The brothers Gammarelli argued in the vestry, each blaming the other for their lack of readiness.
In the midst of this confusion, the enormous door to the balcony in Saint Peter’s Basilica opened, and the voice of Cardinal Felici thundered from the loudspeakers.
“Attenzione.”
The faithful, already on their way home or to their hotels, came running to the plaza. Then there was complete silence.
“Annuntio vobis gaudium magnum: Habemus Papam!”
Diego Lorenzi, Luciani’s secretary for the last couple of years, had accompanied him from Venice to Rome, and he was among the faithful thousands waiting in Saint Peter’s Square for the results of the scrutiny. He had seen that the smoke coming out of the chimney since six twenty-five was neither black nor white. For about an hour it had been kind of ashen, and nobody could decide whether that dirty smoke was the white fumata so eagerly awaited by all. Next to him, also waiting for the conclave’s resolution, were a couple with their two girls, arguing about the inconclusive smoke. The younger of the girls, overcome by the religious spirit dominating the plaza, asked him whether he’d said Mass in that immense church before them.
Lorenzi answered with an affectionate smile. No, he was in Rome only temporarily. He lived in Venice. He also talked with the girls’ parents, and all were in agreement that a conclave, even being outside of it, was a stimulating experience. It was all about the choosing of the Shepherd, and they felt certain that the voting of the cardinals received God’s benediction.
For Diego Lorenzi the thrilling experience was about to end. Early the next morning he would be driving the Lancia, with Don Albino Luciani, back to Venice—375 miles separating the two cities, a whole world apart. Just then, the voice of Cardinal Pericle Felici was heard loud and clear, and everybody turned to the balcony of Saint Peter’s Basilica.
“Annuntio vobis gaudium magnum: Habemus Papam! Cardinalem Albinum Luciani.”
Hearing Luciani’s name, Lorenzi started to cry with joy. An irrepressible emotion took hold of his spirit, and he couldn’t understand how the cardinals had decided on Don Albino, always so shy and evasive. The girl and her parents looked at him with pleased appreciation. He was a priest, moved like them by the emotion of this historical moment. It all made sense.
Lorenzi bent down, tears welling, to speak to his new little friend.
“I am the new pope’s secretary,” he said finally.
So the new pontiff was to be Albino Luciani? And who was Albino Luciani? In fact, it didn’t matter much. The important thing was that the Church of Rome had a new pope.
Lorenzi and the thousands of faithful gathered at Saint Peter’s Square saw the figure of Albino Luciani as he appeared in the balcony, smiling and dressed in all white. That smile reached the hearts of many and filled their souls with heartwarming joy. His smile conveyed humility, benevolence, and peace. After Giovanni Battista Montini, the somber Pope Paul VI, this man appeared in the balcony with the smile of a young person willing to devote himself passionately to his mission. After the benediction urbi et orbi, the sun sent its last beams into the Roman dusk.
9
No one had any inkling as to why this had happened. Most of the directors of the countless secret service agencies around the world would obey any instruction uttered by this wrinkled old man who walked with the help of a cane embellished with a golden lion’s head.
Any theory was possible, though probably none could even remotely approach the truth. There was one unquestionable fact: the CIA sustained and covered up all of his decisions, and lent its men, even whole units, to the organization headed by this fragile old man with a harsh demeanor. It was a vicious cycle. If the all-powerful U.S. Central Intelligence Agency placed itself at the service of a man like this, making its agents available to him, there was no need to inquire any further.
For his own personal service he always had a man with him, usually impeccably dressed in a black Armani suit, whose name, like that of the old man, could not be revealed because provoking the anger of such powerful men was dangerous. They were always together, except on the rare occasions when it was imperative that the assistant execute some special assignment.
