The Last Pope (7 page)

Unlike most mortals, he had no fear of God. Many had perished at the hands of this old man with a cane, or following his orders. He made others believe he used them thoughtlessly, when in fact he couldn’t take a step without their help. Time was inflexible to all, without exception.

His assistant was nowhere around. He was surely abroad, engaged in resolving some matter of interest for the old man. Rather than an assistant, he was in fact his personal secretary. All powerful men, the pope included, had one.

A few years ago the old man could indulge the pleasure of lighting a cigarette and enjoying it to the end, letting out big puffs of smoke while reading the paper. But now he had to resign himself to just reading the paper, as his lungs no longer tolerated the pleasure of smoking. Heavy coughing would interrupt the calmness of his nights. He felt quite capable of resisting the temptations of the flesh as well as those of the mind. Many other matters distressed him, but he wasn’t a man to be annoyed by small things. His motto had always been that everything had a solution.

Lost in a flurry of thoughts, he didn’t notice the invasive presence of a maid trying to hand him a phone.

“Sir?”

Since there was no answer, she had to repeat her words.

“Yes, Francesca,” he said, as if awakened from a dream.

“A phone call for you.”

After handing the phone to her boss, the maid left quickly, leaving him to resolve his own affairs, not wishing to meddle in his private life.

“Pronto,”
the old man said forcefully, with the formidable tone of someone used to being in charge.

He recognized the even-tempered voice of his assistant, reporting in. In contrast to the voice of his master, the assistant’s monotone made his competent report sound like a litany. The ability to get to the backbone, to what really counted, was a virtue he had acquired by listening to the old man. He knew that his master wanted only precise, fast explanations.

“Fine, come back. We’ll handle it all from here,” he said after a few moments of silence, interrupted by some whistling chirps on the phone. “He’ll do a good job. It should be easy to locate Marius Ferris, provided he did as I ordered behind the scene. I’ll be expecting you.”

Ending his international call, he put his cell phone on the table, only to pick it up again. More and more often, he forgot what he was going to do next. For a few seconds his mind went blank, and the cold clarity of his reasoning, so dear to him, clouded over. So far, this had caused no damage since it happened at home, and not too often. But he knew it was only a matter of time, that little by little the white cloud in his mind would expand, gradually consuming his faculties. How soon? He couldn’t say. Months? Years? A mystery. It was life’s revenge.

He made a new call and, without waiting to hear the sound of a voice, knew who would answer.

“Geoffrey Barnes. The neutralization of the target can be effected. I’ll await confirmation.” And he hung up, without another word. Leaving the phone on the table, he went back to his newspaper. One thought kept pressing him: That Monteiro girl’s time has come.

10

Why is nobody answering? Sarah wondered. That’s odd. She hung up and made another call. After a few seconds a female voice said that the person requested was not available, but that she would relay a message.

“Dad . . . It’s me, Sarah.” She knocked herself on the head, realizing how stupid this sounded. After saying “dad,” of course it could be only her. “I called you at home,” she continued, “and nobody answered. Please call me as soon as you can. It’s urgent. We need to talk.”

Returning to her computer, she saw that Messenger was connected, though the icon for her father was red and said OFFLINE. He’s not there, either, she told herself. Where can he possibly have gone?

Sarah took one of the yellowish papers out of an envelope from a Valdemar Firenzi that she found in her mail. There were three pages, all in Italian. Two of them showed only a typewritten list of names, preceded by numbers and capital letters she couldn’t understand, a page and a half long and in two columns. There were also some words in the margins, tightly scribbled in a firm hand. In the same sure hand, some of the names were underlined, no smudges, no hesitation. It all ended in an arrow with some words in Italian above. But why in Italian? Her first impulse was to toss the papers in the wastebasket. There was no return address, making it impossible to send them back. While she was checking the envelope, a small key fell out. Very small, perhaps from luggage or an attaché case, definitely not a door key. Then something caught her attention. At first she hadn’t noticed it among the many names ending in
ov
or
enko,
and, equally numerous, those of Italian, English, or Spanish origin. But there it was, not underlined or with any notes in the margin, clearly circled in ink, and undoubtedly added more recently: Raul Brandão Monteiro, typed with the same machine as the dozens of other names on the list.

