THE
POPE'S ASSASSIN
Luis M. Rocha
Translation by Robin McAllister
G . P. P U T N A M ' S S O N S
New York
THE POPE'S ASSASSIN
Also by Luis M. Rocha
The Holy Bullet
The Last Pope
THE
POPE'S ASSASSIN
Luis M. Rocha
Translation by Robin McAllister
G . P. P U T N A M ' S S O N S
New York
G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
Publishers Since 1838
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA
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Copyright © 2011 by Luis M. Rocha
Translation from the Portuguese © 2011 by Robin McAllister
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Purchase only authorized editions.
Published simultaneously in Canada
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Rocha, Luis Miguel, date.
[Assassino do papa. English]
The pope's assassin/Luis M. Rocha; translation by Robin McAllister.
p. cm.
ISBN 1-101-46790-8
1. Benedict XVI, Pope, 1927—Fiction. 2. Catholic Church—Fiction.
3. Women journalists—Fiction. I. McAllister, Robin. II. Title.
PQ9318.O34A8813 2011 2010044057
869.3'5—dc22
book design by amanda dewey
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product
of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any
resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies,
events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
While the author has made every effort to provide accurate telephone numbers and Internet addresses at the time of publication, neither the publisher nor the author assumes any responsibility for errors, or for changes that occur after publication. Further, the publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED TO
IOANNES PP. XXIII
ANGELO GIUSEPPE RONCALLI
November 25, 1881–June 3, 1963
And to Ben Isaac as well
PART ONE
Ad Maiorem Dei Gloriam
An agreement was possible. —John XXIII, November 20, 1960
1
Instruct those you trust to reveal the secret on the first night of each
election. The reading of it must be the fi rst official act of every heir
of Peter. It is vitally important that they acknowledge the secret. Let
them guard it in a hidden place and permit no one else to read it.
Any violation of this ritual could signify the end of our beloved and
esteemed Church.
—Clement VII, June 17, 1530, Vatican
April 19, 2005
The canonical election of Cardinal Joseph Alois Ratzinger would be remembered, for as long as memory exists, on this day of April, ending the papal vacancy since the fifth of that same month.
As soon as Sodano, the vice deacon of the College of Cardinals, asked him to accept the position that God had selected, at the end of the fourth ballot, he did not hesitate to say "I accept." The fi ve sec onds he took to reply "Pope Benedict" to the question "What name do you wish to be called?" also indicated forethought. Don't forget that Ratzinger was the deacon of the college—that is, had he not been the chosen one, he would have asked the same questions to the elected candidate. It's a curious fact that 90 percent of his predecessors pre ferred a name different from the one their mothers gave them.
The faithful congregated in Saint Peter's Square, hoping that the smoke would be white, not the dark, ashen color it was. Few of those present remembered the fi rst and second conclaves of 1978, in which the same problem arose. Nine million euros to organize a conclave, and they always forgot to clean the chimney of the Sistine Chapel. So, after ten minutes of waiting, with many leaving the square, the bells of the basilica roared with frenzied alarm, spreading smiles instead of fear, through the whole plaza and surroundings.
We have a pope.
Inside the holy chapel the Gamarelli brothers fitted the papal vest ments to the body of the new pontiff. There was no surprise this time. The expected candidate had won. It was always easier when the previ ous pope had expressed his will. John XXIII did so when on his death bed he named Cardinal Giovanni Montini as his successor. In the case of the Polish Wojtyla, the decision had been made earlier. One should never disobey the last wishes of a dying man, especially someone so close to the Creator. Leaving the decision in the hands of the Holy Spirit subjected the church to surprises like those of Pope Luciani and of Wojtyla himself.
Sodano could not have been happier. His beloved church would remain secure. Ratzinger was a known man in a known place. No one would do a better job.
The Chilean Jorge Medina Estévez was the first to appear at the balcony before the jubilant crowd. A new savior was about to be announced to the city and a world enraptured with the news: the name, the man.
The sixteenth pope with the name Benedict was introduced to his tory. No one would ever be able to erase him from its pages, even if he reigned only one day.
Ratzinger gave himself totally to this new persona he had created and fulfilled the role with distinction. He was no longer the prefect of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith, no longer a cardinal, but an institution with its own coat of arms and personal security. He made a short speech, composed that afternoon, in which he sensitively recalled the Polish pope, who had been so well loved. He blessed the city and the world—Catholic, naturally—and retired to take posses sion of all his properties.
