Luis Rocha - The Last Pope

“What are you planning?”

“I still don’t know.”

“How can you still not know? Are you going to try to negotiate our freedom in exchange for the papers?”

“I’ll know very soon.”

“What else will you know?” Sarah asked, annoyed. “Leave the negotiations to me.”

Rafael was astonished, but there was no time to ask her anything because they’d reached their stop. Everyone was getting out and going into the enormous building that rose before them, Saint Patrick’s Cathedral, with its gigantic towers more than three hundred feet tall. James Renwick, the architect, had imitated the French Gothic style in 1879 to make this the site of the most imposing Catholic cathedral in the United States.

The church was empty. Only the imposing columns and vaults of the sacred place would be witnesseses.

“Guide us,” Bishop Francesco Cossega said.

If there was any remaining doubt about him, it dissolved with the appearance of his driver and the man riding shotgun in the late-model Mercedes that had followed the Range Rover. They were none other than the familiar agents Staughton and Thompson.

“You can stop worrying. You’re doing the right thing. I guarantee that nobody will bother you again,” the bishop assured them.

Something in his voice made Sarah feel safe. She would have liked for him to be a good man, a truly pious man of the Church. It was a shame that he was on the wrong team. Sarah finally realized that all of this could only be a plan orchestrated by J.C. One had to admit it was a good plan, and probably would have succeeded if she, again, weren’t a step ahead.

Rafael led the group through the wide nave. He advanced with authority, seemingly very sure of what he was doing.

“Is it much farther?” the bishop asked, looking a bit weary.

Rafael said nothing but kept walking.

“Do you have any idea what you’re doing?” Sarah asked in a low voice, staying right beside him.

“Not yet. Keep going. We’ll think of something.”

“Things could get ugly if they discover we’re not going anywhere,” she warned. Then she asked what she most wanted to know. “What makes you think that this bishop is fake?”

Rafael smiled.

“This bishop isn’t fake.”

“Really?”

“No. He’s Francesco Cossega. He’s a real bishop. But he’s not a messenger from the Holy See.”

The young woman thought for a few moments.

“What makes you think he’s not a messenger from Rome?”

Rafael hesitated before answering.

“Because I’m the messenger from Rome.”

“What?” Sarah could barely hold back a scream.

“And you?” he quickly responded.

“Me what?”

“Why do you think the bishop can’t be a messenger from the Vatican?”

“Who says I think any such thing?” She didn’t like to admit defeat. Rafael the savior, the feared Jack Payne from the files of the CIA and of the P2-was he the messenger from Rome?

Soon they reached the transept. The vault rose above their heads, and Sarah couldn’t avoid gazing at the high arches of the cathedral. The first assistant followed the prelate. But Agent Thompson, the next in line, was knocked unconscious by a violent blow from Rafael, who, without missing a step, threw a strong punch at Staughton that left him inert on the floor. Poor Staughton.

The bishop and the assistant looked back. Too late, because Rafael had seized control of the situation. Though Thompson tried to get up, a kick from Sarah put him back on the sacred floor. She was surprised by her own bravery-I’m not in the habit of kicking anybody, she thought, but he deserved it.

“Take away his guns,” Rafael ordered.

Sarah handed one gun to Rafael, tucking the other into her waistband.

“You were going to tell me why you think he’s not a messenger from Rome,” Rafael said, as they doubled back in order to hide next to a column.

“Can’t you wait?”

“Of course,” he assented. “Hide back there.”

He was pointing to a vacant confessional.

Behind one column they could see a gun barely sticking out, ready to be fired. As if Saint Patrick himself planned it, a sudden, heavy blow landed on the gun-wielding arm, and Rafael neutralized the gunman with a well-aimed punch. Only one bishop was left.

“I’m waiting for you,” Rafael said cheerfully.

Sarah left her hiding place, searching for guns, and patted down the newly fallen agent.

Rafael admired her courage. One would think she’d been doing this all her life. She found another pistol, added it to her arsenal, and looked at Rafael.

“It’s very simple. He couldn’t be a messenger because I never called the Vatican embassy.”

Explain yourself,” Rafael demanded, walking with Sarah among the rows of pews. The bishop was in front of them, prodded along by Rafael. The majestic grandeur of the cathedral was silent and empty, in shadows.

“What do I have to explain?” she asked calmly.

“What was it you didn’t do that you said you did?” Rafael put it obliquely to keep the bishop from catching on.

“I didn’t do it, and that’s that,” she replied, visibly annoyed.

“Do you really believe you’re going to come out of this alive?” the bishop butted in, unusually arrogant for someone who was moving at gunpoint.

“We’re all going to try, don’t you think, Your Excellency?”

“You’ll end up like Firenzi and all the others.”

“Tell me something, Francesco. I have the feeling this all started because of you. Am I wrong?”

“What are you talking about?” The bishop turned around, confronting Rafael.

“Everything. The killings. Our presence here now. Everything.”

The man in the purple robes continued walking, but Rafael kept talking.

“Look, Firenzi found the documents. Nothing serious, because no one would have noticed their disappearance. They’d been in the archives for almost thirty years. They would come to light only by chance, as actually happened. The mere fact of finding them wouldn’t have put Monsignor Firenzi’s life in danger.”

“Shut up. You have no idea what you’re talking about.” The bishop objected.

“Keep going,” Sarah urged Rafael.

“Firenzi could only put his life in danger by telling somebody who then exposed him. A bishop, for instance.”

“Is that the way it was, Your Excellency ?” Sarah asked sarcastically.

“Nonsense. I didn’t know Firenzi well enough to be his confidant.”

Right then, the conversation was interrupted. A very pious soul would have said that the voice of God descended upon them.

“Don’t you think it’s too early to leave the game?” The public-address system was broadcasting the very familiar voice of Geoffrey Barnes, who was standing in the pulpit.

Rafael pushed the bishop. “Keep moving.”

They quickened their pace down the rows of pews, approaching the main altar.

“Don’t make a move!” Barnes’s voice demanded through the loudspeaker. “Where do you think you’re going?”

Three men appeared through one of the side doors of the transept. The old man went first, leaning on his carved cane. The assistant and the Pole followed.

“Little Sarah behaved very badly,” the old man scolded, approaching slowly. His cane clacked against the church tiles with every step. “Maybe we could have a more sensible conversation if you knew the conditions in which Raul Monteiro and Marius Ferris now find themselves. Anyway, I don’t think you would be able to recognize their faces, and don’t think they’d be able to recognize yours. Now, I want all the papers,” the old man demanded. “Did you think you’d beaten me? You need more than good luck to go up against me.”