The Holy Bullet

by Luís Miguel Rocha

  He’d been in Rome for three days and expected to leave the country that same thirteenth of May, after completing the job entrusted to him. It wasn’t easy to pull off, but the challenge thrilled his young heart. If he overcame these obstacles, everyone would look at him differently, with respect and admiration, even some envy—well, those within his own circle would, obviously. Society, however, would never know of his existence or his central role in the act that would change the Catholic world forever. Killing a pope was not really new; others had done it in the past. The former pope, Albino Luciani, was proof of that, as he well knew, but never had anyone done it before the eyes of the world in plain daylight, without waiting for the silence of the night to later blame a weak heart. This murder was much more daring: killing and escaping, in the middle of twenty thousand people in broad daylight at five in the afternoon.

  The afternoon rain gave way to the sun that shone on the city and the small Papal State with pleasant spring warmth. The rain might be a good ally. He could hide his movements behind the open umbrellas. On the other hand, John Paul would have to have an assistant holding an umbrella over him. Worse, he might have to ride around in a closed vehicle. With sun, the universe conspired in his favor. The perfect crime is not one that doesn’t look like a crime, but one for which no one is caught.

  His orders had been precise, kill and leave, shoot and flee. If he was captured, they could do nothing for him. But everything was going to go well. Full of faith in himself, he squeezed the handle of the revolver in his jacket pocket. Fifteen more minutes …

  A FEW BLOCKS from Saint Peter’s Square there is another admirable temple of Christianity, the Basilica of Santa Maria Maggiore, the most ancient place of worship on earth dedicated to the Virgin. It is also known as Santa Maria della Neve, or Liberiana, in honor of Liberius, a fourth-century pope, to whom the Virgin appeared in dreams and whom she asked to build a chapel in Rome in a place where it would snow in a few days. Such a climatic miracle happened in fact in full summer on the night of the fourth or fifth of August in the year 358 on the Esquiline Hill. As pope, Liberius forgot the Virgin’s humble request and sketched out a plan in the snow for what would be an enormous sanctuary. It would not be until a century later, during the papacy of Sixtus III—immediately after the Council of Ephesus, which confirmed the divine maternity of Mary and made official what had been known for five centuries, the existence of the Son of God, conceived without sin—that the basilica was constructed. It was even larger than had been planned in the initial project of Liberius’s sanctuary, to whom it was consecrated. This same sacred edifice, restored above and below, stands today over the Esquiline Hill and every fifth of August is flooded with white petals symbolizing the snow that never again fell in full summer.

  At five in the afternoon that thirteenth day of May, a man in purple entered this domain and walked with slow steps around the portentous apse, ignoring the faithful and the tourists, as well as the dazzling mosaics of the Franciscan friar Jacopo Torriti, dating from the thirteenth century, which depict the Coronation of the Virgin. Nor did he pay attention to the ancient columns of Athenian marble that support the nave and have served as a model for many other, similar structures in the Catholic world, or to the tomb where Gian Lorenzo Bernini rests for eternity. Nothing disturbed the concentration of the bishop, who continued toward the altar.

  “Does Your Eminence need anything?” one of the Redemptorists asked ingratiatingly. He had placed himself in the path of the prelate, not discourteously, but rather wishing to be of service.

  The man in purple stopped a moment on seeing his way blocked and, after some thought, avoided the brother responsible for the confessions that day.

  “Out of the way,” he muttered, almost pushing him, something he probably would have done had the brother not stepped aside. “All I needed was a Dominican getting in my way.”

  His destination was a few feet farther, next to a bronze baldachin, where he descended the steps that led to the crypt.

  The Crypt of Bethlehem, also called that of the Nativity, is a sacred place with great religious and historical significance. It holds, according to tradition, the relics of the Holy Land, including the wooden boards belonging to the cradle Jesus slept in. All these can be seen in this crypt where Ignacio de Loyola celebrated his first Mass on the twenty-fifth of December, 1538, before founding the celebrated Company of Jesus. The man in purple descended to the holy place, got down on his knees, and crossed himself.

