The Last Pope (11 page)

“Good evening. I’d like to place a collect call. . . . My name? . . . Uh, Greg Saunders,” she said, sounding more like a question than an answer. But the operator completely ignored the feminine voice giving a man’s name, and asked her to wait.

Moments later Sarah could hear a phone ringing, and voices at the other end.

“Greg?”

“Natalie, it’s not Greg. It’s me, Sarah.”

“Sarah?” was the quite surprised response. Natalie, in all the years as her boss, had never heard coolheaded Sarah sounding so distressed.

“Yes, it’s me. I need to ask you a huge favor.”

Sarah explained to her boss and friend, hastily but clearly, and with the succinctness to be expected from a news professional, everything that had happened to her since she’d come back to London.

“You need to go to the police,” Natalie stammered, barely able to fully absorb the story she had just heard.

“No, Natalie, I can’t. I don’t trust anybody out here. I just need a favor. You don’t even have to leave your house. I’m begging you, Natalie. I don’t know who else to ask.”

An uncomfortable silence ensued while Natalie thought this over. Yes, they had always helped each other and, except for the occasional early-morning flare-ups on her part, Sarah was her friend. And one of the best reporters in the world-renowned news service that she headed.

“Of course. What do you need?”

“Thanks, Natalie.”

“Don’t thank me. Tell me what you want before I change my mind.”

“I just need you to tell me where King William IV Square is.”

“That’s all?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll get it for you right now. You want me to call you back, or can you stay on the line?”

“Whichever you prefer. You’re paying for the call.”

“Right. Then don’t hang up.” Sarah heard a chair being dragged. Natalie was now at the keyboard of her computer. “King William IV Square,” she repeated, more to the keyboard than to Sarah.

“Yes.”

“Wait a second.” One . . . two . . . three . . . four . . . five seconds went by. “Do you really not know why these people are after you?”

“I don’t have the slightest idea.”

“Let’s see, be ready for this.” Her tone had changed from reporter’s curiosity to information operator’s signal. “Here it is. I mean, isn’t. Under the name King William IV, there are only the gardens in the Crystal Palace district. Ahhh, wait a minute, there’s also a street with that name. It’s between the Strand and Charing Cross Road—that must be it. There’s no King William IV Square.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. You must be mistaken.”

“No, absolutely not. The person who gave me the name did say it would be impossible for me to have heard of that plaza before. But I just assumed it was because it was someplace really out of the way, not because it didn’t exist.”

“But it doesn’t exist. Let me do one more search.”

“It has to be there.”

“Well, if you want, you can ask a cop.”

“No time for jokes, Natalie.”

“Let me see. William IV. Born in 1765. King of the United Kingdom and of Hanover between 1830 and 1837. Son of George III, succeeded his older brother, George IV. Was the penultimate king of the House of Hanover. As king he was called ‘the Navigator.’ He reformed the electoral system, abolished slavery and child labor in the Empire. I’m starting to like this man.”

“Natalie, I don’t need a history lesson. Is there anything else?”

“No. Queen Victoria succeeded him. Let me look in Google.” There was a soft clicking on the keyboard. “Wait a minute—”

“Did you find something?”

“Interesting.”

“What?”

“King William IV Square. Here it is.”

“Come on, tell me!” Sarah almost shouted, unable to contain her impatience.

“That was the original name of Trafalgar Square.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes, without a doubt. Trafalgar Square was King William IV Square.”

“Thanks a million, Natalie. You may have just saved my life.”

“Or not.”

“I’ll be seeing you.”

“Oh, Sarah—” Natalie said just in time.

“Yes?”

“If you get any big scoops, don’t forget me.”

18

Trafalgar Square was the busiest square in all of London. A place for meeting friends, commemoration, celebration, and national exaltation.

