The Last Pope

by Luís Miguel Rocha

  “Sister Lucía has lived thirty years in this convent,” the Venetian patriarch observed.

  “A whole life devoted to Jesus Christ.”

  “Like ours. Like many. It’s a despicable sign of vanity to think we’re more deserving for devoting our lives to the Lord. No matter how much evil comes to us, all that counts is whatever good we can do for others.”

  “Wise words, Your Eminence,” they heard a feminine voice say.

  Sister Lucía, unannounced, dressed in the habit of teresinha nuns, had glided into the room without a sound.

  “How are you, dear Sister?”

  “Fine, Your Eminence, by the Lord’s grace.”

  Lucía knelt to kiss the cardinal’s hand.

  “Please, Sister, we are the ones who should kneel before you,” Don Albino said in perfect Portuguese, Sister Lucía’s mother tongue. He could have chosen Italian, English, French, or Spanish, since they both spoke all of these.

  Sister Lucía seemed vigorous for her age. She had enjoyed better health than the other two visionary young people, for whom Our Lady foretold short lives. Francisco and Jacinta, while still children, succumbed to a flu epidemic in 1919 and 1920, respectively. Only Lucía had survived.

  It was long before that that the three little shepherds, as the press called them, had taken their flock as usual to a remote place known as Cova da Iria, in Portugal. The Basilica of Fátima and the Chapel of Hope and Aspirations stood in that same spot now. There, on May 13, 1917, the three children saw Our Lady, Christ’s mother. Only one of them, Lucía, got to talk with Our Lady. Jacinta was able to see and hear her, but Francisco only saw her. The Virgin asked them to return there on the thirteenth day of every month, and to pray very often. And so they did. These events caused a great commotion in the region, and a great controversy arose around the three kids who claimed to have seen the Virgin Mary. That August there was another apparition nearby, on a different day, the nineteenth, because on the thirteenth the little shepherds were taken into custody by the skeptical mayor of Vila Nova in Ourém. In September, Our Lady promised a miracle that could prove to all—including the incredulous Church—that her apparition to the three little shepherds was real. A month later, on October 13, the last wonder occurred. The Virgin appeared as Our Lady of the Rosary and asked that a chapel be built there in her honor. But most important, the Virgin announced the end of the war—the First World War, of course—which was still raging at the time. The wonderful miracle promised to the thousands of devout believers who attended the weekly meetings afforded an incredible view of the sun gyrating and oscillating.

  Those present said the sun seemed like a fiery star rushing down toward Earth. The 70,000 men and women gathered knelt before such a prodigy, driving away all doubts from their souls. That event seemed like a biblical passage, and became known as “the Miracle of the Sun.” Christians saw it as irrefutable proof of the power of the Divinity.

  In fact, the war ended a few months later, exactly as Lucía, the visionary of Fátima, had predicted.

  As the miracles occurring in Fátima gained fame around the world, Lucía de Jesús became more and more cautious. After joining the school of the Sisters of Santa Dorotea in Oporto in 1921, she traveled to Spain, where she spent a few years to allow her religious vocation to ripen. In 1946 she joined the Carmelite religious order, finally becoming a nun in 1949 in the Convent of Santa Teresa.

  The meeting of Sister Lucía with Albino Luciani was supposed to be just a few minutes of polite conversation, but it lasted about two hours. At no time was there any mention of the apparitions, the visions, or “the third secret.” In Father Lorenzi’s serene presence, Don Albino and Sister Lucía chose to talk about a variety of inconsequential matters. Perhaps it made little sense to bring up the serious religious, political, or national and international issues in which Sister Lucía had become involved. Facing Don Albino’s benevolent smile, the nun lamented the prevalent lack of faith among the younger generations, as well as the older people’s seeming lack of concern about it. Don Albino smiled beatifically, admitting that the world was going through complex times, but not blaming the young for their detachment and indifference.

