The Pope's Assassin

by Luís Miguel Rocha

  Rome, the seat of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith, June 29, 2010, the day of the martyrs Saint Peter and Saint Paul.

  Signed,

  William Cardinal Levada

  Prefect

  Luis F. Ladaria S.I.

  Titular Archbishop of

  Thibica

  Secretary

  Over the last one hundred days, he'd had a lot of time to read the cold text. And the day chosen to send him the notice didn't seem inno cent, either. The Day of Saint Peter and Saint Paul, the most important after Christmas, the birth of Our Savior Lord Jesus Christ, the Lord of the Universe. It could be either an encrypted message or his own paranoia.

  Hans took an envelope from the pocket of his cassock. From the quality of the paper it might be mistaken for the summons referred to above, but that was in his briefcase at his residence, ready to go on the trip with him. This one came from the same place, the Holy See, but in place of a formal return address without capital letters, it had a seal with a red background. A miter with triple crown, topped by a gold cross, a white stole that hung down from the crown to come together below with two interlaced keys, one silver and the other gold. The keys that open the kingdom of heaven. Those versed in coats of arms, bla zons, and symbols would recognize these in the blink of an eye, since they are the most famous next to those of the Supreme Pontiff. They indicate an envelope from the secretary of state of the Holy See.

  Hans pulled out a paper and reread it. He did this often these days. It didn't take long, and as soon as he finished he understood the reason the Ringstrasse seemed different to him. From there in a few hours he would catch a flight to Rome. The next day he would not be here to admire the movement, life, and lights, he wouldn't be buying a hot coffee in the Café Schwarzenberg, the oldest in Vienna, nor would he be browsing through books at Thalia. He wouldn't feel this cold and watch his breath make clouds of vapor in the air.

  It was good-bye. An unknown departure, indeterminate, of which he didn't know the outcome. Who knew what would happen. If man planned, God smiled.

  He felt good, at peace. Before turning his back on the Ringstrasse, he tore up the paper and envelope and threw them in a garbage can.

  "What's it going to cost me to go sooner and help a friend?" he murmured while he walked to his residence. "To give without regard to whom."

  If someone had looked over Hans Schmidt's shoulder while he read over the letter, and no one did, he wouldn't have been able to read the hasty scribble, but the signature wouldn't have fooled anyone:

  TARCISIO BERTONE, S.D.B.

  11

  His slow steps showed the heavy weight of years. He considered himself well preserved for his age, but he couldn't fool himself about his own unsteady strength, which he tried hard to hide. His steps had brought him a long way so far, to places he never longed for in his youth, when distances seem shorter than they are.

  The small chapel was for his use alone, only for him or whomever he wanted to invite. A statue of Christ at the back on the altar defi ned the space. Six feet of Carrara granite from which the sculptor, believed to be Michelangelo, removed the excess stone to reveal this immense Christ. His head hung toward His right side with an expression of suffering set there four hundred years ago. Human cruelty. Certainly this was not just any statue by any sculptor. It was Christ in person, in His divine aspect, whom he saw and to whom he prayed whenever he entered the chapel and knelt at His gleaming feet. He did it every morning and night, but today required a special prayer, and he dragged himself along the corridor. He was bending under the effort and worry. This was not an ordinary end of the day. They were never the same, but this one brought an additional weight.

  "Your Eminence," Trevor, one of his younger assistants, in a black cassock, called out at the door of the study.

  His Eminence raised his hand in an abrupt, rude gesture that called for silence and entered the door of the chapel in front of him. He knelt at the feet of the angelic Christ, made the sign of the cross, and bowed his head more in mercy than in reverence. He whispered an unintel ligible litany for a few moments until he realized he was not alone. He didn't need to look up to know who it was.

  "Can't I pray in peace?" he protested without looking behind him.

  "It's not time to pray, Tarcisio," the other person replied, dressed identically in the scarlet uniform of a prince of the church.

  "Maybe not, but, certainly it's something we do less and less," Tarci sio argued.

  "Do as I say, not as I do," the other replied.

  Tarcisio repeated the sign of the cross and got up. He turned around to the one who had disturbed his prayer to at once drop his gaze.

  "This is going to have consequences, William," he said.

  "We have to minimize them."

  "At what price, William?" he said, raising his voice in irritation.

  "Whatever price necessary," he replied strongly. "We have to be pre pared for everything, whatever it costs."

  "I don't know if I have the strength," Tarcisio confessed.

  "God gives you the burden and the strength to bear it. You've come far. Look where your strength has brought you. Look what God wants you to do." William's voice was sincerely encouraging. He believed in Tarcisio's ability. He laid his hand tenderly on his shoulder. "And your road is far from the end. He wants much more of you. More still. You know this very well."

