Luis Rocha - The Last Pope

“Don’t abuse my patience,” the man threatened, switching off the safety on the gun. “Nobody’s calling J.C. Talk.”

Sarah was determined not to submit, not to give up. She wanted to close her eyes, but even that could be interpreted as a sign of weakness, just when the man in the Armani suit pointed his gun and prepared to shoot.

“Your stubbornness only makes it worse,” Sarah said, in a final attempt to convince him. It could all be over in seconds, her life and that of the others, but if she could manage to open a tiny crack in the assistant’s resolve, there was a chance to save everyone. Perhaps she could find it, risking a bit more. “Surely your boss won’t be pleased to have you waste our lives without any tangible results.”

“Don’t underestimate my intelligence. For the last time, spill it, or your father will be without a daughter.”

“You’re risking too much,” Sarah challenged in desperation. “If you think killing me will solve the problem, you’re very mistaken. You’ll create another, bigger problem.”

“Shut up.” The man was incensed. “One of you is going to talk. There’s always someone who ends up talking.”

“Stop,” said a voice behind them, catching everybody’s attention. The assistant turned toward the doorway, where the Master had called out the order. He leaned on his usual cane and was carrying a black briefcase.

“Sir,” the assistant began, removing the weapon from Sarah’s head.

“Silence,” the Master answered. “Would you like to talk with me?” he asked Sarah.

“If you’re J.C., then yes,” the young woman answered, her eyes wide, as though she were confused by the turn of events.

The old man turned around and walked away.

“Bring her along.”

“But, sir,” the assistant mumbled.

“Bring her over here,” the old man repeated, now from the hallway. His tone allowed no rebuttal. “And leave the others alone until further notice.”

For Geoffrey Barnes, one of New York ’s greatest advantages was the food. For the first time in several days, he enjoyed a first-rate lunch in a good restaurant. He was now much calmer, and understood that the whole business with Jack was part of the job. A game, which Jack had played masterfully, making him lose his head. It was apparent that if Barnes had been able to dispose of Jack at will, he would have handled the matter differently. That bastard, that sly fox, realized this, and knew how and when to take advantage of him.

To hell with the Italian, or whatever he might be. The fact that he spoke the language didn’t necessarily mean he was from that country. The man had said categorically, “Nobody dies without my authorization.” And when the boss spoke, everybody bowed their heads and obeyed. In that moment of confusion, he lost track of his orders. He got caught in the trap Jack set for him. It wasn’t easy to avoid. It was a mistake to have lost his temper.

But it was better not to think about it anymore. He devoted himself to enjoying the rest of his meal, his eyes already set on the dessert. And then his cell phone rang, the damned cell phone that robbed him of marvelous moments like this. He fished it out of his pocket without paying attention to who was calling.

“Barnes.”

During the next moments, Geoffrey Barnes confined himself to listening and answering with a few monosyllables. “Yes.” “No.” “Done.” One could readily infer he wasn’t talking to a subordinate, since whatever he was hearing made him shift restlessly in his chair. A few more monosyllables followed, and then a good-bye.

When he hung up, his expression was changed. Small beads of sweat trickled down his forehead. He put down the fork, still in his hand. The shit had just hit the fan, and if he didn’t act immediately, it wouldn’t take long to splatter everything. He left his money on top of the check on the table, and quickly headed for the door. He pressed some numbers on the cell phone and, now out on the street, brought it to his ear. His pace was fast and steady.

“Staughton, it’s Barnes. Don’t let them do anything till I get there.” The exertion affected the sound of his voice. He was walking very fast as he talked, but even so, his was a firm, emphatic voice. “Nothing about anything. Don’t explain why, just say I’ll clear everything up when I get there.” Barnes listened for a few seconds and then spoke again. “Not even Payne or anybody. They shouldn’t touch anything, or even move. And tell the rest to do the same, or else this is going to blow up.” He crossed the street without looking. Cars grazed past him, but he kept talking. “The reason? I’ll tell you, and you only, understood? But you can’t talk to anyone, Staughton.” The subordinate assented, on an office phone in the heart of Manhattan. “I’ve just received a call from the top levels of the Vatican.” He sighed. “The girl has tricked us.”

How did you kill John Paul I?” Sarah asked without preamble as she sat on the chair, in the same room where Rafael had been with Barnes. She rested her hands on the table to appear relaxed.

The Master stayed on his feet, his back to her, in a thoughtful pose. On hearing the question, he turned to Sarah and smiled.

“You’re not here to ask questions, Miss Sarah Monteiro. You demanded my assistant allow you to tell me personally all that you know. That’s why you’re here.” It was an old man’s voice, hoarse and cracked, but also definitive.

“It will be a small exchange of information. You’ll tell me what I asked you, and I’ll give you what you want so much. You know I wouldn’t be able to use anything against you that you tell me.”

“Don’t underestimate me, miss. I’m no cheap-movie villain. I’m flesh and blood, very real.”

“I don’t understand why you’re telling me this.” The old man’s answer had confused her.

“Forget it. It’s a digression,” J.C. explained, taking his seat in the chair across the table. “Actually, it wasn’t meant for you.”

“How did the pope die?”

There was a silence that Sarah found disturbing.

“The official version is that he died of a myocardial infarction,” the old man finally answered.

“We both know that’s not what happened.”

“We do?” J.C. said. “Do we really know that? Are you trying to contradict an official truth?”

“An official truth doesn’t have to be true. In the past few days I’ve learned that we’re all victims of deceit,” Sarah answered, with an insolence she never would have thought herself capable of.

J.C. let out a throaty but real guffaw.

“What does a girl know about all this?”

“Do you admit that the official truth is false?”

“False or not, it’s the only one we have.” His tone of voice still seemed normal. The old man never lost his cool, never said anything he would later regret.

Then he looked for something in his suitcase, which he had left by the table and was now rummaging inside. He finally found what he was looking for, an old piece of paper that he handed to Sarah.

“Read it.”

“What’s this?” She looked at its printed heading: DEATH CERTICATE.

“Read it,” J.C. repeated.

It was the death certificate of Albino Luciani, John Paul I. CAUSE OF DEATH: myocardial infarction. PROBABLE TIME: 23:30, September 28, 1978. An illegible signature, possibly of the Vatican doctor on duty.

“That’s the official truth of the pope’s death,” J.C. declared with a satisfied smile.

Sarah examined the document. How did the Master have this with him? she wondered.

“Let’s move on to what matters,” the old man insisted.

Sarah returned the certificate and looked into his eyes.