But Sarah’s fate was not yet sealed. A black car shot out from one of the square’s adjacent streets, between the statue of Sir Henry Havelock and Nelson’s Column, screeching to a stop.
“I’ll take care of her,” said the man who got out of the car.
Sarah had an alarming sensation of déjà vu. Her instinct put her on guard, and she instantly remembered. It was the man who had pursued her and shot at her in the underground.
“Va bene,” the sweeper said.
Without another word, the man in control pushed Sarah toward the car, shoved her into the backseat, and got in the front, next to the driver. The vehicle tore out at full speed.
With the car headed toward Parliament Street, Sarah Monteiro studied the man who apparently was in charge of her. He was middle aged and had a relaxed manner. She was troubled by a chaotic blend of sensations, doubts, and anxieties.
“Who are all of you?” she asked. Silence. Not even a glance in the rearview mirror. “Who are you?”
There was no answer.
About a half hour later, according to Sarah’s shaky calculations, the driver stopped the car, and the two men got out, disappearing from Sarah’s view. Only one man came back to the car, the one who had taken her away from the sweeper. This time he sat at the wheel. A few minutes later, the car slowed down as it entered a very posh residential neighborhood. Sarah’s heartbeat sped up with fear. Time was closing in. An automatic garage door opened, and their vehicle parked beside a shiny new Jaguar.
They both got out of the car.
“Come with me,” the icy voice commanded. He opened the back door of the Jaguar and didn’t need to say more. Sarah got in without delay.
“Where are we going?” He didn’t answer. “I’m fed up. And I’m not going to keep putting up with this. What are you going to do with me?”
“Don’t worry, I won’t finish with you until I find out what treasures you’re keeping.” The man’s voice was no longer cold, but warm. “Besides, what kind of help did you think your father sent you?”
“Who are you?”
“I am Rafael. And you will be my guest tonight.”
19
PECORELLI MARCH 20, 1979
It was already well into night, but Carmine “Mino” Pecorelli was still at work in his office on Via Orazio, resolving last-minute details for the forthcoming issue of Osservatorio Politico. Pecorelli knew that his weekly bulletin offended the taste of the most discriminating individuals, who not infrequently confronted him face-to-face for his tendency to delve into scandals and reveal sordid tales full of speculation and lies. But this didn’t bother Pecorelli too much. His obligation was to his readers, and they were delighted by his work. The Osservatorio relayed accounts of celebrities linked with secret organizations, major diversions of government funds through illicit activities, unsolved murders, and a host of other scurrilous matters.
At fifty, Pecorelli bragged about his exclusives and inside scoops, access no other reporter was getting. His successes came from his presumed contacts in high places, and it was said that he frequented the powerful gatherings of newsmakers, cultivating relationships with important people. His paper received financing from one of those personages, a first-tier politician who managed a considerable portion of Italy’s public business.
That day the lawyer-journalist was seated in his office, feet crossed on the coffee table, and leaning back in his executive chair. With his telephone anchored between ear and shoulder, he was conducting a serious conversation, replete with suggestions, invitations, interjections, and subtle taunts. His lips traced a slight smile as he rested in the chair, obviously comfortable or self-satisfied, or both.
That particular phone call, nevertheless, had no direct bearing on his weekly. It concerned a private matter. Pecorelli was attempting to augment his personal wealth by manipulating, or rather blackmailing, the individual on the other end of the line. For this he wielded certain detailed information in his possession that, if made public, could damage the person he was speaking to. This was no regular fellow, but the Grand Master of the Italian Masonic Propaganda Due lodge, or P2. His name was Licio Gelli. Pecorelli belonged to the same lodge.
“I’d like to meet personally to go over this,” Gelli suggested.
“Fine.”
“How about dinner tomorrow night, in Rome?”
“Sounds like a terrific idea,” Pecorelli replied. “Don’t forget to bring the money.”
“Where’s my assurance, Mino, that you won’t use that information anyway? Don’t you realize the trouble you’d be causing the organization by publishing that list?”
“It’s journalism, Licio. Pure journalism.”
“I know what ‘journalism’ means for you. Who’s going to guarantee me that you won’t be trying to make more ‘journalism’ in the future?”
“Fifteen million is a more than ample guarantee.”
“Fifteen million!” he echoed, nearly screaming. Several moments of silence followed, but Gelli was in no position to argue. “We did not agree on that amount, Mino.”
“Yes, I know. But I’ve concluded that this is what the information’s worth.”
“The list isn’t worth fifteen million.”
“Well, of course the P2 membership roster isn’t worth that amount. But, you know, those on the ultrasecret P1 list, the one with certain compromising details, is worth it. Also, as you know, the part of the world that supports you is going to crumble if I make it public.” Mino tossed this in, making no attempt to keep his words from sounding like an implacable threat. “And the murder of Pope John Paul I, and the help that you and my boss offered Mario to put Moro in power are worth a lot more.”
“We always use your bulletin for our purposes, Mino. Why this sudden change of attitude? Is the money we’re contributing not sufficient?”