And as for the old man, he was often seen walking around the gardens of his city or his hometown (whose names could not be revealed, either). There was a time when the old man had to stay abroad longer than he would have liked, but that was over when finally he could afford not to travel anymore. New communication technology had made this possible, though he still couldn’t do without reliable help where his interests lay. There was nothing comparable to the air of his homeland, his dear Italy, and his city and estate.
At this moment the old man was sitting on his terrace at home, his gaze split between the Corriere della Sera and the distant horizon. From there he enjoyed watching the sea of green extending far beyond his own lands, vanishing behind a hill, disappearing like the sun’s burst of orange at the time of its setting, in its unequal battle against the darkness, which increased with every passing moment.
The garden lights, with photoelectric sensors, were coming on all around, programmed to activate slowly and progressively for a continuous transition in harmony with the prolonged sunset. The lamps warmed their filaments until there was no more natural light. Even dusk didn’t prevent him from reading the paper as the sea of green lapsed into total darkness, lit only sporadically by a sprinkling of fireflies in midair. “No artificial light has the power to illuminate the world,” the old man mused. “Perhaps only faith has the power to brighten it.” Lately his mind was more likely to follow a spiritual tangent. He might begin with a purely physical theme, which after going around and around always ended up touching on the spiritual. Only Heaven knew why. At an age often deemed appropriate to beg forgiveness for the sins of a lifetime, he was still not one accustomed to pleading for mercy. Nor was he a compassionate man. It had been God’s will that he had lived so many years, facing so many dangers, doubts, and frustrations. The sufferings he had had to go through, which he was still experiencing, were God’s will. The main difference now was the detachment with which he now received the provocations that the Almighty never failed to send. Whether it was a small sign or a great revelation, this old man, sitting there alone, with his newspaper as his sole companion, understood it all very well.
Unlike most mortals, he had no fear of God. Many had perished at the hands of this old man with a cane, or following his orders. He made others believe he used them thoughtlessly, when in fact he couldn’t take a step without their help. Time was inflexible to all, without exception.
His assistant was nowhere around. He was surely abroad, engaged in resolving some matter of interest for the old man. Rather than an assistant, he was in fact his personal secretary. All powerful men, the pope included, had one.
A few years ago the old man could indulge the pleasure of lighting a cigarette and enjoying it to the end, letting out big puffs of smoke while reading the paper. But now he had to resign himself to just reading the paper, as his lungs no longer tolerated the pleasure of smoking. Heavy coughing would interrupt the calmness of his nights. He felt quite capable of resisting the temptations of the flesh as well as those of the mind. Many other matters distressed him, but he wasn’t a man to be annoyed by small things. His motto had always been that everything had a solution.
Lost in a flurry of thoughts, he didn’t notice the invasive presence of a maid trying to hand him a phone.
“Sir?”
Since there was no answer, she had to repeat her words.
“Yes, Francesca,” he said, as if awakened from a dream.
“A phone call for you.”
After handing the phone to her boss, the maid left quickly, leaving him to resolve his own affairs, not wishing to meddle in his private life.
“Pronto,” the old man said forcefully, with the formidable tone of someone used to being in charge.
He recognized the even-tempered voice of his assistant
, reporting in. In contrast to the voice of his master, the assistant’s monotone made his competent report sound like a litany. The ability to get to the backbone, to what really counted, was a virtue he had acquired by listening to the old man. He knew that his master wanted only precise, fast explanations.
“Fine, come back. We’ll handle it all from here,” he said after a few moments of silence, interrupted by some whistling chirps on the phone. “He’ll do a good job. It should be easy to locate Marius Ferris, provided he did as I ordered behind the scene. I’ll be expecting you.”
Ending his international call, he put his cell phone on the table, only to pick it up again. More and more often, he forgot what he was going to do next. For a few seconds his mind went blank, and the cold clarity of his reasoning, so dear to him, clouded over. So far, this had caused no damage since it happened at home, and not too often. But he knew it was only a matter of time, that little by little the white cloud in his mind would expand, gradually consuming his faculties. How soon? He couldn’t say. Months? Years? A mystery. It was life’s revenge.