  Tarcisio coughed uncomfortably. "We don't know what He wants later." He covered his face with his hands."We don't even know what He wants now." Tarcisio looked perturbed, a sheep lost among the others.

  William set both hands on Tarcisio's shoulders and looked at him intensely. "Look at me."

  Tarcisio took his time complying with the request, not an order, since Tarcisio was William's superior.

  "Look at me," he repeated with the same firm posture. Tarcisio finally looked at him with a beaten, lost expression. "You're concen trating on the problem when you should be thinking of the solution. Things are in play. We can't stop them now. But I need your approval. I myself will try personally to guarantee that everything will work out in our favor." He looked intensely at Tarcisio again. "We've got to do what's right."

  Tarcisio freed himself from William and turned his back. He had to think about what he'd said. The moment required lucidity, he rec ognized this, but it was hard to fi nd it. Help me, Father. Show me the way. Guide me in the calm sea of Your arms, he prayed mentally. William was right. Crossed arms and burying one's head in the sand resolved nothing. A firm hand and a very short rein were necessary. He grabbed William's hand.

  "Thank you, my good friend. You brought me back."

  William smiled. "Not me." He looked at the suffering statue."Him."

  "Your Eminence," Trevor called again fearfully from the door of the chapel. He didn't dare enter.

  Tarcisio looked at his assistant without showing his excitement. "What is it, Trevor?"

  "Ah . . . you asked to be told when Father Schmidt arrived," he said, awaiting a reaction.

  "I'll be right there," Tarcisio only said. "You can go back to work."

  The assistant disappeared almost instantly from the entrance to the chapel, as if the devil were watching him from the corner.

  William looked embarrassed. "What are you going to say?"

  "Nothing. He's here as my friend from the church. I'm not going to intercede, nor do I want to," he deliberated. Now he was the Tarcisio he always was when he assumed control and responsibility. An imposing secretary.

  "That seems wise to me." William returned to the matter at hand. "You're giving me your official approval, then?"

  "You can count on it," he said, going to the chapel door. He longed to see Schmidt again. He was playing on both sides at the moment. He wanted to do what was right. Christ would help him.

  "We already have people in the field," William informed him as they walked out. "I want to give the final orders and go over to Via Cavour."

  "Be careful. Are you sure we c
an trust them?"

  "We don't have another choice."

  "Another innocent thrown to the beasts," Tarcisio argued pensively. Traces of conscience.

  "Others have done it. Don't worry. We're at war."

  "I know."

  "It's a holy war, but there are damages we have to sustain. Every thing will be resolved quickly."

  "May God hear you," Tarcisio replied.

  "He'll hear," William said with a smile.

  "Were you able to analyze the DVD? Any indication?" he ques tioned shyly.

  "Nothing. Clean. I'm going now."

  Tarcisio left for his office in front, not without flexing his right leg and making the sign of the cross out of respect to the figure on the altar. William did the same, and both left to pursue their own affairs. Only Christ remained, nailed to the cross, His head hanging at His right side with an expression of suffering that foresaw the times to come.

  12

  The press conference in the La Feltrinelli bookstore was much calmer than Sarah had imagined. Francesco contributed by ask ing questions from time to time that called for a light response, with out the institutional weight attached to most subjects linked with the Holy See. Even if his questions seemed planted, he did break the ice. Sarah felt grateful, since they had not planned it in advance. She didn't even know Francesco would attend the conference, pen and notebook in hand, leaning up against a wall with a calm, serene expression, attracting the attention of the female contingent and of a few men as well. The Vatican contingent had not shown up, and this, too, helped lighten the atmosphere. The book she was promoting attacked certain people associated with John Paul II and suggested their responsibility for the attempt on the Holy Father's life on May 13, 1981. The most prestigious journalists from La Repubblica, Corriere, and Il Messaggero were there. They sent professionals who for decades had studied and investigated that case, as well as others tied to the Vatican, and asked pertinent, intelligent questions, which Sarah answered confi dently.

  In the room of the Grand Hotel Palatino Sarah was sick. Nausea rose up in her throat, dry heaves. She tried to vomit, sitting on the floor of the bathroom with her head on the edge of the toilet. Nothing. Francesco didn't know what to do.

  "Do you want me to call a doctor?" he asked worriedly.

  "No, it's going away," she answered, starting to gag again. She didn't want to tell him that this was not something that had just started now. She'd felt symptoms since London.

  "I'm going to order some hot tea. It'll do you good," he said, pick ing up the phone in the bathroom.

  "Yeah, do that. Thanks," as she dry-heaved once again. Empty. Upset. "Oh, damn," she complained.

  Francesco placed the order and hung up the phone. Then he cra dled Sarah in his arms.

  "Do you want to go to bed?" he asked lovingly.

  "Let's see if this goes away." Sarah knew it always calmed down. It lasted a few minutes and afterward it was as if nothing had ever happened.

