The Last Pope (8 page)

“Thanks, Grandma,” she muttered.

Taking a deep breath, Sarah looked toward the bathroom, right there in front of her. All she had to do was get across the hallway and in, past the door. Just moments away from salvation.

One, two, three, she counted mentally, and started running. The intruder was climbing the stairs fast. She went in and tried to open the window. Not easy. It hadn’t been open for years and there was no way she could unlock it. Applying all her strength, making a superhuman effort was of no use. Or so it seemed, while she kept desperately trying. The footsteps were getting closer. The intruder was now walking slowly. In the hallway, the man in a black overcoat put the silencer on his gun.

Sarah stood against the bathroom wall. Perhaps there was still time for something. If she could break the glass . . .

One more step, then another. The floor planks creaked, her teeth chattered, she was about to lose control. Fear was tearing her apart. The bathtub seemed safer. She thought she heard the would-be murderer breathing. He’s used to this kind of thing. He’s a professional, she thought.

“There’s always a solution . . . for everything.” Sarah felt she could hear her grandma repeating. “For everything. Except death.”

With a sudden inspiration, Sarah quietly slipped out of the bathtub. Her eyes had fully adapted to the dim light. She searched about for something. The dryer? No. The shower spray? No good. Towels, perfumes, creams. No, no, no. Helpless, she leaned against the wall by the basin. Next to her, at eye level, she saw the extinguisher. That was it. If you think there won’t be a struggle, you’re dead wrong, she told herself. He had to be about three yards away from her. One step, two yards . . . another step, only one yard . . .

She quickly shot a cloud of foam. The intruder did not seem to react instantly, perhaps waiting for the haze to dissolve. But Sarah again squeezed the extinguisher lever. And waited for the intruder to show himself, to let himself be heard.

“Where are you?” he whimpered.

It all ended very quickly. Through the vanishing vapors, Sarah saw a black-gloved hand holding a gun. She threw the fire extinguisher directly at the man’s head. But he ducked.

Sarah heard two shots. She let out a muffled cry.
Is this what being shot
twice feels like? No pain?
The man’s body hit the floor facedown with a heavy thud. She couldn’t believe it, and had to refocus. It was a miracle. Not until moments later, however, could Sarah begin to understand what had just happened. She saw two small holes in the windowpane. The shots had come from outside. Somebody had been her guardian angel. But who?

“Dad, you’ve got a lot of explaining to do.”

It was time to flee.

11

Times Square was one of the nerve centers of the first world, a lot like Trafalgar Square, the Champs-Élysées, Alexanderplatz, Saint Peter’s Square, and a few others. In these places nighttime and daytime activity didn’t differ much. Particularly Times Square in Manhattan, which was as mythical a place for Americans as for many Europeans. The neon lights and the frenzied traffic enthralled visitors, fascinated by the excitement of the labyrinth of streets, avenues, tunnels, and bridges.

Thousands of people traversed the neighborhood surrounding Times Square. One man was walking at a brisk, steady pace, his overcoat open to the wind like a cape. Where he’d come from didn’t matter, only where he was going, following a plan devised by a mind brighter than his own. He reached the TKTS booth on Forty-seventh Street between Broadway and Seventh Avenue, got in line, and tuned in to the voices around him.

“One ticket for
Chitty Chitty Bang Bang,
please, the seven o’clock show,” an elderly man, two people ahead of him, asked at the window.

Chitty Chitty Bang Bang.
The man in the overcoat smiled. How fitting, he thought. When he reached the ticket booth, he bought a ticket for the same play, same performance.

He wandered around, looking at the store windows for a while, then stopped for an espresso at Charley’s Co. One might have thought he was killing time until the theater opened, but on closer examination his behavior wasn’t just whimsical. He was following the other guy, the old man who was buying his ticket at the TKTS booth a few minutes before.

They both headed south on Seventh Avenue, the man in the overcoat following, always maintaining a prudent distance from the old man. He knew how to do these things, not distracted by the people or the noise. Nothing seemed to interfere with his pursuit. In fact, he didn’t need to follow the old man to know his destination, he knew very well.

