The Pope's Assassin

by Luís Miguel Rocha

  Schmidt removed the belt from around the corpse's neck, and slipped it through the loops of his pants.

  Finally he took the phone and dialed three numbers, sat down on the edge of the bed, and looked at Trevor's body with a serious expres sion. When the call was answered, he assumed a stricken tone.

  "Tarcisio, please, come here, for the love of God. Come quickly. The murderer. The murderer is still in the Vatican."

  59

  When a routine is broken, altering the natural predisposition of events that, normally, are governed by a well-outlined chronol ogy, it is God's way of showing believers and heretics that everything obeys His will. At least that's what he believed as he returned down the Via degli Astalli, for the second time looking for suspicious eyes. No one was following him.

  He'd received the message on his cell phone at his personal num ber and not on the other card, the black one, where he communicated when he needed information, locations he couldn't find on his own, or some request that required special authorization. This time, against all rules, they demanded his presence, overriding all the standards of security, a sign of urgency. Although the message included a security sign that only his mentor used in the name of God, he couldn't be too careful.

  He looked at his watch and decided to take a third turn around the neighborhood to remove all doubt. Ten minutes later he came out on the Piazza di Gesù. He glanced at the passersby, few at that hour, perhaps because it had rained hard earlier in the afternoon. A smat tering of tourists were admiring the facade of the Church of the Gesù, designed by Giacomo della Porta, and taking pictures; others walked by in a hurry, paying no attention to what was around them. The traf fic was heavy, since the plaza was a central location of the Eternal City with access to the heart of Rome and a transfer point for many other locations.

  At first glance all the doors were closed, but he knew that was not so. Not for him.

  He walked to the door on the far left, opened a glass-paned door and another wooden one painted green. The creaking hinges announced his presence.

  The interior was grandiose. Ten side chapels dedicated to various religious subjects from the Passion to the Sacred Heart, and to the mor tal remains of Saint Ignatius, the helmsman for eternity for the society.

  At the back, next to the high altar, a man in black was kneeling, hands joined, head bowed. With his back turned he couldn't see who it was.

  "Come nearer," the man in black said.

  He came forward slowly, checking each niche and exit where he might hide in case of an attack. His senses were fully alert.

  "Come, my son. Don't be afraid," the other said. "Ad maiorem Dei gloriam. We don't attack our own. Perinde ac cadaver. Deus vocat. You have been a faithful servant," he said irritably.

  He walked more quickly. He remembered the verse that came to him in the street and smiled. Have no fear, for the Lord, your God, will fight for you. He was welcome. He knew it. He felt it.

  When he came to the transept, he stopped at a respectful distance from the man who was praying to the Almighty.

  "Come closer," the other ordered. "Kneel beside me."

  He obeyed hesitantly. Terrified would more accurately characterize his feelings, but he knelt down, blessed himself, joined his hands, and shut his eyes.

  He didn't even try to look at the other man out of the corner of his eye. All he could see was the stems of his glasses.

  "The enemy deceived us," said the man in black.

  What? He hadn't expected this revelation. He had to say something or look like an idiot.

  "How did that happen, sir?"

  "I lack men like you, my son. Dedicated, competent, believers. We are living in diffi cult times."

  "You can count on me, sir. My purpose is to serve God, and God only." This escaped him before he could control his tongue.

  "You're my best servant, my son," the other repeated sorrowfully. "Two names are left on your list."

  He confirmed that with a nod, though he knew it wasn't a question.

  "You're going to have an opportunity to fulfill the will of God tonight. I'm going to give you all the necessary information."

  "I'll do it with dedication, sir," he asserted.

  "I know, Nicolas. I know," the other said, calling him by his name in a clear demonstration of confidence. He took a paper from his pocket and gave it to the servant. "This is all the information you'll need."

  Nicolas took the paper and put it away. It was not appropriate to read it at the moment.

  "Your help has been invaluable," the man in black praised him. "What was the code for Ursino?"

  "CS," he said.

  "We have an RO for the Spaniard, HT for the Turk, IS for the German, and KS for Ursino. What will Ratzinger's be?"

  Nicholas was like a timid child who thought he knew the answer, but was uncertain and afraid to reply.

  "Say it, man," the other ordered, not missing anything.

  "If you will permit me to suggest, sir, I think that Ratzinger and Wojtyla have no code. It seems to me the code should be KHRISTOS."

  The other reflected on this a few moments and then raised his hand to his forehead. "Of course. We're blind to the obvious, Nicolas."

  "And now, sir?"

  "Now follow the instructions I gave you. Our enemy is now no lon ger Ben Isaac. We were deceived, but there is time to correct the error," he proclaimed vehemently. "The dice have been rolled."

  "Certainly, sir," Nicolas replied, getting up. There was work to do.

  "Wait. Kneel down with me. We're going to pray the Our Father together. He'll give us strength to finish this business."

