The Last Pope (27 page)

“Holy Father, let me study the situation more thoroughly. I will review the names carefully, and give you some alternatives, particularly concerning my own replacement and for the leadership of the IOR.” If the Holy Father agreed to this delay, perhaps there was still some hope.

“It won’t be necessary to go to that trouble, Cardinal Villot. That is my final word. Don’t burden yourself with looking for alternatives. I’m sure that your candidates will be good, capable people, but I won’t accept them. My decision is irrevocable. It should start with Archbishop Marcinkus’s immediate replacement with Monsignor Giovanni Abbo, and the dismissal of De Bonis, Mennini, and Del Strobel. De Bonis is to be replaced with Monsignor Antonetti, and I will try to fill the two other vacancies after I talk with Monsignor Abbo.”

“But—”

“Good afternoon, Cardinal Villot,” the pope concluded, heading for the door.

Villot didn’t even have a chance to respond. Never had he imagined that Luciani could be so resolute. His own position was getting progressively more complex and tougher to handle. Gelli was right. They had miscalculated. This man meant nothing but trouble for them.

“I am counting on you to make a quick transfer of power of the secretary of state to Cardinal Benelli,” the supreme pontiff said, at the door.

“Your Holiness,” Villot stammered. “Shouldn’t you think this over at greater leisure? After all, you haven’t been in your position for very long.”

Pope Luciani gave his secretary of state a long look. Fixing his gaze on the cardinal, he answered with a solid calmness.

“Thank you for your concern, Cardinal Villot. But my decision is irrevocable.”

And he went out, leaving Villot entangled in tortured reflections. He meditated, pondered, prayed, but couldn’t find a solution to the problem. He looked at the telephone next to the papers that had caused the disagreement. He found it at once tempting and threatening. Several times he pressed the first digits of a number he had memorized several days ago. Suddenly he put the phone down, in hopes that some other idea would come to him. How he wished that this weren’t necessary! He decided to risk everything on his last card. If he alone couldn’t manage to persuade the pope, he would hold a meeting of the monsignors who also felt their future was threatened. Together they would make one final effort to convince the pontiff to reconsider.

53

It’s just the two of us, Jack,” Barnes said to Rafael. “You and me.” He sat down, facing him. “I’m sure we’re going to have a very productive conversation.” The place was shadowy, like a scene in a movie. Two chairs; a versation.” The place was shadowy, like a scene in a movie. Two chairs; a square, dark wooden table, old and worn; and a hanging ceiling lamp casting light over the two seated men.

“Where are we?” Rafael asked.

“Jack, Jack, Jack, it seems you haven’t quite understood your place.” Barnes didn’t let up on his sarcasm when he got up from the table and walked around. “I’m the one asking the questions here.”

“Go to hell, Barnes. I’m no fucking idiot. Don’t give me your usual treatment. I’m not going to pee my pants just because you’re here. You don’t scare me.”

The answer was a punch in the face that sent him crashing to the floor.

“Get up,” the fat man ordered. “Get up,” he yelled again, seeing that he wasn’t being obeyed.

Rafael got up at his own pace, not saying a word or showing the slightest sign of pain. Then he straightened the chair and sat down, putting his hands in full view on the table.

“Don’t think you can fool me, Barnes. I know we’re in the United States. I just want to know where exactly,” Rafael continued, calmly. In spite of his difficult situation, he was attempting, as much as possible, to control the chain of events. Nonetheless, he knew he was at a clear disadvantage.

“What makes you think you’re in America? You could be anywhere.”

“That many hours on the plane tell me we’re in the United States. London was only two and a half hours away. So we’re either in Washington or New York, right?”

“We’re smack in the middle of hell, Jack. What difference does it make? Or were you planning to go sightseeing?”

“Not a bad idea.”

Another punch, not so hard this time, hit him squarely in the face, splitting his lip.

“Do you have any idea of what she’s going through right now, Jack? Can you picture it?” Barnes changed tactics. “Such a pretty, sweet face, spoiled by a brute like me.”

Rafael, of course, could imagine it. The two punches he had received were nothing, compared to what could be on the way.

