Luis Rocha - The Last Pope

The younger man remembered, as if it were yesterday, the day he came home and saw her. Her eyes open, glassy, inert, their vision gone. The blood that ran down her neck into a puddle on the floor. One could barely discern that the original color of her blouse was white. His father was seated on the floor, leaning against the wall, drunk, cursing, trying to explain how she had failed to respect him. Before he knew it, the damage was done. “Now there’s just the two of us, son,” his father said, inebriated and maudlin. “Come here, boy. Give your father a hug.” It wasn’t a plea but an order, obeyed by the boy, who hugged his father with his body, and his mother with his mind. The knife went deep into his body, up to the handle, while the boy kept hugging his father tightly, with great love, eyes closed. When he finally died, his son drew away from him, and looked for the last time at his mother’s body.

“Now I’m alone.”

Finally, the moment he’d anticipated for so many years had come. At last he was to meet the Grand Master, who must have already landed on American soil, on one of the runways here, at New York ’s La Guardia Airport. This servant of his was waiting for him on the secluded tarmac, at the space assigned for the plane to stop. He brought a car befitting a dignitary of such stature. His smile concealed the nervousness eating him up. The Master was like a father to him. Though he didn’t know him personally, the man had given him all the benefits a real father provides for his children. A roof over his head, education, work, and encouragement. Although it had all been done long distance, maybe that was exactly why he had developed such great love and respect for the Master.

The plane was already on the runway. Once the engines were shut down and the door opened, the first person to appear was the man in an Armani suit whom he had met in Gdansk. This one waited to help the gentleman of advanced age coming behind him, leaning on a cane topped with a golden lion. He gripped the cane with one hand, and the assistant’s arm with the other. At last, all three of them were face-to-face. Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. The master, the servant, and the assistant.

In a scene worthy of bygone centuries, the Polish servant knelt before the Master and reverently bowed his head.

“Sir, I want you to know what an honor it is for me to finally meet you,” he said, eyes closed.

The old man placed his trembling hand on the servant’s head.

“Stand up, my son.”

The servant quickly complied. He wouldn’t dare look his master directly in the eye. The old man got into the car, and he shut the door.

“You have served me well. Always with great efficiency and dedication.”

“You can truly count on my total, absolute devotion,” he said with sincere reverence.

“I know it.”

“Where’s the target?” the assistant asked.

“Visiting a museum, right now.”

“He likes to cultivate his mind,” the man in black sneered.

“Where would you like to go, sir?” the Pole asked shyly.

“Let’s be tourists for a while,” the old man answered. “Take us for a drive.”

His words were orders.

A hushed exchange, not intended for the servant’s ears, was under way in the backseat.

Once this was over, the Master made a call and had to wait a few seconds for a response.

“At what point are we going to meet?” he asked directly, without any prior greeting. He listened to the response, and spoke in a curt tone. “Mr. Barnes, pay close attention to my orders.”

For a while now, the three occupants of the Volvo had remained silent, speeding along at nearly ninety miles an hour on the Lisbon access routes. Only at this hour was such speed possible on one of Europe ’s most congested highways.

Sarah looked out, distracted. They went past farms, stadiums, business districts, cars, trucks, but she didn’t really see any of it. What schemes were being plotted right at this moment, she wondered, so that some people would control others, or certain countries would dominate weaker ones? She felt there were two types of politics, the kind offered for public consumption, a pure facade, and the other hidden, the truly decisive one.

“Are you all right, dear?” her father asked, turning his head.

“As well as you might expect.” Her response was distant, still absorbed in her thoughts. “I was thinking. The P2 killed the pope, and surely many other people. Who else have they disappeared?” She emphasized the last words, staring at Rafael, who sensed it, in spite of keeping his eyes on the road.

“It’s hard to know for sure. But you would probably find Olof Palme, the Swedish prime minister who was assassinated, among their victims.”

“Yes, it’s easy to see they don’t have any trouble doing away with whoever interferes with their plans.”

“That you can be sure of.”

“And why did they kill him?”

“Because he was impeding some of their major operations. Probably arms sales.”

“And what does the CIA have to do with all of this?”

“A lot. Those deaths occurred because they seemed convenient at the time.”

“Did the death of John Paul I interest them?”

“As allies of the P2, the CIA was interested, but it’s an unusual case, because the U.S. Justice Department had John Paul I as a collaborator. And his death did a lot of damage to the progress of their investigations.”

“So much confusion.”

Her father turned to Rafael.

“Which way from here?”

“South. We’ll cross the Twenty-fifth of April Bridge and then go straight to Madrid.”

“Sounds good to me,” Raul agreed.

“I just want to make sure they’re not following us.”

Sarah immediately became agitated. “How can we know?”

“By taking a narrow or a dead-end street. That way, if anyone’s behind us, he’ll give himself away.”

“But then we wouldn’t have any escape, either,” Sarah objected.

“True, but we would know whether they were following us. It’s a tactic drug traffickers use. That way they don’t risk getting caught in the act. If nobody is following them, they go on. Every so many miles they repeat the maneuver. If anybody’s watching them, they abort the operation. They get into a shooting match with the police, are trapped, and the drug kingpins are left untouched in their mansions, comfortably planning the next deal.”

Dazed, Sarah listened.

“I don’t have the slightest intention of getting into a shoot-out. The one yesterday was more than enough.”

“I said that’s what usually happens in these situations, not that we’re going to do it. There are other solutions.”

“Such as?”

Rafael stopped sharply in the middle of the road. There was a clamor of honks protesting his grossly irresponsible move.

“Are you nuts?” Sarah yelled.

“Calm down, Sarah,” her father said reassuringly. “He knows what he’s doing.”

Rafael looked back, but she was right behind him, her eyes blazing.

“Would you mind moving to one side?” he asked her.

Sarah glared at him. Rafael saw three cars at the edge of the highway, about sixty yards back. There was a continuing chorus of honks from those that barely avoided ramming the Volvo.

“Three cars,” Rafael announced.

“Maybe there was an accident,” Sarah suggested nervously.

Rafael turned around and put his seat belt back on.

“Please check to make sure you have your seat belts securely fastened.”

Sarah quickly obeyed, getting more and more alarmed. “My God, I don’t like this one bit.”

“Me neither, Sarah, but listen closely.” Rafael looked at her in the rearview mirror. “So you won’t tell me later that I didn’t warn you, we’re going into an urban zone at high speed. Try not to worry. Please hang on tight.”