The immense size of the place, the two side fountains, and the enormous Corinthian granite column, 185 feet tall, crowned by the statue of Admiral Nelson, the hero killed in the battle, standing high above Westminster Palace, conferred on Trafalgar Square an enchantment that touched Londoners and tourists alike. Four huge bronze lions—reportedly made from the cannons of the ill-fated French fleet—flanked the column, creating an impression of absolute power. Four pedestals crowned with statues adorned the sides of the square. To the northeast, that of King George IV. To the southeast, the one of General Sir Charles James Napier, conqueror of Pakistan. To the southwest, General Havelock. The fourth pedestal accommodated temporary sculptures because there was never a consensus about whom it should honor. The original intent was for it to hold the statue of King William IV, but lack of public funds thwarted that, and as a result, the king who was supposed to be celebrated was instead completely excluded from the plans that he himself had set in motion.

At this hour of the night there were a lot of people in the square, particularly groups of tourists and a few couples. Nobody looked suspicious to Sarah, but everyone could be a suspect. Cars, limousines, taxis, ambulances, buses, mopeds, and bicycles were in ceaseless movement around the square. In the background rose the Admiralty Arch, built in honor of Queen Victoria, which marked the entrance to the grand avenue leading to Buckingham Palace. To the east were the Saint Martin-in-the-Fields Church, the South Africa House, and the Strand, which linked Westminster with the city. But the street of particular interest here was Charing Cross Road in the Soho district, the most bohemian section of the city of London, where a taxi had just stopped at the corner of Great Newport Street.

Sarah Monteiro stepped out of the taxi. After her phone call, she had gone to Waterloo Station and again put herself in jeopardy by withdrawing 300 pounds at an ATM in order to pay cash for whatever might be needed. Having opted not to put herself directly in the lion’s mouth, she asked the taxi driver to drop her off half a mile from her final destination.

Sarah went around the square to the south, downhill toward Trafalgar through Canada House, cautiously slowing her pace, and occasionally sneaking a glance here and there along the way. She crossed in front of the National Gallery and went a few steps farther, until she reached the central stairway leading to the square. For a few moments she stood watching the square, the fountains, Nelson’s Column, and especially the people. Most important were the people, since they were the danger. She surveyed the facades of the distant buildings in search of sinister eyes. A potential murderer could be anywhere, his gun silently ready to erase her life.

At last Sarah spotted him. A sweeper, one of many around the place with their green-and-yellow fluorescent outfits. He reminded her of the man she’d seen hours before from the window of her flat. There was probably nothing to be afraid of, she thought. This guy wasn’t going to put his hand over his mouth to talk, like the agents in the underground, but he did have a live walkie-talkie like everybody. A sweeper didn’t need a radio transmitter to do his job. No, either that man was the Rafael her father had mentioned, or else . . . best not to think about it.

Sarah moved on, trying to blend in with the passersby. Then, sharply turning her head, she tried to locate her sweeper. She also observed the rest of the sweeping crew. Those in sight made no attempt to conceal their presence and, to be honest, showed no interest in Sarah Monteiro or anyone else. Each one indifferently confined himself to cleaning his assigned area.

Which one of those guys could be Rafael? she thought.

At any moment, Sarah could be dragged into a passing car. Or one good shot could end her erratic flight. So many movies, so many scenes, so many theories ran through her mind, she was overcome with vertigo, feeling faint. People, people, and more people everywhere.

“Sarah Monteiro?” She heard someone call her. It was the sweeper. “Come with me. Trust me.”

Without waiting for her consent, the man took her by the arm, pushing her past people, heading out of the square.

“Where are we going?” There was no answer. “Are you Rafael?” Sarah insisted, still recovering from the daze that was overwhelming her.

There was a sharp buzzing coming from a pocket in the man’s fluorescent uniform, and Sarah saw him pull out a radio transmitter and start talking in Italian.

“La porto alla centrale . . . Sì, l’obiettivo è con me. . . . Negativo. Non posso rifinirla qui. . . . Benissimo.”

Not really understanding what the man said, Sarah noted that the voice coming out of the transmitter was strong, hollow sounding—certainly that of the boss. Was this man Rafael, or one of the men trying to kill her?

Clearly her father had specifically mentioned Rafael, one man, only one person. Sarah tried to break free, but the sweeper firmly held her back.