He made a new call and, without waiting to hear the sound of a voice, knew who would answer.
“Geoffrey Barnes. The neutralization of the target can be effected. I’ll await confirmation.” And he hung up, without another word. Leaving the phone on the table, he went back to his newspaper. One thought kept pressing him: That Monteiro girl’s time has come.
10
Why is nobody answering? Sarah wondered. That’s odd. She hung up and made another call. After a few seconds a female voice said that the person requested was not available, but that she would relay a message.
“Dad . . . It’s me, Sarah.” She knocked herself on the head, realizing how stupid this sounded. After saying “dad,” of course it could be only her. “I called you at home,” she continued, “and nobody answered. Please call me as soon as you can. It’s urgent. We need to talk.”
Returning to her computer, she saw that Messenger was connected, though the icon for her father was red and said OFFLINE. He’s not there, either, she told herself. Where can he possibly have gone?
Sarah took one of the yellowish papers out of an envelope from a Valdemar Firenzi that she found in her mail. There were three pages, all in Italian. Two of them showed only a typewritten list of names, preceded by numbers and capital letters she couldn’t understand, a page and a half long and in two columns. There were also some words in the margins, tightly scribbled in a firm hand. In the same sure hand, some of the names were underlined, no smudges, no hesitation. It all ended in an arrow with some words in Italian above. But why in Italian? Her first impulse was to toss the papers in the wastebasket. There was no return address, making it impossible to send them back. While she was checking the envelope, a small key fell out. Very small, perhaps from luggage or an attaché case, definitely not a door key. Then something caught her attention. At first she hadn’t noticed it among the many names ending in ov or enko, and, equally numerous, those of Italian, English, or Spanish origin. But there it was, not underlined or with any notes in the margin, clearly circled in ink, and undoubtedly added more recently: Raul Brandão Monteiro, typed with the same machine as the dozens of other names on the list.
What is my father’s name doing here? Sarah wondered.
Then she carefully looked at the next page. A lot of scribbling, apparently done in haste, similar to the notes she made during press conferences. Had one of her father’s colleagues sent her that list? Maybe. The apparent sender was Valdemar Firenzi, though he provided no address. The name seemed Italian, it sounded a bit familiar, yet she couldn’t place it. There must be a reason, but she had to wait for her father’s call.
18, 15-34, H, 2, 23, V, 11
Dio bisogno e IO fare lo. Suo augurio Y mio comando
GCT(15)-9, 30-31, 15, 16, 2, 21, 6-14, 11, 16, 16, 2, 20
She looked at it again and again, unable to figure it out.
Then the phone rang.
“Finally,” she sighed, relieved. It could only be her father, returning her call.
“Dad?”
Silence on the other end. But it wasn’t a sepulchral, unsettling silence. In the background, she could hear street noises—cars going by, steps, fragments of conversation. The call was coming from a cell or a public phone.
“Dad?” Nothing. Maybe it was a wrong number, someone misdialed, or a cellular that got jostled inside a handbag. Perhaps an admirer? Negative. No ex-boyfriend or former lover was that maniacal. The only one capable of something like this was Greg, a colleague from the newsroom, always up for a prank. In her mail, though, there was a postcard he sent her from the Congo with a photo of the Lulua River, explaining that it was a miracle he was able to mail it at all. How could he be phoning her?
“Greg? Is that you? Is this another one of your pranks?” she asked, just in case.
But the urban street noise was unmistakable.
Easy, Sarah, she told herself. Don’t start getting paranoid. But she had plenty of reasons to worry—an envelope from an unknown sender in Italy, with an old list of names that included her father’s, that surly customs officer telling her there was a problem with her passport . . . Everything was upsetting, especially that envelope.