  While the two priests sipped their coffee during this enjoyable conversation, in such a peaceful room, time ceased to matter. Suddenly there was a silence, and a grave voice almost made the walls shake. A supernatural, luminous glow seemed to spread over everything for a fraction of a second, while the voice spoke.

  “And as for you, my dear patriarch, Christ’s crown and Christ’s days.”

  Father Lorenzi, terrified and visibly shaken, looked at Sister Lucía. He could have sworn those words had come from her lips.

  Don Albino, calm and collected, looked at his secretary and then back at the old servant of God. Right away he sensed that the cryptic message was directed at him, and yet he didn’t seem disturbed at all. Quite to the contrary, he closed his eyes slowly, trying to understand what had happened.

  “Don Albino,” Father Lorenzi stammered, trying to catch his breath.

  But the patriarch raised his hand, commanding silence, in order not to interrupt the visionary’s trance. Don Albino wasn’t sure what was going on. Was this a premonition? A warning? Or was it mere babble uttered by someone hypersensitive to strange energies?

  At that moment, someone looking at the nun might have thought she had fallen asleep in her chair, with one hand resting on the table. But Sister Lucía was not asleep, and they knew it. It was Sister Lucía, but it was also the other world speaking through her. Lorenzi had never seen anyone in a trance, but Don Albino, apparently more acquainted with such phenomena, was unruffled. He kept his hand raised, still demanding silence.

  “There is a secret not yet revealed concerning your death,” the strange voice coming out of Lucía’s lips continued, in a tone totally different from hers. “God will forgive, the Lord will forgive.”

  Lorenzi was aghast, caught between terror and religious fervor.

  A moment later, Sister Lucía opened her eyes and recovered the sweet expression she had when she first appeared in the room.

  “Would you like a bit more coffee, Your Eminence?” she asked.

  “Yes, Sister, please,” Luciani responded, looking directly into her eyes, without the least indication of any reaction to what he had just heard. “You already know how much I enjoy coffee.”

  AS THEY WALKED toward the car that was to take them back to Fátima, Lorenzi was watching the patriarch, half astonished, half perplexed. Finally, gathering all his courage, he couldn’t hold back his curiosity any longer.

  “Don Albino, I don’t know what to make of all this.”

  The Venetian patriarch stopped, and placed a hand on Lorenzi’s shoulder.

  For a few seconds he looked at him with the usual calmness he had come to expect since he became his assistant, almost a year before.

  “Relax, Father Lorenzi. I’d say that Sister Lucía is a very interesting person. Wouldn’t you agree?” The prelate continued walking, discreetly tucking in his pocket a little folded paper Sister Lucía had given him.

  And they never mentioned the incident again.

  17

  London’s darkness seemed ponderous, almost impenetrable to Sarah when she stepped out on Bridge Street, opposite Big Ben. The world’s most famous clock told her it was almost midnight. Turning left, the young woman started running toward Westminster Bridge. There were a few, but not many, people on the bridge. This reassured her, a little, as did the knowledge that London was the city with the most video surveillance per square meter in the world. Sarah resisted the temptation to take a taxi. She needed to take care of something else first. Looming in the distance was the London Eye, the city’s giant Ferris wheel.

  Come on, think.

  Across the bridge, and continuing on Westminster Bridge Road, Sarah turned left on Belvedere Road. Determined to enter the first phone booth she came across, she walked and walked, not letting up. In a business area
near the Waterloo Bridge, she finally found one.

  Picking up the handset, Sarah knew not to use her credit card this time.

  “Good evening. I’d like to place a collect call. . . . My name? . . . Uh, Greg Saunders,” she said, sounding more like a question than an answer. But the operator completely ignored the feminine voice giving a man’s name, and asked her to wait.

  Moments later Sarah could hear a phone ringing, and voices at the other end.

  “Greg?”

  “Natalie, it’s not Greg. It’s me, Sarah.”

  “Sarah?” was the quite surprised response. Natalie, in all the years as her boss, had never heard coolheaded Sarah sounding so distressed.

  “Yes, it’s me. I need to ask you a huge favor.”

