Luis Rocha - The Last Pope

“Sharon Stone. Damned bastards,” Barnes declared, brooding. “The guy wasn’t joking.”

“What guy?” Thompson asked.

“Somebody at the British Museum. It’s not important.”

Unlike Barnes’s London office, this one lacked the glass windows that gave him an overview of his agents’ work. Even so, he liked the change, since they couldn’t see him, either, leaving him free to do as he pleased.

Outside, Staughton applied himself to his first duty-which he preferred over any field assignment-the analysis and cross-checking of facts. Whether it was in a plane or in an office made no difference. It was always better than gathering information on the street, as he recently had to do at Hans’s flat. Staughton didn’t have the temperament for that. His weapon was the computer. The printer next to him started to vibrate, and immediately began to spew out paper at a surprising rate.

Those guys put my nerves on edge, he thought, glancing at the four men in black sitting in the back of the cabin, completely motionless since the plane had taken off. At no point did they exchange words, looking like statues or mimes. They were identically dressed, and without a single wrinkle. Or maybe they suggested something else.

Staughton couldn’t stand the dark suits, the agents’ formal style. He favored casual clothes, wearing whatever he felt like. It should be enough not to have three-day-old stubble and not to have messy, uncombed hair. But the day a suit and tie was required, Staughton would be the first to resign. The printer ejected the last page, and after gathering the pile into a folder, the agent headed for his boss’s office.

“I can’t stand seeing those guys sitting there,” he complained as soon as he went in.

“Then don’t look at them,” Thompson said.

“Do they belong to the Guard?” Staughton asked. “They don’t look very dangerous.”

“Lower your voice, Staughton. Those guys are beasts,” Barnes warned. “Any news?”

“Well, something. They took the Eurostar from Waterloo to Paris, and then a plane from Orly, which landed in Lisbon two hours ago. We already have men on the ground trying to find out what they did there and where they are now.”

“Sharon Stone,” Barnes repeated, sighing. “Damned bastards.”

“Any idea of their reason for the trip?” Thompson asked.

“Surely to talk with the girl’s father,” Barnes answered.

“The army man isn’t at his Beja estate. We already searched the place. Now we’re checking relatives.”

“This is our only chance, guys,” Barnes muttered. “They aren’t going to use their passports again. Jack won’t make that mistake.”

“Everything’s tougher when the target is somebody who knows how to take care of things.”

“What’s our estimated arrival time, Staughton?” Barnes asked.

“We’ll be landing at Figo Maduro air base in two hours.”

“Fine. Get the staff to search in hotels, car rental services, taxi companies, private planes. Have them show photos, but don’t leave the photos with anybody. We don’t want the Portuguese police getting involved, and it goes without saying, we don’t want reporters, either. Be quick, but don’t stand out. Make sure of that. We need good clues to follow as soon as we land.”

Staughton, who had gone in with a bunch of papers, left with a bunch of tasks to do, just as he liked it. A few phone calls and he got everything going full blast, ready to gather leads as soon as possible. His only lingering hope was that Jack Payne wouldn’t outsmart them all.

“What made them decide to go looking for her father in Portugal?” Thompson asked, still relaxing in Barnes’s office.

“I think they’re looking for answers. And trying to determine their ongoing strategy.”

“But doesn’t he belong to the P2?”

“In theory.”

“In theory?”

“There are theoretically two tiers of people in the P2, the old and the new. Her father belongs to the old group.”

“Then there are two lodges?”

“Not exactly. There’s only one P2. The old members have no power at all in the present circumstances. But they exist, they are there. And they’re giving us a lot of trouble.”

“Is all of this caused by their maneuvering?”

“Yes. Even the Vatican is on the alert. We’ve got to get hold of those papers as fast as possible, to keep all the shit from hitting the fan. We’re part of the shit, Thompson, and we’ll be sent flying.”

What did you mean, my father lives here?” Sarah wanted to know as they trekked through the long passage dug out of the rock. It was high enough for both of them to go through fully upright, with space left over.

“Just that,” Rafael answered, pointing the torch upward. He seemed to know the way.

“How can that be?” she asked, unable to picture anybody able to live there.

“You’ll see.”

“It was true,” the young woman said, changing the subject. “The monastery had tunnels.”

Sarah’s heart was beating faster with every step. The moment of reunion with her father was fast approaching. She realized that her image of him had been incomplete, even false. She didn’t know him at all. She had always trusted him for his exemplary behavior, his flawless social conduct. To her he was a good man-a model father, soldier, and man. Now, back in her native land, she went through the catacombs of the Mafra monastery- known only to a few, and visited by even fewer-trying to convince herself to stay strong. In spite of everything, her eyes were tearing.

After a few minutes she caught sight of the huge wooden door that ended the tunnel. Something flew over their heads, making Sarah scream.

“That was a bat,” Rafael reassured her.

Sarah looked at the black opening the creature had come out of, and then the one it flew into, right in front of her.

“What are those holes?”

“Passages to other places.”

“What places?”

“This is a network of tunnels that lead into separate galleries, shelters, and other passages. I’ve never really had time to explore it fully, so I don’t know exactly where they all go,” Rafael explained, totally calm. “Did you know that during the period of the French invasions, the royal family thought about moving down here?” he asked. “But in the end, the royal family decided to go to Brazil. It was safer.”

“And farther away.”

They finally reached the door, and Sarah waited for Rafael to open it. He approached the giant wooden slab and struck three hard blows. One. Silence. Two. Silence. Three. Silence.

After waiting a few minutes, they heard the sounds of the bolts being moved. Sarah felt tremendous anxiety, which only increased as she waited for the door to open. There was a brief silence, which seemed much longer than it really was. The hinges creaked and the large door started to move. A face appeared, smiling broadly. Sarah was burning up inside but kept her nerves under control, except for a slight tremor in her arms and legs. The person greeting them was Raul Brandão Monteiro, her father.

“How are you?” Rafael asked, pulling Raul close to him in a heartfelt hug, accompanied by firm slaps on the back. It was the reunion of two friends.

“Fine. Everything’s going fine here.”

Once the embrace was over, Raul looked at his daughter, his eyes glassy.

“Sarah, my child,” he said, getting closer to her.

Tears ran down both their faces.

“Forgive me, my dear. Forgive me,” he pleaded, his voice torn with emotion.

The excitement of the greetings subsided and reality set in again.

“Let’s go,” Raul affectionately said to his daughter. “Come on in.”

On the other side of the door, there was light at the end of a hallway lined with painted tiles representing the themes of the Portuguese discoveries. The caravels of the order of Christ in turbulent seas, the giant Adamastor, the new lands, the enemies. Each painting was separated from the next by a stanza from Os Lusíadas.