Luis Rocha - The Last Pope

“That could still happen.”

“Jack,” boomed a voice from somewhere in the atrium. It was Barnes.

Rafael got up and roughly pulled Sarah to his side.

“What are you doing?” she asked in a low voice. Her heart seemed to be stuck in her throat.

“You can’t kill her because you don’t know what she’s done with the papers. She’s the only link you have to them. What’s gonna happen if she dies now?” He raised his gun and pointed it at Sarah’s temple.

“What are you doing?” Sarah thought she was about to faint.

The cards were stacking up against Barnes.

“C’mon, Jack, are you really capable of taking an innocent’s life?”

“Barnes, you know me very well. I’m made of the same shit as you.”

“What do you want?” he asked, already guessing the answer.

“Pay attention. I’m going to leave here with her, and you’re going to tell your men to put away their guns and let us go. You’re going to tell the guys with you and the ones you’ve got posted outside.”

“Let’s be reasonable, Jack.”

“Even more reasonable?” Rafael tossed back sarcastically.

Barnes had no choice but to accept.

“Abort the operation. Lower your guns. Let them go,” he said, turning his head to the tiny microphone on his lapel.

Rafael dragged Sarah out from the protection of the counter, backing toward the exit.

The cold night air wrapped around them. They went downstairs and to the giant doors bearing the Queen Elizabeth II coat of arms. The gun was still pressed against Sarah’s temple. From there to the car was a very short stretch.

What were you thinking?” Sarah yelled at the top of her lungs, while the car turned toward Bloomsbury Street at top speed.

“I was trying to save us,” Rafael answered, not looking at her.

“To save us?”

“Stop asking questions. They’re following us and it’s not going to be easy to shake them.”

They turned right on New Oxford Street. Rafael grimaced as pain blazed through his shoulder. At the Tottenham Court Road intersection, the light turned red and he stopped the Jaguar.

“Let’s trade places,” Rafael asked.

“What?

“You drive. I’m not in any shape for it.”

Sarah proceeded on Oxford Street, London ’s main business thorough-fare. She leaned over to the glove compartment and took out the list, which she threw in Rafael’s lap.

“There you have it. I’d left it here and forgotten it when we got out of the car.”

“Your forgetting it saved us this time.”

They drove on in silence for several minutes.

“I don’t know where I’m going,” Sarah said finally.

“It doesn’t matter, keep going. It’s all right if you go by the same place several times.”

“Were you really planning on shooting? If things had gone badly, would you have been able to kill me?”

“Yes,” Rafael answered without hesitation. “And I would’ve killed myself next. Believe me, it would have been a favor for you if things had turned out badly. It’s better to be dead than in their hands. Not having the list with you, whether you forgot it or not, was the best thing that could have happened. It was wonderful.”

“So if we find ourselves in the same situation again, but with no cards to play, you wouldn’t hesitate to pull the trigger, first on me and then on yourself?”

“Exactly,” Rafael affirmed, without showing the slightest emotion.

“Did my father give you that order?”

Rafael looked at the girl, who looked back at him, both of them for a moment taking their eyes off the street traffic.

“No. But I’m sure that, given the situation, he’d approve.”

“Of course.” Sarah looked ahead again. “Of course, Jack. ” She pronounced the name with deliberate emphasis, as if it were the key to all the lies, doubts, and frustrations torturing her. “Is your real name Rafael?”

“Who knows?”

“Jack?”

“No.”

“So?”

“It’s better for you not to know. Look, Rafael is the name of your savior, who hasn’t turned out bad, so far. A few ups and downs, of course, but also with a certain success. Jack is the alias of John Payne, member of the P2, who was unmasked as a double agent. So, technically because of that, John Payne is dead.”

“And Geoffrey Barnes-who is he?”

“A director of the CIA. Immoral and corrupt. I did some operations under his orders, and I assure you, if he left his office to come looking for us in person, it’s because we’re giving him a devil of a time.”

“Fine. Jack Payne or Archangel Rafael, I have to ask again, what is your real name?”

Rafael laughed for the first time since they’d met.

“Nice try.”

“You can’t lose by trying.” Sarah took her eyes off the road for a few seconds. “Rafael Jack Payne, what do we do now?”

He looked at her closely before answering.

“Now? We’re going to disappear.”

TO CAESAR THAT WHICH IS CAESAR’S SEPTEMBER 1978

Reviewing his schedule, checking his audiences and meetings for that morning, the Holy Father frowned when he came across a commission from the New York Department of Justice. There was a note stating that this commission would arrive accompanied by representatives of the FBI and of the National Bank of Italy.

The petition had been sent months ago, when Paul VI was still alive. The pope’s illness must have prevented that very strange meeting. In the notes for August, besides the indefinite postponement of the meeting, it was specified that the members of said commission would be received in a public audience, between a group of Belgian nuns from Liège and a group of orphans from Genoa.

The last note did not suspend the meeting, but wedged it between a representation of pious widows from Piedmont and of a religious school from Spain.

Pope John Paul I went into one of the auxiliary offices and observed at length the two priests acting as personal secretaries.

“These gentlemen will feel uncomfortable at the audience. Call them and tell them to come to my office now, as soon as possible. Oh! It’s a courtesy visit, so it’s not necessary for them to inform Cardinal Villot. Thank you.”

A few minutes later, while Don Albino Luciani was preparing coffee for himself, one of the young secretaries came in to tell him there were six men waiting in the next room. The pope felt a bit intimidated by the imposing presence of those gentlemen. Nevertheless, they all humbly bowed their heads when they attempted to shake hands with the pope. Hours later he couldn’t precisely remember all the names-there were the two Italian inspectors or auditors from the Bank of Italy and the four Americans representing the FBI and the Department of Justice-but they all were assigned to units dealing with financial crimes.

“Sir,” said one of the Americans, obviously unacquainted with Vatican protocol, “we greatly appreciate your having permitted us-”

“Oh!” John Paul I interrupted, smiling, and speaking in respectable English. “You’re missing out on the good hospitality of the Lord’s House! Would you like some coffee? I’m afraid that I, at least, will need some.”

They sat in comfortable chairs on one side of the office, around a low table with a silver crucifix in the center. John Paul I seemed ready to listen to these men, who were somewhat awed in the presence of a cleric who had millions of followers worldwide. One of the FBI agents, as if afraid the entire meeting would dissolve in their coffee, spoke too soon.

“Sir, we have brought you a report that provides evidence of criminal malfeasance in the financial institutions linked with the Holy See.”