The Last Pope

by Luís Miguel Rocha

Only then did the intruder realize that Pope John Paul I had been waiting for him and already knew what he had come to do. That understanding provoked a strange, disturbing reaction in his mind and attitude, but not serious enough to make him desist. He put a pillow over Albino Luciani’s face, and pressed. Those were the longest moments of his life. He was killing a man that death itself couldn’t fool. That murderer knew that beneath the pillow was a human being who neither begged for mercy nor tried to flee. He could have avoided the whole thing, retreating just a little from his eagerness for reform, but he didn’t. He stayed true to the end, and that fact earned him the executioner’s respect. When the last breath left the body of His Holiness, the assassin got up. Without his realizing it, tears were streaming down his face. Then, in a move he couldn’t account for, he placed the dead body in the same position the pope was when he came in, leaning him against the headboard. Even his eyes stayed open, with his head turned to the right.

  Later, the man learned that among the papers the pope had in his hands was a copy of one of the secrets of Fátima. It announced the death of a man dressed in white, by the hands of his peers. The prophecy couldn’t have been more precise.

  The murderer made sure that everything remained exactly as it was before he entered the bedroom, and then left without making any noise at all. He didn’t even turn off the light. Others would have to clean the scene of the crime.

  63

  This room on the seventh floor of the Waldorf-Astoria was well suited for the body to recover from the hardships and anguish of the past few days. Sarah had just come out of the shower, wrapped in a towel. Rafael was lying down, his eyes half-closed.

  Before going to the hotel, they went to GCT (DI)-NY. Or more exactly, GCT (15)-NY—Grand Central Terminal, New York, one of the city’s main train stations, located on Forty-second Street. Number 15 referred to the locker that contained the papers. The code that took so much trouble to decipher was that simple.

  The papers were there, yellowed from the passing of time. In beautiful, firm handwriting that, as it turned out, was totally useless, they contained the ideas of a modern man limited by evil interests.

  The emissary from Rome, that is, Rafael, had obtained them.

  “Are you sure nobody followed us?” Sarah asked him.

  “No. That’s the least of our worries now. We have a big advantage over our enemies, and they aren’t going to do anything, at least not for now.”

  “At least not for now?”

  “Yes. These people never forget. When we least expect it, they’ll attack us again.”

  “That’s not very reassuring.”

  “It’s the price we have to pay. We’re safe for now. The future belongs to God.”

  AS SOON AS they got to the seventh floor of the Waldorf, Sarah called the hospital to find out how her father was doing. His wound was not serious, despite its dramatic impact. These people knew how to torture their victims without jeopardizing their lives.

  “If I’d known it was so easy to get hold of them, I’d have sent the documents to the newspaper much sooner.”

  “Then we would have missed all this fun,” Rafael joked. “Why did you say you’d spoken with the Vatican?”

  “You’re not the only one with secrets.”

  Rafael gave her an inquiring look, but she kept talking.

  “It wasn’t clear to me how deeply the Vatican was involved. I also knew it wouldn’t be easy to make them take me seriously. That’s why I came up with my own plan. I called Natalie and sent her the documents express mail from the hotel in Portugal, before we went to Mafra.”

  “Was it you who planned the whole scene in the cathedral?”

  “No, I didn’t get that far, nor did I know what would happen to us there. I just asked Natalie to help us any way she could. She’s got a lot of contacts, so I thought she would be the best one to help us. And I wasn’t wrong. She even managed to find Barnes’s phone number. But she didn’t know how to make the Vatican take us seriously, so she made up her own plan.” Sarah laughed, recalling her conversation with the Master. “She’s a first-rate actress, and we were incredibly lucky.”

  “I thought it was brilliant. I must get to know this Natalie.”

  “When you come to London, I’ll be very glad to introduce you to her,” Sarah replied. “Do you think the CIA will keep acting independently, without the old man?”

  “I don’t know. But I don’t think so. They’ve got nothing to gain and they’re involved in too many other scandals. I think we’re safe.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.”

