The Last Pope (14 page)

“How are you, old boy? Do you think this is a good time to inconvenience a man of God?”

“Any time is a good time for God.”

“Who is this woman?”

Professor Joseph Margulies wasn’t a man to beat around the bush.

“She’s a friend, Sharon . . . uh . . . Stone, Sharon Stone.”

“Sharon Stone?” Sarah repeated, astonished.

“Pleased to meet you, Miss Stone.” He gave her a condescending look. “I’m sorry, but I haven’t washed my hands.”

“No problem.”

Sarah observed the professor, trying to figure out what he did.

“We’re involved in secret matters of national interest,” Rafael said half jokingly. “We can’t tell you what it’s all about. But I have some kind of puzzle here and I’d like to know if you can help me.” He pulled the paper out of his pocket and handed it to Margulies.

The big man just grunted and stared fixedly at the list. Five minutes later, he came out of his trance.

“I’ll see what I can do. Follow me.”

After going into the museum exhibits section, they went up a grand staircase and turned right and left several times. Then they entered a very long, dark corridor.

“Don’t make any noise, you might wake up the mummies,” Margulies joked. “Where did you meet this crazy nut?” he asked Sarah.

“He’s not—” Sarah tried to explain.

“In Rio de Janeiro, in a convent,” Rafael interrupted.

“A nun, eh?” The professor looked at him wryly.

“Not really,” Sarah started to say, but Rafael squeezed her arm.

“Here we are,” Margulies announced, opening a double door leading to a big hall full of shelves and books, and several tables placed in a row. This became visible only when Margulies lit two sad lamps, which lent a somber tone to the place. He left the paper on one of the tables and walked toward a bookshelf. “Let’s see. Here it is: cryptography.”

“Do you need any help?”

“No. Just have a seat with your girlfriend.”

Rafael turned to Sarah, and their eyes met for a moment.

“Why did you tell him that load of crap?” she murmured.

“I told him what he wanted to hear.”

“And what was that? That you’re involved with a Brazilian nun named Sharon Stone?”

“Don’t give it another thought. The end justifies the means. Or do you think he would rather know the truth?”

“Look, I don’t even know my own name anymore.”

Rafael grabbed Sarah’s shoulders and exerted some pressure, making sure she paid attention.

“The truth can kill us all. You’re the proof of it, even though you’re still alive. Don’t forget it.”

Sarah shuddered. Rafael let her go and watched Margulies seated at a table, paper in hand, with three open books in front of him.

“How do you know him?” she asked him.

“Margulies? He was my professor aeons ago. I know he doesn’t seem it, but he’s a very serious scholar. He studied at the Vatican, and has a deep knowledge of cryptography. If this is actually a code, he’ll decipher it.”

“What class did you take with him?”

“Is this an interrogation?”

“No. I’m just trying to pass the time.”

“A class in theology.”

“Theology? Is he a theologian?”

“Among other things.”

Margulies looked up from the paper.

“My dear old chap, this is going to take a few hours. I have to run a few tests to discover the kind of model used. I still don’t know if it’s a code or a cipher. Couldn’t you find something to do in the meantime?”

Rafael thought for a moment.

“Yes. But can I copy it on a piece of paper?”

“Of course.”

Intrigued, Sarah walked up to Rafael.

“Where are we going now?”

“Do you know how to get out?” Dr. Margulies asked.

“Yes, don’t worry. As soon as you find something, call me at this number.”

When he finished copying the mysterious words and digits, he handed Margulies a note with his phone number. Then he walked toward the exit, followed by Sarah.

“Where are we going?”

“To cut our hair.”

“What? At this hour?”

They walked back along the long corridor leading to the door, and then to the front entrance. It was about fifty yards from there to the big gate and the sentry box, where the guard was watching a black-and-white monitor. Soon they were out on Great Russell Street.

“If we can visit a prestigious professor at the British Museum at two thirty in the morning, we can also wake up a hairdresser a little after three.”

