Luis Rocha - The Last Pope

“That you’d gone to the hospital to visit a friend.”

“Why did you lie, Manuel?”

“Forgive me, Padre Pablo, but I couldn’t think of anything else. The man looked evil-he had a tattoo on his left arm, of a serpent.”

“Did he try to get into my house?”

The boy, still upset, hesitated before answering. A gun was not something he saw every day, much less when talking to a complete stranger.

“No, padre, ” he said finally.

“It’s okay, Manuel. Go back and take care of your things.”

Now calmer, the young man stood up, kissed the priest’s hand, and walked to the center aisle, crossing himself.

“Manuel…”

”Yes, Padre Pablo?”

“Did you see that man again on your way here?”

“No, no. I was so upset that as soon as he left, I came to tell you. I didn’t see anything and didn’t look. I started running like crazy.”

“Fine, Manuel. You may go. God bless you, and keep your faith in Him.”

Father Pablo quietly knelt and started praying devotedly even before the boy had gone.

He heard footsteps, not the boy’s, but someone else’s, someone with a decisive stride. Padre Pablo felt something on his shoulder, but rather than a hand, it was cold metal.

“I was expecting you,” the priest said.

“I’m not surprised. Some people have very strong instincts. Were you expecting something in particular?”

Padre Pablo crossed himself and got up, eyes fixed on the man. “My future is in God’s hands, the same as yours and everybody else’s. What is mine is well kept, don’t you worry. You didn’t come to give me anything that wasn’t already rightfully mine.”

“Maybe I came to take something away.”

“That would depend on how each of us sees things.”

“Where are they?”

“ Buenos Aires, New York, Paris, Madrid, Warsaw, Geneva. There are so many places in the world.”

There was a pop, and the priest tumbled over the pews. The man with the serpent tattoo was the same one seen in Rome, with a foreign accent, probably from Eastern Europe. He stood closer to Padre Pablo, who was bleeding profusely from his right side and trying to cover his wound with a bloody hand.

“God is not here to save you, my dear sir. You’d be better off telling me where they are.”

“God has saved me already. You will never find them.”

The man leaned over Padre Pablo and spoke in a confidential tone.“You know, padre, an assistant is good precisely because he helps do what one has to do, such as finding things. The most inexperienced and anxious are best. You can’t imagine the amount of information they are able to gather. I didn’t find them and I know you’re not going to tell me where they are, but with a clue here and another there, a letter, a note, an e-mail, a photo…”

The dice were cast for a new game, one in which the priest would not take part, since he was about to abandon all games. Padre Pablo could only hope that the man with the serpent tattoo on his wrist knew a good deal less than he pretended to.

Showing the priest a photo, the man said, “I’m sure he’ll be more willing to cooperate. I’ll give him your regards.” Then he fired a second shot, this time to the head. He calmly walked to the center aisle, crossed himself, and left by a side door.

It was always a joy to come back, even if only for a couple of days, and to breathe the Baltic Sea ’s salt air, which wafted over the city God had chosen for his birth. Coming to this part of the world was like an omen, an unmistakable sign of the importance of the mission entrusted to him. He walked around the familiar streets of Gdansk, Poland ’s economic center and the cradle of the famous Solidarity movement. He had always known a great mission awaited him, and he was right. When he was on Chmielna Street six years before, it had been confirmed by a phone call in the middle of the night. Now, going past the small apartment where he had grown up and spent his early adult life, he remembered his parents, who died when he was young. It was all a divine design, completing the circle of perfection he admired so much. The phone call didn’t happen by chance-nothing ever did-but by specific providential design. This was the first time in six years that he had been back in Gdansk and seen the Wisła again. The Master had asked him to wait there for the next stage of the plan, and the Master always knew what he was doing. He was one of the Illuminati, a saint guarding the higher interests of the Holy Trinity on Earth.

It was almost noon now. He walked on Miesczanska toward Chiebnicka, turned right and then left, on the way to Długie Pobrzeze. He was having dinner at the Gdanska Restaurant, as if it were a familiar place, though he had never patronized it. The sumptuous setting resembled a palace dining room more than a restaurant.

“Na zdrowie,” the impeccably dressed waiter greeted him.

“Dzie ń dobry,” he answered politely. It had been a long time since he had greeted anybody in his native tongue. He ordered the specialty of the house for two, and a bottle of red wine.

The food came quickly, efficiently, and the waiter departed with a friendly “Smacznego.”

“How are you?” a voice behind him asked.

“Very well, sir,” the man answered, getting up obsequiously. Someone who had seen him a few moments before wouldn’t think he was the same man. His self-assurance was transformed into subservience before this newcomer, who sat down across from him. He was wearing an elegant Armani suit, discreetly black, similar to that of the man who’d arrived first. There was no doubt he was the boss.

“You have done a good job.”

“Thank you. It’s an honor to serve you.”

They were speaking Italian.

“The Great Master as usual will know how to reward your efforts. He will soon summon you to his presence.”

“I’ll be honored.”

“You’re right. It’s an honor not many enjoy. And very few live to tell about it. Only those closest to him and those who serve him with dignity, like you.”

The Polish man lowered his head in acknowledgment and, pulling out an envelope from an inside pocket, he placed it on the table.

“This is what I found in Buenos Aires. The photo I told you about. It’s a simple trick. Under ultraviolet light, another image appears. Take a look.”

The other man examined the photo. “Interesting what these people can come up with,” he said, keeping his eyes fixed on the Pole. “It won’t be long before we find a name for this face.”

Now it was the boss’s turn to hand over an envelope, which he did, placing it on the table without any attempt to disguise his action.

“Here are your orders to go ahead. Everything you need is inside,” he said, returning the photo. “Take it with you. The plan is on. Beware of traitors, many people are after this. Don’t arouse suspicions, and do not fail. So long.”

He left without another word, without even touching his food. The one who stayed took the envelope and put it in the inside pocket of his jacket. He wolfed down the house specialty, enjoyed the wine, and, once satiated, paid the check, leaving a generous tip. A celebration was in order. He who served well, deserved to be well rewarded.

“Dzi ę kuj ę ,” the waiter said gratefully, happy to see the green American dollars that the well-dressed man deposited on the silver tray.

“See you tomorrow,” the man said.

By the Wisła, he opened the envelope and examined its contents. A document with his photo and his new identity, a plane ticket from Frankfurt, and some papers. He added the photo he had brought from Buenos Aires.