“Don’t be foolish. There’s no need to force the inevitable. But if it’s necessary—” A word to the wise.

Sarah had tried everything possible to avoid being caught, but at this point, what else could she do? Maybe her father should have chosen another place. What a terrible thing—to be killed without even knowing why. So be it, she thought. Once more she felt powerless, defeated.

But Sarah’s fate was not yet sealed. A black car shot out from one of the square’s adjacent streets, between the statue of Sir Henry Havelock and Nelson’s Column, screeching to a stop.

“I’ll take care of her,” said the man who got out of the car.

Sarah had an alarming sensation of déjà vu. Her instinct put her on guard, and she instantly remembered. It was the man who had pursued her and shot at her in the underground.

“Va bene,”
the sweeper said.

Without another word, the man in control pushed Sarah toward the car, shoved her into the backseat, and got in the front, next to the driver. The vehicle tore out at full speed.

With the car headed toward Parliament Street, Sarah Monteiro studied the man who apparently was in charge of her. He was middle aged and had a relaxed manner. She was troubled by a chaotic blend of sensations, doubts, and anxieties.

“Who are all of you?” she asked. Silence. Not even a glance in the rearview mirror. “Who are you?”

There was no answer.

About a half hour later, according to Sarah’s shaky calculations, the driver stopped the car, and the two men got out, disappearing from Sarah’s view. Only one man came back to the car, the one who had taken her away from the sweeper. This time he sat at the wheel. A few minutes later, the car slowed down as it entered a very posh residential neighborhood. Sarah’s heartbeat sped up with fear. Time was closing in. An automatic garage door opened, and their vehicle parked beside a shiny new Jaguar.

They both got out of the car.

“Come with me,” the icy voice commanded. He opened the back door of the Jaguar and didn’t need to say more. Sarah got in without delay.

“Where are we going?” He didn’t answer. “I’m fed up. And I’m not going to keep putting up with this. What are you going to do with me?”

“Don’t worry, I won’t finish with you until I find out what treasures you’re keeping.” The man’s voice was no longer cold, but warm. “Besides, what kind of help did you think your father sent you?”

“Who are you?”

“I am Rafael. And you will be my guest tonight.”

19

PECORELLI MARCH 20, 1979

It was already well into night, but Carmine “Mino” Pecorelli was still at work in his office on Via Orazio, resolving last-minute details for the forthcoming issue of
Osservatorio Politico.
Pecorelli knew that his weekly bulletin offended the taste of the most discriminating individuals, who not infrequently confronted him face-to-face for his tendency to delve into scandals and reveal sordid tales full of speculation and lies. But this didn’t bother Pecorelli too much. His obligation was to his readers, and they were delighted by his work. The
Osservatorio
relayed accounts of celebrities linked with secret organizations, major diversions of government funds through illicit activities, unsolved murders, and a host of other scurrilous matters.

At fifty, Pecorelli bragged about his exclusives and inside scoops, access no other reporter was getting. His successes came from his presumed contacts in high places, and it was said that he frequented the powerful gatherings of newsmakers, cultivating relationships with important people. His paper received financing from one of those personages, a first-tier politician who managed a considerable portion of Italy’s public business.

That day the lawyer-journalist was seated in his office, feet crossed on the coffee table, and leaning back in his executive chair. With his telephone anchored between ear and shoulder, he was conducting a serious conversation, replete with suggestions, invitations, interjections, and subtle taunts. His lips traced a slight smile as he rested in the chair, obviously comfortable or self-satisfied, or both.

That particular phone call, nevertheless, had no direct bearing on his weekly. It concerned a private matter. Pecorelli was attempting to augment his personal wealth by manipulating, or rather blackmailing, the individual on the other end of the line. For this he wielded certain detailed information in his possession that, if made public, could damage the person he was speaking to. This was no regular fellow, but the Grand Master of the Italian Masonic Propaganda Due lodge, or P2. His name was Licio Gelli. Pecorelli belonged to the same lodge.