Luis Rocha - The Last Pope

“Where?”

“Sarah…”

Her father’s voice wasn’t that calm. In fact, she’d never heard him so agitated. The sudden relief of a few seconds before changed to anxious doubt, intensified by the shift in his usually warm, affectionate voice.

“I received an envelope from a man named-”

“Don’t mention names, Sarah. From now on, do not mention names. Don’t say where you are, either. To anyone, you hear me? Unless you’re talking to someone who can be entirely trusted.”

“Dad, you’re scaring me. Do you know anything about those papers?”

Silence.

“Dad, please don’t hide things from me. Your name appears on a list-”

“I beg you, Sarah. Don’t say another word about this. I know what you received,” he said, sounding constrained, like someone who had lost his grip on something he had somehow once controlled. “I know what you received,” he repeated, making an effort to sound more at ease. “But they don’t know it, and I’m completely sure they’re listening to us now.”

“They-who are they, Dad?” she asked, panic in her voice.

“This is no time to talk, but to act, my dear. Do you remember Grandma’s home?”

“What-why are you bringing that up now?”

“Do you remember it, or don’t you?”

“The house? Of course. How could I ever forget it?”

“Great.”

Suddenly she saw a pair of eyes at the window. A chill ran down her spine.

“Sarah,” her father’s voice called out. He repeated her name again and again, but she didn’t answer. She was petrified, staring at the window, where those eyes had been watching her without her noticing. “Sarah,” her father insisted anxiously.

Then she heard unhurried, heavy steps. The sound paralyzed her. They were getting close to her door.

“Sarah.” Her father’s voice broke her stupor.

“Yes, I’m listening.”

Ding-dong.

“Someone’s at the door. I’ve got to get it.”

“Don’t!” her father warned, alarmed.

“Dad, I’m your daughter, not one of your soldiers.”

“Guard those papers at all times, always keep them with you. Understand? And remember what your grandma told you when you were afraid to go out, to get too close to the cattle.”

“I’ll try.”

Sarah thought about what her father had said. As a child in Escariz, where they spent some time every year, she had been afraid of the cows. She remembered how she hated to get close to those enormous animals. Her grandmother had to move the always threatening cows aside for her to go out. At some point her grandmother stopped clearing her way.

“You make them move aside,” she’d say. “It’s about time you stopped being scared of them.”

“There’s always a solution.” Her grandma’s words of wisdom.

Sarah kept the papers sent to her by that man, Valdemar Firenzi. She looked for her handbag and found it next to her computer. She took out her wallet and credit cards, and walked to the stairs, glancing anxiously back at the door. Whoever was outside was now twisting the doorknob violently after repeatedly pounding on the door with his fists. Her heart was racing. Slippers in hand, she crept to the second floor, while the stair planks creaked, giving her position away.

When she reached the second floor, she heard the front door screeching, being forced open. Going to her room, all her senses alert, she was overcome by fear.

The intruder was ambling around the first floor, not even trying to hide his presence. Sarah felt totally helpless, panic-stricken. A red curtain, identical to the ones downstairs, filtered the light, giving the room a surreal feeling. She opened it noiselessly. The black car was still down there. Its sinister stillness contrasted sharply with her agitated state. Don’t let fear take over, she told herself. “Come on, use your head.”

What could she do? “There’s always a solution. If you can’t go out one way, try another,” her grandma used to say, “Try another way…” In her grandma’s house she could get out through a window on the second floor because of the short hop to the hillside in back, but in this house, in the absolutely flat capital of the UK, it wasn’t the same, the jump was too high. There’s always a solution, she kept thinking, and recalled a standard British regulation, the mandatory emergency exit. Since the great fire of 1666, when everything was made out of wood. There had to be an emergency exit. But where? This floor had no doors to the outside. The windows did not open enough and were too high. Maybe… from the bathroom, that’s it. She knew that the bathroom window opened wide, and had next to it, anchored to the wall, a wrought-iron ladder-the emergency exit!

“Thanks, Grandma,” she muttered.

Taking a deep breath, Sarah looked toward the bathroom, right there in front of her. All she had to do was get across the hallway and in, past the door. Just moments away from salvation.

One, two, three, she counted mentally, and started running. The intruder was climbing the stairs fast. She went in and tried to open the window. Not easy. It hadn’t been open for years and there was no way she could unlock it. Applying all her strength, making a superhuman effort was of no use. Or so it seemed, while she kept desperately trying. The footsteps were getting closer. The intruder was now walking slowly. In the hallway, the man in a black overcoat put the silencer on his gun.

Sarah stood against the bathroom wall. Perhaps there was still time for something. If she could break the glass…

One more step, then another. The floor planks creaked, her teeth chattered, she was about to lose control. Fear was tearing her apart. The bathtub seemed safer. She thought she heard the would-be murderer breathing. He’s used to this kind of thing. He’s a professional, she thought.

“There’s always a solution… for everything.” Sarah felt she could hear her grandma repeating. “For everything. Except death.”

With a sudden inspiration, Sarah quietly slipped out of the bathtub. Her eyes had fully adapted to the dim light. She searched about for something. The dryer? No. The shower spray? No good. Towels, perfumes, creams. No, no, no. Helpless, she leaned against the wall by the basin. Next to her, at eye level, she saw the extinguisher. That was it. If you think there won’t be a struggle, you’re dead wrong, she told herself. He had to be about three yards away from her. One step, two yards… another step, only one yard…

She quickly shot a cloud of foam. The intruder did not seem to react instantly, perhaps waiting for the haze to dissolve. But Sarah again squeezed the extinguisher lever. And waited for the intruder to show himself, to let himself be heard.

“Where are you?” he whimpered.

It all ended very quickly. Through the vanishing vapors, Sarah saw a black-gloved hand holding a gun. She threw the fire extinguisher directly at the man’s head. But he ducked.

Sarah heard two shots. She let out a muffled cry. Is this what being shot twice feels like? No pain? The man’s body hit the floor facedown with a heavy thud. She couldn’t believe it, and had to refocus. It was a miracle. Not until moments later, however, could Sarah begin to understand what had just happened. She saw two small holes in the windowpane. The shots had come from outside. Somebody had been her guardian angel. But who?

“Dad, you’ve got a lot of explaining to do.”

It was time to flee.

Times Square was one of the nerve centers of the first world, a lot like Trafalgar Square, the Champs-Élysées, Alexanderplatz, Saint Peter’s Square, and a few others. In these places nighttime and daytime activity didn’t differ much. Particularly Times Square in Manhattan, which was as mythical a place for Americans as for many Europeans. The neon lights and the frenzied traffic enthralled visitors, fascinated by the excitement of the labyrinth of streets, avenues, tunnels, and bridges.