  Francesco gazed at his lover, who was leaning over the toilet bowl like someone who had been drunk all night. He couldn't help feeling tender toward her, a need to make her feel better. He looked at her seriously.

  "Sarah," he said hesitantly, "I know it's not the most propitious time, but maybe it would be better to go to a pharmacy." He waited for her reaction.

  "Why?" The sickness was going away.

  "You know very well why, my dear," he smiled. "We haven't taken proper precautions the last few times."

  Sarah didn't want even to consider this. Pregnancy wasn't in her plans. Not that she had anything against Francesco, far from it, he'd be an excellent father, but . . .

  "I'll go to the doctor when we get back," she proposed.

  "Are you sure?" Francesco looked at her with concern.

  "Yes. After tomorrow we'll resolve it. Help me get up, please."

  Francesco pulled her up against himself and embraced her tightly.

  "I'll be with you come what may. I'm not going to leave you to go buy cigars," he said with a smile.

  Sarah snuggled against his chest and closed her eyes. A tear spilled onto Francesco's shirt. She felt lost, and, despite the Italian who swore his love, she felt lonely, with no one to help her . . . Except Francesco, the Italian Adonis from Ascoli who offered his heart to her.

  They heard a light knock on the door.

  "It must be room service," Francesco said. "Are you okay, honey?" He looked at her face and wiped the tears from her eyes. He kissed her on the forehead.

  Sarah looked at herself in the mirror, freed herself from Francesco's embrace, and put her hands on the washbasin, noticing her imperfec tions, red eyes, livid face.

  "I'm all right, Francesco. Would you get the door, please? I'm going to wash my face," she asked, continuing to examine herself in the mirror.

  "Of course," Francesco agreed and went to open the door, where someone was knocking again, a little louder.

  "I'm coming," he called out in Italian before leaving the bathroom.

  Sarah rubbed her eyes with the hope that when she opened them she'd see another woman in front of her. Another color. A new disposi tion. The will to go forward. That iron will that accompanied her when she left Rafael in the bar six months before, full of anger that softened quickly. He let her pursue her own path in life. He hadn't called her or looked for her since. The protection Rafael provided her dissolved. She missed him and even his prolonged silences. Sarah missed the times when she looked out the window and didn't see him, but she knew he was watching out for her like a guardian angel. All this ended six months before, after that one conversation in Walker's Wine and Ale Bar. Was he in Rome or on a dangerous mission someplace else? She wanted to call him. Find out how he was. If everything was all right in his parish, how his classes at the university were going. Then she'd come back to reality . . . and the ridiculous situation. Hi, Rafael. I wanted to know if you're okay. And the children in your parish, your students. Oh, and I still love you.

  All this mental diarrhea stopped when she heard Francesco's voice from the other room.

  "Oh! I think you better come here, Sarah."

  Sarah wiped her face with water and dried it on a towel. She came out and saw Francesco at the door.

  "What is it?"

  She approached the door and saw a young prelate in a black cas sock. He had dark skin with a circumspect expression.

  "It's for you," Francesco explained.

  "Good evening," Sarah greeted him.

  "Good evening, Miss Sarah. I was asked to pick you up."

  "You were asked? By whom?" It was very strange.

  "I am not authorized to say. I'm sorry," the young priest apologized.

  Her journalistic curiosity overcame her fear. She put on her shoes and grabbed her coat.

  "I'm coming."

  "Do you want me to go with you?" Francesco volunteered.

  Sarah looked closely at the young cleric and thought about it for a few moments. "No. This is fi ne."

  They took the elevator down to the reception area. It was already night. She looked around and didn't see anyone. Even at the recep tion desk, where there was almost always someone behind the counter ready to attend to the most demanding guest. The hotel seemed empty. As if the world had stopped for a few moments and been depleted of people.

  Sarah and the cleric didn't exchange a word. She preferred it that way, and it was a blessing to have an escort who also liked silence. Clearly he followed orders scrupulously and didn't want to be ques tioned about things he shouldn't or couldn't mention. They went outside. It was cold, but not disagreeable. She could tolerate it. She thought about Rafael. Was he the one calling for her? It couldn't be anyone else. This was why she felt so carefree. A car was in front of the hotel at the bottom of the steps. A Mercedes with tinted windows.

  The young cleric opened the door of the vehicle, and Sarah looked inside. Her jaw dropped. Inside, comfortably seated and smoking a cigar, was a man in scarlet vestments, a gold cross hanging
on his chest, his cardinal's cap on his lap.

  "Good evening, Sarah Monteiro," he greeted her. "Let's take a ride, shall we?"

  13

  Conversations between friends are continuous. Even if they are years apart, they always resume them, as if they had just seen each other only the day before. And the day before in some friendships could have been three and a half years earlier. Hans Schmidt and Tarci sio enjoyed this kind of friendship.