The Last Pope

by Luís Miguel Rocha

  “How did you kill the pope?”

  “Come on, Miss Sarah Monteiro, you can’t expect to be told everything in exchange for nothing, right? One thing for another, isn’t that what you said? I more than fulfilled my part. Now it’s your turn.” He smiled, satisfied, like someone who knew he had reason on his side.

  “It’s my last question. I need to know how you did it.”

  “And I need to know where you stored the papers.”

  “You yourself said that they don’t contain anything explosive.”

  “I guarantee you they don’t. And if they had appeared on the night of the murder, except for the list and the secret of Fátima, there would have been no dire results. But if they reappeared now, after all these years, they would be looked on differently.”

  Sarah couldn’t avoid agreeing with the old man. The Holy See would be revealed as an institution entirely at odds with the scruples and morality that it pretended to defend. Those documents, among other things, would confirm that someone made them disappear. They would point the finger at the top figures in the Curia, and the Church might never recover.

  “What does all of this matter to you? It’s hard to believe you pay much attention to the Church.”

  “There are secrets that ought to remain in the shadows, truths that should never be uncovered.”

  “Sooner or later, somebody will bump into them again and the truth will come to light.”

  “Then let that happen as late as possible. When I’m dead, it will hardly matter to me what anybody does with those papers. But until then, it’s better for me to have them.”

  “Don’t you want to destroy them?”

  “No. I might need them at some point. Now, cooperate with me and keep your word.”

  “I’ll keep it. I only want you to answer my last question,” Sarah replied, in a final attempt to buy time.

  The old man was wrapped in a disturbing silence for some time. Sarah became anxious. Though it might not have seemed so, she needed to know how J.C. killed the pontiff. She didn’t know why, but she felt a compulsion to know.

  “We’ll do the following. You’ll tell me what I want to know and then I’ll tell you.”

  “But—” The young woman was hesitating.

  “I always keep my promises,” the old man added.

  Sarah didn’t doubt it. Hers was a different problem. As soon as she spoke, J.C. would forget about her, or kill her.

  “I’m waiting,” J.C. pressed.

  “Very well. The papers are kept in a safe place.”

  Sarah paused.

  “I know that very well. Please finish.” His dry voice announced it would no longer tolerate any more detours.

  “Then you’ll understand that they’re so secure that I’ve no control over them.”

  “What do you mean?” He raised his voice, threatening. “Explain yourself.”

  “The papers are in the Vatican,” Sarah answered, very sure of herself. “That’s where they came from, and that’s where they needed to return. A pope’s papers belong in the Vatican.”

  “Surely you’re joking.”

  “No. I’m serious.”

  The somber expression on J.C.’s face left no room for doubt. His sudden pallor accentuated the deep wrinkles of his face. Suddenly he was gasping like an asthmatic. For the first time Sarah was aware of his humanity. Rather than an automaton who arbitrarily disposed of people, he was a fragile old man at the end of the road.

  “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

  “Do I have any idea?” she spat back, both indignant and frightened.

  “Your father and your friends are dead men, thanks to you.”

  “So be it.” Her eyes welled with tears that she tried to contain. “I did what I had to do. You won’t have your way.”

  “Do you really believe I won’t recover those papers just because they’re in the Vatican? What makes you think I don’t have people working there, as in 1978?”

  “Times have changed.”

  “Don’t kid yourself.”

  Sarah wanted to believe that, yes, things had changed. It was true that conservatives had progressively gained more and more power in the heart of the Church. Now it was much less modern and liberal than Albino Luciani would have wanted, but there were also different people at its center now. There were no Villots or Marcinkuses in the new Vatican.

  “If they haven’t changed, you have no reason to worry. Tomorrow, or at most in a couple days, you’ll have the papers under your control.”

  The old man’s look indicated he thought that would not be the case. “And where are the others?”

  “The others?”