  Sarah explained to her boss and friend, hastily but clearly, and with the succinctness to be expected from a news professional, everything that had happened to her since she’d come back to London.

  “You need to go to the police,” Natalie stammered, barely able to fully absorb the story she had just heard.

  “No, Natalie, I can’t. I don’t trust anybody out here. I just need a favor. You don’t even have to leave your house. I’m begging you, Natalie. I don’t know who else to ask.”

  An uncomfortable silence ensued while Natalie thought this over. Yes, they had always helped each other and, except for the occasional early-morning flare-ups on her part, Sarah was her friend. And one of the best reporters in the world-renowned news service that she headed.

  “Of course. What do you need?”

  “Thanks, Natalie.”

  “Don’t thank me. Tell me what you want before I change my mind.”

  “I just need you to tell me where King William IV Square is.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll get it for you right now. You want me to call you back, or can you stay on the line?”

  “Whichever you prefer. You’re paying for the call.”

  “Right. Then don’t hang up.” Sarah heard a chair being dragged. Natalie was now at the keyboard of her computer. “King William IV Square,” she repeated, more to the keyboard than to Sarah.

  “Yes.”

  “Wait a second.” One . . . two . . . three . . . four . . . five seconds went by. “Do you really not know why these people are after you?”

  “I don’t have the slightest idea.”

  “Let’s see, be ready for this.” Her tone had changed from reporter’s curiosity to information operator’s signal. “Here it is. I mean, isn’t. Under the name King William IV, there are only the gardens in the Crystal Palace district. Ahhh, wait a minute, there’s also a street with that name. It’s between the Strand and Charing Cross Road—that must be it. There’s no King William IV Square.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. You must be mistaken.”

  “No, absolutely not. The person who gave me the name did say it would be impossible for me to have heard of that plaza before. But I just assumed it was because it was someplace really out of the way, not because it didn’t exist.”

  “But it doesn’t exist. Let me do one more search.”

  “It has to be there.”

  “Well, if you want, you can ask a cop.”

  “No time for jokes, Natalie.”

  “Let me see. William IV. Born in 1765. King of the United Kingdom and of Hanover between 1830 and 1837. Son of George III, succeeded his older brother, George IV. Was the penultimate king of the House of Hanover. As king he was called ‘the Navigator.’ He reformed the electoral system, abolished slavery and child labor in the Empire. I’m starting to like this man.”

  “Natalie, I don’t need a history lesson. Is there anything else?”

  “No. Queen Victoria succeeded him. Let me look in Google.” There was a soft clicking on the keyboard. “Wait a minute—”

  “Did you find something?”

  “Interesting.”

  “What?”

  “King William IV Square. Here it is.”

  “Come on, tell me!” Sarah almost shouted, unable to contain her impatience.

  “That was the original name of Trafalgar Square.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yes, without a doubt. Trafalgar Square was King William IV Square.”

  “Thanks a million, Natalie. You may have just saved my life.”

  “Or not.”

  “I’ll be seeing you.”

  “Oh, Sarah—” Natalie said just in time.

  “Yes?”

  “If you get any big scoops, don’t forget me.”

  18

  Trafalgar Square was the busiest square in all of London. A place for meeting friends, commemoration, celebration, and national exaltation.

  The immense size of the place, the two side fountains, and the enormous Corinthian granite column, 185 feet tall, crowned by the statue of Admiral Nelson, the hero killed in the battle, standing high above Westminster Palace, conferred on Trafalgar Square an enchantment that touched Londoners and tourists alike. Four huge bronze lions—reportedly made from the cannons of the ill-fated French fleet—flanked the column, creating an impression of absolute power. Four pedestals crowned with statues adorned the sides of the square. To the northeast, that of King George IV. To the southeast, the one of General Sir Charles James Napier, conqueror of Pakistan. To the southwest, General Havelock. The fourth pedestal accommodated temporary sculptures because there was never a consensus about whom it should honor. The original intent was for it to hold the statue of King William IV, but lack of public funds thwarted that, and as a result, the king who was supposed to be celebrated was instead completely excluded from the plans that he himself had set in motion.

