roles, leaving the initiative to their boss.
Rafael opened the door and got out of the car, collected, never taking his eyes off the big man.
“Take the woman and her father away. Follow your orders.”
Several agents moved off with them, two staying with Barnes. Sarah was still looking back.
“Is that fat man going to kill Rafael?” It was strange how she worried more about him than about herself. The agents put the young woman and her father in separate vehicles.
Meanwhile, Barnes turned to Rafael.
“Jack, Jack, Jack,” he said caustically. “What a disappointment, what a tremendous disappointment.”
Without warning, the huge man punched Rafael in the stomach. He doubled over. A few seconds later, he straightened up, but Barnes punched him again, this time knocking him down.
“How could you do this to me? To the agency. You’ve betrayed all the values they instilled in us.”
Rafael tried to get up, but another kick in the stomach kept him down.
“You’re a bastard,” Barnes continued. “And an ungrateful wretch.”
Another kick.
“Take him away,” he ordered his agents. “We’re going for a walk. A long walk.”
51
This man, a true lover of the arts in all their forms, basked in a delicious afternoon at New York’s Museum of Modern Art. As he had so many other times, he loved contemplating the masterpieces on display there.
Usually a dedicated walker, he was now in a taxi on his way home. His age, combined with the extended tour of the museum, had left him over-tired. Through the car window, he peacefully watched city life.
For nineteen years he had partaken of the Big Apple’s pleasures. Museums, movies, restaurants, conferences, religious meetings. Despite all this, he still felt like an outsider. The city was so big, so expansive, and so bountiful in its attractions that one life was insufficient to take it all in. He considered himself privileged; first, to be serving God, and second, to be doing it in this center of the civilized world. His job was to spread the word of God, almost as the old-time missionaries had done. In this case he was doing it in a great city, one evidently very much in need of the Savior’s teachings. The preceding pope had congratulated him for his work on two occasions, for his devotion, his commitment, and his dedication. One of his fondest memories was of the day he visited the Vatican and had the opportunity, honor, and privilege to kiss the ring of John Paul II.
That was in 1990, but it felt like yesterday. Now there was a different pope, a German who had succeeded the Pole. He hoped he would live to enjoy the same opportunity, the same honor and privilege to kiss the ring of the new pope, and have a few minutes of private conversation with His Holiness.
There was no reason to think that such an event could happen, not only because of his relentlessly advancing age, but also because these were exceptionally dark times, too hard to analyze and understand. His beloved Church was threatened by unfathomable dangers. Impure forces attacked the very heart of the holy institution, aided by weak-willed members ruled by the temptations of money and power, members who accepted no limitations on their actions.
Quite recently he received a package from his beloved brother in Christ, Monsignor Firenzi. It contained information of such importance that it stunned him. There were papers of John Paul I with astounding revelations, written in His Holiness’s own hand. People who up to now had enjoyed positions of high standing and respect turned out to be false men of God who used their influence for personal gain. Sinners, even murderers, concealed themselves beneath a habit.
Monsignor Firenzi’s instructions were clear: for him to zealously guard the contents of the package, and to transmit its location using extremely secure channels. He had done that, even sending him the key to the hiding place where the papers were stored.
Firenzi had called him a few days ago. He was very worried. He said he didn’t have much time left and asked him for details concerning where the package was hidden, and the man now heading home in a yellow cab had explained everything to him. Firenzi had spoken as if that would be his last conversation. His farewell message was “Keep your eyes wide open and be very careful.” He had heard nothing about Firenzi since then, and he knew that Firenzi was no longer among the living. He could feel it. It was like a priest’s implicit sixth sense. For him, being a priest meant not only delivering the word of God but also perceiving the messages being sent from above. He always knew how to decipher those messages. He could interpret the warning of a plate breaking, a dog howling, the unexpected stopping of a car. And he was sure he knew the moment that Firenzi died. He was saying his morning prayers, kneeling at the small altar he had installed in his apartment, to say Mass for friends and neighbors and the faithful who would visit him. The candle went out. The flame of the large candle, in the candelabrum he always kept lit on the left side of the altar, went out at the exact moment that he was praying for his friend the monsignor. He concentrated even harder, praying for God to rectify the situation and give Firenzi another chance, but all in vain. He couldn’t manage to relight the candle that day. It sputtered and died, as if someone were constantly blowing on it. The next day, having accepted divine will, he asked the Lord to care for his dear friend’s soul. “Thy will be done.” And the candle readily allowed him to relight it.