  Rafael got up from the bed. “Do you mind if I take a shower, too?”

  “Of course not. Do you mind if I take a look at the papers?”

  “Go ahead. You’ve earned it.”

  Sarah saw that the first documents referred to the replacements and to some reports from Vatican officials. The most interesting part began on the sixth page. It was an extensive reflection on the state of the Church, which she read avidly. Despite the fact that she wasn’t proficient in Italian, she found some passages very moving.

  In order to spread the teachings of our Lord Jesus Christ, it makes no sense to cover ourselves with a dark mantle that overshadows our spirit in front of others. It also makes no sense to voice our own words as if they were His, obscuring a doctrine that presents itself openly to all, so that, through faith, Jesus Christ may truly commune with us.

  There is no way to understand why the Holy Mother Church has covered itself with a mantle of secrecy that is at odds with the inherent joy of our Lord’s teachings. Because our faith is also joy and fellowship, and not the benevolent but judgmental attitude that our faces reflect. There is joy in our commitment to propagate His doctrine, bound to the sacrifice and suffering He endured in our name. Any seminarist is heavily trained to carry on his shoulders the burden of a sinful mankind, to convert himself into one more laborer working painfully hard, instead of doing it with the very joy of the Savior’s message.

  The solution depends on us, because in the heart of our Church we revere old dogmas that I don’t even dare ascribe to the Creator. Over the centuries, many men have occupied the throne of Saint Peter. The power and wealth accumulated during all this time are incalculable. I venture to say that we are the richest state in the world. How is this possible, if our main duty is to be close to the people? Our duty to help others became something strategically selective. Our tremendous legacy is being managed like a large corporation, and we are talking about the legacy from Jesus to Peter the Fisherman, a patrimony that has endured through history to reach me.

  We must reflect on a series of fundamental questions, but first we have to show the way. And the only possible way is that of our Lord Jesus Christ, our Father. What questions can be clarified by going to the Father? All questions. By simply listening to His teachings and recommendations, because He answered all possible questions a long time ago, and He keeps on answering them. I daresay all questions have been answered, even the new questions. But in these difficult modern times there is a formula that always guides us toward the ways of love and good deeds, the ways of the Lord. We should ask ourselves: What would Jesus do? This simple question is the answer to all our questions. What would Jesus do?

  Birth control? Life is joy and a child, too, when it is wanted. Why should we convert a divine gift into a burden?

  Homosexual relations? Thou shall not judge.

  Priest celibacy? Where is this discussed in the Gospels?

  Female priests? We are all equal in the eyes of the Lord.

  It is the duty of the Church to devote itself to the faithful and share with them the Word of God, helping the most needy, without regard to race or belief. To gain a closeness to other religions without judging their values or beliefs, but with fellowship and sharing wisdom and love. It will not be a dream created in Heaven that a Christian could pray to his God in a mosque, and a Muslim could pray to his in a church. Without censure or confrontation. Because
Heaven can, and should, begin on earth.

  How would the world be today if this pope hadn’t died? Sarah asked herself after reading this. She felt at once moved and elated. No doubt he would have revolutionized the Church. Finally she found a paper written in her native tongue. She immediately recognized the Third Secret of Fátima, as announced by Sister Lucía:

  I write as an act of obedience to you, my Lord, since you ordered me to, through His Excellency the Bishop of Lereira and Your Holy Mother.