  “Don’t play the fool. Only you had the list. Where are the rest of the papers?”

  For a moment she thought of making up something, but then rejected the idea. It was better not to tighten the rope too much. She may have already gone too far.

  “I can only talk about the list. I know nothing about the rest.”

  The old man waited a few minutes. When he was done, he struck the floor three times with his cane. The assistant immediately came in.

  “Take her away. Eliminate the father, the daughter, and the double agent—the three of them. Then bring me Marius Ferris. We’ve got a lot to talk about. But first have him watch them die.”

  “That would help loosen anyone’s tongue,” the assistant responded, smirking.

  “Where are you taking her?” someone who had just come in asked.

  “To the gallows,” the assistant answered sarcastically.

  Barnes grabbed Sarah by her other arm and, without further ado, yanked her out of the assistant’s hands.

  “What are you doing?” J.C. asked.

  “Sit down,” Barnes ordered Sarah before he turned to the old man. “She sent the papers to the Vatican.”

  “I know. She’ll pay for that.”

  “I got a call, precisely from the Vatican, just minutes ago.”

  The old man shuddered. Disbelief darkened his eyes.

  “And what do they want?”

  “It’s not what they want, but what they ordered.”

  57

  LAST DEFENSE SEPTEMBER 28, 1978 OFFICE OF HIS HOLINESS JOHN PAUL I

  Hans had survived a hectic day, but he had the sense that the next few hours would lead to an endless, sleepless night.

  The chief of security for the Swiss Guard had spent the whole afternoon receiving contradictory instructions. While many had come from the secretary of state, there were others from the head of the Vatican Archives, from the secretary of the synod, and from the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith.

  That same afternoon, Cardinal Jean-Marie Villot’s secretary asked to have the Leo XIII passageway, usually kept closed, opened. Later, none other than the prefect of the Doctrine of the Faith told him that this was an unnecessary measure. Archbishop Paul Marcinkus’s office had recommended that he open all points of access to Pope John Paul’s private quarters. Other assistants to different cardinals stopped by the Swiss Guard’s offices to give him notes with even more unusual security details.

  Hans finally guessed that a critical meeting was going to take place in the pope’s office, which was next to his private quarters, in the Apostolic Palace. Naturally, in the security chief’s judgment, this was a highly important political gathering, though informal, since there was no communication from the Vatican public-address system. All he could conclude from that bundle of faxes, phone calls, and loose notes was that those attending would include Secretary of State Jean-Marie Villot, Archbishop Paul Marcinkus, and the Archbishop Vicar of Rome, Ugo Poletti.

  Hans headed for the Apostolic Palace and reinforced the Swiss Guard at the main entrance. Then he called an assistant to deploy guards at the back of the building. Each of the various attending groups was instructed to lead the cardinals through a discreet doorway. From there they would climb a side staircase and gain access to the palace corridor without interference. The Swi
ss Guard took care to seal off all the entrances and prevent any possible intrusion. This way, the cardinals, whoever they might be, would avoid meeting anyone en route and would arrive at the pope’s office within four minutes and fifty seconds. Hans also arranged for a pair of non-uniformed guards stationed at eighty-foot intervals, and at the entrance to the office, two of his best men in full regalia, according to custom.

  The office anteroom had a reception desk, usually occupied by a former assistant to John XXIII whom no one wanted to dismiss, and who was given tasks better suited to an office boy than to a pontifical door guard.

  In the middle of the afternoon the pontiff’s two secretaries left their offices, and Hans knew that the meeting was about to take place. The names of the attendees were going to be relayed to him through his walkie-talkie.

  “Cardinal Villot is coming up, sir.”

  Exactly half a minute later, there was a new walkie-talkie announcement.

  “Cardinal Ugo Poletti and Cardinal Agostino Casaroli are coming up, sir.”

  Cardinal Casaroli served as counselor for Church Public Affairs, a kind of foreign minister for the Vatican.

