Luis Rocha - The Last Pope

“Sit here.”

“Leave it alone. It’s already better.”

“Sit down.”

Not wanting to argue, Rafael obeyed, sitting down on the edge of the bed. Without alcohol, the best available disinfectant was the soap. Sarah began by cleaning the wound with the wet towel. Next she used the dry one to wipe it off, and then tore the fine hand towel into strips and bandaged it. After finishing, she stood up and looked at him. Rafael’s gaze had been fixed on her since the beginning of her work, so gently accomplished. Neither of them looked away for a few seconds. The situation was growing uncomfortable, at least for Sarah, but she kept her eyes steady.

“What’s wrong?” Sarah finally asked.

“Nothing,” Rafael answered, shifting his eyes off her as he finished putting on his shirt. “Thank you.”

“Always happy to be of service,” Sarah replied, standing up. “Hey, that’s quite a tattoo,” she commented, trying to ease the emotional tension.

“When you see one like it on somebody else, start running and don’t look back.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s the Guard’s insignia.”

“The guard’s? What guard?”

“The P2’s Advance Guard. It’s a kind of small army, trained as an overland rapid response force. Today you’ve trashed the reputation of that elite corps.”

“Not me. You,” Sarah corrected. The serpent tattoo, extending down his arm to his wrist, was now hidden again by the long shirtsleeve.

“Let’s phone the desk to ask for a taxi.”

“It’s not necessary.”

“Are we going to catch one somewhere else?”

“No. We’re not going by taxi. I have a car ready.”

A little while later they found themselves on the highway leaving Lisbon, headed north. Very soon Sarah was to see her father, and she could think of nothing else.

After a whole night without sleep, the two men remained in the same place, their eyes fixed on the lobby door through which the old man had disappeared many hours before. They maintained the same alert, watchful attitude, especially the one sitting next to the driver.

“I’m beat,” the more alert one complained.

“Cars weren’t designed for sleeping,” the other replied.

They had some coffee and doughnuts that the first one had gone out to buy from a coffee shop no more than a block away. Given his companion’s taciturn nature, he had a lot of extra time to think. He thought about stores that stayed open all night and about more important matters. Payne, for example, the famous Jack. He condemned what the man had done and yet admired him. It took a lot of courage-real balls-to make a move like that. He had to put his ass on the line to play a double role inside the Guard and, even more important, not to be exposed, until he decided the time was right. Good old Jack Payne. A fox. And speaking of old men and foxes…

“The target just came out,” the driver said.

“I saw him, too.”

“Are you going to follow him?”

“No. You are.”

“And you?”

“I’m going to take a look around his place.”

“Now you’re talking,” the driver said, satisfied. Finally, a bit of action.

“Don’t let him out of your sight. When I’m finished, I’ll give you a buzz to find out where you are.”

The driver slid smoothly out of the car and followed the old man’s steps, walking up Seventh Avenue toward Central Park. He turned toward Broadway and headed for Times Square. Taking walks delighted the old man, and it simplified the work of the one trailing him.

Why don’t we just put a bullet between his eyes and be done with this whole business? the driver wondered. What makes him special? Why should we treat him any differently from everybody else?

Barely fifteen minutes later, the other man managed to get into the old man’s flat. He did a professional job and was extremely careful, now that he had exceeded the limits of his assignment. His boss’s clear instructions did not include entering the apartment. Moreover, they expressly prohibited any action that could jeopardize the overall plan. Why was he placing himself in such danger? He was risking all of his previous accomplishments and taking his life in his hands, knowing that the Master’s hand did not tremble at the moment of exacting punishment. But he was trying to gain an edge, something that could please the old boss, whose arrival was imminent.

He’d had everything planned, waiting at a prudent distance from the residence. Less than ten minutes had gone by when a car stopped in front of it and the doorman went to open the car door for the lady and her children ready to climb in. The man wasted no time, already finding himself in the service elevator, on his way to the seventh floor. No one had seen him go in.

Now, inside the apartment, he inspected it with precision. The decor was modest, with old furniture and nothing too luxurious. Dark tones were predominant and there were many crosses, dispersed through all the rooms. The faith of the man living there was also evidenced by a humble wooden altar with enough extra space facing it to say Mass for ten or fifteen people, and by various copies of the New Testament, in different editions, sizes, and bindings.

During his hourlong inspection, the man made three phone calls to keep track of the tenant’s jaunt, well into Central Park, to the despair of the driver, who was already fed up with following him around. By the time he had completed his task, he had no doubt that what he had hoped to find wasn’t there. He had searched in the darkest nooks and hidden corners. Cautiously poking his head out the window, he saw the endless traffic on Sixth Avenue. He glanced at his car, still neatly parked. He tried to compose himself, for he couldn’t go out in an agitated state.

With a thoughtful expression, he sighed deeply. “Nothing.”

The Mafra National Palace, one of the most important architectural relics of Portugal, was located in the town from which it got its name. The enormous edifice was built according to the wishes of King Juan V of Portugal, who had promised to build it if the queen, Doña María of Austria, gave him an heir. The birth of Princess Doña María Bárbara made him keep his promise, and the king spared no expense in building that baroque architectural masterpiece. The luxurious royal quarters occupied the entire top floor, but the building also contained a monastery for more than 300 Franciscan priests, a basilica, and one of the most beautiful libraries in Europe, covered with marble and exotic woods. Its rococo shelves now housed more than 40,000 volumes, leather-bound with gold engraving. In addition to many other literary marvels, it held a first edition of Os Lusíadas, by Luíz Vaz de Camões. The building had not housed any Franciscan fathers for a long time now, since the religious orders were dissolved in 1834. In addition to its great intrinsic value, the palace also held many treasures. The basilica had two towers and a cupola, six pipe organs with an exclusive repertory, which couldn’t be heard in any other place, and two carillons of ninety-two bells, considered the best in the world.

“What are we doing here?”

“We’re going to meet your father.”

“Here?” Sarah was in a terrible mood. “He’s coming here?”

“He’s already here.”

They passed the enormous doors of the monastery and went into its magnificent interior. Rafael’s manner suggested he knew where they were going.

The serenity of the monastery began to ease Sarah’s anxieties. This environment served as a balm. A group of students was ahead of them, with a guide explaining the history of the place.

“Saramago, the Nobel Prize winner in literature-in his book Memorial do convento, which I recommend, by the way-describes the misfortunes and complications that occurred during the construction of this building.”