What is my father’s name doing here? Sarah wondered.

Then she carefully looked at the next page. A lot of scribbling, apparently done in haste, similar to the notes she made during press conferences. Had one of her father’s colleagues sent her that list? Maybe. The apparent sender was Valdemar Firenzi, though he provided no address. The name seemed Italian, it sounded a bit familiar, yet she couldn’t place it. There must be a reason, but she had to wait for her father’s call.

 

18, 15-34, H, 2, 23, V, 11
Dio bisogno e IO fare lo. Suo augurio Y mio comando
GCT(15)-9, 30-31, 15, 16, 2, 21, 6-14, 11, 16, 16, 2, 20

 

She looked at it again and again, unable to figure it out.

Then the phone rang.

“Finally,” she sighed, relieved. It could only be her father, returning her call.

“Dad?”

Silence on the other end. But it wasn’t a sepulchral, unsettling silence. In the background, she could hear street noises—cars going by, steps, fragments of conversation. The call was coming from a cell or a public phone.

“Dad?” Nothing. Maybe it was a wrong number, someone misdialed, or a cellular that got jostled inside a handbag. Perhaps an admirer? Negative. No ex-boyfriend or former lover was that maniacal. The only one capable of something like this was Greg, a colleague from the newsroom, always up for a prank. In her mail, though, there was a postcard he sent her from the Congo with a photo of the Lulua River, explaining that it was a miracle he was able to mail it at all. How could he be phoning her?

“Greg? Is that you? Is this another one of your pranks?” she asked, just in case.

But the urban street noise was unmistakable.

Easy, Sarah, she told herself. Don’t start getting paranoid. But she had plenty of reasons to worry—an envelope from an unknown sender in Italy, with an old list of names that included her father’s, that surly customs officer telling her there was a problem with her passport . . . Everything was upsetting, especially that envelope.

The caller was still on the line, but there was still no hello, nothing. No breathing, either, only a loud siren, a normal sound for any modern city. She listened carefully, noticing that a police car had just gone by. An important detail. The connection was cut off, only a sudden click. She could still hear the strident noise of the police car out on Belgrave Road. The blue lights caused weird red reflections on the curtains drawn closed on her ground floor.

What a strange coincidence, two simultaneous police sirens, in different places . . . Maybe too much of a coincidence?

Sarah abruptly turned off all the house lights, plunging her apartment into darkness. She moved the sofa away from the window, taking a deep breath before opening the curtains just enough to see without being seen. It was a normal night on Belgrave Road. Dozens of people headed here and there in their own worlds, totally oblivious of Sarah Monteiro. The traffic was heavy, all kinds of cars and taxis. At the bus stop across the street, a 24 bus to Pimlico/Grosvenor Road was letting out passengers and taking on new ones.

Nothing seemed suspicious. If someone were spying on her, surely he wouldn’t be all dressed in black, wearing a hat and upturned collar, pretending to read a newspaper. That happened only in old movies. Now, anybody could be a spy. Even the sanitation man on the street collecting bags of garbage. Or the woman talking on her cell phone on the second floor of the Holiday Express Hotel, across the street. Perhaps they really were as they seemed. But perhaps not.

You’re delirious, Sarah told herself, and this idea quickly calmed her down. How silly. Who’s going to be watching me?

Something caught her attention. As the 24 bus left, it revealed a parked car with tinted windows, probably belonging to someone staying at the hotel. Had it been parked there a long time? That black car with darkened windows didn’t look innocent at all. Quite the contrary, and something gnawed at her. I’ve seen this car before, she realized. The image of that dark vehicle came to Sarah’s mind, but she couldn’t figure out where or when she’d seen it. Her photographic memory came to her aid. It was the same car that had suddenly stopped in front of her taxi. The driver had opened the window, shouted “Sorry, mate,” at the taxi, and sped away. Which meant that it could have been there for more than three hours. It could mean everything, or nothing at all—an imminent danger, or simply a spy movie running in her head. And her second hypothesis seemed closer to the truth.

A ring from her cell phone startled her.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Sarah.”

