Luis Rocha - The Last Pope

“If the CIA is financing the P2, one could suppose it knew about the plan to kill the pope. Or is that just a reporter’s intuition?”

“It’s a good guess.”

“And why would the CIA want to eliminate the pope?”

“That calls for a very complicated answer.”

“I already see how complicated this is. Give it a try.”

Rafael looked at her for a few seconds, sighed, and went back to focusing on his driving. After a while he spoke.

“If you analyzed the geopolitical map of the world over the past sixty years, you wouldn’t be able to find a single major change that didn’t involve the CIA, and therefore the United States. In all this time there hasn’t been a revolution, a coup d’état, or a massacre in which the CIA didn’t play a part.”

“Give me an example.”

“Take your pick. Salvador Allende in Chile. Killed in a coup d’état directed by Pinochet, who in turn was totally financed by the CIA. Sukarno in Indonesia, unseated because of his relationship with the Communists. The Americans helped the military bring him down, through Suharto. More than a million supposed Communists were killed in a mop-up operation financed by them. In Zaire they put Mobutu in power. In Iran, Operation Ajax brought down the democratically elected prime minister Mohammed Mossadegh, and returned the shah to the throne. In Saudi Arabia, they rearranged the map according to their whim.”

“And there’s Iraq,” Sarah concluded.

“Yes, but that’s too obvious. The CIA confirmed the existence of weapons of mass destruction. At least they could have put them there, and later pretended to find them. That’s what I would have done.”

“Now they’re getting what they deserve.”

“No. Now innocent people are paying for the colossal errors of organizations that act only for themselves, without the backing of the country’s people. They represent only themselves.”

“We’re all potential victims of terrorism.”

“Terrorism was invented by them. Now they are-and we are-victims of the weapons that they themselves created.”

Sarah was fidgeting in her seat. “So the pope was one more victim.”

“Yes. The P2 needed it and the CIA didn’t care. The same thing happened with Aldo Moro.”

“There’s only one person in the world who the CIA has never managed to neutralize, despite numerous attempts.”

Sarah pricked up her ears.

“His name is Fidel Castro.”

It was well established that Geoffrey Barnes generally moved the pieces out in the field from his office on the third floor of a building in central London. But a telephone call from a certain house in Rome, more precisely on Via Veneto, made him get his butt out of his chair considerably faster than usual. Actually he climbed into one of the agency cars, accompanied by three other vehicles, in order to meet with the agents who were already posted around the critical area.

“I’m leaving now,” the voice told him, “and I want this solved before I get there. See to it personally, or you won’t sit in that chair again. Get moving.”

Very few people could talk that way to him. Those who did had so much power that Barnes had no means to counter them. He confined himself to nodding, or to murmuring “Yes, sir,” in order to clarify his compliance with whatever the order was.

“You have carte blanche,” were the farewell words. He was authorized to do whatever seemed most effective, to move the pieces however he saw fit, in order to achieve checkmate posthaste.

That explained how Geoffrey Barnes found himself in the backseat of a powerful car, his service weapon in its holster, watching the lights outside. “How could an infiltrator reach such a high level?”

This is going to end badly, he thought. Then he attempted to banish the evil spirits. What needed to be done would be done. Neither a woman nor a double agent, no matter how dangerous the latter might be, would cause him to fail before his superiors. This certainly was going to end badly for the target, known as Sarah Monteiro, and just as badly for her savior. Damn you. How could you dare do something like this? he lamented in silence. Taking his radio transmitter, he leaned forward in the backseat. They were already approaching their destination, and this time it was necessary to manage the pieces correctly, including his own position.

“Stop the cars a good distance back. We mustn’t reveal our presence. Over.”

“Roger, over,” came back through the device.

The subject was sitting in a black van, in the middle of Sixth Avenue in New York. He always answered when his cell phone rang, since it could be from the man who was calling now, and that caller could never be kept waiting. Once again the conversation unfolded in Italian, though it couldn’t exactly be called a dialogue, since the man in the dark overcoat restricted himself to occasional interjections and assents, listening, acutely tuned to the message-its order, its information, and its news.

The capacity for synthesis was an intrinsic quality of the speaker, who in a matter of seconds parceled out all the information, making it perfectly comprehensible, leaving not even the slightest doubt on the listener’s end. The one who listened considered him a lion, someone born to dominate men. Though he would like to see the man in person, just thinking about him made his hair stand on end. Not many other people could achieve that effect.

He hung up the phone, infused with a kind of ecstasy, as if he had just finished speaking with God. But he immediately pulled back to his usual bearing, not wanting his associates-in this case, the driver of the van-to catch him so awestruck.

“Any news?” The driver had tremendous respect for the Master, with whom he had never spoken. His respect escalated to fear when he observed, sitting beside him, the incredible reverence that his superior, a man of few feelings, showed toward him. “Any news?” he repeated.

“Things have gone badly again in London.”

“Is it so difficult to kill that wretched woman? Even with the help of the CIA?”

“We had an infiltrator.”

“Who? One of our own, in the Guard?”

The man in the overcoat didn’t answer right away. He watched the moving traffic of the city that never sleeps, the neon lights flashing their advertisements, their invitations to consume. It was all for money. Also working for money were the doormen guarding the entrance of a building. Even the sack of Rome was paid for, as was the elimination of Father Pablo in Argentina. Ideals did not fill anyone’s stomach. Nothing was done for free.

“Jack,” he finally replied.

“Jack? Are you sure?”

“He fled with her. He didn’t come back, and he killed Sevchenko.”

“The driver?”

He just nodded.

“Goddamn bastard,” the man at the wheel cursed.

“Jack. Who would have thought it? This complicates things a great deal.”

“Indeed. So much so that the Master’s coming over.”

We’d like to speak with Professor Margulies,” the man told the watchman at the guard station beside the giant doors of the British Museum.

“Professor Margulies is busy. Who would like to see him?”

“We’re the police, and we received a call-”

“Oh, yes. I called you. Go on in.” Proud, self-satisfied, he opened the entrance for the man with the tie and the five people who were with him. “You’ve come fast. I only called ten minutes ago. Why aren’t you in uniform?”

“We’re not uniformed police,” the fattest one answered, showing his badge with a quick gesture, but sufficient to satisfy the gum-chewing watchman. “We know that two individuals we’re seeking have been here, two suspects.”