The Last Pope

by Luís Miguel Rocha

  “How can you still not know? Are you going to try to negotiate our freedom in exchange for the papers?”

  “I’ll know very soon.”

  “What else will you know?” Sarah asked, annoyed. “Leave the negotiations to me.”

  Rafael was astonished, but there was no time to ask her anything because they’d reached their stop. Everyone was getting out and going into the enormous building that rose before them, Saint Patrick’s Cathedral, with its gigantic towers more than three hundred feet tall. James Renwick, the architect, had imitated the French Gothic style in 1879 to make this the site of the most imposing Catholic cathedral in the United States.

  The church was empty. Only the imposing columns and vaults of the sacred place would be witnesseses.

  “Guide us,” Bishop Francesco Cossega said.

  If there was any remaining doubt about him, it dissolved with the appearance of his driver and the man riding shotgun in the late-model Mercedes that had followed the Range Rover. They were none other than the familiar agents Staughton and Thompson.

  “You can stop worrying. You’re doing the right thing. I guarantee that nobody will bother you again,” the bishop assured them.

  Something in his voice made Sarah feel safe. She would have liked for him to be a good man, a truly pious man of the Church. It was a shame that he was on the wrong team. Sarah finally realized that all of this could only be a plan orchestrated by J.C. One had to admit it was a good plan, and probably would have succeeded if she, again, weren’t a step ahead.

  Rafael led the group through the wide nave. He advanced with authority, seemingly very sure of what he was doing.

  “Is it much farther?” the bishop asked, looking a bit weary.

  Rafael said nothing but kept walking.

  “Do you have any idea what you’re doing?” Sarah asked in a low voice, staying right beside him.

  “Not yet. Keep going. We’ll think of something.”

  “Things could get ugly if they discover we’re not going anywhere,” she warned. Then she asked what she most wanted to know. “What makes you think that this bishop is fake?”

  Rafael smiled.

  “This bishop isn’t fake.”

  “Really?”

  “No. He’s Francesco Cossega. He’s a real bishop. But he’s not a messenger from the Holy See.”

  The young woman thought for a few moments.

  “What makes you think he’s not a messenger from Rome?”

  Rafael hesitated before answering.

  “Because I’m the messenger from Rome.”

  “What?” Sarah could barely hold back a scream.

  “And you?” he quickly responded.

  “Me what?”

  “Why do you think the bishop can’t be a messenger from the Vatican?”

  “Who says I think any such thing?” She didn’t like to admit defeat. Rafael the savior, the feared Jack Payne from the files of the CIA and of the P2—was he the messenger from Rome?

  Soon they reached the transept. The vault rose above their heads, and Sarah couldn’t avoid gazing at the high arches of the cathedral. The first assistant followed the prelate. But Agent Thompson, the next in line, was knocked unconscious by a violent blow from Rafael, who, without missing a step, threw a strong punch at Staughton that left him inert on the floor. Poor Staughton.

  The bishop and the assistant looked back. Too late, because Rafael had seized control of the situation. Though Thompson tried to get up, a kick from Sarah put him back on the sacred floor. She was surprised by her own bravery—I’m not in the habit of kicking anybody, she thought, but he deserved it.

  “Take away his guns,” Rafael ordered.

  Sarah handed one gun to Rafael, tucking the other into her waistband.

  “You were going to tell me why you think he’s not a messenger from Rome,” Rafael said, as they doubled back in order to hide next to a column.

  “Can’t you wait?”

  “Of course,” he assented. “Hide back there.”

  He was pointing to a vacant confessional.

  Behind one column they could see a gun barely sticking out, ready to be fired. As if Saint Patrick himself planned it, a sudden, heavy blow landed on the gun-wielding arm, and Rafael neutralized the gunman with a well-aimed punch. Only one bishop was left.

  “I’m waiting for you,” Rafael said cheerfully.

  Sarah left her hiding place, searching for guns, and patted down the newly fallen agent.