  “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” he prayed, lowering his head in submission and genuine repentance. “The flesh is weak, I am weak. The devil tempts me daily, and I don’t have the strength to resist.”

  Tears sprang from his eyes like springs opening new furrows. His suffering was not insignificant, nor the load on his shoulders, making him implore God the Father Omnipotent for His sacred divine mercy. Let him who is without sin cast the first stone at this sorrowful bishop of the Roman Catholic Church, since not even the saints were able to live lives immune to evil temptations, although they resisted more than common mortals. Popes and doctors of the Church are buried in this crypt. The bishop came to ask clemency and strength from them, since the weight of the load was too much for one man alone.

  “Help me, Saint Jerome, intercede for me with the Infant Jesus,” he prayed, asking favors from the saint buried there, since a bishop should be attended to before the other faithful, one of the privileges of serving God. “For the sake of all the most sacred, take this weight off my shoulders. Let me breathe.” He got up and took out a key hanging on a gold chain around his neck. He inserted it in the lock of the door and turned it. It wasn’t opened often, but it showed no deterioration, perhaps because gold is immune to the ravages of climate, history, and the madness of men.

  The key turned the interconnected mechanisms that opened the ark. From within his cassock, the prelate took out a large yellow envelope, which he placed inside. His pensive expression lasted a few moments. Sweat mixed with tears—the same salt for different sensations. He closed his eyes as he turned the key, closing the ark that guarded the secret until history decides to judge it in another time, neither better nor worse, but different from this age, far off, when no one with ties to such a secret would remain in this earthly city.

  Calmer now, he backed up a few steps with his head lowered, submissive but not humble.

  “Our Father, forgive me for what I have done,” he said in a grave, sorrowful voice. He opened his eyes, still damp, and crossed himself before leaving the crypt. “And for what I have ordered done.”

  AT THE SAME TIME the bishop left the Basilica of Santa Maria Maggiore, where he had expiated the sins that tormented his conscience, John Paul, the second Shepherd of the Shepherds with that name, made his appearance in Saint Peter’s Square before the twenty thousand people present. A passage, opened up among the faithful by the security forces, indicated the path of his pope-mobile, specially purchased for these occasions. The crowd cheered the Holy Father, creating a deafening clamor that spread over the plaza, adjacent streets, and alleys. He was the pope, the holiest among the holiest, the voice of God on earth. What would one not pay for a moment like this, to be able to see him, two or three steps away, gesturing, smiling gratefully for the attendance and faith of the crowd?

  The twenty-three-year-old waited for the right moment. The caravan was still more than a hundred yards away, approaching slowly. The Polish pope truly wanted to be seen by each of his beloved faithful. Enjoy your last ovation, the young man thought to himself. From here you go directly to the tomb. He breathed the confidence of youth, excessive and stupid, which ends with time, or not, depending on the life each leads and the force with which life bends us to its will, without mercy, without thought.

  Fifty yards separated life from the valley of the shadow of death, misfortune from brief glory, Wojtyla from Mehmet, the latter being the name of the beardless twenty-three-year-old with his hands hidden in his jacket pockets, despi
te the warm day. Nothing united them in that moment, an assassin disguised as a worshipper and the greatest penitent of them all, unaware that he was the target of a boy, a professional gunman, prepared to add the crowning touch to his career, for which he would never be forgotten.

  At forty yards, the people began to crowd together more and more tightly, elbowing one another with the selfish hope of gaining a better position to see the pope. Who knows, maybe they’d even snatch a glance and beneficence from the Holy Father, a personal gesture not to be shared. What greater fortune could happen than to go to Rome, see the pope, and be seen and greeted by him, from two or three steps away. They were perfectly aware the Supreme Pontiff would never remember them in his dreams, conversations, discourses … but none of that mattered.