“Fifteen million would be a sufficient sum. I’ll publish the P2 list. Actually, many already know it. When you see it in print, you’ll know that the other one is waiting in the wings. Think about it. It’ll be good for you, and for a lot of others.”
Gelli reflected on this for a minute. At the other end, his silence indicated his gauging of Mino’s obstinacy.
“Tomorrow we can review whatever’s necessary, over dinner. You’ll need to lower the price.”
“I’m not going to do that. Bring the money and everything will be fine.”
Fifteen million was the price, but he might consider the possibility of raising it at any moment, especially if Gelli took too long to pay.
“Yes. I’m sure. Everything will be fine. Good night,” Gelli said in closing. “See you at eight, at the usual place.” And he hung up.
Smiling, Mino Pecorelli turned off the lights in the office, closed the door behind him, and was on the way to his car. Everything was turning out favorably, just as he had imagined. He couldn’t imagine that precisely at that moment, Gelli was making a phone call to an important member of the Italian government, to report the outcome of their conversation.
“There’s no way to convince Mino. He’s totally inflexible. Either we pay or he’s going to publish everything,” Gelli declared.
“I don’t know what he has in mind. How did he get set on this idea?” the person at the other end complained.
“If we pay now, he’ll do it again. And we can’t trust him. He knows too much.”
“Don’t worry, Licio. It’s already taken care of. He won’t bother us anymore.
We’ve given him many opportunities, perhaps too many, and he hasn’t listened. Finally, it was his own choice.”
“Ciao, Giulio.”
“Ciao, Licio.”
SUCH WAS Carmine Mino Pecarelli’s pleasure that he felt an irresistible urge to whistle as he sauntered down Via Orazi, now totally deserted, trying to recall exactly where he had parked his car.
Life was like that. Journalism offered such benefits. In this case it had offered him the possibility of making some easy money. It was stupid to waste t
ime on remorse or burdens of conscience, especially when his bounty came to him from other people’s surplus. Maybe he was unscrupulous, but as a man he still retained a detached sense of justice. It never would occur to him to exploit someone who was unable to pay. But a wheeler-dealer like Gelli, always involved in dark dealings and shady businesses, robbing one for another’s benefit while enriching himself, and capable of anything to accomplish his ends, deserved to be humbled by a man like Carmine Pecorelli.
His car was near the end of the street, almost at the corner. He opened the door and as he settled into the seat, a hand shot out and prevented him from closing the door. The man who blocked the door grabbed him by the hair and yanked him backward. Letting go of the door, he pulled out a pistol, shoved the barrel into Pecorelli’s mouth, and fired twice.
Licio Gelli’s problem had been solved.
20
The man claiming to be Rafael drove at a moderate speed to avoid attracting attention. He seemed to know what he was doing. He picked up a package from the passenger seat, and offered it to Sarah in the backseat.
“What’s that?” she asked.
“Food.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“If I were you, I’d eat something. A hamburger and a Coke aren’t enough for a whole night.”
“How did you know—” She interrupted herself midsentence, knowing the answer to her own question. “Forget it.”
Sarah was confused. This man had pursued and shot at her in the underground, beyond the slightest doubt, and now he claimed to be Rafael, the one her father had said she could trust. Was he deceiving her in some way? Yes, that had to be it. She should be expecting some higher member of the organization to appear, interrogate her using atrocious methods, and end up killing her, whether he got what he wanted or not. She had in her possession a list that they knew more about than she did.
“I assume you have a lot of questions for me,” Rafael said cordially.
“Huh?” Sarah was unsettled by his new attitude.
There was a silence, which didn’t seem to bother the man, who kept driving calmly. He exuded a certain air of satisfaction, as if Sarah’s torment amused him. But this could also be his natural way of being. The young woman’s imagination was racing at full speed.
“I’m at your disposal,” Rafael reassured her, apparently persisting in his attempt to make her feel more relaxed. Even so, and in perfect English, his tone sounded more like an order to Sarah.
“The first question that comes to me is, why did you try to kill me in the underground?”
“Did I try to kill you?”
“Yes. You know very well what I’m talking about.”
“Hmm.”
“Are you denying it?”
“I’m going to tell you, so you won’t have any further confusion about this, that if I’d really shot at you with the intent to kill, we wouldn’t be having this conversation now.”
“And what the hell happened at my flat? Can you explain to me what’s going on?”
“Yes, I can. The question is, would you be ready to hear it?” the man said in all earnestness.
“Ready or not, I need to know. No other choice.”
“You’re right,” Rafael admitted, forcing a smile. Then he gave her a thoughtful look. “Have you ever heard of Albino Luciani?”
“Yes, of course.” Sarah was offended by Rafael’s condescending tone, as if she were an ignoramus.
“Albino Luciani was known as John Paul I, also popularly known as ‘the Smiling Pope.’ ”
Sarah remembered the papacy of John Paul I. Although she had never been especially interested in religious matters, she knew that this pope had spent a very short time on Saint Peter’s throne.
“He was only pope for a few months.”
