The Last Pope (3 page)

Actually, that wasn’t exactly right; some of the details had been altered. Before moving here, Sister Vincenza used to knock at the door and come in with the coffee tray, personally handing it to Don Albino. This routine was vehemently rejected when the new papal assistants found out. According to them, this was in flagrant violation of protocol. So, to please everybody, they reached a compromise. The nun was to continue to bring the coffee every morning but would leave the tray by the door to Don Albino’s private quarters.

Leaning her head against the door again, Sister Vincenza held her breath, trying to listen for any sound coming from inside the room. She didn’t hear anything or sense any movement. I don’t know whether I should knock again, she thought, and finally knocked timidly on the wooden door.

“Good morning, Don Albino,” she whispered.

She stood back from the door and examined it, wondering what else to do. “In Venice I just walked right in without a fuss,” she muttered.

From the bottom of the door, a fine line of light escaped. “Well, this means that Don Albino must be up already.” She knocked decisively at the door.

“Don Albino?”

No response. She knocked again softly, but silence was the only answer. She had no alternative but to enter the room, despite the dictates of protocol. She placed her hand on the golden doorknob and turned it.

“If I were to please all those secretaries, I would never find out whether Don Albino is up or still sleeping.”

She tiptoed in. The pope was still sitting in bed, propped up with pillows, his glasses on, some papers in his hand, his head turned a bit to the right. The happy expression and kind smile that used to charm everyone around him had turned to a grimace of agony. Vincenza quickly went to him with a tremulous heart. She paid no attention to her own weak condition. With red, teary eyes she held Don Albino’s hand to take his pulse. One, two, three, four, five seconds—

Sister Vincenza closed her eyes, tears streaming down her face.

“Oh, my God!”

She violently yanked at the cord next to Don Albino’s bed, and the sound of the bell ringing was heard through the nearby halls and rooms.

I have to call the sisters, she thought, trembling nervously. No, first I must call Father Magee. No, he’s too far away. Better call Father Lorenzi.

The bell stopped ringing, but nobody answered Sister Vincenza’s call. She rushed out to the corridor and, without thinking, overlooking all the rules imposed by the rigid defenders of protocol, opened the door to Father Lorenzi’s room. He always slept near Don Albino’s quarters. The secretary, Father John Magee, was staying in a room on another floor until the re-modeling of his own room was finished.

“Father Lorenzi! Father Lorenzi, for God’s sake!” Sister Vincenza screamed.

He woke up stunned, sleepy, and taken aback by such an unexpected visit.

“What’s the matter, Sister Vincenza? What’s happening?”

He could scarcely understand what was going on. The nun went up to him, pulling at his pajamas and crying profusely.

“What’s wrong, Sister Vincenza? What’s going on?”

“Father Lorenzi—Don Albino! It’s Don Albino, Father Lorenzi! Don Albino is dead! The pope is dead!”

The stars in the sky never failed in their routine, and on that day, September 29, 1978, the sun kept its daily appointment, spilling its golden beams on Saint Peter’s Square in Rome. It was a gorgeous day.

3

There was constant turmoil in the house on Via Veneto: on the stairs, the landings, in the entryway. An endless stream of relatives, friends, occupants, employees, and messengers were going up and down, again and again, in the busy daily routine. On the third floor, however, there was deathly silence. Three men had broken in at dawn. Two of them stayed about ten minutes. Nobody saw them come in or leave. Nothing at all was known about the third individual. He seemed to be the ideal silent guest. No one heard his steps, or the sound of turning on a faucet, or closing a drawer, or a cabinet. Perhaps he was drunk, his friends brought him in, and he was still nursing a hangover. Or maybe he worked nights and slept by day. There were many possibilities but only one certainty: no one had heard him, though for sure he was still inside.

An elderly gentleman was climbing the stairs with a lot of effort, leaning on a cane, accompanied by a man wearing his usual Armani suit. When they got to the closed door of the third floor, so silent one could hear a pin drop, the assistant put a key in the lock.

