The Last Pope

by Luís Miguel Rocha

  “Who is it?” Sarah asked.

  “I don’t know,” her father answered.

  “A double portrait,” Rafael said.

  Raul removed the magical light, and immediately the image of Benedict XVI reappeared.

  “I’m confused.”

  “I don’t know who it is, but they must know already. I suppose,” Raul added, “right now it’s the man who has the papers.”

  “And that brings us to the two other elements that Sarah received,” Rafael said.

  “Which?” Raul asked.

  “A code—”

  “That your friend swallowed, for better or worse,” Sarah noted.

  “And the key.”

  “That’s right, the key.” Sarah had completely forgotten about this. She retrieved it from her pants pocket and showed it to her father. A very small key to a padlock.

  “Where could it be from?” Raul asked, studying it. “What would it open?”

  They were silent for a few seconds, each analyzing possible theories about the key, the photo, and Raul’s most recent revelations.

  “You mentioned a code.”

  “Yes, but it’s gone,” Sarah pointed out.

  “The original disappeared, but I have a copy,” Rafael announced, holding a piece of paper he’d removed from his pocket. It was the paper on which he’d copied the code, before having Margulies try to decipher it.

  Raul looked at it, paying close attention to the code.

  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

  “Did your friend manage to decipher it?” he finally asked.

  “He didn’t have time,” the young woman explained. “They killed him first.”

  “Then it’s going to take us a few hours.”

  “Wait,” Rafael said, thinking, trying to remember something. “He looked at me before he died.”

  “Who?” Sarah asked, wondering.

  “Margulies. He looked at me before he died, and told me to count the letters.”

  Raul stopped listening. He set the paper in his lap, meanwhile scribbling with his mechanical pencil, and counting on his fingers. In a very short time, he straightened up.

  “Now I’ve got it.”

  L, A—C, H, I, A, V, E

  Dio bisogno e IO fare lo. Suo augurio Y mio comando

  GCT (DI)—N, Y—M, A, R, I, U, S—F, E, R, R, I, S

  “La chiave—the key?” Sarah exclaimed. “Marius Ferris? Who is Marius Ferris?”

  “It must be the man in the double photo,” her father guessed.

  “If you’ll permit me, Captain, I think we can interpret it two ways. Either the key is Marius Ferris, or else the key opens something in New York.”

  “New York?” Sarah wondered why he referred to New York.

  “Yes. NY must be New York.”

  “And GCT?” Raúl asked.

  “GCT,” Rafael repeated, thinking, but nothing came to him. “And the two letters in parentheses? It’s not so simple.”

  “Is it correctly decoded?” Sarah asked.

  “I think so,” her father affirmed. “Notice the first words: la chiave. They leave no doubt. Marius Ferris could be the man we need to find. We just have to decipher GCT and the letters in parentheses.”

  “Let’s look at that during the trip, Captain.”

  “You’re right.”

  “You’re exactly sure where we’re going?” Sarah asked, noticing the lights of Lisbon in the distance. “And what if we go to a hotel, for a decent night’s sleep?”

  “Don’t even think about it. We’ve got a lot of miles to go to get to Madrid.”

  “Madrid?”

  “What’s your itinerary, my friend?” Raul asked, trying to reassure his daughter.

  “By car to Madrid and then by plane to New York.”

  “New York?” Sarah was intrigued. “And we’re not even sure the code is sending us there.”

  “Yes,” Rafael declared, totally confident. “Burn the code, Captain. I already know what it says.”

  49

  Finally the long-awaited moment came. The one he had anticipated for many years. Including, if he really thought about it, even going back to the times when he held his father’s hand in the streets of old Gdansk.

  His father, a metallurgist by profession and an active member of Solidarity, cherished the deeply rooted ideal of a free Poland. He hated the dictatorship in his country, but was blind to the one that he imposed on the boy’s mother, who never lost her cheerfulness, despite the physical and psychological hardships she had to face. It touched her to see how the boy managed to keep in his mind a fixed, happy image of his father and mother together, on the bank of the Motława, when his father’s most noteworthy traits were violence and prolonged absences from his family, as a result of his unequal battle against a totalitarian government. In that area, at least, one had to give him credit for his steadfast commitment to his cause. It was too bad that he failed to establish those same hard-won freedoms in his home. For instance, he very easily could have granted the boy’s mother freedom of expression. The image of the river could well be the happy picture taken by a happy mother. But no. That in no way represented reality. That photo never existed, was never taken. What did exist was fear, the everyday terror of hearing the key turn in the lock to make way for the devil. After a long absence, it was the end of peace. Once again there was the black suitcase full of dollars for the cause. “It’s from the Americans,” he said, wolfing down the dinner prepared by his wife, so pure-hearted that she never once thought to season it with rat poison. That’s what he would have done. “It’s from the Vatican,” his father continued. “This time we will finish them.” And he laughed like a child on the verge of seeing his dreams come true. He said they couldn’t talk to anybody about the source of the money. Should its existence become known, they would all deny it. Besides, it was dirty money, obtained at other people’s expense—from drugs, from trafficking in poorly guarded secrets. Dirty money to finance noble ideals, of equality, justice, and liberty. Foreigners, prying eyes, and naturally enemies couldn’t learn the source of the money. It was from the Americans and the Vatican, his father said, without specifying the twists and turns those bills had taken, the hands through which they had passed, the shadow enterprises, the administrators of corrupt banks. No one would ever know.