  Rafael admired her courage. One would think she’d been doing this all her life. She found another pistol, added it to her arsenal, and looked at Rafael.

  “It’s very simple. He couldn’t be a messenger because I never called the Vatican embassy.”

  61

  Explain yourself,” Rafael demanded, walking with Sarah among the rows of pews. The bishop was in front of them, prodded along by Rafael. The majestic grandeur of the cathedral was silent and empty, in shadows.

  “What do I have to explain?” she asked calmly.

  “What was it you didn’t do that you said you did?” Rafael put it obliquely to keep the bishop from catching on.

  “I didn’t do it, and that’s that,” she replied, visibly annoyed.

  “Do you really believe you’re going to come out of this alive?” the bishop butted in, unusually arrogant for someone who was moving at gunpoint.

  “We’re all going to try, don’t you think, Your Excellency?”

  “You’ll end up like Firenzi and all the others.”

  “Tell me something, Francesco. I have the feeling this all started because of you. Am I wrong?”

  “What are you talking about?” The bishop turned around, confronting Rafael.

  “Everything. The killings. Our presence here now. Everything.”

  The man in the purple robes continued walking, but Rafael kept talking.

  “Look, Firenzi found the documents. Nothing serious, because no one would have noticed their disappearance. They’d been in the archives for almost thirty years. They would come to light only by chance, as actually happened. The mere fact of finding them wouldn’t have put Monsignor Firenzi’s life in danger.”

  “Shut up. You have no idea what you’re talking about.” The bishop objected.

  “Keep going,” Sarah urged Rafael.

  “Firenzi could only put his life in danger by telling somebody who then exposed him. A bishop, for instance.”

  “Is that the way it was, Your Excellency?” Sarah asked sarcastically.

  “Nonsense. I didn’t know Firenzi well enough to be his confidant.”

  Right then, the conversation was interrupted. A very pious soul would have said that the voice of God descended upon them.

  “Don’t you think it’s too early to leave the game?” The public-address system was broadcasting the very familiar voice of Geoffrey Barnes, who was standing in the pulpit.

  Rafael pushed the bishop. “Keep moving.”

  They quickened their pace down the rows of pews, approaching the main altar.

  “Don’t make a move!” Barnes’s voice demanded through the loudspeaker. “Where do you think you’re going?”

  Three men appeared through one of the side doors of the transept. The old man went first, leaning on his carved cane. The assistant and the Pole followed.

  “Little Sarah behaved very badly,” the old man scolded, approaching slowly. His cane clacked against the church tiles with every step. “Maybe we could have a more sensible conversation if you knew the conditions in which Raul Monteiro and Marius Ferris now find themselves. Anyway, I don’t think you would be able to recognize their faces, and don’t think they’d be able to recognize yours. Now, I want all the papers,” the old man demanded. “Did you think you’d beaten me? You need more than good luck to go up against me.”

  Sarah knew there was nothing more she could do. Rafael would have to say where the papers were. She couldn’t stand any more suffering. Valdemar Firenzi, Father Felipe, Father Pablo,
the “collateral damage.” Very soon they’d be added to the list of victims, without causing those vile people to lose even a minute’s sleep. She was immersed in a torrent of thoughts when she felt somebody grab her by the waist. It was Rafael, pulling her tight against his body.

  “You know perfectly well that we’ll die before we tell you where the papers are!” Rafael shouted.

  “That could be,” the old man admitted, “but if you die, I won’t have to worry anymore, right? If no one knows about their existence, there’ll be nothing to fear,” he added.

  “I don’t think you want to test your luck,” Rafael countered.

  Sarah felt a hand on her rear. The hand moved up until it found one of the guns she was hiding in her waistband. Immediately, she felt a cold object between her side and arm. It was the gun she had given Rafael when they had overcome the other agents.

