The Last Pope

by Luís Miguel Rocha

  The vivid colors of his uniform, based on those in Michelangelo’s frescoes, contrasted with his mood on this day. He felt deeply uneasy, an inexplicable anxiety like a premonition. Such a concern, for the moment at least, seemed totally baseless.

  Hans Roggan had his dream job, the one he had yearned for since his earliest years: to be serving the pope as part of the Swiss Guard. He had had to pass many tests and lead a very disciplined life, in strict adherence to the Lord’s teachings. Most important, though, he was graced with the basic requirements: being Swiss, unmarried, having the appropriate moral and ethical values, measuring more than five feet, nine inches tall, and above all, being Catholic.

  Hans would never dishonor the image of the valiant soldiers of Pope Julius II. If need be, he was willing to die protecting his pope, as did the 689 Helvetian founders of the Swiss Guard, who, on the sixth of May 1527, protected Clement VII against a thousand Spanish and German soldiers during the sack of Rome. Only forty-two of them survived, but under Commandant Göldi, they had led the pope to safety in Castel Sant’Angelo. They took him through a secret passageway, the passetto, that linked the Vatican with the fort. The others perished heroically, but not before claiming the lives of almost eight hundred enemy invaders. That was the heritage Hans carried on his shoulders every time he wore his uniform, a pride that filled his soul every day. But today, for no apparent reason, he felt disturbed.

  He was responsible for the security of Vatican City. The protection system of the city consisted of only a few inner patrols and a few guards at the most relevant, emblematic posts. Pope John XXIII had abolished the practice of posting two soldiers nightly by the door to his private quarters. The closest guard now was at the top of the stairs of the terza loggia. This was just a symbolic post, since the third floor was little used even during the day. Anyone could see that someone with bad intentions could easily enter Vatican City, and he would be right.

  Hans went into his office and sat at his desk. He opened a dossier and leafed through it. It was just a list of bills that he had to pass on to his superior in the morning. He closed it after a few seconds. It was useless. He couldn’t concentrate.

  “What the hell!” he grumbled, “I need to get some fresh air.”

  He left his office not bothering to close the door and walked out of the Swiss Guard building, wandering through the inner gardens and then to the plaza. He passed two soldiers sitting on the steps. Both had dozed off.

  I seem to be the only one who can’t sleep, he thought as he woke them with a tap on the shoulder. The startled guards jumped up.

  “Sir, pardon me, sir, excuse us,” they both said.

  “Don’t let it happen again,” Hans warned. He knew his men had just been through a very intense period of work. A little more than a month earlier, on the sixth of August 1978, Giovanni Battista Montini, better known as Pope Paul VI, had died in Castel Gandolfo, the papal summer residence. The funeral rites of a pontiff lasted several days, and the Swiss Guard did not leave the body of the deceased pope unattended for an instant. Four men stood in stationary guard, one on each corner of the catafalque. Numerous world leaders and heads of state paraded by, paying their last respects to His Holiness.

  Once the funeral ended, preparations began behind closed doors for the conclave. Days off were canceled and the amount of work doubled. The last conclave was held on August 25, exactly twenty days after the pope’s death, close to the allowed limit of twenty-one days. Despite the brevity of the conclave, lasting only one day, the habitual frenzy around the new pope had begun. Only a few days before had things returned to normal.

  Taking leave of the two sleepy guards, Hans continued his walk.

  He couldn’t avoid a feeling of ownership about everything around him. At a distance he saw Caligula’s obelisk, in the middle of Saint Peter’s Square. How ironic: a tribute to a psychopath right in the center of the most sacred place in Catholicism. He continued slowly, feeling the soft morning breeze on his face. Suddenly, something attracted his attention. To his left rose the Apostolic Palace, and on the third floor the lights in the pope’s bedroom were on. He looked at his watch: 4:40 A.M.

  “This pope wakes up early.” When Hans was coming back with his mother after dinner, at about eleven, the lights were on then as well. Vigilant, like any proud Swiss Guard, he decided to go back to the soldiers he had caught dozing off. Now they were talking to each other. The sergeant had cured them of their sleepiness.