  The younger man remembered, as if it were yesterday, the day he came home and saw her. Her eyes open, glassy, inert, their vision gone. The blood that ran down her neck into a puddle on the floor. One could barely discern that the original color of her blouse was white. His father was seated on the floor, leaning against the wall, drunk, cursing, trying to explain how she had failed to respect him. Before he knew it, the damage was done. “Now there’s just the two of us, son,” his father said, inebriated and maudlin. “Come here, boy. Give your father a hug.” It wasn’t a plea but an order, obeyed by the boy, who hugged his father with his body, and his mother with his mind. The knife went deep into his body, up to the handle, while the boy kept hugging his father tightly, with great love, eyes closed. When he finally died, his son drew away from him, and looked for the last time at his mother’s body.

  “Now I’m alone.”

  Finally, the moment he’d anticipated for so many years had come. At last he was to meet the Grand Master, who must have already landed on American soil, on one of the runways here, at New York’s La Guardia Airport. This servant of his was waiting for him on the secluded tarmac, at the space assigned for the plane to stop. He brought a car befitting a dignitary of such stature. His smile concealed the nervousness eating him up. The Master was like a father to him. Though he didn’t know him personally, the man had given him all the benefits a real father provides for his children. A roof over his head, education, work, and encouragement. Although it had all been done long distance, maybe that was exactly why he had developed such gre
at love and respect for the Master.

  The plane was already on the runway. Once the engines were shut down and the door opened, the first person to appear was the man in an Armani suit whom he had met in Gdansk. This one waited to help the gentleman of advanced age coming behind him, leaning on a cane topped with a golden lion. He gripped the cane with one hand, and the assistant’s arm with the other. At last, all three of them were face-to-face. Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. The master, the servant, and the assistant.

  In a scene worthy of bygone centuries, the Polish servant knelt before the Master and reverently bowed his head.

  “Sir, I want you to know what an honor it is for me to finally meet you,” he said, eyes closed.

  The old man placed his trembling hand on the servant’s head.

  “Stand up, my son.”

  The servant quickly complied. He wouldn’t dare look his master directly in the eye. The old man got into the car, and he shut the door.

  “You have served me well. Always with great efficiency and dedication.”

  “You can truly count on my total, absolute devotion,” he said with sincere reverence.

  “I know it.”

  “Where’s the target?” the assistant asked.

  “Visiting a museum, right now.”

  “He likes to cultivate his mind,” the man in black sneered.

  “Where would you like to go, sir?” the Pole asked shyly.

  “Let’s be tourists for a while,” the old man answered. “Take us for a drive.”

  His words were orders.

  A hushed exchange, not intended for the servant’s ears, was under way in the backseat.

  Once this was over, the Master made a call and had to wait a few seconds for a response.

  “At what point are we going to meet?” he asked directly, without any prior greeting. He listened to the response, and spoke in a curt tone. “Mr. Barnes, pay close attention to my orders.”

  50

  For a while now, the three occupants of the Volvo had remained silent, speeding along at nearly ninety miles an hour on the Lisbon access routes. Only at this hour was such speed possible on one of Europe’s most congested highways.

  Sarah looked out, distracted. They went past farms, stadiums, business districts, cars, trucks, but she didn’t really see any of it. What schemes were being plotted right at this moment, she wondered, so that some people would control others, or certain countries would dominate weaker ones? She felt there were two types of politics, the kind offered for public consumption, a pure facade, and the other hidden, the truly decisive one.

  “Are you all right, dear?” her father asked, turning his head.

  “As well as you might expect.” Her response was distant, still absorbed in her thoughts. “I was thinking. The P2 killed the pope, and surely many other people. Who else have they disappeared?” She emphasized the last words, staring at Rafael, who sensed it, in spite of keeping his eyes on the road.

  “It’s hard to know for sure. But you would probably find Olof Palme, the Swedish prime minister who was assassinated, among their victims.”

  “Yes, it’s easy to see they don’t have any trouble doing away with whoever interferes with their plans.”

  “That you can be sure of.”

  “And why did they kill him?”

  “Because he was impeding some of their major operations. Probably arms sales.”

  “And what does the CIA have to do with all of this?”

  “A lot. Those deaths occurred because they seemed convenient at the time.”

  “Did the death of John Paul I interest them?”

  “As allies of the P2, the CIA was interested, but it’s an unusual case, because the U.S. Justice Department had John Paul I as a collaborator. And his death did a lot of damage to the progress of their investigations.”

  “So much confusion.”

  Her father turned to Rafael.

  “Which way from here?”

  “South. We’ll cross the Twenty-fifth of April Bridge and then go straight to Madrid.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Raul agreed.

  “I just want to make sure they’re not following us.”

