Luis Rocha - The Last Pope

The lord of the manor, or more precisely, the Grand Master, was waiting for him in a salon, not because this would be the usual or most convenient place, but because the operations to be carried out that night required space. The old man, his face livid, was listening to someone on the phone.

It didn’t take a lot for the new arrival to see that things weren’t going well. If the information he received about the success of the mission had been accurate, Geoffrey Barnes must have made a serious error. The assistant cleared his throat to make sure his presence was noticed. The old man lifted his eyes and greeted him with a nod. The newcomer sharpened his ears, trying to pick up some of the conversation as he prepared two vodka drinks. When the old man hung up, his assistant quietly handed him the drink and sat down.

“I understand there have been some changes since we talked,” he said.

With a deep sigh, the old man sat down. It was unusual to see him sighing like this, though lately it happened more frequently. The assistant suddenly realized that for more than fifteen years he had been close to this man, and that during this time he had observed his progressive decline, a painful experience for someone who had witnessed the Master at his full physical and mental vigor.

“Things have changed in an incredible manner,” the old man said after taking two sips of vodka. “What happened was quite unexpected, not at all part of the original plan I mapped out.”

“I heard you mention an infiltrator.” There were no secrets between them. “Geoffrey Barnes had a traitor in his ranks?”

The old man emptied his glass.

“That would have been better,” he muttered.

“But how come?” Great anxiety and incredulity showed in the assistant’s eyes. The answer was obvious.

“What’s going on should never have happened.”

“An infiltrator here, among us? I can’t believe it.”

“You’ll have to.”

“But where? Here in Italy? One of the new members?”

“No. In the Guard.”

“In the Guard? Holy shit. Any idea who it could be?”

The old man nodded, “He has revealed his identity.”

“Who is it?” the assistant asked anxiously. “I’ll kill him with my bare hands. And first I’ll make sure he knows why I’m sending him to hell.”

“Jack,” the old man answered coldly.

“Jack? Jack who?”

“Jack Payne,” the Master added, and kept silent for a few moments, letting the assistant absorb the information.

“And who is he, really?”

“I’ve ordered an investigation, but it won’t go anywhere. His true identity must be well covered up.”

“It must be. Or else we’d already have discovered him.”

The old man sighed again.

“This is unexpected, but we have to act fast.”

The assistant got up, still recovering from the shocking news. He felt it was time to make coolheaded decisions.

“Anyway, we should first focus on eliminating the target, as planned. How’s that going?”

“You don’t really understand. She’s with him. If we get one, we’ll get the other one, too,” the old man said, standing up.

“Do you think this calls for a trip to London?”

“I don’t think that’s necessary. Let’s stay close to the plan but on maximum alert. An infiltrator might bring surprises. Sooner or later, the CIA will catch them.”

“That may take some time.”

“Anyway, a trip to London will only put more pressure on Barnes and make him nervous.”

“What do you suggest, then?”

“Get the plane ready for the trip we planned. We’re going to let Barnes do his job. Don’t worry, they’ll be caught. No one can live without leaving some clues.”

“Especially in London. But let’s not forget she’s with someone who knows how to evade us.”

“Yes, I know. But if you know Jack as well as I do, you’ll know that even if he’s switched sides, he’s not the kind of man to avoid a fight. I don’t think he’d want to become a fugitive for life.”

“I’ll give orders to the crew.”

As his protégé was leaving the room, the sound of an incoming fax started. The machine swallowed a white sheet, spitting it out the other end, with a text and a photo. The old man took it and looked at the image of Jack Payne, the same man who called himself Rafael. At the bottom of the sheet, a phrase in all capitals appeared.

NO DATA AVAILABLE

Clenching his fist, the old man crumpled the paper, but after a moment his initial anger returned.

“You won’t get away, Jack,” he promised. Leaning on the cane that supported his bad leg, he got up and left the room. There were other things to take care of. He looked again at the crumpled piece of paper and, before throwing it away, muttered: “She’ll bring you back to me.”

The British Museum, custodian of great and important pieces of human history and world cultures, loomed imposingly in front of them. It housed more than seven million artifacts that witnessed the passing of the human race over the face of the earth.

The Jaguar quietly parked in front of the enormous building on Great Russell Street. Rafael and Sarah headed for the tall wrought-iron gate, crowned with golden arrows. The man went up to a small door next to the big gate. There was a guard and a sentry box.

“Good evening,” Rafael greeted him.

“Good evening,” the guard answered, chewing gum.

“I’d like to speak with Professor Joseph Margulies, please.”

“Professor Joseph Margulies?” the guard repeated, curtly.

“Yes. He’s expecting us.”

“Just a moment.” The man made a phone call from the sentry box. Sarah seemed to catch his attention.

Rafael had already phoned the professor from the car to tell him he needed to see him urgently. Though the scientist was somewhat reluctant at first, he finally agreed. Since he was working day and night at the British Museum on a temporary exhibit, they could see him there.

For Sarah, the silent wait brought up painful suspicions. There was a difficult but inescapable matter to bring up.

“Tell me, how does my father fit into all of this? What’s his position in the organization?”

“He should tell you that, not I.”

The dutiful guard confirmed the appointment and let them in.

“Professor Margulies will come for you presently.”

“Much obliged.”

“This isn’t the first time you’ve come to see him, right?”

“No. But never at such an ungodly hour,” Rafael answered, feigning a shy smile. The guard had changed his initial hostility, which he probably considered his duty, to a much more open attitude.

They all walked toward the center, to the main entrance. The sides jutted out, giving the building a squared U shape. Forty-five Corinthian columns adorned the facade, adding an imperial air. Several female figures supported the triangular pediment of the majestic entrance. Sarah stumbled on the steps leading to the ample landing.

“If this were a secret mission, our presence would already be revealed,” Rafael said seriously, though he couldn’t hide his amusement.

“If this were a secret mission, we wouldn’t have approached the guard, or used the main entrance.”

“You’re right.”

“And the pope, Albino Luciani, what part does he play in all this?”

“He’s the catalyst.”

“Catalyst? What do you mean?”

“That list you received was in his hands the night of his death. It was sent to him by an important member of the P2, a lawyer and journalist named Carmine Pecorelli.

“Pecorelli published a weekly bulletin, kind of a muckraker rag that exposed all sorts of scandals. The network of favors and allegiances was so complex,” Rafael added, “that a publication of this kind, his Osservatorio Politico, was in fact financed by a former prime minister, a close friend of Licio Gelli, the one who really promoted the P2 during the sixties and seventies.