Luis Rocha - The Last Pope

Sarah knew there was nothing more she could do. Rafael would have to say where the papers were. She couldn’t stand any more suffering. Valdemar Firenzi, Father Felipe, Father Pablo, the “collateral damage.” Very soon they’d be added to the list of victims, without causing those vile people to lose even a minute’s sleep. She was immersed in a torrent of thoughts when she felt somebody grab her by the waist. It was Rafael, pulling her tight against his body.

“You know perfectly well that we’ll die before we tell you where the papers are!” Rafael shouted.

“That could be,” the old man admitted, “but if you die, I won’t have to worry anymore, right? If no one knows about their existence, there’ll be nothing to fear,” he added.

“I don’t think you want to test your luck,” Rafael countered.

Sarah felt a hand on her rear. The hand moved up until it found one of the guns she was hiding in her waistband. Immediately, she felt a cold object between her side and arm. It was the gun she had given Rafael when they had overcome the other agents.

Then the shooting started, brief but intense, ending as suddenly as it had begun. One of the bullets caught the Pole in the chest. He fell backward with an expression of terror on his face. The final score was one dead and one wounded, and a shift in power. The ones in control became the controlled.

The old man braced the fallen assistant and shouted, “I’ve never witnessed so much incompetence.”

Then an echoing shot hit Bishop Francesco in the heart. His face registered total surprise.

“Why? I brought Firenzi to you,” he stammered, tumbling down the few steps.

“I hate incompetence,” the old man snapped, now aiming his gun at Rafael, who in turn pointed two guns at him. “Do you think, my boy, that you’ve got any chance of survival?” he murmured with malice.

“I have my chances.”

“You’ve got nothing,” the Master answered. “Now you have nothing. With or without the papers, talking or shutting up, you’re going to die.”

Geoffrey Barnes’s dry cough-he’d remained hidden behind the pulpit-now filled every corner of the cathedral.

“There’s a call for you,” Barnes said to the old man.

“For whom?” J.C. asked, keeping his eyes still fixed on Rafael.

“For you,” Barnes confirmed.

“Who is it?”

“A woman.”

“A woman?” The old man seemed horrified at the thought. “Are you nuts? Can’t she wait?”

“I think you’d better answer.”

“She can tell me from here, you idiot! Through the loudspeaker!”

Moments later, Barnes managed to activate the speakerphone on his cell phone, and the church loudspeakers projected a female voice. Everything echoed, as if even angels were filling the cathedral’s domes.

“Are you there?” the voice asked.

“Who’s speaking?” the old man demanded unceremoniously.

“Shut up, you bastard. You’ll have to wait as long as necessary,” the voice responded.

Rafael seemed as shocked as the old man. Only Sarah smiled slyly. “Are you all right, Sarah?” the voice asked.

“Yes, I’m all right.”

“Who is it?” Rafael inquired softly.

“A friend,” she declared triumphantly. “The same one who issued the ultimatum from the Vatican.”

The old man heard her.

“Oh, so it’s the young lady responsible for the fake ultimatum.”

“I already told you to shut up. Sarah, are you really all right, Sarah?”

“Yes, Natalie, I promise.”

“Natalie?” Rafael wanted to know. “Who’s Natalie?”

The question went unanswered.

“Let’s get to the point. Who’s the son of a bitch that got you in all this trouble?” Natalie continued.

“His name’s J.C.,” Sarah answered, looking him straight in the eye.

“J.C.? What a fucking bastard. Well, then, listen J.C., I am holding a list with various names of public personalities that belonged to the P2. There’s even a bloody prime minister on it.”

“What are you driving at?” the old man asked, staring into space.

“To start with, I want you to free my friend and everybody who’s with her.”

“And what do I get for that?”

“Relax, darling. Are you in a rush?”

Sarah couldn’t hide a smile of satisfaction. Natalie was something else.

“Let’s see. If you do, I won’t send my report to the BBC and I won’t give the Daily Mirror the article I have here, ready to be published immediately, with a copy of the list. How’s that?”

The old man’s face showed his total irritation.

“If I accept, what guarantee do I have that this wouldn’t come out?”

“Just think,” Natalie continued, “if the list is made public, that would surely be your death sentence. That’s why you’ll do what you should, and free them all. We’ll keep our part of the bargain. If you misbehave someday, you already know what will happen.”

The old man bowed his head and walked away a few steps, thinking.

“This is a reasonable enough pact for all concerned,” he announced, his voice resounding through the nave like a voice from the great beyond. “So, shall we seal the agreement?”

Fortunately his contact had secured a safe entry for him.

No Swiss Guard intercepted the man with the cruel, icy expression. He couldn’t have explained his presence there even if anybody had asked him. For the plan to be carried out with assured success, everyone knew it was crucial to have no person and no thing cross this man’s path before he reached the third floor of the Apostolic Palace.

The person for whom all paths were opened knew every nook and cranny of Vatican City. After all, the Status Civitatis Vaticanae was no larger than a village, with scarcely a thousand inhabitants.

Everything in the Vatican appeared modest, but at the same time, very ostentatious. That was the opinion of the man crossing the streets and turning the corners that night. The desire to make the capital of the pontifical state into a representation of heaven on earth had forced the Renaissance popes to devote all their money and effort to this objective. This explained why the best artists of all times had to go to Rome, to prove to God their skills and the quality of their work.

This same man had enjoyed the privilege of visiting Vatican City on numerous occasions. He knew the exact location of every palace, office, corner, and plaza, and he knew how to hide his presence that night. He knew the schedule and the routes of the Vatican guards, and the places they were usually posted.

By the time he arrived, half an hour after midnight, nobody-with the exception of members of the guard-would be in that part of the city. He needed only the assurance that the routine night rounds would not be altered and, of course, that the doors would be open.

Everything worked according to plan, so it was easy for him to get to the third floor of the Apostolic Palace, right next to the door to the pope’s private quarters.

The corridor was dimly lit, giving the place a sinister feeling. A thin sliver of light shone from beneath the door to the papal quarters, indicating that the pope was still awake. He was probably working on the changes that so many prelates, and perhaps other important people, feared. The fact that he was awake somewhat altered the execution of his plan. If the pope had been asleep, it would have been total surprise. He considered waiting until the pope fell asleep, but after ten minutes he realized that any delay would be pointless. He had a job to do anyway, and it didn’t matter whether the pope was awake or asleep. He would go in and quickly overcome any reaction. The rest would be easy.