The Last Pope

by Luís Miguel Rocha

  “These gentlemen will feel uncomfortable at the audience. Call them and tell them to come to my office now, as soon as possible. Oh! It’s a courtesy visit, so it’s not necessary for them to inform Cardinal Villot. Thank you.”

  A few minutes later, while Don Albino Luciani was preparing coffee for himself, one of the young secretaries came in to tell him there were six men waiting in the next room. The pope felt a bit intimidated by the imposing presence of those gentlemen. Nevertheless, they all humbly bowed their heads when they attempted to shake hands with the pope. Hours later he couldn’t precisely remember all the names—there were the two Italian inspectors or auditors from the Bank of Italy and the four Americans representing the FBI and the Department of Justice—but they all were assigned to units dealing with financial crimes.

  “Sir,” said one of the Americans, obviously unacquainted with Vatican protocol, “we greatly appreciate your having permitted us—”

  “Oh!” John Paul I interrupted, smiling, and speaking in respectable English. “You’re missing out on the good hospitality of the Lord’s House! Would you like some coffee? I’m afraid that I, at least, will need some.”

  They sat in comfortable chairs on one side of the office, around a low table with a silver crucifix in the center. John Paul I seemed ready to listen to these men, who were somewhat awed in the presence of a cleric who had millions of followers worldwide. One of the FBI agents, as if afraid the entire meeting would dissolve in their coffee, spoke too soon.

  “Sir, we have brought you a report that provides evidence of criminal malfeasance in the financial institutions linked with the Holy See.”

  Albino Luciani gave the agent a deeply serious look.

  “Tell me what the report shows. The Lord, as you say, is listening.”

  “The finances of the Vatican,” the agent said, failing to catch the pontiff’s joke, “are linked with the IOR, and this to the Banco Ambrosiano of Roberto Calvi, and this, in turn, to the businesses of Michele Sindona and his Banca Privada. We know that Sindona is the link between Roberto Calvi and Archbishop Marcinkus. I remind you that Sindona is known as ‘the Mafia’s banker,’ and that a seek-and-capture order has been issued against him in the United States, for fraud, financial crimes, and racketeering. And, if you’ll permit me, I would also remind you that Roberto Calvi belongs to the Masonic P2 Lodge, headed by the fascist Gelli, instigator of Operation Gladio. Surely you’ll not have forgotten the bombing of the Piazza Fontana in 1969.”

  “Are you telling me that they’re planting bombs in Milan, using the Vatican’s money?”

  “No. I’m telling you that they’re planting bombs in Rome and in many other places around the world. From Poland to Nicaragua.”

  Don Albino Luciani didn’t move a single muscle, though the burning in his throat could have incinerated the Apostolic Palace.

  The FBI agent was not inclined to hold back.

  “In 1971 Roberto Calvi and Paul Marcinkus founded the Cisalpine Overseas Bank in Nassau, Bahamas. And that bank is used to launder money from drug and arms trafficking; to conceal fraudulent real estate speculations; to launder money produced by prostitution, pornography, and other similar activities. From there, by means of a network described in the report, funds are diverted to distinct destinations. For example, the labor organizations in Poland, dictatorships like Somoza’s, and revolutionary or terrorist organizations.”

  “Doesn’t it seem strange that we would be financing fascists and revolutionaries at the same time?” Pope John Paul I inquired.

  “They’re not financing politics, they’re financing crimes. In Italy they are bribing and blackmailing politicians of all stripes. Just from a close reading of the Corriere della Sera, you can see it clearly. It’s the official paper of the Gellis, the Sindonas, the Calvis, and the Marcinkuses.”

  “Holy Father,” one of the auditors from the Bank of Italy said, “the Banco Ambrosiano has a deficit of $1.4 billion. And, as you know, the Vatican Bank has twenty percent of Banco Ambrosiano’s stock. You need to take measures, because the Bank of Italy cannot risk—”

  “Sir,” the Department of Justice official interrupted, “the president is going to take action anyway. It will be difficult to keep this scandal from splattering on the Holy See. I’m fulfilling my superiors’ orders by providing you with this report. It may take a year or two for us to bring it to light, but we will. During that time, sir, you could intervene to distance the Vatican from this network.”