The caller was still on the line, but there was still no hello, nothing. No breathing, either, only a loud siren, a normal sound for any modern city. She listened carefully, noticing that a police car had just gone by. An important detail. The connection was cut off, only a sudden click. She could still hear the strident noise of the police car out on Belgrave Road. The blue lights caused weird red reflections on the curtains drawn closed on her ground floor.
What a strange coincidence, two simultaneous police sirens, in different places . . . Maybe too much of a coincidence?
Sarah abruptly turned off all the house lights, plunging her apartment into darkness. She moved the sofa away from the window, taking a deep breath before opening the curtains just enough to see without being seen. It was a normal night on Belgrave Road. Dozens of people headed here and there in their own worlds, totally oblivious of Sarah Monteiro. The traffic was heavy, all kinds of cars and taxis. At the bus stop across the street, a 24 bus to Pimlico/Grosvenor Road was letting out passengers and taking on new ones.
Nothing seemed suspicious. If someone were spying on her, surely he wouldn’t be all dressed in black, wearing a hat and upturned collar, pretending to read a newspaper. That happened only in old movies. Now, anybody could be a spy. Even the sanitation man on the street collecting bags of garbage. Or the woman talking on her cell phone on the second floor of the Holiday Express Hotel, across the street. Perhaps they really were as they seemed. But perhaps not.
You’re delirious, Sarah told herself, and this idea quickly calmed her down. How silly. Who’s going to be watching me?
Something caught her attention. As the 24 bus left, it revealed a parked car with tinted windows, probably belonging to someone staying at the hotel. Had it been parked there a long time? That black car with darkened windows didn’t look innocent at all. Quite the contrary, and something gnawed at her. I’ve seen this car before, she realized. The image of that dark vehicle came to Sarah’s mind, but she couldn’t figure out where or when she’d seen it. Her photographic memory came to her aid. It was the same car that had suddenly stopped in front of her taxi. The driver had opened the window, shouted “Sorry, mate,” at the taxi, and sped away. Which meant that it could have been there for more than three hours. It could mean everything, or nothing at all—an imminent danger, or simply a spy movie running in her head. And her second hypothesis seemed closer to the truth.
A ring from her cell phone startled her.
“Hello?”
“Hello, Sarah.”
“Dad, finally! Where were you?”
At last he was calling her back. The relief of hearing Captain Raul Brandão Monteiro’s calm, deep voice brought her down to earth. It was over now, her fears dissipated.
&nbs
p; “I was taking your mother to—”
“Where?”
“Sarah . . .”
Her father’s voice wasn’t that calm. In fact, she’d never heard him so agitated. The sudden relief of a few seconds before changed to anxious doubt, intensified by the shift in his usually warm, affectionate voice.
“I received an envelope from a man named—”
“Don’t mention names, Sarah. From now on, do not mention names. Don’t say where you are, either. To anyone, you hear me? Unless you’re talking to someone who can be entirely trusted.”
“Dad, you’re scaring me. Do you know anything about those papers?”
Silence.
“Dad, please don’t hide things from me. Your name appears on a list—”
“I beg you, Sarah. Don’t say another word about this. I know what you received,” he said, sounding constrained, like someone who had lost his grip on something he had somehow once controlled. “I know what you received,” he repeated, making an effort to sound more at ease. “But they don’t know it, and I’m completely sure they’re listening to us now.”
“They—who are they, Dad?” she asked, panic in her voice.
“This is no time to talk, but to act, my dear. Do you remember Grandma’s home?”
“What—why are you bringing that up now?”
“Do you remember it, or don’t you?”
“The house? Of course. How could I ever forget it?”
“Great.”
Suddenly she saw a pair of eyes at the window. A chill ran down her spine.
“Sarah,” her father’s voice called out. He repeated her name again and again, but she didn’t answer. She was petrified, staring at the window, where those eyes had been watching her without her noticing. “Sarah,” her father insisted anxiously.
Then she heard unhurried, heavy steps. The sound paralyzed her. They were getting close to her door.
The Last Pope Page 5
