The Last Pope (16 page)

“It’s a good guess.”

“And why would the CIA want to eliminate the pope?”

“That calls for a very complicated answer.”

“I already see how complicated this is. Give it a try.”

Rafael looked at her for a few seconds, sighed, and went back to focusing on his driving. After a while he spoke.

“If you analyzed the geopolitical map of the world over the past sixty years, you wouldn’t be able to find a single major change that didn’t involve the CIA, and therefore the United States. In all this time there hasn’t been a revolution, a coup d’état, or a massacre in which the CIA didn’t play a part.”

“Give me an example.”

“Take your pick. Salvador Allende in Chile. Killed in a coup d’état directed by Pinochet, who in turn was totally financed by the CIA. Sukarno in Indonesia, unseated because of his relationship with the Communists. The Americans helped the military bring him down, through Suharto. More than a million supposed Communists were killed in a mop-up operation financed by them. In Zaire they put Mobutu in power. In Iran, Operation Ajax brought down the democratically elected prime minister Mohammed Mossadegh, and returned the shah to the throne. In Saudi Arabia, they rearranged the map according to their whim.”

“And there’s Iraq,” Sarah concluded.

“Yes, but that’s too obvious. The CIA confirmed the existence of weapons of mass destruction. At least they could have put them there, and later pretended to find them. That’s what I would have done.”

“Now they’re getting what they deserve.”

“No. Now innocent people are paying for the colossal errors of organizations that act only for themselves, without the backing of the country’s people. They represent only themselves.”

“We’re all potential victims of terrorism.”

“Terrorism was invented by them. Now they are—and we are—victims of the weapons that they themselves created.”

Sarah was fidgeting in her seat. “So the pope was one more victim.”

“Yes. The P2 needed it and the CIA didn’t care. The same thing happened with Aldo Moro.”

“There’s only one person in the world who the CIA has never managed to neutralize, despite numerous attempts.”

Sarah pricked up her ears.

“His name is Fidel Castro.”

29

It was well established that Geoffrey Barnes generally moved the pieces out in the field from his office on the third floor of a building in central London. But a telephone call from a certain house in Rome, more precisely on Via Veneto, made him get his butt out of his chair considerably faster than usual. Actually he climbed into one of the agency cars, accompanied by three other vehicles, in order to meet with the agents who were already posted around the critical area.

“I’m leaving now,” the voice told him, “and I want this solved before I get there. See to it personally, or you won’t sit in that chair again. Get moving.”

Very few people could talk that way to him. Those who did had so much power that Barnes had no means to counter them. He confined himself to nodding, or to murmuring “Yes, sir,” in order to clarify his compliance with whatever the order was.

“You have carte blanche,” were the farewell words. He was authorized to do whatever seemed most effective, to move the pieces however he saw fit, in order to achieve checkmate posthaste.

That explained how Geoffrey Barnes found himself in the backseat of a powerful car, his service weapon in its holster, watching the lights outside. “How could an infiltrator reach such a high level?”

This is going to end badly, he thought. Then he attempted to banish the evil spirits. What needed to be done would be done. Neither a woman nor a double agent, no matter how dangerous the latter might be, would cause him to fail before his superiors. This certainly was going to end badly for the target, known as Sarah Monteiro, and just as badly for her savior. Damn you. How could you dare do something like this? he lamented in silence. Taking his radio transmitter, he leaned forward in the backseat. They were already approaching their destination, and this time it was necessary to manage the pieces correctly, including his own position.

“Stop the cars a good distance back. We mustn’t reveal our presence. Over.”

“Roger, over,” came back through the device.

30

The subject was sitting in a black van, in the middle of Sixth Avenue in New York. He always answered when his cell phone rang, since it could be from the man who was calling now, and that caller could never be kept waiting. Once again the conversation unfolded in Italian, though it couldn’t exactly be called a dialogue, since the man in the dark overcoat restricted himself to occasional interjections and assents, listening, acutely tuned to the message—its order, its information, and its news.