  A couple of minutes later, the sergeant’s speaker crackled again as the agent stationed at the entrance identified the next guests.

  “Archbishop Marcinkus and Monsignor De Bonis, sir.”

  Paul Marcinkus and Donato de Bonis both belonged to the management of the Vatican Bank.

  Exactly four minutes and fifty seconds later, the first to arrive appeared at the end of the corridor and waited at the top of the stairs for their colleagues.

  Hans observed the guards. Everything was in order.

  When the five cardinals gathered, they exchanged a few words and almost immediately moved toward the pontiff’s office. It was a strange retinue. In the Vatican it was said that “the friends” of Villot, those who familiarly called him Jeanni, were angry about the supposed innovations being introduced by Pope John Paul I. Given all their precautions, it was obvious that Villot, Marcinkus, De Bonis, Casaroli, and Poletti did not wish to be seen together.

  Hans felt a cold shiver watching those five men advance down the corridor. Their friendly, pious mannerisms suddenly seemed menacing, and their billowing black robes produced a somber, sinister effect.

  Without a word to him, they went inside and shut the door behind them.

  HIS HOLINESS didn’t see the five prelates come in. He was looking at the rooftops of Rome from his office window. By then he had almost grown used to these untimely visits. Since that unlucky conclave in which they had named him supreme pontiff, the members of the Curia hadn’t let up on their intrigues for one moment. He knew too well that he was surrounded by wolves. Without turning around, Albino Luciani spoke softly.

  “It’s taken you a long time.”

  Villot observed his companions out of the corner of his eye and, with a slight wave of his hand, asked them not to respond, to let the pope speak.

  John Paul I turned around and observed them with his typical roguish smile. It only served to compound his enemies’ intense mistrust.

  “Yes. You’ve taken a long time and, besides, I expected a few more cardinals. It would have pleased me greatly to see all of you together. Since you’ve got certain activities in common, I imagined that you’d try to mount your defenses.”

  “They are lies, Holy Father,” De Bonis pleaded, hidden behind Marcinkus.

  “Of course, Cardinal. Otherwise, you couldn’t be here,” the pope responded, then going over to his desk and sitting down. The five cardinals remained standing. The pontiff opened one of the folders on his desk and observed the prelates over the top of his glasses. Then he looked back at the papers. “Several days ago, as you surely must know, I received a commission from the Secret Service of the United States.”

  Villot sighed audibly. Finally the Americans were doing something useful. Surely the CIA had informed the pope of certain politicized factions in the Curia that were attacking the secretary of state and Marcinkus. Hopefully the Americans would try to convince John Paul I of the nonexistence of the P2 Lodge.

  “That’s great news, Holy Father. Maintaining friendly relations with the United States of America is a wise decision. The CIA has always been very helpful for the Church, and its directors are godly men.”

  “You may not be aware, Cardinal Villot, that the CIA is not the only American investigative agency. And, luckily, not all the American politicians and judges are as ‘godly’ as you would like. For instance, these friends who visited me were not exactly godly concerning you.”

  “These are crosses the Lord gives us to bear,” Cardinal Casaroli mused. “We resign ourselves to having to stand up to the devil’s temptations, Holy Father.”

  “Yes. I hope you’re able to stand up to them.”

  Albino Luciani got up with the folder in his hand and waved it in front of the cardinals. His eyes showed more sadness than anger, but he could not tolerate the contents of this report.

  “What have you been doing all this time?”

  “Our life is devoted to the benefit of the Church, Holy Father,” Villot answered firmly.

  “To the benefit of the Church?” Luciani asked angrily. “What Church needs to have its servants making clandestine plots and holding secret meetings, Cardinal Villot? Since when did the Church require its priests to get involved with the Masons, Cardinal Poletti? What Church needs to be defended by making filthy money in the Bahamas, Archbishop Marcinkus? Since when has it been Rome’s wish to invest in pornography, Monsignor

  De Bonis? And are we being godly, Cardinal Casaroli, when we get into schemes that could put countries on the brink of war?”

