The Last Pope

by Luís Miguel Rocha

“PRT. Portugal.”

  “Sarah, you weren’t even born yet.”

  “Neither were you.”

  Rafael smiled at the comment.

  “I was probably five or six years old.”

  The girl continued perusing the papers, until she found another familiar name.

  “This name, and this ‘MIL,’ is from . . . ?”

  “Milan. But don’t fool yourself. At that time he wasn’t yet in politics. And he’s no longer a member of the P2.”

  “Yes, but he was. A prime minister of Italy? The dimensions of this, I mean, I don’t know what to think.”

  “Don’t think.”

  Sarah buried herself in the list again. She was terrified by the magnitude of all this. But, besides, her father’s name was on it. How far did he go? And how far could Captain Raul Brandão Monteiro perhaps still reach?

  “What are these handwritten scribbled notes?” the girl asked, trying to push back her more painful thoughts.

  “They are what give an incalculable value to this list. Handwritten annotations by John Paul I.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what do they say?”

  “It’s a classification. He underscored the names and the occupations of the ones he knew. For example, notice this one, Jean-Marie Villot: cardinal segretario di stato. That is, cardinal secretary of state of the Vatican.”

  “Was he a member of the P2?”

  “Of course.”

  “And what’s on this page? Are those also the pope’s notes? And this key?” Sarah handed to Rafael the sheet with the hastily written scribblings. He read them closely.

  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

  “What does it say?”

  “ ‘It is God’s will and I will do His bidding. His wish is my command.’ In not very correct Italian.”

  Seconds later, Rafael made a complete U-turn.

  “What’s wrong?” Sarah asked.

  “We’re going to see someone.”

  “Who?”

  “Someone who knows.”

  “Knows what?” Rafael was driving very fast down a narrow street. He seemed to have no intention of answering her question. “Someone who knows what? Did you see something on that paper?”

  The car entered a wider street and turned east. Rafael sped up, not caring if the police could see him in one of the patrol cars that passed by moments before.

  “Yes,” Rafael said finally, without going into detail, as if that one word were an adequate explanation. Then he took out his cell phone.

  “What was it you saw?” Sarah insisted, alarmed.

  “A code.”

  21

  The Bentley was moving slowly on an unpaved narrow road, lined by trimmed hedges. The road connected somebody’s private estate with the main highway.

  Almost two miles from the highway, the car slowed in front of a pair of imposing automated gates, which immediately opened to receive the Bentley. Whoever was inside the car had to be very close to the lord of the manor. The driver didn’t really have to stop fully or even announce the passenger in the backseat.

  The car finally stopped by the three steps leading to the entry landing. The passenger didn’t even wait for the driver to open the car door, as etiquette dictated, and just burst out of the vehicle. He didn’t ring the door-bell, either, but pressed a six-digit code in a panel on the wall. Before going inside, he carefully dusted his elegant Armani suit and straightened his jacket.

  The lord of the manor, or more precisely, the Grand Master, was waiting for him in a salon, not because this would be the usual or most convenient place, but because the operations to be carried out that night required space. The old man, his face livid, was listening to someone on the phone.

  It didn’t take a lot for the new arrival to see that things weren’t going well. If the information he received about the success of the mission had been accurate, Geoffrey Barnes must have made a serious error. The assistant cleared his throat to make sure his presence was noticed. The old man lifted his eyes and greeted him with a nod. The newcomer sharpened his ears, trying to pick up some of the conversation as he prepared two vodka drinks. When the old man hung up, his assistant quietly handed him the drink and sat down.

  “I understand there have been some changes since we talked,” he said.

  With a deep sigh, the old man sat down. It was unusual to see him sighing like this, though lately it happened more frequently. The assistant suddenly realized that for more than fifteen years he had been close to this man, and that during this time he had observed his progressive decline, a painful experience for someone who had witnessed the Master at his full physical and mental vigor.

  “Things have changed in an incredible manner,” the old man said after taking two sips of vodka. “What happened was quite unexpected, not at all part of the original plan I mapped out.”

  “I heard you mention an infiltrator.” There were no secrets between them. “Geoffrey Barnes had a traitor in his ranks?”

  The old man emptied his glass.

  “That would have been better,” he muttered.

  “But how come?” Great anxiety and incredulity showed in the assistant’s eyes. The answer was obvious.

  “What’s going on should never have happened.”

  “An infiltrator here, among us? I can’t believe it.”

  “You’ll have to.”

  “But where? Here in Italy? One of the new members?”

  “No. In the Guard.”

  “In the Guard? Holy shit. Any idea who it could be?”

  The old man nodded, “He has revealed his identity.”

  “Who is it?” the assistant asked anxiously. “I’ll kill him with my bare hands. And first I’ll make sure he knows why I’m sending him to hell.”

  “Jack,” the old man answered coldly.

  “Jack? Jack who?”

  “Jack Payne,” the Master added, and kept silent for a few moments, letting the assistant absorb the information.

  “And who is he, really?”

  “I’ve ordered an investigation, but it won’t go anywhere. His true identity must be well covered up.”