  The thirty yards between the pope and the shooter revealed a problem the boy hadn’t foreseen and couldn’t control: the pressing crowd made movement impossible. Ironically, one of the things that made the plan infallible, a shot coming from the middle of the crowd, fired without anyone’s knowing from where or by whom, seemed instantly problematic. It was as if the twenty thousand people, unconsciously of course, wanted to protect their pastor from something they could not foresee, not even in their darkest thoughts. Or perhaps it was their God directing such an outcome from each of those present. Certainly such a thought passed through the shooter’s mind, but as soon as it unexpectedly appeared, it left. It was time to act, to focus, and to neutralize his target.

  Twenty yards. The euphoria grew with every step, an experience of authentic and sacred faith that filled Saint Peter’s Square with commotion. Indifferent to that mystical experience, Mehmet mentally reviewed his own life, feeling recognition and admiration, even glory, approaching. He was jammed between an old, weeping Polish woman who cried out incomprehensible words in her native language, two Germans, an Italian soldier with his medals from a lifetime taking lives in defense of his country, a cripple in a wheelchair from Naples, and five Consolata missionary sisters. They all added to Mehmet’s confusion. He couldn’t find, as hard as he looked, the desired clear line of fire. He only needed a few inches of space, even less, and no one would catch him, but he could barely even draw his pistol from his pocket. “Damn,” he cursed. His target smiled at the crowd.

  Ten yards. Mehmet could make out every feature of Wojtyla’s face and body. He could see his benign smile, the gestures of gratitude to the crowd, repeated over and over from the beginning of his route, but appearing always new, captivating, heartfelt. The pope emanated joy, radiance, hope, and all this created a psychological echo in those present, a redoubled encouragement, a hope so strong that everyone desired a little part of the glance and the sacred gestures of John Paul II. Mehmet needed only one second of less crowding to do his job successfully. The rain would have been a better ally, but a good executioner doesn’t look for excuses at the moment of truth. He would get out of there one way or another, or not. That was the risk, but the job had to be done.

  This was the moment. If the pope moved on, Mehmet would fail. You escaped once, he thought, remembering the recent past. Today you are mine. He calmed his mind as much as possible and drew the gun from his pocket. He squeezed the trigger once, twice, three, four, five, six times, until he was tackled by the people surrounding him. They disarmed him, and he was lucky not to be lynched as well. The security forces arrested him, while the pope-mobile accelerated away as fast as possible with the wounded pope helped by his assistants toward the protective walls of the Holy See. In booking Mehmet, they found a piece of paper with a phrase written in Turkish. Later someone translated it: “I am killing the pope as a protest against the imperialism of the Soviet Union and the United States of America and against the genocide they are carrying out in El Salvador and in Afghanistan.”

  Handcuffed and dragged before the police, Mehmet screamed out loud in his native tongue, while people looked on at him incredulously, sorrowfully, impotently, and with hearts filled with sadness and worry for the Holy Father.

  The completion of the job resulted in the arrest of a poor, unrepentant Mehmet and the wounding of three innocent people. Two of the injured were peaceful spectators free of any guilt, and the third was the pope himself, who received four bullets in a body not made to receive any. Stomach, intestine, left arm and hand, they were wounds that might have taken his life.

  “I have no respect for human life,” Mehmet shouted, smiling, satisfied by his completed task. It was five-fifteen in the afternoon.

  Sixty-four years earlier, the same day and hour, a thousand miles from Rome, the Virgin appeared for the first time to the three Shepherd children at the Cova da Iria in Portugal.

  3

  JERUSALEM

  The view over the Holy City is amazing when seen from the seventh story of the King David Hotel, situated on the street of the same name. One sees the dome of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in the Christian and Armenian quarters, where it is believed Christ himself was buried more than two thousand years ago, and rose again on the third day. The golden Dome of the Rock of Hara mesh-Sharif stands out against the sky in the Muslim quarter. It protects the sacred rock on which it is believed God asked Abraham to sacrifice his son, Isaac. A little more to the right one can make out the smaller dome of the Al-Aqsa mosque, in which today, Friday, at noon, innumerable faithful will assemble. And one sees the Jewish quarter, farther back, with the arch of the ancient synagogue of Hurva, the only part that remains from the immense edifice after the battles of 1948 between the Israelis and Arabs.