His cell phone vibrated.

“Yes,” he answered firmly, as he crossed Seventh Avenue at Forty-second Street. “Did everything go all right?” he asked, gesticulating impatiently. “What? Then make sure all the traces are cleaned up.”

He turned right on Forty-third, visibly annoyed.

“If things don’t go according to plan, I don’t need to tell you what will happen to you. I want that woman erased today. I’ll expect your call confirming it.”

Right after hanging up abruptly, he called another number, still keeping an eye on the man he was following. The old man, seemingly over seventy, walked spiritedly, almost like an excited teenager on his way to a promising party, and evidently unaware of being followed.

“Hello. We’re headed for the theater. Everything’s fine here.” He paused a few seconds, closed his eyes, and caught his breath. “But sir, things aren’t going well in London. The target escaped and we took a loss. . . . Yes, I know . . . that’s minor . . . I’ve already ordered the site cleaned up.” He listened attentively to the instructions. “I don’t know if they’ll be able to finish the job. It could be better, Master, to activate the reserves.”

He stopped at the Hilton, formerly Ford Theater for the Performing Arts. In fact, the Hilton Theater, with entrances on both Forty-second and Forty-third, was until 1997 not one theater but two, the Lyric and the Apollo. After the renovation it became one of the largest theaters on Broadway, while keeping all its centennial charm.

The man in the overcoat, cell phone still pressed to his ear, entered the lobby and handed his ticket to the usher, who indicated the location of his seat.

“You can check your overcoat, if you wish, sir.”

“Thanks very much. Can you tell me where the bathroom is?”

“Of course. First door on your left, sir.”

The man kept talking on his cell phone on his way to the restroom.

“Please confirm, once the reserve has neutralized the London target. . . . Yes, I know I can consider it done, but . . . of course, sir. . . . For now, things will continue as they are. . . . Fine. Good-bye.”

He took the stairs to the mezzanine. It seemed totally full, but after a careful search, he located an empty seat in the first row right. Excellent spot. Not that he was interested in watching this children’s musical, though it was based on a book by Ian Fleming, creator of the famous James Bond. He smiled at the irony. Secret agents, undercover plots—just like his own—Ian Fleming, James Bond . . . though in
Chitty Chitty Bang Bang,
there was nothing secret or undercover. It was two and a half hours of pure musical comedy. But this man hadn’t come looking for entertainment. He had a job to do.

The lights came down slowly. The musicians began the overture. The man pulled a small pair of binoculars out of his pocket to see what was going on in the boxes and orchestra seats. It seemed innocuous, but this accessory was actually equipped for night vision, allowing him to scan the rows of seats in the dark. In less than a minute he focused on the person he was looking for. The old man was sitting halfway back, near the center.

Leaning back comfortably in his seat, he smiled. With his thumb and index finger, he pointed at the old man down below.

“Bang, bang.”

12

The first thing is to get away from Belgrave Road, Sarah thought. And with that in mind she turned left, without thinking, toward Charlwood Street. She had the feeling she wasn’t completely alone. Feverishly, she looked everywhere—corners, doors, windows—searching for someone who might be spying on her. It felt as if everybody, with just their look, was telling her, “You’re doomed” or “They’re right behind you.”

She tried to regain her composure. If someone’s following me, she thought, he’s not going to let himself be seen, and I won’t be able to find him.

She took another left, onto Tachbrook Street, looking for a public phone to call her father. Better in a crowded place. And the only place she could think of was Victoria Station. Taking Belgrave Road would have been shorter, but she opted for a roundabout route, choosing less crowded streets. Again she turned left on Warwick Way, followed by a right on Wilton Road. She darted across Neathouse Place and then Bridge Place, finally ending up at Victoria Station.

As soon as she got there she felt relieved. Despite the fact that the big clock on the main facade showed it was a bit before midnight, there was constant movement, hundreds of people wandering through the enormous station, with its many stores announcing countless sales. Going by a McDonald’s, she realized she hadn’t eaten for hours. A double hamburger and a Coke were just right.