  After the two parts already revealed, we saw to the left of Our Lady, a little higher up, an angel with a flaming sword in his left hand. Flames came off the sword that seemed about to set the world on fire, but the flames would die when they came in contact with the rays of light coming out of the right hand of Our Lady, who was moving to meet him. The angel, pointing toward the earth with his right hand, insisted in a firm, strong voice: “Repent, repent, repent!” And we saw a big, big light that was God Himself, and as if reflected in a mirror, we saw a bishop all dressed in white. We had a premonition that it was the Holy Father. Several other bishops, priests, monks, and nuns were climbing a rugged mountain. At its peak was a large cross made of rough logs that looked like cork oak. The Holy Father had to go across a great city in ruins before getting there. Almost trembling and with faltering gait, overwhelmed by sorrow and pain, the Holy Father was praying for the souls of the dead he met on his way. Once he reached the peak, while kneeling before the great cross, he was killed by a group of soldiers and some bishops and priests who were shooting bullets and arrows at him, but who were also dying in the same way. One by one, they all died: the bishops and priests, monks and nuns, and various laypeople, gentlemen and ladies from different social classes and economic positions. Two angels were on the arms of the cross, each one with a glass water sprinkler in his hand. In it they were collecting the blood of the martyrs and with it they sprinkled the souls of those approaching God.

  “ ‘Killed by a group of soldiers and several bishops and priests who were shooting bullets and arrows at him,’” Sarah repeated to herself. “What other secrets was the Church hiding, replaced by lies proclaimed as absolute truths?” she mumbled.

  “Are you okay?”

  Rafael’s question pulled her out of her ruminations. He’d just come out of the bathroom, dressed after his shower.

  “Yes, fine. Are you going somewhere?”

  “I’m leaving. My mission is finished.”

  The comment struck Sarah like a splash of cold water.

  “You’re going?”

  “I’m sorry for all I put you through. You should know I did it all for your benefit.”

  “You’re going . . . where?” Her surprise and disappointment were quite evident.

  “To save more souls in difficult situations,” he said jokingly.

  Sarah got up and went to him.

  “What about us?”

  “Us?” Rafael was confused by her question. Sarah’s face got closer and closer to his. Her soft perfume started to reach him.

  “Us . . . what about us? When are we going to see each other again?” she asked, gazing intently into his eyes. “Why don’t you stay a few more days?”

  Rafael was visibly nervous, something that didn’t square with his usual self-assurance.

  “I already told you that none of this ever happened, Sarah. Understand?”

  She got a bit closer, without fear, without any shyness.

  “Aren’t you going to stay with me?” she whispered to him. “You could rest, I’d keep you company.”

  Their lips almost touched, but he stepped back at the last moment.

  “No. I can’t. I really must leave now. I have to take these papers and return them to the Vatican. They will decide there what they want to do with them.”

  Sarah got the impression he wanted to leave as soon as possible, as if he were fleeing from the devil, not from her.

  “If this is because of my father—”

  “No,” Rafael said. “It has nothing to do with your father.”

  “Then?”

  Rafael took the papers and walked to the door.

  “It’s a life choice.” And he opened the door to leave.

  “Wait,” Sarah held him back. “At least, tell me your real name.”

  He looked at her for the last time.

  “But, Sarah, what did I tell you when we met? My name is Rafael.”

  Those were the last words they exchanged.

  64

  DEATH OF A PRIEST FEBRUARY 19, 2006

  Time was running out. Lying on his deathbed, Archbishop Marcinkus knew that his real problems were about to begin when the time came to render accounts to the God he now feared so much, the one he had so often disregarded. “God’s banker” pictured himself showing the Almighty the account books of income and expenses, debits and deposits, the details of specific frauds committed, in an attempt to convince Him of the need to diversify investments and launder the money received from organized crime. His feverish state and the anguish of dying made him see God as the president of a board of directors, a CEO incapable of recognizing that everything his servant had done throughout his eighty-four years had been for the good of the enterprise.

  Many thought that Paul Marcinkus, the old archbishop of Chicago, had been too isolated from the world in a remote parish in Illinois, and though he in fact had stepped aside, he had never intended to give up his power, and still remained in the service of the Catholic Church, in the diocese of Phoenix.

  But the Sun City was very far from the center of the world, very far from Rome, and very far from God. Ever since the Italian judges charged him with the Banco Ambrosiano embezzlement, he couldn’t shed the anguish this had caused him, and that, in turn, had weakened his heart. He was afraid his old friends suspected him of having ratted them out to the police and the court, because vengeance could be extreme.