“Dad, finally! Where were you?”

At last he was calling her back. The relief of hearing Captain Raul Brandão Monteiro’s calm, deep voice brought her down to earth. It was over now, her fears dissipated.

“I was taking your mother to—”

“Where?”

“Sarah . . .”

Her father’s voice wasn’t that calm. In fact, she’d never heard him so agitated. The sudden relief of a few seconds before changed to anxious doubt, intensified by the shift in his usually warm, affectionate voice.

“I received an envelope from a man named—”

“Don’t mention names, Sarah. From now on, do not mention names. Don’t say where you are, either. To anyone, you hear me? Unless you’re talking to someone who can be entirely trusted.”

“Dad, you’re scaring me. Do you know anything about those papers?”

Silence.

“Dad, please don’t hide things from me. Your name appears on a list—”

“I beg you, Sarah. Don’t say another word about this. I know what you received,” he said, sounding constrained, like someone who had lost his grip on something he had somehow once controlled. “I know what you received,” he repeated, making an effort to sound more at ease. “But they don’t know it, and I’m completely sure they’re listening to us now.”

“They—who are they, Dad?” she asked, panic in her voice.

“This is no time to talk, but to act, my dear. Do you remember Grandma’s home?”

“What—why are you bringing that up now?”

“Do you remember it, or don’t you?”

“The house? Of course. How could I ever forget it?”

“Great.”

Suddenly she saw a pair of eyes at the window. A chill ran down her spine.

“Sarah,” her father’s voice called out. He repeated her name again and again, but she didn’t answer. She was petrified, staring at the window, where those eyes had been watching her without her noticing. “Sarah,” her father insisted anxiously.

Then she heard unhurried, heavy steps. The sound paralyzed her. They were getting close to her door.

“Sarah.” Her father’s voice broke her stupor.

“Yes, I’m listening.”

Ding-dong.

“Someone’s at the door. I’ve got to get it.”

“Don’t!” her father warned, alarmed.

“Dad, I’m your daughter, not one of your soldiers.”

“Guard those papers at all times, always keep them with you. Understand? And remember what your grandma told you when you were afraid to go out, to get too close to the cattle.”

“I’ll try.”

Sarah thought about what her father had said. As a child in Escariz, where they spent some time every year, she had been afraid of the cows. She remembered how she hated to get close to those enormous animals. Her grandmother had to move the always threatening cows aside for her to go out. At some point her grandmother stopped clearing her way.

“You make them move aside,” she’d say. “It’s about time you stopped being scared of them.”

“There’s always a solution.” Her grandma’s words of wisdom.

Sarah kept the papers sent to her by that man, Valdemar Firenzi. She looked for her handbag and found it next to her computer. She took out her wallet and credit cards, and walked to the stairs, glancing anxiously back at the door. Whoever was outside was now twisting the doorknob violently after repeatedly pounding on the door with his fists. Her heart was racing. Slippers in hand, she crept to the second floor, while the stair planks creaked, giving her position away.

When she reached the second floor, she heard the front door screeching, being forced open. Going to her room, all her senses alert, she was overcome by fear.

The intruder was ambling around the first floor, not even trying to hide his presence. Sarah felt totally helpless, panic-stricken. A red curtain, identical to the ones downstairs, filtered the light, giving the room a surreal feeling. She opened it noiselessly. The black car was still down there. Its sinister stillness contrasted sharply with her agitated state. Don’t let fear take over, she told herself. “Come on, use your head.”

What could she do? “There’s always a solution. If you can’t go out one way, try another,” her grandma used to say, “Try another way. . . .” In her grandma’s house she could get out through a window on the second floor because of the short hop to the hillside in back, but in this house, in the absolutely flat capital of the UK, it wasn’t the same, the jump was too high. There’s always a solution, she kept thinking, and recalled a standard British regulation, the mandatory emergency exit. Since the great fire of 1666, when everything was made out of wood. There had to be an emergency exit. But where? This floor had no doors to the outside. The windows did not open enough and were too high. Maybe . . . from the bathroom, that’s it. She knew that the bathroom window opened wide, and had next to it, anchored to the wall, a wrought-iron ladder—the emergency exit!