  Sarah immediately became agitated. “How can we know?”

  “By taking a narrow or a dead-end street. That way, if anyone’s behind us, he’ll give himself away.”

  “But then we wouldn’t have any escape, either,” Sarah objected.

  “True, but we would know whether they were following us. It’s a tactic drug traffickers use. That way they don’t risk getting caught in the act. If nobody is following them, they go on. Every so many miles they repeat the maneuver. If anybody’s watching them, they abort the operation. They get into a shooting match with the police, are trapped, and the drug kingpins are left untouched in their mansions, comfortably planning the next deal.”

  Dazed, Sarah listened.

  “I don’t have the slightest intention of getting into a shoot-out. The one yesterday was more than enough.”

  “I said that’s what usually happens in these situations, not that we’re going to do it. There are other solutions.”

  “Such as?”

  Rafael stopped sharply in the middle of the road. There was a clamor of honks protesting his grossly irresponsible move.

  “Are you nuts?” Sarah yelled.

  “Calm down, Sarah,” her father said reassuringly. “He knows what he’s doing.”

  Rafael looked back, but she was right behind him, her eyes blazing.

  “Would you mind moving to one side?” he asked her.

  Sarah glared at him. Rafael saw three cars at the edge of the highway, about sixty yards back. There was a continuing chorus of honks from those that barely avoided ramming the Volvo.

  “Three cars,” Rafael announced.

  “Maybe there was an accident,” Sarah suggested nervously.

  Rafael turned around and put his seat belt back on.

  “Please check to make sure you have your seat belts securely fastened.”

  Sarah quickly obeyed, getting more and more alarmed. “My God, I don’t like this one bit.”

  “Me neither, Sarah, but listen closely.” Rafael looked at her in the rearview mirror. “So you won’t tell me later that I didn’t warn you, we’re going into an urban zone at high speed. Try not to worry. Please hang on tight.”

  The Volvo’s tires burned the asphalt and the motor roared menacingly. The brutal acceleration threw Sarah back into her seat. She looked behind and saw the three cars following them. The Volvo got off the highway and ran a red light. Weaving in and out, they dodged traffic at seventy, eighty miles an hour.

  Rafael maneuvered the car with professional skill, Sarah noted. Looking at her father, she observed his apparent calm, reflecting on how little she knew him. Two strangers and, at the same time, so close to her. The captain gave precise feedback to Rafael concerning their pursuers, now openly chasing them. Like Rafael, they were speeding through central Lisbon, racing along the Avenue of the Republic.

  Upon reaching Duke of Saldanha Square, they followed a long avenue toward the huge Marquis of Pombal Square. Red lights meant nothing to the four cars involved in the chase. Dozens of shouted insults and honking horns accompanied them. Rafael, ignoring all of this, continued at full speed.

  “Hang on,” he warned. “Hang on tight.”

  He had barely finished speaking when suddenly he braked, so that the pursuer on his tail almost rammed them. The two on both sides overtook them, and before they could reposition themselves next to the Volvo, Rafael made a fast left, crossing into oncoming traffic.

  Her nerves frazzled, Sarah looked around her. They were moving against traffic on a one-way street. The approaching cars honked and, as best they could, dodged the Volvo and its pursuer.

  “I think I’m going to throw up,” Sarah moaned.

  After a crazed run, they came out on Commerce Square, still closely tailed by the other car. When they reached the east side of th
e plaza, the car got close to the Volvo. There was no option but an all-out race. Rafael accelerated to a suicidal speed as they entered 24th of July Avenue. The street was long and wide, but winding, forcing him to slow down and then speed up, over and over again.

  The car behind them moved with equal dexterity, but the Volvo began gaining. Gaining too much.

  “This doesn’t look good. They’re lagging too far behind.”

  “Maybe they’re having some mechanical trouble.”

  “Let’s hope that’s it.”

  On Avenida da India an intense light from above encircled them. A helicopter beamed its spotlight onto the car.

  “Now what?” Sarah asked, struggling to control her rising panic. “What are we going to do?”

  “We can’t run anymore,” Rafael explained matter-of-factly.

  “It’s over?”

  Rafael gave her a very sober look.

  “It’s over.”

  “They’re going to kill us,” Sarah said, deathly pale.

  “Not yet. If they wanted to kill us, they would have already.” He turned to Raúl.

  “What now, Captain?”

  “Let them capture us.”

  Still moving on the avenue, they now passed the majestic Belém Palace, official residence of the president of the republic. A bit farther on, Rafael glimpsed the lights of a vehicle barricade cutting off the street near the Jerónimos Monastery. There was no escape. The barricade was getting closer and closer.

  Six hundred yards.

  “Captain, I beg your forgiveness for having let you down.”

  “Nothing to apologize for.”

  Five hundred yards.

  Four hundred.

  “Stop the car,” said a voice coming from the helicopter. “Halt the vehicle immediately.”

  “Captain, I need your decision,” Rafael repeated more forcefully.

  Civilian vehicles, police cars, and vans were lined up to form the barricade, blocking the street. Various men were shielded behind the opened doors of the cars, guns in hand.