“Wait,” the old man said, gasping. “Let me catch my breath.”

The assistant waited. It took some time for the old man to recover. Once he did, he stood up straight, his cane becoming an accessory, not a support. He motioned for the assistant to open the door, which he did, turning the key twice. With a little push, the vestibule to the private rooms was revealed. They entered quietly, the old man leading the way and the assistant closing the door behind them without a sound.

“Where is he?” the old man demanded.

“In the room. They left him there.”

The two went in and found a man tied to the bed. The sheet was stained with blood. He was covered in sweat and wearing only his drawers and a short-sleeved undershirt. He raised his head to take a look at the newcomers, but despite his humiliating position, he showed no sign of submissiveness. It was Monsignor Valdemar Firenzi.

“Monsignor,” the old man greeted him, smiling cynically.

“You?” Firenzi stammered, flabbergasted.

“Yes,” and going around the bed, he sat on a chair facing the monsignor. “Did you think you could possibly escape?”

“Escape from what?” the cardinal asked, still in shock.

“Don’t play dumb, my dear friend. You have something that does not belong to you, but to me. And I am here to get it back.”

Firenzi glanced at the assistant, who was hanging his coat on the back of a chair.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

A heavy blow was the reaction, with blood trickling from Firenzi’s split lip. As he tried to regain his composure, the assistant towered menacingly above him. The expression on the cardinal’s face hardened.

“My dear monsignor, I would prefer not to have to resort to unpleasant methods to recover what is mine. But you have disappointed me so much that I don’t know if I’ll be able to refrain. After all, you have stolen something that belongs to me,” the Master said, leaning over Firenzi. “I am sure you must understand the gravity of this. You have committed a felony. If I cannot trust a man of the cloth, then whom can I trust?” The old man stood up and started to pace the room, thinking. “Do you understand the dilemma you put me in? I cannot even trust the Church, my friend. The Lord sent his Son to redeem us from evil. So I ask you, my dear monsignor, now what?” And, looking intently into his eyes, he added, “Now, what are we going to do?”

“You know very well what you have done,” Firenzi remarked.

“What have I done? What? Action is what moves the world. People must act. We all must take some action.”

“You are the one who’s playing dumb,” Firenzi interrupted, and he got smacked again to make sure he understood clearly that he couldn’t address the old man that way.

“I can’t wait all day. I want those papers. Now. Tell me where they are.”

The prelate was pummeled again for no apparent reason, since he hadn’t said another word. His face was swelling, and the trickle of blood from his mouth was staining his undershirt.

“Sometimes the Lord gives us heavy burdens to carry, but He also grants us the strength to bear them,” Monsignor said.

“Sure, and we’ll soon find out how much strength the Lord has granted you,” the old man said, motioning to his assistant.

The insistent ringing of a cell phone interrupted the questioning, which, despite its violence, had so far produced very little: a man’s name and the address of a parish in Buenos Aires. The assistant took his time fishing the ringing phone out of his coat pocket.

While he took the call, the old man moved in closer to Valdemar Firenzi, who looked tired and too old for all this turmoil.

“Come on, Monsignor, tell me where those papers are and we’ll get this over with right now, I guarantee it. You won’t need to suffer anymore.”

The prelate looked at his torturer, seeming to draw strength directly from his own faith. Blood was now streaming from his mouth down his chin, onto his chest. His voice sounded amazingly strong, though he couldn’t mask his pain. “Jesus Christ forgave. As He forgave, so will I.”

It took the old man with the cane a few moments to fully grasp the tortured man’s comment. Then, with a resigned, hateful sigh, he admitted that he could get nothing more out of Firenzi.

“As you wish.”

The assistant ended his phone call and then whispered a few words into his boss’s ear. “They found an address in his room at the Vatican.”

“Which address?”

“Of a Portuguese journalist, a woman who lives in London.”

“Strange.”

“She’s been traced. Daughter of an old member of the organization.”

The old man thought for a few moments.