  The man looking out over the city in the morning light, leaning out the window, was very worried. He had landed at Ben-Gurion near Tel Aviv at mid-afternoon of the day before and immediately made his way to his destination, before going to the hotel. He entered the Old City through the busy Damascus Gate, built by Suleiman the Magnificent, and continued walking in front by the El-Wad, going with the flow of the crowd. In his hand he carried the black briefcase of a businessman. Farther along he turned to the right, entering the Via Sacra, against the flow of tourists completing the third and fourth Stations of the Cross, where Jesus, carrying the cross on his shoulder, fell, and where he saw his mother.

  The Western tourists were swept up in mysticism, looking around, absorbing the energy, remembering the history they had heard since birth and finding its scale much smaller than they’d imagined. He’d felt the same on his first visit many years ago. The narrow streets and small houses contrasted with the magnificence Christ’s story demands. Without discounting the importance of the historical events the place had witnessed or underestimating its picturesque beauty, this smaller scale revealed humility and faith, the elements common to the three great prophets who founded the three great monotheistic religions. Simplicity appeared all around, more so than in any other sacred place.

  He continued his travel through history, filled with houses and stores, leaving the rest of the believers back in the Via Dolorosa. He passed, without a second glance, the first Station of the Cross in the Monastery of the Flagellation, where Christ was condemned and brutally tortured by the legionnaires in the pay of Pontius Pilate.

  A little farther ahead the man turned left into the Qadisieh, filled with low houses and closed doors. He called at the door of the third house on the left side. There he would ask directions. A woman with a dark face opened the door. Her face didn’t escape his attention though her veil allowed little to be seen. The Muslim tradition demands that women show nothing, since men must not be tempted by the flesh of a woman. If they are, the blame is hers.

  “Excuse me,” he said. “Would you be kind enough to tell me where Abu Rashid’s house is?”

  The woman slammed the door, leaving him looking at the wood chipped by the years. Perhaps this was not the house of Abu Rashid.

  As he was about to leave and try another door, he heard heavy footsteps from inside the house. The creaking of hinges revealed a strong man with a gray beard and mustache in a red tunic, signs of an honorable
tradition.

  “Good afternoon,” the foreigner greeted him. “Can you tell me where the house—?”

  “Yes, yes,” growled the bearded old man impatiently, spraying the air with particles of saliva. He looked at the middle-aged stranger in his black suit and turned around, leaving the door open. “Leave your shoes at the door.”

  He wasted no time obeying and took his shoes off. He felt a little sweaty and in need of a bath, but he wasn’t going to abandon his business because he felt uncomfortable. His well-being was low on his list of priorities. He entered the house respectfully, since early on he’d learned that showing reverence for others would be rewarded. The sun penetrated the skylight that let the air enter and ventilate the hallway and rooms. He felt feminine stares behind him, without seeing them. He heard shy laughter behind some curtains. He stayed in the middle of the hallway. He didn’t want to be indelicate and enter where he shouldn’t. He waited for the old man to invite him.

  “Tea?” he was asked from a room farther back in the illuminated area.

  He walked toward the voice and found the older man seated in a rocking chair smoking a cigar. A woman without a veil fanned herself by his side, driving away the sudden heat of the late afternoon and drying the drops of sweat forming on the old man’s head with a handkerchief. Surely his wife or one of them.

  “Yes, I’d like some,” the stranger answered. “Thanks.”

  A slight gesture to the young woman. She left to get it, leaving her handsome husband in the possession of the hot afternoon.

  “And cover your head,” he shouted loudly. “We have a visitor.”

  The stranger looked at him for a few seconds, worried about being an inconvenience. An aura of mystery surrounded the old Muslim that made any first move difficult.