  “Sir,” they greeted him in unison.

  “Tell me something, did His Holiness ever turn off his lights during the night?”

  While one of them hesitated, the other answered with assurance.

  “The lights have been on since I started my patrol.”

  Despite having caught them dozing, Hans knew they must have been inattentive for only a few minutes.

  “How odd,” he mumbled.

  “His Holiness usually turns his lights on at about this time. But last night he didn’t turn them off at all,” the guard added. “He must have been working on those changes people are talking about.”

  “That’s no concern of ours,” Hans answered, and changed the subject. “Is everything in order?”

  “Everything’s in order, sir.”

  “Very well. I’ll see you later. Keep your eyes peeled.”

  As he went back to the Swiss Guard building, he felt his eyelids finally getting heavy. He could still sleep for a couple of hours. He glanced again at the still-lighted pope’s quarters. No doubt things are going to change around here, he thought, with a half grin. Now he could sleep in peace.

  IT HAD BEEN fifteen minutes since Sister Vincenza had placed the silver tray on the small table by the door to Don Albino Luciani’s private quarters. It was time to go back and make Don Albino get up and take his medication.

  Again a chill went down her spine as she crossed the somber corridor. She would face Don Albino and stand respectfully but firmly until he had taken his blood pressure medication. It was too low, according to Don Giuseppe. The medication consisted of a few white, tasteless pills that the pontiff always took with a gesture of mock surprise. This was one of Vincenza’s responsibilities, as was giving him an injection to stimulate his adrenal glands before he went to bed. Sometimes she also had to make sure he had taken his vitamins after meals.

  Don Albino used to joke with Sister Vincenza and gently reproach her for being so punctual, coming “religiously” between four thirty and four forty-five every morning to administer the medication that kept his blood pressure at the appropriate level.

  Then Don Albino took his bath. Between five and five thirty he tried to improve his English with a taped correspondence course, a routine he resisted changing. After that, the pontiff prayed in his private chapel until seven. That simple routine was a remnant of life in his former residence, and afforded him some relief from the enormous burden the cardinals had placed on him.

  As the nun reached Don Albino’s quarters, she couldn’t help but show her distress. That morning the whole routine, maintained for years, was crumbling. The silver tray with the pot of coffee and cup and saucer was still in the same place she had left it a few minutes earlier. She lifted the lid of the coffeepot to see if it was still full. It was. In almost twenty years nothing like this had happened, and Don Albino Luciani had never failed to respond to her greeting with a kind “Good morning, Vincenza.”

  Actually, that wasn’t exactly right; some of the details had been altered. Before moving here, Sister Vincenza used to knock at the door and come in with the coffee tray, personally handing it to Don Albino. This routine was vehemently rejected when the new papal assistants found out. According to them, this was in flagrant violation of protocol. So, to please everybody, they reached a compromise. The nun was to continue to bring the coffee every morning but would leave the tray by the door to Don Albino’s private quarters.

  Leaning her head against the door again, Sister Vincenza held her breath, trying to listen f
or any sound coming from inside the room. She didn’t hear anything or sense any movement. I don’t know whether I should knock again, she thought, and finally knocked timidly on the wooden door.

  “Good morning, Don Albino,” she whispered.

  She stood back from the door and examined it, wondering what else to do. “In Venice I just walked right in without a fuss,” she muttered.

  From the bottom of the door, a fine line of light escaped. “Well, this means that Don Albino must be up already.” She knocked decisively at the door.

  “Don Albino?”

  No response. She knocked again softly, but silence was the only answer. She had no alternative but to enter the room, despite the dictates of protocol. She placed her hand on the golden doorknob and turned it.

  “If I were to please all those secretaries, I would never find out whether Don Albino is up or still sleeping.”

  She tiptoed in. The pope was still sitting in bed, propped up with pillows, his glasses on, some papers in his hand, his head turned a bit to the right. The happy expression and kind smile that used to charm everyone around him had turned to a grimace of agony. Vincenza quickly went to him with a tremulous heart. She paid no attention to her own weak condition. With red, teary eyes she held Don Albino’s hand to take his pulse. One, two, three, four, five seconds—

  Sister Vincenza closed her eyes, tears streaming down her face.