  Then the shooting started, brief but intense, ending as suddenly as it had begun. One of the bullets caught the Pole in the chest. He fell backward with an expression of terror on his face. The final score was one dead and one wounded, and a shift in power. The ones in control became the controlled.

  The old man braced the fallen assistant and shouted, “I’ve never witnessed so much incompetence.”

  Then an echoing shot hit Bishop Francesco in the heart. His face registered total surprise.

  “Why? I brought Firenzi to you,” he stammered, tumbling down the few steps.

  “I hate incompetence,” the old man snapped, now aiming his gun at Rafael, who in turn pointed two guns at him. “Do you think, my boy, that you’ve got any chance of survival?” he murmured with malice.

  “I have my chances.”

  “You’ve got nothing,” the Master answered. “Now you have nothing. With or without the papers, talking or shutting up, you’re going to die.”

  Geoffrey Barnes’s dry cough—he’d remained hidden behind the pulpit—now filled every corner of the cathedral.

  “There’s a call for you,” Barnes said to the old man.

  “For whom?” J.C. asked, keeping his eyes still fixed on Rafael.

  “For you,” Barnes confirmed.

  “Who is it?”

  “A woman.”

  “A woman?” The old man seemed horrified at the thought. “Are you nuts? Can’t she wait?”

  “I think you’d better answer.”

  “She can tell me from here, you idiot! Through the loudspeaker!”

  Moments later, Barnes managed to activate the speakerphone on his cell phone, and the church loudspeakers projected a female voice. Everything echoed, as if even angels were filling the cathedral’s domes.

  “Are you there?” the voice asked.

  “Who’s speaking?” the old man demanded unceremoniously.

  “Shut up, you bastard. You’ll have to wait as long as necessary,” the voice responded.

  Rafael seemed as shocked as the old man. Only Sarah smiled slyly. “Are you all right, Sarah?” the voice asked.

  “Yes, I’m all right.”

  “Who is it?” Rafael inquired softly.

  “A friend,” she declared triumphantly. “The same one who issued the ultimatum from the Vatican.”

  The old man heard her.

  “Oh, so it’s the young lady responsible for the fake ultimatum.”

  “I already told you to shut up. Sarah, are you really all right, Sarah?”

  “Yes, Natalie, I promise.”

  “Natalie?” Rafael wanted to know. “Who’s Natalie?”

  The question went unanswered.

  “Let’s get to the point. Who’s the son of a bitch that got you in all this trouble?” Natalie continued.

  “His name’s J.C.,” Sarah answered, looking him straight in the eye.

  “J.C.? What a fucking bastard. Well, then, listen J.C., I am holding a list with various names of public personalities that belonged to the P2. There’s even a bloody prime minister on it.”

  “What are you driving at?” the old man asked, staring into space.

  “To start with, I want you to free my friend and everybody who’s with her.”

  “And what do I get for that?”

  “Relax, darling. Are you in a rush?”

  Sarah couldn’t hide a smile of satisfaction. Natalie was something else.

  “Let’s see. If you do, I won’t send my report to the BBC and I won’t give the Daily Mirror the article I have here, ready to be published immediately, with a copy of the list. How’s that?”

  The old man’s face showed his total irritation.

  “If I accept, what guarantee do I have that this wouldn’t come out?”

  “Just think,” Natalie continued, “if the list is made public, that would surely be your death sentence. That’s why you’ll do what you should, and free them all. We’ll keep our part of the bargain. If you misbehave someday, you already know what will happen.”

  The old man bowed his head and walked away a few steps, thinking.

  “This is a reasonable enough pact for all concerned,” he announced, his voice resounding through the nave like a voice from the great beyond. “So, shall we seal the agreement?”

  62

  THE NIGHT

  The years of Christ will be my days.

  Today is the twenty-fifth day of my papacy,

  the years of Christ were thirty-three.

  —FROM THE DIARY OF JOHN PAUL I, SEPTEMBER 20, 197 8

  Fortunately his contact had secured a safe entry for him.