“No,” Rafael corrected, “Albino Luciani held the post for thirty-three days, in August and September of 1978.”
“Only thirty-three days?”
“Very little time for some, and too much for others. The death of John Paul I is shrouded in great mystery. There are some who think he was murdered.”
“Well, there are always crazy people who subscribe to conspiracy theories.”
“Try saying that to Pietro Saviotti, the prosecutor of the District of Rome. Apparently he’s one of those ‘crazies’ who think there are still shadows that haven’t been cleared up in that story.”
“But who would want to kill the pope?”
“Instead of who, the more important question is, why. The motive for the crime counts more than the criminal’s identity.”
“All right. Why, then?”
“Let me answer you with another question. Have you ever heard of the P2?”
“Vaguely. Wasn’t it a secret society or something like that?”
“Something like that. It’s the initials of Propaganda Due, an Italian Masonic lodge whose objective is to conquer the political, military, religious, and economic power of all the communities it manages to penetrate.”
Rafael gave Sarah a brief account of this organization, founded in 1877 as a branch of Italy’s Grande Oriente, formed by people who had no possibility of creating their own lodge. In 1960 it had barely fourteen members, or that’s what people said. When a certain man named Licio Gelli became its grand master, its membership increased to a thousand in one year. And later, at its peak, its body grew to 2,400 members, including generals, politicians, judges, television executives, bankers, professors, priests, bishops, cardinals, and many other people of different professions and levels of power. In 1976 Italy’s Grande Oriente broke its ties with Licio Gelli and the P2. That was how the organization became a separate lodge, alien to Italian Masonry.
“Nevertheless,” Rafael kept explaining, “Gelli didn’t abandon his ambitions, and he continued to build networks for secretly gaining control of the Italian government. For this he devised the ‘Plan for the Democratic Rebirth of the P2 Lodge.’ Knowing Gelli’s fondness for European fascism, it’s easy to see that he meant to install a totalitarian system, not a democracy. He almost achieved his objectives in the late seventies, judging by the mass media news. Gelli’s methods were not very different from those of other Mafia-type organizations around the world. Anybody who got in his way risked meeting his Maker ahead of time. A lot of the murders, attacks, and massacres of those times carried the seal of the P2 Lodge.”
“So,” Sarah concluded, “if I understood you correctly, you’re suggesting that his organization was very interested in assassinating John Paul I. Fine, but where do I come in? Are the P2 men the ones running me down? Why?”
“Because God favored you with the possession of a very valuable list, containing the names of the members of the organization. An old list, more than twenty-five years old, that until now hasn’t seen the light of day. Many on the list are already dead, but others aren’t, and if their names were revealed, it could cause a lot of problems for a lot of people. It’s worth the effort to kill anyone if that could prevent this from happening.”
But Sarah had stopped paying attention. What this man was saying had already set her mind spinning. The list. The list she possessed contained the names of the members, dead and alive, of the Propaganda Due, the P2. And it included one name that weighed heavily on her heart, burying her in uncertainty and indecision—her father’s, Raul Brandão Monteiro. How could it be?
Rafael was reading her thoughts but said nothing. This was a road she had to travel alone.
“Do you belong to the P2?”
Rafael reflected for a few moments before answering.
“I belong to a superior entity. I’m guided by a plan that happens to include the P2.”
“I don’t understand.” The young lady sighed, aware that she was probing into some very complicated matters. But it was best to discover the truth directly, without detours.
“The P2 is after you,” Rafael continued. “Now, as to my connection with the P2, I can say that it ended quite recently, when you got into this ca
r, actually. In fact, I was an infiltrator.”
“An infiltrator?”
“If you can’t go after your enemies, join them. Destroy them from within. Obviously my work is now compromised. No longer is the P2 just chasing you. It’s also after me. And, believe me, sooner or later they’re going to find us.”
“Then what’s the point of this conversation, if we’re going to die?”
“It all depends on what cards we get to play at that point,” Rafael smiled faintly. “Do you have the list with you?”
Sarah pulled the papers out of her jacket pocket, took the two that made up the list, and handed them to Rafael. He examined them silently, without needing to slow down. After a few minutes, he gave them back to her.
“Do you know any of the names, besides your father’s?”
“Well, from what you’ve told me, I’m sure we could Google all these names and probably find descriptions of important men.”
“Maybe you’re right. But give it a closer look.”
Sarah looked down the columns, now studying them line by line, and no longer surprised by the predominance of Italian names. She noticed that the numbers before each name were unpredictable, not following any recognizable order. Each number was followed by a letter, and in some cases by two or three.
“The numbers aren’t in order. And the letters don’t seem to follow any logical pattern.”
“Those are registration numbers within the organization for each person. And the letters refer to their place of origin. For example”—he reached again for the papers Sarah was holding—“let’s take this one, which is right to the point, the Grand Master: ‘440ARZ Licio Gelli.’ His registration number is 440, and he’s from Arezzo. Get it?”
“Yes,” Sarah answered, her eyes zipping down to the name that mattered most to her: 843PRT Raul Brandão Monteiro.
The Last Pope Page 9