  Nicolas kneeled down promptly, hands joined, head bowed, eyes closed, and repeated the Lord's Prayer.

  60

  No matter how many turns the earth makes around the sun, it always ends up in the same place, as if it were a faithful servant of an unknown order, and although the orbit is always the same, day after day, night after night, year after year, the blue firmament is always different.

  Life imitates this rotation, turning on itself and around others, passing the same places but in constant evolution, mobile, changing.

  Sarah saw him and blushed immediately as soon as he entered the plane cabin behind Gavache. She had seen him a little more than six months before in this same city, and despite not being the same person herself, it was as if she had just seen him yesterday.

  She hated blushing, but fortunately Gavache made sure all the attention was on him.

  "Commander, get us on our way. First stop Paris, and then wher ever you want. It doesn't matter to me," he said while he took off his overcoat and sat down heavily in a seat.

  "We're going to Paris?" Jacopo protested. "What great service."

  "How many times do we save lives every day, Jean-Paul?" Gavache asked as he looked out the window.

  "Once, Inspector," Jean-Paul promptly answered, seated next to Sarah.

  Gavache looked back at Jacopo and frowned. "My work is done for the day."

  Rafael and Sarah exchanged looks quickly, then the priest sat down next to Gavache.

  An attendant came out of the cockpit and entered the passenger cabin with a cell phone in her hand. "Captain Frank Terry has ordered electronic devices turned off. We'll be taking off in twenty minutes. We'll make a brief stop in Paris and continue on to Rome, our fi nal destination. Estimated time of flight is four hours. I wish you a pleas ant flight, and I look forward to serving you." She immediately went to Sarah with the phone. "You have a call, miss."

  Sarah lifted the phone to her ear and blushed again on hearing, "Good afternoon, my dear." It was JC. "I hope this hasn't been a boring day." Always cynical. He never changed.

  "On the contrary," she replied sarcastically. "The part when you suggested that Ben Isaac kill me was a brilliant touch."

  "I couldn't resist, Sarah," JC confessed. "And it worked, as you see." He changed the subject. "I just left your beloved at the airport. Tonight he'll be back in the hotel
where you're staying. You should be proud of him. He played his part perfectly."

  "I heard." Sarah suddenly felt guilt for not thinking about Fran cesco. "How is he?"

  "I gave him five-star treatment, Sarah."

  I imagine so, she thought. But she also knew that Francesco wouldn't appreciate it for a moment. She would have a lot to explain.

  "Do you want to give me a message for Cardinal William?" she asked.

  "No, thanks. I'll get in touch with him personally. But give my thanks to Inspector Gavache. I'll arrange for his daughter to get into the Sorbonne, but don't tell him that. I'm only bragging. I have to ask you another favor, Sarah. Nothing too diffi cult."

  Sarah closed her eyes. She remembered William in the Palazzo Madama, saying the same thing. JC told us that Sarah was the right person for the job and no one else. He kidnapped the son of a famous Jewish banker. We're going to put you in contact with him to get back the parchments I spoke about.

  "How will I do that?" Sarah had asked incredulously in the middle of the gallery displaying the faces of Christ.

  Just follow the instructions he'll send you during the operation. He gave her a cell phone. You can't imagine how grateful the church will be for all you are doing.

  Everything had gone well. He'd sent her a message to say that he'd asked Ben Isaac to get rid of her, which made her apprehensive, but then he told her that Gavache and Garvis were on the way. Everything happened according to JC's plan.

  Now he was asking her for something else. This man never stopped.

  "Tell me," she forced herself to ask. She couldn't avoid it.

  "Under the seat you'll fi nd a package. Just follow the instructions. My regards to our favorite priest, also. He must not be very happy to have been left on the sidelines all this time. Until the next time, Sarah," he concluded with a chuckle before hanging up.

  Sarah put the phone down on the arm of the seat and reached under. There it was. A white plastic bag. Marks & Spencer. She took out the contents, and her initial suspicion gave way to a suppressed laugh. On a Post-it stuck to the package was written, Follow the instructions on the back. JC was priceless. Always a step ahead. She read the text and remem bered they were taking off in twenty minutes. There was time. She stuck the pregnancy test kit back in the sack, got up, and went to the lavatory.

  In the front seats Jacopo sat next to a window with no one at his side, and on the other side, Gavache by the window, with Rafael next to him. Passing them, Sarah bent down to the inspector. "JC is extremely grateful." She stepped back to look at the priest. "He sends his greetings."

  "What does JC have to do with this?" Rafael asked heatedly.

  "So you can talk after all!" Sarah exclaimed sarcastically, leaving the men and going to the toilet.

  "Are you relaxed enough to tell me what the hell's going on?" Rafael asked irritably.

  "The deceived husband is always the last to know," Jacopo spoke from his seat with a smile.

  "I'll take care of you later," Rafael warned him.