  No Swiss Guard intercepted the man with the cruel, icy expression. He couldn’t have explained his presence there even if anybody had asked him. For the plan to be carried out with assured success, everyone knew it was crucial to have no person and no thing cross this man’s path before he reached the third floor of the Apostolic Palace.

  The person for whom all paths were opened knew every nook and cranny of Vatican City. After all, the Status Civitatis Vaticanae was no larger than a village, with scarcely a thousand inhabitants.

  Everything in the Vatican appeared modest, but at the same time, very ostentatious. That was the opinion of the man crossing the streets and turning the corners that night. The desire to make the capital of the pontifical state into a representation of heaven on earth had forced the Renaissance popes to devote all their money and effort to this objective. This explained why the best artists of all times had to go to Rome, to prove to God their skills and the quality of their work.

  This same man had enjoyed the privilege of visiting Vatican City on numerous occasions. He knew the exact location of every palace, office, corner, and plaza, and he knew how to hide his presence that night. He knew the schedule and the routes of the Vatican guards, and the places they were usually posted.

  By the time he arrived, half an hour after midnight, nobody—with the exception of members of the guard—would be in that part of the city. He needed only the assurance that the routine night rounds would not be altered and, of course, that the doors would be open.

  Everything worked according to plan, so it was easy for him to get to the third floor of the Apostolic Palace, right next to the door to the pope’s private quarters.

  The corridor was dimly lit, giving the place a sinister feeling. A thin sliver of light shone from beneath the door to the papal quarters, indicating that the pope was still awake. He was probably working on the changes that so many prelates, and perhaps other important people, feared. The fact that he was awake somewhat altered the execution of his plan. If the pope had been asleep, it would have been total surprise. He considered waiting until the pope fell asleep, but after ten minutes he realized that any delay would be pointless. He had a job to do anyway, and it didn’t matter whether the pope was awake or asleep. He would go in and quickly overcome any reaction. The rest would be easy.

  He moved up to the door. With his gloved hand, he held the door knocker and waited a few seconds, struggling to be calm. This wasn’t his first murder and it wouldn’t be his last, but this one w
as particularly repugnant to him. His job was to end the life of a pontiff. It was like a direct blow to the hearts of the faithful. Nevertheless, there was some benefit. This murder would make similar ones unnecessary. And it would take only a few seconds to end the papacy of John Paul I.

  He opened the door brusquely and went in. But the intruder was in for an immediate surprise. Albino Luciani was leaning back on the headboard, writing something on a piece of paper, and didn’t even raise his eyes to see who’d come in, without permission, at this hour of the night.

  “Shut the door,” he said, and continued writing.

  The intruder was a vigorous man, still youthful in 1978. He didn’t need a cane then. He radiated strength and efficiency. Anyway, Albino Luciani’s attitude surprised him, his total indifference to the unexplained presence.

  Complying with the Holy Father’s request, he slowly closed the door. An awkward silence filled the room, while the pope continued to ignore him. That wasn’t at all the scene he’d pictured a few days before when planning the murder. He had always seen himself in total control. Go in, kill, and leave. This stupid situation was a complete departure from the way he’d imagined things. The words they exchanged convinced the executioner then that he was facing no ordinary man.

  “Do you know man’s most important qualities?” Albino Luciani asked, still engrossed in his papers.

  “Dignity and honor?” the intruder replied with a question, like a student hoping he had the right answer for the teacher.

  “Dignity and honor are incidental,” the pope explained. “The most important qualities must be the capacity to love and to forgive.”

  “Sir, you strive for these two qualities?”

  “Constantly. But still, I am the pope, not God. My infallibility is institutional, not personal. This means I sometimes forget about these important qualities.” And for the first time, raising his eyes above his lenses, he looked at his executioner.

  “Why are you telling me this?” the man asked.

  “So you’ll know that I don’t blame you. I love you as my fellow man, and as such, I forgive you.”