  “Oh, my God!”

  She violently yanked at the cord next to Don Albino’s bed, and the sound of the bell ringing was heard through the nearby halls and rooms.

  I have to call the sisters, she thought, trembling nervously. No, first I must call Father Magee. No, he’s too far away. Better call Father Lorenzi.

  The bell stopped ringing, but nobody answered Sister Vincenza’s call. She rushed out to the corridor and, without thinking, overlooking all the rules imposed by the rigid defenders of protocol, opened the door to Father Lorenzi’s room. He always slept near Don Albino’s quarters. The secretary, Father John Magee, was staying in a room on another floor until the re-modeling of his own room was finished.

  “Father Lorenzi! Father Lorenzi, for God’s sake!” Sister Vincenza screamed.

  He woke up stunned, sleepy, and taken aback by such an unexpected visit.

  “What’s the matter, Sister Vincenza? What’s happening?”

  He could scarcely understand what was going on. The nun went up to him, pulling at his pajamas and crying profusely.

  “What’s wrong, Sister Vincenza? What’s going on?”

  “Father Lorenzi—Don Albino! It’s Don Albino, Father Lorenzi! Don Albino is dead! The pope is dead!”

  The stars in the sky never failed in their routine, and on that day, September 29, 1978, the sun kept its daily appointment, spilling its golden beams on Saint Peter’s Square in Rome. It was a gorgeous day.

  3

  There was constant turmoil in the house on Via Veneto: on the stairs, the landings, in the entryway. An endless stream of relatives, friends, occupants, employees, and messengers were going up and down, again and again, in the busy daily routine. On the third floor, however, there was deathly silence. Three men had broken in at dawn. Two of them stayed about ten minutes. Nobody saw them come in or leave. Nothing at all was known about the third individual. He seemed to be the ideal silent guest. No one heard his steps, or the sound of turning on a faucet, or closing a drawer, or a cabinet. Perhaps he was drunk, his friends brought him in, and he was still nursing a hangover. Or maybe he worked nights and slept by day. There were many possibilities but only one certainty: no one had heard him, though for sure he was still inside.

  An elderly gentleman was climbing the stairs with a lot of effort, leaning on a cane, accompanied by a man wearing his usual Armani suit. When they got to the closed door of the third floor, so silent one could hear a pin drop, the assistant put a key in the lock.

  “Wait,” the old man said, gasping. “Let me catch my breath.”

  The assistant waited. It took some time for the old man to recover. Once he did, he stood up straight, his cane becoming an accessory, not a support. He motioned for the assistant to open the door, which he did, turning the key twice. With a little push, the vestibule to the private rooms was revealed. They entered quietly, the old man leading the way and the assistant closing the door behind them without a sound.

  “Where is he?” the old man demanded.

  “In the room. They left him there.”

  The two went in and found a man tied to the bed. The sheet was stained with blood. He was covered in sweat and wearing only his drawers and a short-sleeved undershirt. He raised his head to take a look at the newcomers, but despite his humiliating position, he showed no sign of submissiveness. It was Monsignor Valdemar Firenzi.

  “Monsignor,” the old man greeted him, smiling cynically.

  “You?” Firenzi stammered, flabbergasted.

  “Yes,” and going around the bed, he sat on a chair facing the monsignor. “Did you think you could possibly escape?”

  “Escape from what?” the cardinal asked, still in shock.

  “Don’t play dumb, my dear friend. You have something that does not belong to you, but to me. And I am here to get it back.”

  Firenzi glanced at the assistant, who was hanging his coat on the back of a chair.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  A heavy blow was the reaction, with blood trickling from Firenzi’s split lip. As he tried to regain his composure, the assistant towered menacingly above him. The expression on the cardinal’s face hardened.