Though he knew that Firenzi died because of the papers, he still couldn’t know whether his own involvement in the matter would be discovered by whoever was trying to get them. They would probably end up locating him, but God’s designs were unfathomable, and he would readily accept what was to come, for good or ill, with equanimity. He was ready to accept his fate, whatever it might be.
It wasn’t humanly possible to speak with Felipe, from Madrid, or with Pablo Rincón, from Buenos Aires. Both of them received letters from Firenzi, telling them what they should do. But it was too late. Two days after his last prayer for Firenzi, he heard about the death of one and the murder of the other. Still, he remained convinced that God would try to reward those who served his purpose. If it was His will f
or the papers to remain in his hands, that would come to pass, just as the opposite would occur if that was His intent.
“Keep your eyes wide open,” Firenzi told him the last time they spoke. “Keep your eyes wide open.” But his age no longer allowed him to get involved in adventures or quick escapes. He would continue to conduct his life as before, routinely, normally, saying Masses, attending museums and exhibits, going to the theater. If somebody was looking for him, or already stalking him, then he needed patience. The stalker knew nothing about the location of the papers, nor would he.
The cab had just turned onto Sixth Avenue, and traveled the short distance to the corner of Thirty-eighth Street. The old man paid the driver and got out. When he entered his building, the uniformed doorman wasn’t there to open the door or press the elevator call button.
Where’s Alfred? he wondered. It wasn’t normal to find the front desk empty, nor was it safe for the building to be unguarded. In spite of the doorman’s fancy garb, he wasn’t there just to provide comfort and appearances for the tenants. He also served as a security guard, one who ensured that no one entered uninvited or without authorization. The old priest looked at the front desk again, and tried to open the doormen’s office, but it was locked.
Being a meticulous man, he locked the front door of the building with his key, to prevent any intruder from taking advantage of the doorman’s temporary absence. Tenants who wanted to enter or leave could use their own keys.
Finally, he went into the elevator. He got out on the seventh floor and, going down the hall, reached for the key to his apartment.
He turned the key in the lock, but it wasn’t necessary. He only needed to turn the doorknob.
“Strange,” he said to himself. “I could swear I had turned the key twice.”
Inside, he headed for the telephone and picked up the handset. But he noticed that something was out of order. His copies of the New Testament were out of place, strewn on the floor, in a row, as if marking a path. A path leading into the next room. He put down the phone and followed the trail of books. He was about to enter the room with the altar, but the light was off, and the candles out. He could see nothing. He felt for the switch on the inner wall and turned on the ceiling lamp. On the floor in front of him he saw the doorman, leaning back against the wall, his hands and feet tied, and his head covered with a bag. Then he noticed three individuals, sitting comfortably beside the altar: the Master, the servant, and the assistant.
“Marius Ferris,” the Master said firmly, his cane across his lap.
“Who are you? How did you get in here?” the old man asked the Master, who had called him by name.
“I’ve descended from the heavens to pay you a visit,” he answered jokingly.
“Who, who are you?”
“You can call me J.C.”
52
VILLOT SEPTEMBER 28, 1978
Villot couldn’t manage to remain calm in his office chair. He got up and started pacing back and forth, cigarette in hand. Once more he would exceed his self-imposed limit. He had vowed to himself countless times that under no circumstances should he smoke more than two packs a day. This poison was killing him slowly. But he couldn’t escape it. The smoke toned down his nervous anxiety. Unfortunately for him, it also helped bring him closer to his eternal reward.
Smoke was billowing from his mouth, but the cardinal was also puffing with rage. He looked for the umpteenth time at the papers on top of the impressive wooden desk. Over the centuries, thousands of documents had moved across this invaluable piece of furniture. Behind this antiquarian’s piece, dozens and dozens of secretaries of state had presided over the destiny of the holy institution. If the desk had the gift of speech, it could reveal secrets, intrigues, plots, and machinations that could chill the spine of even the most stouthearted. In addition, his desk had also accumulated desires, dreams, ambitions, and utopias. There, above all, a perceptive eye would discover badly disguised ambitions to occupy the papal throne. Indeed, what else could one aspire to, after attaining the second-highest spot in the Church hierarchy?
But at that moment, ambition was not the source of Villot’s anguish. For years, he had been resigned to his failure to receive the glory of being a successor to the prince of the apostles. What he wished for with all his heart was to have a different man in charge, one who didn’t cause all the headaches of the current pontiff.
It wasn’t even an hour since he received certain papers from the office of Albino Luciani. They contained orders, decisions, and replacements. Some of those imminent changes would be confirmed within hours or the next day. Villot took the papers from the top of the desk, and reread what he already knew by heart.
Benelli in my position? he said to himself. Can you think of a greater outrage?