  “It must be. Or else we’d already have discovered him.”

  The old man sighed again.

  “This is unexpected, but we have to act fast.”

  The assistant got up, still recovering from the shocking news. He felt it was time to make coolheaded decisions.

  “Anyway, we should first focus on eliminating the target, as planned. How’s that going?”

  “You don’t really understand. She’s with him. If we get one, we’ll get the other one, too,” the old man said, standing up.

  “Do you think this calls for a trip to London?”

  “I don’t think that’s necessary. Let’s stay close to the plan but on maximum alert. An infiltrator might bring surprises. Sooner or later, the CIA will catch them.”

  “That may take some time.”

  “Anyway, a trip to London will only put more pressure on Barnes and make him nervous.”

  “What do you suggest, then?”

  “Get the plane ready for the trip we planned. We’re going to let Barnes do his job. Don’t worry, they’ll be caught. No one can live without leaving some clues.”

  “Especially in London. But let’s not forget she’s with someone who knows how to evade us.”

  “Yes, I know. But if you know Jack as well as I do, you’ll know that even if he’s switched sides, he’s not the kind of man to avoid a fight. I don’t think he’d want to become a fugitive for life.”

  “I’ll give orders to the crew.”

  As his protégé was leaving the room, the sound of an incoming fax started. The machine swallowed a white sheet, spitting it out the other end, with a text and a photo. The old man took it and looked at the image of Jack Payne
, the same man who called himself Rafael. At the bottom of the sheet, a phrase in all capitals appeared.

  NO DATA AVAILABLE

  Clenching his fist, the old man crumpled the paper, but after a moment his initial anger returned.

  “You won’t get away, Jack,” he promised. Leaning on the cane that supported his bad leg, he got up and left the room. There were other things to take care of. He looked again at the crumpled piece of paper and, before throwing it away, muttered: “She’ll bring you back to me.”

  22

  The British Museum, custodian of great and important pieces of human history and world cultures, loomed imposingly in front of them. It housed more than seven million artifacts that witnessed the passing of the human race over the face of the earth.

  The Jaguar quietly parked in front of the enormous building on Great Russell Street. Rafael and Sarah headed for the tall wrought-iron gate, crowned with golden arrows. The man went up to a small door next to the big gate. There was a guard and a sentry box.

  “Good evening,” Rafael greeted him.

  “Good evening,” the guard answered, chewing gum.

  “I’d like to speak with Professor Joseph Margulies, please.”

  “Professor Joseph Margulies?” the guard repeated, curtly.

  “Yes. He’s expecting us.”

  “Just a moment.” The man made a phone call from the sentry box. Sarah seemed to catch his attention.

  Rafael had already phoned the professor from the car to tell him he needed to see him urgently. Though the scientist was somewhat reluctant at first, he finally agreed. Since he was working day and night at the British Museum on a temporary exhibit, they could see him there.

  For Sarah, the silent wait brought up painful suspicions. There was a difficult but inescapable matter to bring up.

  “Tell me, how does my father fit into all of this? What’s his position in the organization?”

  “He should tell you that, not I.”

  The dutiful guard confirmed the appointment and let them in.

  “Professor Margulies will come for you presently.”

  “Much obliged.”

  “This isn’t the first time you’ve come to see him, right?”

  “No. But never at such an ungodly hour,” Rafael answered, feigning a shy smile. The guard had changed his initial hostility, which he probably considered his duty, to a much more open attitude.

  They all walked toward the center, to the main entrance. The sides jutted out, giving the building a squared U shape. Forty-five Corinthian columns adorned the facade, adding an imperial air. Several female figures supported the triangular pediment of the majestic entrance. Sarah stumbled on the steps leading to the ample landing.

  “If this were a secret mission, our presence would already be revealed,” Rafael said seriously, though he couldn’t hide his amusement.

  “If this were a secret mission, we wouldn’t have approached the guard, or used the main entrance.”

  “You’re right.”

  “And the pope, Albino Luciani, what part does he play in all this?”

  “He’s the catalyst.”

  “Catalyst? What do you mean?”

  “That list you received was in his hands the night of his death. It was sent to him by an important member of the P2, a lawyer and journalist named Carmine Pecorelli.

  “Pecorelli published a weekly bulletin, kind of a muckraker rag that exposed all sorts of scandals. The network of favors and allegiances was so complex,” Rafael added, “that a publication of this kind, his Osservatorio Politico, was in fact financed by a former prime minister, a close friend of Licio Gelli, the one who really promoted the P2 during the sixties and seventies.

  “The Grand Master was a real chameleon, a manipulator who wasn’t exactly known for his principles. He’d support the extreme Right or the extreme Left, whichever best served his interests. People said he had connections with all the political parties, according to his convenience and the situation of the moment. For example, in theory, the P2 Lodge was supposed to combat all the initiatives of the Left, and yet Gelli contributed to the founding of a terrorist group, called the Red Brigades.”

  “Okay. But then why did this Pecorelli send the list to the pope?” Sarah didn’t quite understand all this juggling of names, time spans, and obscure interests.