  "Well, well, well," Barry's voice was heard. He'd come up from a compartment in the back of the plane to talk to Rafael, who was sur prised but didn't want to show it. "Look who's here." He approached Rafael.

  "You're here?" Rafael welcomed him. He had no idea what was going on but didn't want the American to know. "I thought we were going to have dinner tonight. Couldn't you wait? You missed me so much?"

  Barry gave him a victory smile. "That trick with the taxi was very good." He shook his hand in greeting.

  "It was one of my best moments," Rafael returned. "I see you're in JC's service also."

  "Always in the service of the American people," Barry corrected him. "JC left us out of this, but he offered us this small participation as a reward for being so diligent in pursuing the truth."

  "He has a special knack for getting people to do things for him without having to ask."

  "I thought to myself, why not give him a little hand? What could it be that the church wants back so badly that they have to ask a living legend like JC to do it?"

  "I understand you," Rafael said ironically. "They have to be pretty desperate to ask the pope's assassin to do something like this."

  "The alleged assassin," Barry corrected.

  "The assassin of who?" Aris asked curiously, joining the group.

  "I'd like to introduce my operative, Aris," Barry said. "This is the famous Jack Payne." He looked at Gavache. "And you are?"

  "The no-less-famous Inspector Gavache of the French police."

  "Pleased to meet you." Barry offered his hand.

  Aris greeted the two men also, looking at Rafael more closely than good manners might dictate. "The assassin of who?" he asked again.

  "Rafael was talking about JC, the alleged assassin of Pope John Paul the First."

  "This is getting more interesting by the moment," Aris said.

  "So you decided to give us a ride," Rafael concluded.

  "Exactly. For old times' sake."

  For a moment there was a feeling of tension in the air. When Rafael was a double agent under the name Jack Payne, he collaborated with the CIA as part of P2, a Masonic lodge controlled by JC. In truth it was a triple situation, since Rafael didn't loyally serve the CIA or JC, but the Holy Church. He was still not looked at kindly by the Agency, but he had earned the respect of the old man. Very few managed to deceive JC and survive.

  "I imagine he's somewhere in Jerusalem," Rafael suggested to break the ice.

  "You know how he is. Here today, there tomorrow. I didn't want such important documents on a commercial flight. The Holy See is grateful."

  I imagine so, Rafael thought to himself. He knew that nothing Barry said was entirely true. Barry wanted to be in JC's good graces, a power ful ally it was convenient to cultivate. Then the Holy See would owe him a favor, whether they liked it or not. But above all, Barry wanted what all secret agencies want—information. Whoever has it comes out on top.

  The flight attendant interrupted this pleasant conversation."Excuse me. We're taking off now, and I have to ask you to take a seat."

  "Certainly," Barry obeyed. "Later, Payne."

  Rafael looked at Gavache with an unfriendly expression.

  "I understand your irritation, Father," Gavache offered. "You've got to understand that sometimes to get the ship to a good port, you need to navigate in the fog."

  "I don't understand why I had to come to this plane to meet that bastard," he said, pointing at Jacopo, "and Sarah . . ." Then he stopped, as if he couldn't say more. Of course. It could only be so. He began to shake his head. He couldn't believe it. He was a naive fool. He'd let himself be used like a puppet. He was losing his touch.

  "Don't blame yourself, Father," Gavache said, grabbing some crackers the flight attendant was offering on a tray. "You couldn't have known. When we don't want someone to focus on something specifi cally, we simply—"

  "I know how you work," Rafael interrupted. This made him even more annoyed. "You never needed me for anything, right? Jacopo was the bait, and I fell for it like a beginner on his fi rst mission."

  "What do you think, Jean-Paul? I never needed the reverend father?" He asked toward the backseat.

  "Father Rafael was the one who discovered the Jesuit involvement, Inspector," Jean-Paul replied behind.

  Gavache looked at the priest with an expression as if to say, You see how important you were?

  "But you were working with JC," Rafael argued.

  "The only thing I did for JC was guarantee that Sarah would leave Ben Isaac's house with the documents."

  "Why did you call me to Paris to stage that scene with me over why I was there or not," Rafael pressured him.

  "Why did I call the reverend father to Paris, Jean-Paul?"

  "Technically, it was also JC who asked, Inspector."

  "Okay, so I did two favors for JC," he responded, without a trace of shame. "That means he holds you in high regard." He took a deep breath. "The truth is, I have two re
lated crimes on my hands and your contribution to solving them was decisive. I know you'd like a more elaborate explanation, but I'm not the one to give it to you, Father," Gavache concluded.

  Rafael blamed himself. How could he have been such an idiot? JC again pulling all the strings in the plot, but this time it was different. JC was involved with the Vatican. He looked at Jacopo angrily. He wanted to strangle him.

  "Don't stare at me," Jacopo said uncomfortably. "I didn't know any more than the inspector," he said in his defense.