“This is overly risky, Holy Father,” Villot had said when he received the papers and was able to take a glance at the first papal decisions. “What will be left of the Church if we do this?”
“The Church will survive in its purity, humbleness, and humanity,” was Albino Luciani’s only comment.
Villot held the papers with one hand and stroked his cap with the other, as he read the absurdities written by the man who was supposedly the supreme voice of Christianity. His desire to make the Church’s position concerning birth control more flexible was only one of the pontiff’s misdirected notions.
“But Holy Father, this goes against Church doctrine. It opposes the dictates of other popes.” The secretary of state was visibly disturbed.
“Infallibility,” was the answer.
“Sacred infallibility,” Villot emphasized.
“Sacred? We both know that it’s a mistake,” the pope declared with his usual serenity.
“How can you say such a thing?” the cardinal asked, hypocritically crossing himself.
“I can say it because I am the pope and know that I err like any human being.”
“A pope is infallible. And these dictates put in question decisions made with the assurance of papal infallibility.”
Villot’s combative nature wouldn’t allow him to address his superior with submission and obedience. He argued with John Paul I as if he were talking to an assistant or secretary. Albino Luciani seemed to ignore Villot’s lack of respect, although he felt uneasy. He would never have thought Villot capable of such behavior.
“A Church that calls itself infallible can’t cure its own ills,” Luciani declared. “You and I know how the idea of infallibility was made official only in 1870.”
On July 18 of that year, Pope Pius IX issued the constitution for dogma Pastor aeternus, in which it was specified that the supreme pontiff was infallible when he spoke ex cathedra, that is, by virtue of his high representation and position as spiritual heir to Saint Peter. Whatever contradicted the pope’s words could and ought to be considered anathema.
“Are you criticizing the acts of Pius IX?” Villot asked.
“Can one who doesn’t criticize his own ever improve?”
The cardinal sat down on one of the many chairs facing his desk, and covered his eyes.
“I can’t believe what I’m hearing.”
“Stop acting like a naive parish priest, Cardinal Villot. You know as well as I do that infallibility only serves to keep us in shackles.”
Villot withdrew his hands from his face. “What are you saying?”
“I think I have said exactly what I meant to say. A pope is infallible in his directives concerning the doctrines of faith and morality. Isn’t that right? Doesn’t it seem to you that this is an exceptional way of ensuring that certain customs, perhaps pernicious ones, will never change?”
“Anathema, sacrilege!” Villot sputtered, despairing before this enigma, a hurricane acting like a pleasant summer breeze.
“Sacrilege?” Albino Luciani repeated with a faint smile. “The time has come for me to tell you that you would do well to show some respect for the person you’re talking to. After all, I’m infallible.”
T
he cardinal bowed his head.
“I won’t be using my position or the supposed divine faculties you attribute to me, because that would indicate my acceptance of what they represent. I only want to remind you that, in holding your post, you ought to behave differently. Respect for others isn’t something that depends on you, Cardinal Villot. And I repeat that infallibility is an error and an unwarranted pretense. And that is why it’s going to be terminated.”
Villot understood that it would be fruitless to keep beating his head against the wall. In fact, those papers from Pope Luciani contained even more outrageous proposals than his heresy concerning infallibility.
“And as to the replacements, Holy Father, do you have any idea of the trouble they would cause in the heart of the Curia?”
“I think I have a pretty good idea, Cardinal Villot,” the pope replied naturally.
“But, but, what about the cardinals? And the moderate prelates who voted for you?”
“I didn’t ask anybody to put me in this place. And I don’t think the decisions I have made could be considered belligerent in any sense. I’m only concerning myself with what I believe should concern me, Cardinal. Don’t forget that my obligations are to the faithful and to God.”
Villot had used most of his arguments. No matter how he pressed his reasoning, so skillful and wise on many occasions, Luciani responded nobly and forcefully, and with unassailable firmness. There was no way to convince him, at least not with words.
“Holy Father, let me study the situation more thoroughly. I will review the names carefully, and give you some alternatives, particularly concerning my own replacement and for the leadership of the IOR.” If the Holy Father agreed to this delay, perhaps there was still some hope.
“It won’t be necessary to go to that trouble, Cardinal Villot. That is my final word. Don’t burden yourself with looking for alternatives. I’m sure that your candidates will be good, capable people, but I won’t accept them. My decision is irrevocable. It should start with Archbishop Marcinkus’s immediate replacement with Monsignor Giovanni Abbo, and the dismissal of De Bonis, Mennini, and Del Strobel. De Bonis is to be replaced with Monsignor Antonetti, and I will try to fill the two other vacancies after I talk with Monsignor Abbo.”
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