The capacity for synthesis was an intrinsic quality of the speaker, who in a matter of seconds parceled out all the information, making it perfectly comprehensible, leaving not even the slightest doubt on the listener’s end. The one who listened considered him a lion, someone born to dominate men. Though he would like to see the man in person, just thinking about him made his hair stand on end. Not many other people could achieve that effect.

He hung up the phone, infused with a kind of ecstasy, as if he had just finished speaking with God. But he immediately pulled back to his usual bearing, not wanting his associates—in this case, the driver of the van—to catch him so awestruck.

“Any news?” The driver had tremendous respect for the Master, with whom he had never spoken. His respect escalated to fear when he observed, sitting beside him, the incredible reverence that his superior, a man of few feelings, showed toward him. “Any news?” he repeated.

“Things have gone badly again in London.”

“Is it so difficult to kill that wretched woman? Even with the help of the CIA?”

“We had an infiltrator.”

“Who? One of our own, in the Guard?”

The man in the overcoat didn’t answer right away. He watched the moving traffic of the city that never sleeps, the neon lights flashing their advertisements, their invitations to consume. It was all for money. Also working for money were the doormen guarding the entrance of a building. Even the sack of Rome was paid for, as was the elimination of Father Pablo in Argentina. Ideals did not fill anyone’s stomach. Nothing was done for free.

“Jack,” he finally replied.

“Jack? Are you sure?”

“He fled with her. He didn’t come back, and he killed Sevchenko.”

“The driver?”

He just nodded.

“Goddamn bastard,” the man at the wheel cursed.

“Jack. Who would have thought it? This complicates things a great deal.”

“Indeed. So much so that the Master’s coming over.”

31

We’d like to speak with Professor Margulies,” the man told the watchman at the guard station beside the giant doors of the British Museum.

“Professor Margulies is busy. Who would like to see him?”

“We’re the police, and we received a call—”

“Oh, yes. I called you. Go on in.” Proud, self-satisfied, he opened the entrance for the man with the tie and the five people who were with him. “You’ve come fast. I only called ten minutes ago. Why aren’t you in uniform?”

“We’re not uniformed police,” the fattest one answered, showing his badge with a quick gesture, but sufficient to satisfy the gum-chewing watchman. “We know that two individuals we’re seeking have been here, two suspects.”

“That’s why I called,” said the watchman. “I mean, as for the man, I don’t know if he’s a criminal—it’s not the first time he’s been here. But the woman, definitely. I recognized her the minute I saw her, from the telly news on the local station. She’s the Portuguese woman who killed that guy.”

“When you called, you said they were looking for a Professor Margulies, right?”

“That’s right. One of the main conservators of the museum.”

“Do you know why they were looking for him?” It was the fat one asking all the questions.

“I don’t have any idea.”

“Fine. Can you take us to his office?”

“But of course. Follow me.”

They went ahead, the six moving in single file, with the guard in front, the fat man behind him, and then the rest. They walked until they got to the spot where they would find Joseph Margulies, engrossed in his cryptographic pursuits. The guard’s proud smile expressed his satisfaction. To have called the authorities, at the number listed at the bottom of his television monitor, was a good deed for him.

“The Metropolitan Police requests anyone who sees the person shown in the photo to call 0202 . . .” They were looking for a young female reporter as witness to a shooting. The woman had such an angelic face that the image had stayed with him. He couldn’t have expected to actually see her a short time later. It totally astonished him. Nevertheless, he didn’t rush things. At first he even feared for Dr. Margulies’s safety. So he decided to keep an eye on them. A short while later he saw them leave. Damn it, he scolded himself. Missed my chance. Afterward he went to see the director, to find out what they were up to. The professor had a serious expression, amid his books, absorbed in his thoughts.

“Is everything all right, Professor Margulies?”