  “You’re not going to believe this,” Rafael replied, “but it was to make money. It was his way of blackmailing Gelli.

  “It was all about ambition and greed. In principle, the Osservatorio Politico served Gelli’s interests, but at some point Pecorelli realized that his own boss could be blackmailed. Gelli didn’t realize that Pecorelli was a man who, if he could, would serve only his own interests. And he knew a lot of potentially harmful facts about Gelli, particularly involving financial scandals. Finally, Pecorelli published a partial list of the members of the P2, but he probably had another list, even more dangerous and compromising.”

  As far as Rafael knew, that ominous list was formerly in the hands of Paul VI and, if it didn’t cause a huge problem then, it was only because the pontiff was very sick and surely lacked stamina to attack the disease that had thoroughly contaminated the very core of the Holy See.

  When John Paul I came to occupy Saint Peter’s throne, at some point he had the list of the P2 in his office. He made the appropriate inquiries to verify the information, and it seemed he was ready to make a clean sweep. It was a well-known fact that ecclesiastical offices were incompatible with membership in secret societies alien to the Church, and especially organizations connected with Masonry. When they found Albino Luciani, he was already dead and he had the list of the P2 in his hands.

  “It’s possible,” Rafael concluded, “that John Paul I wanted to resolve this problem discreetly, as everything is done in the Vatican. Perhaps he just wanted to remove those deeply involved in the lodge from positions of ecclesiastical power, without causing a major scandal. Perhaps he even made a copy for the Vatican Secret Archives, and that may be where Firenzi happened to find it. I’m not sure how all this business unfolded. If you still have questions, you’ll have to ask your father.”

  “Ask my father? But what was his part in all this?”

  The sound of steps in an adjoining corridor stopped the conversation. Sarah gave Rafael a quizzical look.

  “Why did we come here?” she asked in a low voice.

  “To decipher the code.”

  A fat man of about sixty in an overcoat came out and approached them. Rafael recognized his friend.

  “Professor Margulies.”

  “How are you, old boy? Do you think this is a good time to inconvenience a man of God?”

  “Any time is a good time for God.”

  “Who is this woman?”

  Professor Joseph Margulies wasn’t a man to beat around the bush.

  “She’s a friend, Sharon . . . uh . . . Stone, Sharon Stone.”

  “Sharon Stone?” Sarah repeated, astonished.

  “Pleased to meet you, Miss Stone.” He gave her a condescending look. “I’m sorry, but I haven’t washed my hands.”

  “No problem.”

  Sarah observed the professor, trying to figure out what he did.

  “We’re involved in secret matters of national interest,” Rafael said half jokingly. “We can’t tell you what it’s all about. But I have some kind of puzzle here and I’d like to know if you can help me.” He pulled the paper out of his pocket and handed it to Margulies.

  The big man just grunted and stared fixedly at the list. Five minutes later, he came out of his trance.

  “I’ll see what I can do. Follow me.”

  After going into the museum exhibits section, they went up a grand staircase and turned right and left several times. Then they entered a very long, dark corridor.

  “Don’t make any noise, you might wake up the mummies,” Margulies joked. “Where did you meet this crazy nut?” he asked Sarah.

  “He’s not—” Sarah tried
to explain.

  “In Rio de Janeiro, in a convent,” Rafael interrupted.

  “A nun, eh?” The professor looked at him wryly.

  “Not really,” Sarah started to say, but Rafael squeezed her arm.

  “Here we are,” Margulies announced, opening a double door leading to a big hall full of shelves and books, and several tables placed in a row. This became visible only when Margulies lit two sad lamps, which lent a somber tone to the place. He left the paper on one of the tables and walked toward a bookshelf. “Let’s see. Here it is: cryptography.”

  “Do you need any help?”

  “No. Just have a seat with your girlfriend.”

  Rafael turned to Sarah, and their eyes met for a moment.

  “Why did you tell him that load of crap?” she murmured.

  “I told him what he wanted to hear.”

  “And what was that? That you’re involved with a Brazilian nun named Sharon Stone?”

  “Don’t give it another thought. The end justifies the means. Or do you think he would rather know the truth?”

  “Look, I don’t even know my own name anymore.”

  Rafael grabbed Sarah’s shoulders and exerted some pressure, making sure she paid attention.

  “The truth can kill us all. You’re the proof of it, even though you’re still alive. Don’t forget it.”

  Sarah shuddered. Rafael let her go and watched Margulies seated at a table, paper in hand, with three open books in front of him.

  “How do you know him?” she asked him.

  “Margulies? He was my professor aeons ago. I know he doesn’t seem it, but he’s a very serious scholar. He studied at the Vatican, and has a deep knowledge of cryptography. If this is actually a code, he’ll decipher it.”

  “What class did you take with him?”

  “Is this an interrogation?”

  “No. I’m just trying to pass the time.”

  “A class in theology.”

  “Theology? Is he a theologian?”

  “Among other things.”

  Margulies looked up from the paper.

  “My dear old chap, this is going to take a few hours. I have to run a few tests to discover the kind of model used. I still don’t know if it’s a code or a cipher. Couldn’t you find something to do in the meantime?”