  “Yes, my son. But I don’t know if I have that much time available.”

  “Your Holiness!” one of the Italian auditors exclaimed. “You must distance yourself from Marcinkus, from De Bonis, from Calvi.”

  Albino Luciani got up from his chair, visibly disturbed. He’d known since he presided over the Banca Católica del Veneto, many years ago, that Marcinkus and his cohorts, rather than directing the Church finances in keeping with the dictates of the Lord, were instead following the schemes of Wall Street.

  The pope opened the door of the office and left without saying good-bye.

  In one of the private rooms, in front of a mirror supported by a marble table covered with ebony boxes, small silver monstrances, crystal balls, and photographic frames, Don Albino Luciani gritted his teeth, enraged. He swept the table with his forearm, sending all the objects flying through the air, shattering to smithereens all over the room.

  “I curse you! You’ve turned the house of the Lord into a den of thieves!”

  36

  How can a plan fall apart? It was going so well a short while ago.”

  “We still have time to head to London, sir,” the assistant suggested to the old man nestled comfortably in the seat of his private plane. “Consider it a minor detour.”

  “Don’t even think about it!” he adamantly refused. “We’ll stick with the plan to the end.”

  “Aren’t we running the risk that they’ll make an irreparable change in the plan?”

  “Have faith, my dear friend. It will all work out in the end.”

  “We usually leave faith to the believers,” the assistant argued, convinced that this change of destination could make the difference between success and failure. “It’s important to recover the documents.”

  “The documents are the reason for all this. We’re making this trip for them. It isn’t necessary to remind me. Besides, our presence in London won’t be of any use. Things are going well.”

  “What? They are still free and we are wasting time.”

  “But they are within our grasp.”

  The assistant hadn’t realized that the Master had a new, still-undisclosed plan.

  “Would you like to share your plans?” he asked.

  “You’ll soon see. You’ve got access to more information than most men. And you can connect the dots quickly.”

  “As you wish,” the assistant answered, somewhat irritated. The old man loved having secrets, controlling information until it had redeemed its value. When its uselessness became apparent, that meant he had already accomplished his objective. Privileged information was useful, but he hated the old man’s keeping it from him. If he didn’t know him well, he would think this was from lack of trust. Instead, it had a very simple explanation. The Master wanted to send a message to his own demons: “I’m still here, I’m still in command, deciding everybody’s fate.”

  The old man picked up the satellite handset on the left arm of his seat, and pressed a few numbers. Moments later someone answered.

  “Ciao, Francesco,” he said, smiling coldly. “A short while ago I found out that you lost one of your associates.” He allowed time for the message to sink in. “Consider this firsthand news. The body will appear in due time.” Again he gave Francesco time to absorb his meaning. “But that isn’t why I called. I might be in need of your services. . . . When? Yesterday . . . I want you to get on the next plane. They’ll give you all the necessary information at the airport, and then you’ll wait for my call.” He cut off
without another word. “Soon they will both be in front of me,” he muttered aloud to himself, his eyes fixed on the small plane window. “And we’ll see who’s the smartest.”

  At this moment while he was thinking out loud, he was again approached by the assistant. At least it seemed that his irritation was gone.

  “They’ve called from London,” the assistant said in a low voice. “The worst has happened.”

  37

  Geoffrey Barnes hadn’t slept a wink the whole night. Despite the fact that the one giving the orders was an Italian, or at least spoke in Italian, Barnes was more worried than if it had actually been the president of the United States giving the orders. He could handle the president better than this character from the P2.

  While the old man was in flight, Barnes had spoken with him twice. First, he explained what had led him to the decisions he was making. The man didn’t react with any kind of feeling, but limited himself to a singular theme.

