Luis Rocha - The Last Pope

The Volvo’s tires burned the asphalt and the motor roared menacingly. The brutal acceleration threw Sarah back into her seat. She looked behind and saw the three cars following them. The Volvo got off the highway and ran a red light. Weaving in and out, they dodged traffic at seventy, eighty miles an hour.

Rafael maneuvered the car with professional skill, Sarah noted. Looking at her father, she observed his apparent calm, reflecting on how little she knew him. Two strangers and, at the same time, so close to her. The captain gave precise feedback to Rafael concerning their pursuers, now openly chasing them. Like Rafael, they were speeding through central Lisbon, racing along the Avenue of the Republic.

Upon reaching Duke of Saldanha Square, they followed a long avenue toward the huge Marquis of Pombal Square. Red lights meant nothing to the four cars involved in the chase. Dozens of shouted insults and honking horns accompanied them. Rafael, ignoring all of this, continued at full speed.

“Hang on,” he warned. “Hang on tight.”

He had barely finished speaking when suddenly he braked, so that the pursuer on his tail almost rammed them. The two on both sides overtook them, and before they could reposition themselves next to the Volvo, Rafael made a fast left, crossing into oncoming traffic.

Her nerves frazzled, Sarah looked around her. They were moving against traffic on a one-way street. The approaching cars honked and, as best they could, dodged the Volvo and its pursuer.

“I think I’m going to throw up,” Sarah moaned.

After a crazed run, they came out on Commerce Square, still closely tailed by the other car. When they reached the east side of the plaza, the car got close to the Volvo. There was no option but an all-out race. Rafael accelerated to a suicidal speed as they entered 24th of July Avenue. The street was long and wide, but winding, forcing him to slow down and then speed up, over and over again.

The car behind them moved with equal dexterity, but the Volvo began gaining. Gaining too much.

“This doesn’t look good. They’re lagging too far behind.”

“Maybe they’re having some mechanical trouble.”

“Let’s hope that’s it.”

On Avenida da India an intense light from above encircled them. A helicopter beamed its spotlight onto the car.

“Now what?” Sarah asked, struggling to control her rising panic. “What are we going to do?”

“We can’t run anymore,” Rafael explained matter-of-factly.

“It’s over?”

Rafael gave her a very sober look.

“It’s over.”

“They’re going to kill us,” Sarah said, deathly pale.

“Not yet. If they wanted to kill us, they would have already.” He turned to Raúl.

“What now, Captain?”

“Let them capture us.”

Still moving on the avenue, they now passed the majestic Belém Palace, official residence of the president of the republic. A bit farther on, Rafael glimpsed the lights of a vehicle barricade cutting off the street near the Jerónimos Monastery. There was no escape. The barricade was getting closer and closer.

Six hundred yards.

“Captain, I beg your forgiveness for having let you down.”

“Nothing to apologize for.”

Five hundred yards.

Four hundred.

“Stop the car,” said a voice coming from the helicopter. “Halt the vehicle immediately.”

“Captain, I need your decision,” Rafael repeated more forcefully.

Civilian vehicles, police cars, and vans were lined up to form the barricade, blocking the street. Various men were shielded behind the opened doors of the cars, guns in hand.

Two hundred yards.

Without prior warning, Rafael stopped the car in the middle of the street.

“This is it, Captain.”

Raul looked at his daughter.

“Give me the papers,” he said.

“What are you going to do with them?” Rafael asked. “They mustn’t end up in their hands.”

“Don’t worry. The glove compartment has a secret hiding place. They won’t find it easily, and that will earn us a little time. Give me the papers,” Raul repeated to his daughter.

It depends on the cards we get to play at a given moment, Sarah thought, now less tense.

“The papers?” Raul said again.

“I don’t have them. I only have copies,” Sarah answered, holding out two white sheets with a copy of the list.

“Where are they?”

“Stored in a safe place.”

Rafael cracked a half smile.

“Right. That being so, what do we do?” he asked Raul.

“Well, this changes things a bit.”

“It’s our trump card,” Sarah said.

“Without a doubt,” her father admitted.

A man left one of the vehicles and was walking, alone, toward the Volvo. His firm, decisive steps held up a mountain of flesh.

“Okay, the games are about to begin,” Rafael said, pointing at the man who was getting close.

The man reached the Volvo, approaching the driver’s window.

“Well, if it isn’t the famous Jack.”

“Geoffrey Barnes. We meet again.”

“Look around you, Jack,” Barnes ordered. “Everybody look. Look at all the work you made us do.”

Other agents came up to the car, opened the doors, and pulled Raul and Sarah out.

“Do you need help getting out of the car, Jack?” Barnes asked sarcastically.

Barnes’s men kept to their auxiliary roles, leaving the initiative to their boss.

Rafael opened the door and got out of the car, collected, never taking his eyes off the big man.

“Take the woman and her father away. Follow your orders.”

Several agents moved off with them, two staying with Barnes. Sarah was still looking back.

“Is that fat man going to kill Rafael?” It was strange how she worried more about him than about herself. The agents put the young woman and her father in separate vehicles.

Meanwhile, Barnes turned to Rafael.

“Jack, Jack, Jack,” he said caustically. “What a disappointment, what a tremendous disappointment.”

Without warning, the huge man punched Rafael in the stomach. He doubled over. A few seconds later, he straightened up, but Barnes punched him again, this time knocking him down.

“How could you do this to me? To the agency. You’ve betrayed all the values they instilled in us.”

Rafael tried to get up, but another kick in the stomach kept him down.

“You’re a bastard,” Barnes continued. “And an ungrateful wretch.”

Another kick.

“Take him away,” he ordered his agents. “We’re going for a walk. A long walk.”

This man, a true lover of the arts in all their forms, basked in a delicious afternoon at New York ’s Museum of Modern Art. As he had so many other times, he loved contemplating the masterpieces on display there.

Usually a dedicated walker, he was now in a taxi on his way home. His age, combined with the extended tour of the museum, had left him over-tired. Through the car window, he peacefully watched city life.

For nineteen years he had partaken of the Big Apple’s pleasures. Museums, movies, restaurants, conferences, religious meetings. Despite all this, he still felt like an outsider. The city was so big, so expansive, and so bountiful in its attractions that one life was insufficient to take it all in. He considered himself privileged; first, to be serving God, and second, to be doing it in this center of the civilized world. His job was to spread the word of God, almost as the old-time missionaries had done. In this case he was doing it in a great city, one evidently very much in need of the Savior’s teachings. The preceding pope had congratulated him for his work on two occasions, for his devotion, his commitment, and his dedication. One of his fondest memories was of the day he visited the Vatican and had the opportunity, honor, and privilege to kiss the ring of John Paul II.