From that hour he was responsible for an immeasurable, valuable empire. It would take months to learn of all its possessions, at least those they revealed to him. Of the rest . . . not even the Supreme Pontiff himself could know everything he owned, nor would that be advisable.
When night fell and the world rejoiced at the image of Benedict on the Maderno balcony of Saint Peter's Basilica greeting the crowd, a large committee led by the Shepherd of Shepherds himself began another, more private ritual. The chamberlain Somalo broke the seals on the papal apartments in the apostolic apartments and opened the two massive doors before stepping back reverently to let the chosen of God enter. The chosen one had to enter his future living quarters before anyone else, tak
ing possession of what was his. As soon as Rat- zinger stepped inside what would be his final residence, he was followed by a crowd of assistants, religious and lay, who were privileged to serve the new owner.
After such a tiring day, it was late for dining. He answered some phone messages of congratulation from the more important chiefs of state, as diplomacy required, the ones that merited a personal thank you. For the rest, a written message to the dignitaries of the embassies was enough. No one wanted to forget to congratulate the new pope, but, if by chance someone did, there would be a price to pay. Humil ity and turning the other cheek were left to the religious orders who practiced such benevolence, or to Christ. In politics there is no room for mercy.
He entered his office after a light supper. Grilled meat with green beans, shredded carrots, and a drizzle of Riserva d'Oro olive oil over everything. The last time he'd been there, he had been a mere cardi nal, rather more like a prince, but now he was an emperor. Now he felt completely different. He passed his hand over the portentous desk. There he would sign the future decrees of his church. He wanted her to be magnificent, matching the vestments he wore, set on steady pillars, shielded in his strong, knowing hands. The reins were his.
He sat down and savored the moment. He remembered Wojtyla and the decades in which he had observed him sitting down heavily in the same chair and deciding the destiny of the church. Sitting there, it was impos sible to forget that he was chosen for the office for life. Sodano and Somalo were watching him. A new pope was taking possession of the church.
At that moment another person, wearing a black cassock, entered and knelt with difficulty to greet Benedict with a kiss on the hand that still wore no ring. Many had already kissed his hand that day, but none so earnestly. The priest was old and breathed heavily
"I don't remember seeing you before," Ratzinger said, smiling. Nothing upset him today.
"Pardon my interruption, Holy Father. My name is Ambrosiano. I was the confessor of our beloved Pope John Paul after the death of Father Michalski," he explained, panting. "The canon law requires that Your Holiness confess tonight to begin your pontificate free of sin." He apologized, "Not that you have any, Holiness, please don't misunder stand me. Later you can choose your own confessor."
"The Society of Jesus has rigid rules. Didn't Cardinal Dezza also confess Pope Wojtyla?" Ratzinger asked.
"Only in the first few years, Holy Father. But Dezza confessed Pope Montini through his entire pontificate and Pope Luciani. Afterward, Pope Wojtyla named Dezza as superior general of the society until the new election, if you recall."
"Of course, of course. A great servant of the church," he said, remembering the past. "And now Father Ambrosiano wants to con fess me."
"It's the canon law, Holy Father," the priest repeated.
"And we must always respect the canons. I shall make sure of that," Ratzinger affirmed, brandishing his finger, as if about to deliver a speech.
The priest pulled out a chain he wore around his neck with a key he used to open one of the drawers of the desk. A leather folder with a lock and an envelope with the pontifical coat of arms of his predeces sor were inside. He took everything out of the drawer and set it on the desk in front of Benedict.
"Pope John Paul specifically instructed me to have Your Holiness carefully read the contents of this folder today. He left all the infor mation specifically for you in this envelope," Ambrosiano explained, handing over the sealed envelope. "No one else may read it."
Benedict looked at the priest, the cardinals, and the envelope. "I shall respect his will," he said at last.
The two cardinals heard this as a request to retire, and complied without delay. The wish of a pope was an order.
"Read it at your leisure, Holy Father," the Jesuit priest said, going out. "When you're ready, just call."
Benedict closed his eyes and leaned back. Thousands of thoughts flooded his mind. He was going to read a secret shared only among popes. What an extraordinary way to begin his reign. Moments later he broke the seal on the envelope the Pole had left. The paper smelled musty.