Looking for a phone, Sarah mixed in with the people bumping against one another trying to read the enormous panel of train schedules. The PA system warned people to mind their luggage.

There was a special ticket booth for the Orient Express, with stops in Istanbul, Bucharest, Budapest, Prague, Vienna, Innsbruck, Venice, Verona, Florence, Rome, Paris. Cities full of mystery, intrigue, secret plots. But for Sarah Monteiro there were more important mysteries.

“Sarah, is that you?” her father inquired, answering her call.

“Yes. But the morgue was about to call to inform you that your daughter was shot dead,” she answered, still enraged. “What the heck is going on? A guy breaks into my home, points his gun at me, and the only reason he doesn’t kill me is because somebody else kills him first.”

“Is that what happened?” Her father’s voice sounded even stranger than the first time she had spoken with him.

“That’s exactly what happened. Who are these people?”

“My child, I can’t tell you anything over the phone. Someone’s surely listening to this conversation and I can’t go into anything that could compromise me—or you. You can’t imagine how bad I feel about getting you into this mess.”

“What the fuck are you talking about? What am I supposed do? I can’t go home. Can’t say anything, can’t do anything. Shit. Son of a bitch!”

“Calm down, child.”

“I’m not referring to you, Dad. I mean the people listening to us talk. I’m sorry.” Taking a deep breath, she added, “Bastards! But who are we talking about? The MI6? The CIA, the FBI? The Mossad? Who?”

“All I can say is all those people are angels compared to who’s behind this.”

“Seriously?

“Yes, unfortunately.”

“What have you gotten into, Dad?”

“Nothing you need to know right now. Past mistakes that I’m regretting every day of my life, you can be sure.”

“So what do I do?”

“First, don’t call me again, no matter what. And don’t try to get me at home. No one’s going to be there. In the meantime, don’t worry about your mother and me, we’ll be fine.”

“Is Mother in this, too?”

“No. She didn’t know anything. It’s taken her by surprise, and it’s been tough to calm her down. She’s just as scared as you are. Please, you’ve got to trust me. It’s crucial. Now I need to solve this. . . . Later we’ll see, when all the dust has settled.”

“Only if it’s settled down for me, too.”

After Sarah’s sarcastic comment, there was silence.

“It will settle for you, too. A lot of people’s lives depend on it.”

“Good to know! I feel better already.”

“What counts is to think about the here and now,” her father said. “Do you hear me, Sarah?”

“Yes,” she answered, her eyes closed.

“Someone’s waiting to help you,” her father added. “You can completely trust him. He’s waiting for you at King William IV Square.”

“Oh, that’s better. How can I recognize him?”

“Don’t worry about that. He’ll recognize you. And another thing—”

“What’s his name?”

“Rafael. His name is Rafael. One other thing, don’t use your name anywhere, and never say where you are. . . . And pay cash for everything.”

“Why?”

“Don’t use your credit card.”

“Oh, I just paid at McDonald’s with the same card I’m using for this call,” she responded, her eyes gleaming with anxiety. She glanced around, not feeling safe at all.

“Hang up immediately and go where I’ve told you.”

“Didn’t you say your phone could be tapped? How can you now be sending me to such a specific place?”

“I’m sure you’ve never heard of King William IV Square.” With that, he hung up.

13

Staughton was an analyst of confidential data. That meant he was a professional who collected important private data for an operation and then transferred it to the agents in charge of the case. In fact, his position was known as a “real-time analyst,” meaning the data he collected referred only to the immediate present. For example, phone calls, bank transactions, or if necessary even satellite images. The degree of confidentiality varied according to the particular operation, and it was divided into four levels. Level four, the most confidential, was available only to the president of the United States. Staughton worked for the Central Intelligence Agency, the CIA.

There were many sophisticated devices in Staughton’s room. It looked more like an airplane cockpit than an office. He pressed a few buttons and then, with the ease of an expert, waited for the results.

What mess am I in now? he thought. Oh, come on, give me a sign, one simple sign.