“Call our man. Have him pay a visit to the parish priest in Buenos Aires. Maybe he can find something out. Then he’s to wait in Gdansk for further instructions. Later you’ll go to Argentina yourself.”

“Very well, sir,” the assistant said obsequiously. “And what about Monsignor?”

“Give him the last rites,” the old man shot back in a sarcastic tone. “I’ll wait for you in the car.”

The old man gave his assistant a friendly pat on the shoulder and left without a word of farewell to Monsignor Firenzi, without even a last look. Nor did he hear the shot that ended the prelate’s suffering. With the cell phone pressed to his ear, he went down the stairs, leaning on his cane. He no longer needed to preserve his command stance. The image of a decrepit old man was good enough for him now, and closer to the truth. Someone answered the number he had dialed.

“Geoffrey Barnes? Listen, we have a problem.”

4

There was no city like London, thought Sarah Monteiro. She was on her flight back from Lisbon to her home on Belgrave Road. Her plane had been circling the airport for about half an hour, waiting for a runway. This was all part of her pleasurable anticipation after a monotonous two weeks’ vacation at her parents’ home—her father a retired captain in the Portuguese army; her mother an English professor (hence the addition of the
h
to her name, as well as her love for everything British). It wasn’t that she didn’t like Portugal. On the contrary, she thought her birth country was beautiful, but despite its long history, there had been too many revolutions and too few reforms. But Portugal was Sarah’s usual destination two or three times a year. She loved to spend Christmas on a farm near Beja in Alentejo, where her parents had retired a few years ago. Its fresh country air, so different from that of the British capital, had become essential to her.

The plane seemed to land normally, just the usual rattles and jolts. In about twenty minutes they would be deplaning, but the passengers were already jostling to collect their belongings first and get out.

“We have just landed at Heathrow. The temperature in London is twenty degrees centigrade. Please remain seated with your seat belts fastened until the plane has come to a complete stop, and . . . we wish to thank you for choosing to travel with us,” the flight attendant trailed off mechanically. No more than two or three people were listening, certainly not Sarah, so used to flying, not only on her trips to Portugal but also to other destinations, in her job as a London correspondent for one of the largest international news agencies. It was a convenient and interesting career for foreigners, getting paid for simply bringing news from their hometowns. She still had two days of vacation left before having to get back to the newsroom, to the daily flow of news and the never-ending search for sensational events.

The plane finally stopped, and as the passengers hurried to leave, she got her carry-on and handbag. Going down the aisle, she called her parents to let them know she’d arrived safely, and that she would call them later. She trekked through the long carpeted halls, decorated in green and black, and stood in line for customs. Citizens of the European Community, Switzerland, and the United States on one side, other nationalities on the other, all ready with their passports or equivalent documents. Sarah was waiting dutifully behind the yellow line so as not to disturb the spectacled man ahead of her, nor pressure the customs officer at the booth.

“Next, please.” He didn’t sound friendly at all. She could have chosen another window. The female officer in the next booth looked much nicer. Too late now.

Sarah held out her passport with her best smile, and he looked at it.

“It’s nice to be back. How’s the weather been?” she asked, hoping to smooth out the situation.

“You can’t see the weather from in here,” the officer grunted, sounding even surlier. He had probably gotten up on the wrong side of the bed, or maybe had had an argument with his wife, if he had one. “There seems to be something wrong with your passport.”

“Something wrong? I can show you my ID, if you wish. I’ve never had a problem with my passport.”

“Could be a system error.”

The ill-tempered officer’s name was Horatio, according to the tag on his uniform. The phone on the counter rang. “Yes, but there is something wrong with the passport.” He listened for a few moments more and then hung up.

“Everything seems to be in order now. You can go.”

“Thank you very much.”

The unpleasant attitude of the man had put Sarah’s nerves on edge. Now all she needed was to find a taxi driver just like him to top off her less than smooth arrival. But first she had to claim her baggage, so all in all it would be about an hour before she got home, assuming her luggage wasn’t lost.