  At this hour of the night there were a lot of people in the square, particularly groups of tourists and a few couples. Nobody looked suspicious to Sarah, but everyone could be a suspect. Cars, limousines, taxis, ambulances, buses, mopeds, and bicycles were in ceaseless movement around the square. In the background rose the Admiralty Arch, built in honor of Queen Victoria, which marked the entrance to the grand avenue leading to Buckingham Palace. To the east were the Saint Martin-in-the-Fields Church, the South Africa House, and the Strand, which linked Westminster with the city. But the street of particular interest here was Charing Cross Road in the Soho district, the most bohemian section of the city of London, where a taxi had just stopped at the corner of Great Newport Street.

  Sarah Monteiro stepped out of the taxi. After her phone call, she had gone to Waterloo Station and again put herself in jeopardy by withdrawing 300 pounds at an ATM in order to pay cash for whatever might be needed. Having opted not to put herself directly in the lion’s mouth, she asked the taxi driver to drop her off half a mile from her final destination.

  Sarah went around the square to the south, downhill toward Trafalgar through Canada House, cautiously slowing her pace, and occasionally sneaking a glance here and there along the way. She crossed in front of the National Gallery and went a few steps farther, until she reached the central stairway leading to the square. For a few moments she stood watching the square, the fountains, Nelson’s Column, and especially the people. Most important were the people, since they were the danger. She surveyed the facades of the distant buildings in search of sinister eyes. A potential murderer could be anywhere, his gun silently ready to erase her life.

  At last Sarah spotted him. A sweeper, one of many around the place with their green-and-yellow fluorescent outfits. He reminded her of the man she’d seen hours before from the window of her flat. There was probably nothing to be afraid of, she thought. This guy wasn’t going to put his hand over his mouth to talk, like the agents in the underground, but he did have a live walkie-talkie like everybody. A sweeper didn’t need a radio transmitter to do his job. No, either that man was the Rafael her father had mentioned, or else . . . best not to think about it.

  Sarah moved on, trying to blend in with the passersby. Then, sharply turning her head, she
tried to locate her sweeper. She also observed the rest of the sweeping crew. Those in sight made no attempt to conceal their presence and, to be honest, showed no interest in Sarah Monteiro or anyone else. Each one indifferently confined himself to cleaning his assigned area.

  Which one of those guys could be Rafael? she thought.

  At any moment, Sarah could be dragged into a passing car. Or one good shot could end her erratic flight. So many movies, so many scenes, so many theories ran through her mind, she was overcome with vertigo, feeling faint. People, people, and more people everywhere.

  “Sarah Monteiro?” She heard someone call her. It was the sweeper. “Come with me. Trust me.”

  Without waiting for her consent, the man took her by the arm, pushing her past people, heading out of the square.

  “Where are we going?” There was no answer. “Are you Rafael?” Sarah insisted, still recovering from the daze that was overwhelming her.

  There was a sharp buzzing coming from a pocket in the man’s fluorescent uniform, and Sarah saw him pull out a radio transmitter and start talking in Italian.

  “La porto alla centrale . . . Sì, l’obiettivo è con me. . . . Negativo. Non posso rifinirla qui. . . . Benissimo.”

  Not really understanding what the man said, Sarah noted that the voice coming out of the transmitter was strong, hollow sounding—certainly that of the boss. Was this man Rafael, or one of the men trying to kill her?

  Clearly her father had specifically mentioned Rafael, one man, only one person. Sarah tried to break free, but the sweeper firmly held her back.

  “Don’t be foolish. There’s no need to force the inevitable. But if it’s necessary—” A word to the wise.

  Sarah had tried everything possible to avoid being caught, but at this point, what else could she do? Maybe her father should have chosen another place. What a terrible thing—to be killed without even knowing why. So be it, she thought. Once more she felt powerless, defeated.