Dear Chosen One,
I congratulate you on your election. History continues its glorious path after two thousand years. You have just accepted the most demanding duty on the planet. Prepare yourself. It will be a hard, ungrateful road, and the worst is that that begins right now.
Inside this folder you will find information read by few others. Crucial information about our church. You must not . . . you cannot refuse to read it and you must instruct your secretaries to present it to your successor on the night of the next election.
The ritual began with Clement VII and developed further with Pius IX and John XXIII. It has always been complied with, AND ALWAYS MUST BE. Unfortunately, you'll soon understand why.
I leave you in the good graces of God. May He
illuminate you and give you strength to carry out the
enormous duty you will find in the final pages. On your
strength the future of our church will depend.
John Paul II P.P.
October 29, 1978
Benedict was filled with curiosity after reading the letter Lolek had written almost twenty-seven years ago. What could be inside this folder?
The envelope held a small gilt key that opened the folder. He took out almost one hundred pages and started reading. Soon he realized by the sting of his tired eyes that he was not prepared. He read some pas sages again to make sure he had read them correctly, others he raced through as quickly as possible, as if to escape something distressing or inconvenient.
He finished reading after midnight. Exhausted, he locked up the folder and shut it in the desk drawer. Drops of sweat stood out on his forehead. His hands trembled. He laid his head on the desk until he regained some control over his nerves. Finally he calmed down. When he pushed himself up, he felt older, exhausted.
"God have mercy upon us," he said, making the sign of the cross.
At this moment Father Ambrosiano returned to the papal offi ce.
Ratzinger looked different. Sorrow was wasting his soul. Silence was punishing him. The Jesuit knew why. This time he didn't kneel to kiss the pope's hand. Ratzinger approached him humbly and fell at his feet. He sobbed with tears that fell in torrents.
"Forgive me, Father. I have sinned," the pope implored, closing his eyes.
Ambrosiano caressed the pope's head with a comforting hand. "I know, my son. I know."
2
Father Ernesto Aragones knew that his hour would come. It was a question of minutes. Sooner or later he would end up fi nding him inside. The light given off by the candle flame gave the place a murky yellow look. Shadows swarmed over the walls and the fl oor like drunken phantoms from other times. But the father was not there to let himself be frightened or enchanted by the spells of the place.
The watchman could not be found anywhere. He was his last hope. Otherwise he wouldn't find anyone to help him. Natural for that hour of the night. The tourists had left long ago to find other attractions, more of the body than of the soul. Sweat spread over his face. He was very nervous, but the moment demanded lucidity. He felt like a crusader in the land of infidels who had to perform one last act of heroism.
Aragones made him out in the apse, next to the stairs that led to the Chapel of Adam, leaning against Golgotha, and escaped as quickly as he could. His eighty years didn't allow him much speed or fl exibility. He took off his shoes to silence his steps. He set his shoes very straight on top of the stone of Unction, where supposedly the body of Christ was prepared for burial: not on this one, which dated from 1810, but in this place, at least according to legend. He forced himself to walk under the rotunda and enter the tomb. There was no holier place for Chris tians, though it was totally unknown to the masses. For Ernesto it was a great privilege, despite his fear. To give himself to God in the place where the body of Jesus Christ had been laid before His resurrection on the third day. How ironic. Ernesto felt fear as he knew he woul
d. Few could go through this moment safely and without fear.
Aragones heard steps in the rotunda outside. It was him. He searched his memory to retrieve an image of the man next to the grilles of the Chapel of Adam. He was tall. He wore a well-cut suit and a blue shirt, but no tie. Unimportant details, but his mind retained them. He couldn't make out the color of the suit precisely, since the place was poorly lit during the day, to say nothing of the night.
My Father, protect Your servant, Ernesto prayed, kneeling on a mar ble flagstone. He made the sign of the cross unhurriedly, shut his eyes, and prayed. There was nothing more to do.
Shadows still trembled on the walls in an ever more frenetic rhythm, matching the pounding of his heart. Reaching a certain height, they stretched out gigantically, and despite Ernesto's closed eyes and a moment of apparent calm, his heartbeat accelerated in his chest for what would be the last in his life. He knew it. He remained kneeling on the marble flagstone, which protected the rock that had borne the weight of Christ. But Ernesto wasn't thinking of this. In his final moments, he needed some inner peace.
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