  With his gaze fixed on the whiteness of the ceiling, Marcinkus could see himself as one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse: Calvi, Sindona, Gelli, and himself, sent by God to put the world in order.

  Marcinkus remembered Roberto Calvi’s horrible fate. He himself had barely managed to stay solvent after the bankruptcy of Banco Ambrosiano. And this depended on bribes and blackmail.

  “What was that woman’s name?” Marcinkus asked himself out loud.

  Graziella Corrocher was her name, and she was the one who had informed on Calvi before jumping out the window of her office and smashing herself on the pavement.

  When the Milan judges sent him to the Lodi jail, he told them more than he should have: “The Banco Ambrosiano isn’t mine. I’m only in someone else’s service. I can’t tell you any more.” Friends don’t forgive indiscretions, and if Calvi was able to gain conditional freedom, it was only by betraying family and friends.

  Hounded and desperate, Calvi fled from Italy and hid in various locations until he was found. Unfortunately the Mafia got to him before the police did. It was probably Gelli’s men or Sindona’s. On June 18, 1982, they put some bricks and $15,000 for services rendered in his pockets. Then they tied a rope around his neck and dropped him under the Blackfriars Bridge in London. The police reported that poor Roberto had committed suicide.

  Morons! You don’t understand anything! Marcinkus thought. Poor Roberto.

  In contrast, Michele Sindona got what he deserved. The old man used to be proud of his deals, but he was incapable of keeping a bank going. The Franklin Bank collapsed, and he lost his project with the Banca Privata Italiana to the Genovese family. He said he had studied law, but his beginnings were rooted in the fruit business, hence his nickname, the Lemon Man. At the time, he asked the Sicilians for help, and thanks to them he prospered. He went around—oh, so stupidly—bragging that he controlled the Milan stock market. In the United States he made an alliance with the Inzerillos and the Gambinos, who were even bigger scoundrels than the Genovese. With their help, he managed to get rich and to make deals with the Holy See, that is, wit
h Marcinkus and Calvi. “Only an idiot could have people call him Master of the Universe,” Marcinkus had once said. In the midsixties, when his finances and those of the Vatican collapsed, Sindona asked Calvi for help, but by then Sindona couldn’t do much. Sindona felt besieged both in the United States and in Italy, where the charges and accusations against him were endless. So he put pressure on Calvi to save his empire with Banco Ambrosiano funds, but this Catholic bank and its holding company were already under the scrutiny of the judicial authorities. Marcinkus and Calvi claimed they didn’t know the Sicilian, and abandoned him to his own luck. In a desperate attempt to avoid jail, Sindona ordered the murder of a Milanese judge who presided over the cases connected with their dirty dealings, but this last stupidity only served to add one more crime to his long list. He was arrested in the United States, and the Italian government asked for his extradition. Sindona had made few friends but incurred many debts along the way, and he paid for them all on March 23, 1986.

  “Would you like hemlock with your coffee, Michele?” Marcinkus asked sarcastically in the solitude of his bedroom, attempting to smile for the last time.

  Jail isn’t a good refuge for those with a lot of outstanding debt. So Michele Sindona ended his days with the taste of hemlock in his throat.

  As for the boss of the P2, Marcinkus couldn’t help but feel pity. Licio Gelli had more fantasies than brains, and as much taste for conspiracies as for money. Only a poor devil could think of making a list of the names and professions of all his sympathizers, Marcinkus thought. In 1981 the list of Masons came to light. The old archbishop of Chicago smiled, thinking of Silvio Berlusconi as prime minister of Italy. When the house of cards collapsed, the Masons threw Gelli out, and the Italian judges accused him of acquiring and revealing state secrets, of slander against the judges writing the summary of his charges of conspiracy, and of fraudulent bankruptcy. Gelli spent the last years of his life between courts and jails. The old politician served his home detention at his villa in Arezzo, waiting for death. The poor devil had hundreds of gold ingots hidden in flowerpots, and they were discovered. How many months of life still lay ahead for him?