  “My dear monsignor, I would prefer not to have to resort to unpleasant methods to recover what is mine. But you have disappointed me so much that I don’t know if I’ll be able to refrain. After all, you have stolen something that belongs to me,” the Master said, leaning over Firenzi. “I am sure you must understand the gravity of this. You have committed a felony. If I cannot trust a man of the cloth, then whom can I trust?” The old man stood up and started to pace the room, thinking. “Do you understand the dilemma you put me in? I cannot even trust the Church, my friend. The Lord sent his Son to redeem us from evil. So I ask you, my dear monsignor, now what?” And, looking intently into his eyes, he added, “Now, what are we going to do?”

  “You know very well what you have done,” Firenzi remarked.

  “What have I done? What? Action is what moves the world. People must act. We all must take some action.”

  “You are the one who’s playing dumb,” Firenzi interrupted, and he got smacked again to make sure he understood clearly that he couldn’t address the old man that way.

  “I can’t wait all day. I want those papers. Now. Tell me where they are.”

  The prelate was pummeled again for no apparent reason, since he hadn’t said another word. His face was swelling, and the trickle of blood from his mouth was staining his undershirt.

  “Sometimes the Lord gives us heavy burdens to carry, but He also grants us the strength to bear them,” Monsignor said.

  “Sure, and we’ll soon find out how much strength the Lord has granted you,” the old man said, motioning to his assistant.

  The insistent ringing of a cell phone interrupted the questioning, which, despite its violence, had so far produced very little: a man’s name and the address of a parish in Buenos Aires. The assistant took his time fishing the ringing phone out of his coat pocket.

  While he took the call, the old man moved in closer to Valdemar Firenzi, who looked tired and too old for all this turmoil.

  “Come on, Monsignor, tell me where those papers are and we’ll get this over with right now, I guarantee it. You won’t need to suffer anymore.”

  The prelate looked at his torturer, seeming to draw strength directly from his own faith. Blood was now streaming from his mouth down his chin, onto his chest. His voice sounded amazingly strong, though he couldn’t mask his pain. “Jesus Christ forgave. As He forgave, so will I.”

  It took th
e old man with the cane a few moments to fully grasp the tortured man’s comment. Then, with a resigned, hateful sigh, he admitted that he could get nothing more out of Firenzi.

  “As you wish.”

  The assistant ended his phone call and then whispered a few words into his boss’s ear. “They found an address in his room at the Vatican.”

  “Which address?”

  “Of a Portuguese journalist, a woman who lives in London.”

  “Strange.”

  “She’s been traced. Daughter of an old member of the organization.”

  The old man thought for a few moments.

  “Call our man. Have him pay a visit to the parish priest in Buenos Aires. Maybe he can find something out. Then he’s to wait in Gdansk for further instructions. Later you’ll go to Argentina yourself.”

  “Very well, sir,” the assistant said obsequiously. “And what about Monsignor?”

  “Give him the last rites,” the old man shot back in a sarcastic tone. “I’ll wait for you in the car.”

  The old man gave his assistant a friendly pat on the shoulder and left without a word of farewell to Monsignor Firenzi, without even a last look. Nor did he hear the shot that ended the prelate’s suffering. With the cell phone pressed to his ear, he went down the stairs, leaning on his cane. He no longer needed to preserve his command stance. The image of a decrepit old man was good enough for him now, and closer to the truth. Someone answered the number he had dialed.

  “Geoffrey Barnes? Listen, we have a problem.”

  4

  There was no city like London, thought Sarah Monteiro. She was on her flight back from Lisbon to her home on Belgrave Road. Her plane had been circling the airport for about half an hour, waiting for a runway. This was all part of her pleasurable anticipation after a monotonous two weeks’ vacation at her parents’ home—her father a retired captain in the Portuguese army; her mother an English professor (hence the addition of the h to her name, as well as her love for everything British). It wasn’t that she didn’t like Portugal. On the contrary, she thought her birth country was beautiful, but despite its long history, there had been too many revolutions and too few reforms. But Portugal was Sarah’s usual destination two or three times a year. She loved to spend Christmas on a farm near Beja in Alentejo, where her parents had retired a few years ago. Its fresh country air, so different from that of the British capital, had become essential to her.