“But do we have to?”

“It’s not my hair we’re talking about, my dear. It’s yours. It’s definitely too long.”

23

Some meetings were meant to occur sooner or later. Human beings aren’t always masters of their fate.

A man of advanced age walked confidently amid a crowd of strangers, though he may not have been a total stranger to all of them. He hadn’t realized yet that, among so many people, someone was following him. Of course, that man was very competent. They had both come out of the Hilton Theater, where they saw an excellent musical,
Chitty Chitty Bang Bang,
and then walked south, down Sixth Avenue. After turning on Thirty-eighth Street, the old man went into a residential building. A uniformed doorman greeted him.

The pursuer watched from a distance. He looked at the number above the door and compared it with his notes, confirming that it was the old man’s address.

He made a call as soon as the old man disappeared into the building. A few moments later, a black van stopped beside him and he climbed in. The vehicle remained parked. One had to be patient.

“He lives here?” the driver of the van asked in some East European language, perhaps Polish, and then he whistled, admiring the luxury of the place.

The man in the black coat just nodded, his eyes fixed on the entrance of the posh residence.

“The London situation turned out negative?” the driver asked.

“Yeah, it did.”

“Tell me something, then. Why can’t we go in and rub that guy out, once and for all?”

The man took his time answering, as if considering several possibilities. “Because he is the key.”

He kept watching a while longer. Finally, he asked the Polish man to keep an eye on the entrance, while he pulled a photo out of his pocket. It was the familiar picture of the present pope, Benedict XVI. Then he took out a small black-light lamp and aimed it at the photo. Thousands of filaments neatly depicted the image of the old man they were shadowing, while the photo of the pope seemed to fade out. When the ultraviolet light was turned off, the concealed image vanished, as with bank bills, and the original image came back, again showing the smiling pope, greeting the faithful with a wave of his hand.

“Yes, he is the key.”

24

ALDO MORO MAY 9, 1978

Aldo Moro was writing a letter to his family. It was one more among many he’d sent already, including those addressed to Pope Paul VI and to the main leaders of his party, during the fifty-five days he had been a prisoner of the Red Brigades.

By his looks, one would think he was a beggar, but this serene and peaceful man had been prime minister of Italy five times. The government, headed by Giulio Andreotti, would not negotiate with a terrorist organization such as the Red Brigades, which demanded that a number of prisoners be freed. Since that was not negotiable and the prime minister argued that the hostage himself opposed any engagement with these outlaws, it was difficult to anticipate what would happen to Aldo Moro, leader of the Christian Democracy at the moment of his kidnapping, on March 16 of that same year, 1978.

Since then, Moro hadn’t seen or spoken with anyone except Mario, his keeper, guard, and kidnapper. At first, Mario treated him as if he wanted to make him endure harsh interrogation, and Aldo Moro thought that his guard was trying to get certain information, but soon their meetings became long face-to-face conversations. As Mario saw it, Moro proved to be an admirable man who, in spite of the situation, had gained his respect.

The position taken by the administration and by the militants of Moro’s own party, however, deeply disappointed the prisoner. Nobody lifted a finger to help him, and in spite of the fact that in the letters he sent he had pointed out that the government had an obligation to put people’s lives first, most of the members of the Christian Democracy, and those in government, including the prime minister, believed that Moro had been forced to write those letters and that they therefore didn’t reflect his actual thinking. Nothing could have been further from the truth.

Mario, as leader of the Red Brigades, could abandon his claims and demands, but he also could make a show of force and kill Moro in order to ensure the success of any future kidnapping. Or perhaps this young man was only a pawn in a chess game, a pawn who would never have any power to do or decide anything. Perhaps he just followed orders. Regardless, Moro was totally convinced he wouldn’t get out of there alive.

In another room of the same flat on Via Gradoli where Aldo Moro was writing his letter, Mario answered a phone call. Three other men were with him. Two were watching TV and the other was reading the newspaper.