  “These are most grievous accusations, Holy Father!” Villot replied.

  “This is outrageous!” Poletti blurted out.

  “Who has been spreading this slander?” Casaroli asked.

  Pope John Paul I looked askance at them.

  “Somebody who doubtlessly knows you very well.”

  Marcinkus dared to step forward and vent his anger.

  “If the Holy Father is incapable of recognizing when an action is beneficial to the Church, perhaps he should make a resolution in this regard!”

  As the one responsible for Vatican finances, Marcinkus was among those who had been investigating a possible cause for dismissal based on the pontiff’s mental deficiency.

  “Certainly Archbishop Marcinkus ought to distinguish between ‘acting for the benefit of the Church’ and ‘acting well in the Church’!” Albino Luciani declared.

  De Bonis scooted around the wall of Jean-Marie Villot’s cassock, trying to get closer in order to plead for mercy.

  “Holy Father, perhaps we acted badly, but we meant well—”

  “Get away from me!” the pontiff shouted. “If you erred maliciously, God will exact his due. If it was out of ignorance, that’s because of my predecessors’ blindness. In either case, you shall not keep your positions.”

  Villot glared at the Holy Father.

  “You can’t do that!”

  “Tomorrow I’ll submit your dismissal papers together with those corresponding to other positions of authority in the Curia, Cardinal Villot,” Luciani announced.

  The pope left the office, visibly changed. He leaned against the door after it closed. His enemies were on the other side. He begged God’s forgiveness for unleashing his anger.

  HANS, THE CHIEF of security for the Vatican, witnessed the departure of the five most powerful cardinals in the Curia. There was Jean-Marie Villot, violently shaking his black cape edged in red, and spouting curses until he turned to descend the staircase. De Bonis left directly behind Paul Marcinkus, from whom he was humbly seeking an explanation. “Is the Grand Master not planning to act, Cardinal?” “Leave me alone,” God’s banker replied. Casaroli and Poletti left in a hurry, taking short steps and waving their hands. “I already said so, already said that this pope would give us grief.”

  Hans had overheard the s
houts, but wasn’t able to determine the cause of the upset. He ran his hand through his hair, from his forehead to the back of his neck, and turned abruptly to the two Swiss Guards stationed at the entrance to the office.

  “What did you hear?” he asked.

  “Nothing, sir,” the senior member of the team replied.

  “Very well.”

  58

  It’s not about what they want, but what they demand,” Barnes repeated in the interrogation room in the heart of Manhattan.

  “Demand?” J.C. exclaimed. “Don’t be ridiculous.” “Demand?” J.C. exclaimed. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “They have the list.”

  “W-w-what?” the assistant stammered.

  “It’s true,” Barnes assured him. “Do you swear it?” he asked, turning to Sarah.

  The young woman nodded.

  “All right,” the old man said. “What are they demanding?”

  “To end this here and now, and they won’t take any action. No more dead, no more wounded. Otherwise they’ll use all available means against us, putting the papers in the hands of public opinion.”

  The old man’s breathing was getting more and more labored.

  “There’s something here that doesn’t jibe.”

  “What do you mean, sir?” the assistant asked.

  “If the Vatican has the papers, why are they demanding that everyone be freed? That should be a matter of no importance.”

  His reasoning was logical, but as the practical man that he was, he didn’t engage in speculation. The woman had deceived him. He wouldn’t have thought her capable of it. The Master decided to follow Sarah’s game, to see where it would lead. Perhaps this would prove more effective than torture.

  “And if we go along?” the old man asked unenthusiastically.

  “Everything will stay as it is. Nobody will lose anything. But they are insisting that the woman confirm to a Vatican messenger that they have been freed.”

  “We shouldn’t accept, sir,” the assistant declared. “We can still recover the other papers.”