“Fine, Dobins.”

“Do you need anything?”

“No, you can return to your station. I’m just looking at some things for a friend,” Margulies answered, his eyes still on the books and a sheet of paper. “They’ll be returning in a little while, so you can let them back in.”

Music to his ears. The suspect was coming back. It was his chance. He was going to have his fifteen minutes of fame. He already pictured himself being interviewed by all the television networks. Maybe his superiors would reward him with a raise and all.

That was how he made the phone call to the Metropolitan Police that was intercepted by the men looking for Sarah.

Eagerly attending to his duties, the watchman stopped in front of the door to the room where they could meet Joseph Margulies.

“His office is right in here.”

Without a moment’s hesitation, the fat man pointed his gun with a silencer at the watchman and shot twice.

“Take him away,” he ordered. Then he opened the door and entered the room. “Professor Margulies? I’m Geoffrey Barnes.”

32

All was peaceful around the British Museum. Rafael parked in the same spot he had used the first time. They retraced their steps along Great Russell Street, up to the doors. There was no one at the guard station, so they rang the bell and waited.

Sarah was immersed in her thoughts. Rafael could easily sense she was still caught up in their recent conversation.

Finally a watchman appeared, a bald man who came running out of the building.

“Yes?”

“Professor Margulies is expecting us,” Rafael confirmed.

The man looked at them for a few moments, his gaze icy.

“Please go in.”

Sarah didn’t like his manner. He had just dashed her theory that bald men were usually nice. One more myth crumbled, on a night when everything she had taken for granted had gone on to a better life. All of it because of that Firenzi, whose connection to the whole thing she still didn’t understand.

Rafael walked quickly to the room where Margulies should still be working.

“Do you think the professor has deciphered the message?” Sarah asked softly, trying not to disturb the oppressive silence.

“No.”

“If he’d deciphered it he would have called.”

“Is it that complicated?”

“I don’t know.”

“It seemed like rapid scribblings, like our reporters’ scrawls at press conferences. Whoever wrote it was in a hurry.”

Upon opening the door to the room where they had last seen Margulies, they did not anticipate the scene awaiting them. Three men sat there, dressed in black like Rafael. Professor Margulies was with them, his face badly bruised and smeared with blood.

“Jack,” the fat man said.

“Barnes,” Rafael said calmly.

“Jack?” Sarah wondered, confused by the new name. She instantly forgot her confusion when two men pounched on Rafael, striking a blow to the back of his neck.

Rafael fell, but wasn’t knocked out. He instinctively raised his hand to his neck.

“And the girl can only be the famous Sarah Monteiro,” Barnes remarked from his comfortable perch.

Sarah was startled to find herself the center of attention.

“Geoffrey Barnes?”

Rafael’s words resurfaced in her mind: “Believe me, sooner or later they’re going to find us. It all depends on the cards we get to play at that point.” Dread paralyzed her; she couldn’t think.

“Isn’t that Sharon Stone?” Professor Margulies asked, gasping with pain.

Geoffrey Barnes roared with laughter.

“Sharon Stone? I assure you she’s not Sharon Stone. Give me the papers,” he ordered.

“The papers?” Sarah looked at Rafael, who stood up with difficulty. Of the two men, the one who’d struck him took this opportunity to grab him by the collar of his coat while the other searched him. They removed two guns equipped with silencers and used one to cuff him on the head, sending him back to the floor.

Geoffrey Barnes looked at Sarah.

“The papers?”

Sarah saw a glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel.

“They’re in a safe place.” Her voice didn’t quite carry the assurance she’d hoped to project. A slight quaver signaled the precarious value of the card she was playing.

“Don’t make me laugh. And, above all, don’t waste my time.”

“Do you think I would come here holding that list so I could hand it to the first person who asked for it? Who do you take me for?”

“You didn’t know we would be here. Don’t make me lose my patience.”

“Don’t you make me lose mine.”