“Are you going to tell me where the papers are?” Barnes asked in a more condescending tone.

“You know very well I’m not. First, because I don’t know. And, second, because if I did, I wouldn’t tell you.”

Staughton’s sudden appearance interrupted the interrogation.

“Mr. Barnes,” he called from the doorway.

“Come in, Staughton.”

He approached, and whispered something in his ear.

“Are you sure?” Barnes asked in his usual loud voice, not liking the news. He thought silently for a moment.

“Right, give me a few minutes,” he said finally, dismissing Staughton. On his way out, the agent closed the door, once again leaving Rafael at Barnes’s mercy.

“I’ll give you one more chance, Jack, for old times’ sake.” Barnes returned to the chair facing him. “Where are the papers?”

“The last time I saw them,” Rafael said, thoughtfully, “they were stuck in your mother’s ass.”

Barnes froze, his face turning red. Rafael was crossing the line. Barnes got up again and headed for the detainee. Standing close, he whispered in his ear.

“Why are you wasting my time, Jack?” As he spoke, his saliva spattered Jack’s face. “Don’t you get it, that I’ve got the woman and don’t need you? Maybe you won’t talk, but she’ll cackle like a parrot. So can you please explain to me, what could it possibly be that keeps me from killing you?”

“What I know, that she doesn’t know,” Rafael declared firmly.

“And what do you know that she doesn’t?”

“I know that she only received two pages out of a total of thirteen.”

“Go on.”

“I know where the other pages are,” he said, arrogantly, casting a line and hoping Barnes would take the bait.

Barnes observed him for a few seconds, weighing his words and trying to read his mind.

“You’re lying,” he said finally.

“You wanna risk killing me? What if I’m not lying?”

“I’ve got the daughter and the father, Jack. I can do quite well without you.”

“You’d be making sense if you weren’t wrong.”

Barnes could barely contain his wrath. He wanted to crush this bastard. He shook him, grabbing his lapels.

“Don’t tempt me, Jack. I can finish you off in a second.”

Bound up as he was, Rafael still defied him with his look.

“It’s not in your hands, Barnes.”

The latter tightened his grip even more.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that the great Geoffrey Barnes could have bashed in my brains long ago. You haven’t done it because it’s not up to you. Not that you don’t want to—I can see it in your eyes—but there’s a motherfucker above you who won’t let you pull the trigger.”

“Shut up,” the big man yelled, shoving him against the wall. Infuriated, he punched him in the stomach. Rafael collapsed to the floor, but Barnes didn’t let up, and started kicking him amid an avalanche of insults. Suddenly a strong pair of hands pulled him back.

“Hold it. Right now,” an elegantly dressed man ordered, grasping the still-raving Barnes. “What are you doing?”

“I’m gonna kill this son of a bitch,” Barnes roared, glaring at Rafael, who was struggling to stand up.

“Get a grip,” the man shouted.

Staughton and Thompson poked their heads in, to see what was happening.

“Take him out of here,” the man ordered Staughton and Thompson. Obeying quickly, they started dragging Rafael between them.

“Not that one, this one,” the newcomer corrected, keeping a firm hold on Barnes.

The fat man simmered down, taking several deep breaths and recovering his composure.

“Okay, I’m fine,” he said. “I’m fine.”

“I’m taking over as of now,” the other man announced. “Go have something to drink and settle your nerves.” Then he turned to Staughton and Thompson. “Take this gentleman over with the others. The Grand Master’s already here.”

His orders were immediately followed. Barnes went through the door without looking back. “Fucking bastards,” he mumbled. The other two were supporting Rafael, who couldn’t stay on his feet.

The man who’d restored order in the room readjusted his Armani suit. The time had come.

54

The four men were walking through a long, dimly lit hallway, with closed doors dotting both sides. The place was cold, dilapidated, but not abandoned. There was no dirt or cobwebs. These quarters seemed to be used only sporadically.

Rafael walked with Staughton’s and Thompson’s help. The man behind them in the Armani suit didn’t allow any threats or punches. There was an intense light coming out of an open door. Voices could be heard. The pair walked the last few feet almost dragging Rafael.