  “What’s essential is to recover those papers. Obviously we underestimated our adversaries, but that won’t happen again. Use all necessary means. Once the papers are in your control, get rid of all witnesses. Understood?”

  “Of course, sir,” Barnes affirmed.

  The second call was to remind him that he mustn’t lose sight of the adversaries, not even for a moment. He needed to follow those orders, whatever the cost.

  “Should there be collateral damage, put the blame on any Arab group.

  The next day, have some protest marches, paying homage to the victims and condemning terrorism. Problem solved,” the Italian said, with no tinge of irony whatsoever.

  “That’s what we’ll do,” the CIA agent agreed. Barnes knew that in the course of operations there could be a stray bullet, or several of them. A bomb might explode at the wrong moment. And targets could pick up reinforcements. That’s how it was.

  “One more thing. Wait for my instructions. Don’t do anything without my authorization.”

  And the Master hung up in the abrupt manner to which Barnes had grown accustomed. It was five o’clock in the morning.

  SARAH AND JACK were driving in circles around London, forcing the agents who trailed them to retrace a tourist’s itinerary through the historic central city. Several times they had gone by Buckingham Palace, then followed the Mall to Trafalgar. Again they took Charing Cross Road or any other street. And finally, back to the beginning. All at a leisurely pace, as was required for an enjoyable visitor’s tour. And that was the impression Barnes got every ten minutes from Staughton’s methodical reports.

  “It’s strange that they haven’t even attempted to flee,” Barnes thought out loud, alone in his office. “They haven’t stopped for gas. At some point they’ll have to,” his soliloquy continued while he awaited new information. “I need something decent to eat.”

  Jack Payne was a legend in the P2 Lodge, so much so that the CIA recruited him for some of its most delicate work. His name meant competence, work well done. The P2 was an arrogant organization. It would not hesitate to demand that certain forces in the CIA serve its purposes, a useful means of gaining the benefits of American technology and of charging a monthly fee on top of that, but he didn’t approve, then or now, of the lending of its members to Uncle Sam’s agency, especially its top performers such as Jack. At times, however, when this Masonic Lodge thought it could gain something from the practice, it simply authorized the use of some of its members, as happened with Jack on three or four operations that he completed under Barnes’s orders. Jack Payne was the kind of man a director liked to have in his ranks. Barnes had even made the proposal for his admission to the CIA.

  What a huge mistake. It’ll be my downfall at the agency, Barnes reflected, leaning back in his chair, exhausted by all the events of the long night. He realized that he’d be fired from the job he’d earned through so much blood, sweat, and tears. It was for good reason that Americans said, “No pain, no gain.” His position at the agency was truly the result of a lot of effort, a lot of pain, a lot of hours without sleep, and without a decent meal, like today. If there was anything that this night reminded him of, it was the uncertain times of the cold war, when the world was crazy.

  “You must have been crazy, Jack, when you decided to follow me,” the great bulk of a man muttered resentfully to himself.

  Suddenly the door opened and a weary Staughton appeared, putting an abrupt end to Geoffrey Barnes’s musings.

  “Sir.”

  “Staughton.”

  “They’ve disappeared.”

  38

  Now we’re going to disappear,” was what Rafael told Sarah, still inside the car.

  They continued their visitors’ tour through the British capital a while longer, while the city slowly began to awaken. They were almost out of gas. Rafael asked Sarah to turn left at the intersection with King’s Cross Station and to slow down. Then the double agent moved to the backseat, under Sarah’s close scrutiny.

  Jack folded down the backseat to gain access to the trunk, from which he took out a green wooden box. He returned the seat to its normal position, sat up, and rolled down all the windows. Following this, he opened the wooden box, took out the small balls it contained, and began throwing them one by one to one side of the street, and then the other, almost rhythmically. The balls rolled under the automobiles parked at the curb.

  “No matter what happens, don’t stop until I tell you.”

  The car was already about a hundred yards from Euston Station.

  “Now speed up and then stop in front of the station,” Rafael ordered, throwing the last ball.