“Hello.”

“Today,” said a male voice at the other end of the line. “Carry on as planned.”

“Okay,” Mario agreed.

“I’ll call you again in an hour. The American wants this taken care of as soon as possible.”

“Okay,” Mario repeated, and hung up. “We’re going to finish this,” he announced to his comrades.

“Do you think this is the best thing to do?” the one reading the paper interjected with some hesitation.

“It’s not for us to decide. We can’t turn back.”

“I still think it would be better to free him. We’ve gone too far already, further than we ever imagined. They’ve gotten our message and they’ve understood it. Now they know there is no safety for them,” the terrorist said, folding his newspaper.

“It’s not our battle, Mario. We didn’t want this,” one of the comrades watching TV confessed, seemingly with conviction.

“When we started, we knew this could happen. And we accepted,” Mario pointed out.

“Don’t count on me to pull the trigger.”

“Don’t count on me, either,” the one sharing the sofa with him, still watching TV, warned. He’d been silent until then.

“We should free him. We don’t have to answer to anybody.”

“Don’t even think about it. We have to finish this today. We are not going to back down,” Mario asserted, trying to convince himself that it all was a political decision. He wasn’t even willing to consider that Aldo Moro’s life could depend on him. Moro’s fate had already been decided on March 16. It was just a matter of time. And the time had come to do what they had to do.

Mario walked to the bedroom and turned the key in the lock. Aldo Moro was sitting, still writing a letter to his loved ones.

“Get up. We are leaving,” the leader of the Red Brigades ordered, trying to hide his nervousness.

“Where to?” the abducted man asked as he tried to finish his letter in a hurry.

“We’re taking you somewhere else,” Mario answered, folding a blanket and avoiding his victim’s eyes.

“Would you mind mailing this letter for me?”

“It’ll be done,” Mario said as he took the letter and the blanket under his arm.

The two men looked at each other for a few moments. Mario couldn’t stand to meet Moro’s frank gaze, and was the first to avert his eyes. No words were needed. The prisoner knew exactly what was going to happen next.

They went down to get the car in the garage. Moro, blindfolded, was walking ahead, guided by Mario. The three other men followed uncomfortably, repulsed by a decision that was not even in agreement with the political principles of the Red Brigades. When they got to the garage, they ordered Moro to get into the trunk of a red Renault 4.

“Cover yourself with this,” his guardian ordered.

Aldo Moro covered himself with the blanket he was handed. Mario kept his eyes closed for a few moments that seemed to last an eternity. The terrorist was attempting to convince his conscience that this was inevitable. There was no other way. It was not up to him.

Mario pulled out his gun and shot into the blanket eleven times. None of the others pulled the trigger.

The plan had been carried out.

25

In a hotel room Rafael himself cut Sarah’s hair. She looked like another woman, sitting at the edge of the bed and sighing. It showed her anxiety, her tiredness, her despair, her frustration. And all because an unknown and sinister organization had done away with any remnant of normalcy in her life, including the length of her hair.

“I think I’m more confused now than when I didn’t know anything.”

This made Rafael smile.

“That’s natural.”

There was a silence for a few moments. Rafael and Sarah respected their implicit agreement of not talking about personal matters. They had too many things to think about, particularly Sarah. Strange and familiar names, political and religious figures, stories badly told, horrible revelations, Masonic lodges, grand masters, assassinations. And at the center of everything, her father. What kind of world was this, where not even those who were supposed to protect our faith could be trusted? And they were mean liars who killed one another.

“It’s obvious. That man Pecorelli sent the list to the pope, and that’s why the pope was murdered.”

“Don’t let your journalistic inclinations dominate you. That spoils everything. I never said that he died because of the list.”

“No?”

“No.”

That was true. Rafael had never said that John Paul I was murdered because he was in possession of a list that, basically, was almost common knowledge. The only thing he had said was that the list had been in his hands when he died. It was the consequences of that list that took the pontiff to his death.