“This fucker keeps getting heavier,” Thompson complained.

“He’s doing it on purpose,” Staughton remarked.

Staughton wasn’t far from the truth. Rafael pretended that his condition was getting worse, just to make their task more difficult. He wanted to irritate them, and didn’t expect to gain anything. Even so, he felt a slight ache in his chest. Could be a broken rib, making it harder to breathe. But he would have to worry about his health later, after this nightmare ended, if ever. This hallway could well be his death walk.

While being dragged along, he thought of Sarah. Was she having to endure the same abuse? Rafael had been trained for it. Barnes’s wrath, his uncontrolled punches, were minor disturbances for him. It was a different story for Sarah, though she had demonstrated her courage in their brief amount of time together. Despite the tension, she held herself together again and again. And what she did with the papers, knowing they were their only bargaining chip, the only card they could play, spoke volumes about her character.

When they entered the room, Rafael saw, backed against a wall but attached by the wrists to ceiling chains, Captain Raul Monteiro, Sarah, and an older man he didn’t know, though his face looked familiar.

Next to the group, dressed in black like most of the agents, was an individual Rafael instantly recognized. It was the Pole. Staughton and Thompson dragged Rafael over to the others, and locked both his wrists to a metal ring linked with the ceiling chains. Barnes’s two agents left the room. Now the detainees were at the mercy of the assistant and the Pole.

Rafael looked at Sarah, searching for signs of torture. Nothing—they hadn’t even touched her yet. He was afraid they’d taken her somewhere else. They’d been separated during the flight, and from then on, he didn’t know what had happened to her or her father.

The captain showed no sign of mistreatment, either, nor did the man next to him, whom he still could not identify. The assistant was the first to speak.

“Finally we’re all here.”

“Isn’t there anything to eat?” Rafael asked.

The assistant ignored the provocation.

“My deepest apologies for the treatment you have received, but I assure you it will all be over very soon.”

“Who are you?” Rafael asked the older man.

“I’m Marius Ferris. And you?”

“Marius Ferris. The one in the photo,” Rafael said, finally recognizing him. “My name’s Rafael.”

“We all know why we’re here, so let’s get straight to the point. Where are the papers?” the assistant asked.

On the only table in the room was a black suitcase, which the servant opened at that moment, handling the various cutting tools inside. They were torture devices capable of producing a confession from even the most stalwart. In some cases, simply displaying these terrible instruments was enough to make the detainees crumble.

“The papers are in a safe place,” Rafael asserted.

“They’ll be much safer with us,” the assistant countered. “Be reasonable. Isn’t it better to end this as soon as possible and avoid more suffering?”

Silence was their only answer. The assistant waited a few more minutes. Someone might give up. After all, it was unlikely that all four of them would be prepared to be tortured for something that didn’t directly concern them. But nobody said a word.

All right. He would start with Sarah’s father, since perhaps this could put psychological pressure on his daughter, forcing her to talk.

“Take care of the military man,” he ordered the servant.

Sarah’s startled eyes revealed her dread, her greatest fear. They were going to be tortured and would end up having the truth forced out of them, if not right away, then later, when they couldn’t stand it anymore.

The servant wielded an instrument like a lathe, its blade about a half inch wide and eight inches long, meant to pierce the skin and cause pain but not to harm any vital organ except by special intent. He slashed the captain’s shirt, exposing his torso. He aimed directly at the right side of his stomach, resting the sharp point on the skin.

A heartrending scream of agony announced the metal’s piercing of the flesh and cutting in a revolving path inside the body, producing acute, excruciating pain. The relentless point came out through his ribs. Very slowly, the torturer’s extremely steady hand withdrew the instrument. The damage was done, to the captain’s body and to the mental states of both Sarah and Marius Ferris, who watched, horror stricken. The suffering showed on the captain’s sweat-drenched face, contorted with pain.

“And now? Would someone like to say something?” the assistant asked. “Isn’t it starting to seem better to have us take care of the papers?”