  “What are you doing?” Sarah asked.

  “We’re almost there,” he said.

  Then, when the car was just outside Euston Station, the unexpected happened.

  “Okay, shut off the engine.”

  Sarah obeyed, and right away all hell broke loose. A succession of small explosions moved toward them from the King’s Cross intersection, approaching from both sides of Euston Road. A thick cloud of tear gas invaded the street. Shouts could be heard. People who lived in the neighborhood woke up terrified.

  Shielded by the gas barrier behind them, Rafael and Sarah ran toward Euston Station.

  Without exchanging a word, they ran to the taxi stop on the lower level. From there, everything became much simpler. They asked the taxi driver to take them to the Waterloo Station, where they arrived in time to catch the Eurostar headed for Paris.

  They took advantage of the comfortable trip to rest a bit. Sarah slept almost the entire way, and Rafael leaned back in his seat, although only after making two inspections of the whole train. No one was following them.

  Two hours and thirty-seven minutes later they arrived at the famous Gare du Nord in the center of Paris. From there they moved on to Orly. They had managed to disappear.

  39

  The Airbus A320 reached its cruising altitude of 36,000 at a speed of 540 miles per hour. Within approximately two hours it would land at Portela Airport, Lisbon, the destination of the 111 passengers that included Sarah Monteiro, now officially Sharon Stone, a French citizen, and Rafael, officially John Doe, a British subject. Flight TP433 had left Orly a bit more than twenty minutes before, behind schedule. Since they were both awake, Rafael had to face questions and more questions from the career reporter at his side.

  Rafael had once heard someone say that “the fathers were in Jerusalem.” Probably the reference was to the mythical builders of the Temple of Solomon. Those venerable architects had conveyed their knowledge to the carpenters and stonecutters of the West, the same ones who erected the cathedrals in the Middle Ages. They were the maçons, users of the drop hammer, chisel, square, compass, and plumb line. Those powerful guilds knew the Lord’s secrets. Even now, in Notre Dame or Reims or Amiens, one could see that those men truly knew what God wanted for the world. The Lord Jesus Christ proclaimed: “Render to Caesar that which is Caesar’s and to God that which is God’s.” The whole world knew this, i
ncluding politicians, university professors, doctors, bankers, civil servants, soldiers, writers, and journalists. Even the pope knew it. “God is to be found everywhere, my child, even in arms factories and bank safe-deposit boxes.”

  From what Rafael had heard, the Masons had been on the scaffolds when the bloody heads of kings and nobles rolled in revolutionary France. And later they were behind the wars and violent regime changes in Europe and the Americas. The members of the P2 could take satisfaction in belonging to the same organization as many presidents of the United States and of Europe.

  In Rome, Italy’s Grande Oriente began to suffer from internal schisms near the turn of the twentieth century. It was then that Propaganda Due was founded. Those who held the strings of power around the world complained that Masonry was being bandied about, with members’ names in the papers and their activities directed by inept, vain politicians. The number 2 would provide the anonymity they sought, ending the announcements, photos, and leaked names. The P2 did not exist. Nobody should know anything about it. The loggia coperta welcomed, among those privileged to know God, everybody ready to devote his life to building the Kingdom of Heaven on earth.

  “Those were very bitter times for them,” Rafael told Sarah, who listened eagerly. “Hitler and Mussolini fascinated them, but as they saw it, their spiritual goals were being betrayed by those men.”

  Licio Gelli, who headed Italian Masonry in the mid-twentieth century, was the true driving force of the P2 Lodge. “Gelli had more ideas than ability to carry out his projects,” Rafael told Sarah. The Grand Master of the Grande Oriente of Italy granted him powers far beyond his talents. Gelli was a small businessman from Tuscany who venerated Der Führer, Il Duce, and El Generalísimo. In fact, he enlisted as a volunteer, fighting against the Republicans in the Spanish Civil War. He also served as a Nazi spy in the Balkans, actively collaborated with the CIA, and incited several coups d’état in South America.