The Last Pope (29 page)

“But this was all found out later, and nothing happened.”

“Exactly. By that time we no longer controlled the information and couldn’t avoid it. Even then, it was done so as to minimize the damages.”

“How can you be so indifferent about the murder of the pope?” Sarah asked.

“The end justified the means, young lady. There was a lot at risk. And I don’t mean just the court trials. Many people, and countries, would have been damaged because of the actions planned by the pontiff.”

“Who was only trying to restore justice.”

“Justice is a very subjective ideal. By now, surely you understood that. Licio Gelli felt obliged to devise a plan that could be executed in a matter of hours, a drastic plan. That’s how I came on the scene as Albino Luciani’s executioner. My job was to stay by the phone and wait. Villot tried to postpone the plan as long as possible. He tried to dissuade the pope, arguing, offering reasonable alternatives. But the pope showed his inflexibility. He sealed his fate on September 28, when he told Villot and the other monsignors about the replacements to be made over the next few days, starting with Marcinkus, effective immediately. When we got wind of the papal decision, we had no choice but to act.”

“The final solution,” Sarah threw in with enraged sarcasm. “The solution to all problems. If he doesn’t serve our purposes, we kill him, and the sooner the better. There are numerous victims of that attitude.”

“You can’t imagine how many. Anyway, the night of the twenty-eighth, twenty-ninth, I showed up at the Apostolic Palace. One of the monsignors had arranged to keep the entrances open and for me not to be intercepted. And that’s how it happened. He did his job perfectly.”

“Do you mean you were wandering around the Apostolic Palace at midnight?”

“No. I entered the pope’s private quarters directly, by one of the out-of-service stairways. The doors to the lower and third floors were generally locked. As you can imagine, that night was an exception. The Swiss Guard hasn’t been guarding the papal quarters since the times of Pope John XXIII. I didn’t cross paths with anybody on my way in. I had no trouble at all getting into the pope’s private rooms. He was still awake and we exchanged a few words. When I left, I had completed my assignment. The cardinals would have to bury the new pope and elect another one.”

“You talked with the pope? I hope you haven’t forgotten that conversation.”

“That’s irrelevant,” J.C. retorted, now starting to show his impatience. “The next day, the same monsignor who helped me get in also asked me to go see him in the Vatican. So I went. He wanted to give me the papers, the ones we’re now trying to recover, for safekeeping, and that’s what I did”—the old man smiled sneakily—“putting them in the safest place in the world. Besides, the idea amused me. How could I have imagined that Firenzi, the idiot, would finally find them and end up taking them out?”

“But weren’t you asked to destroy them?”

“No, not at all. Except for the list and the secret of Fátima, the rest is harmless. There were only papal orders concerning Church reorganization. Some of them more controversial than others, but nothing explosive, at least for anybody who follows religious matters.

“But the list is another story. As you surely know, it’s not about the list of P2 names that everybody knows, but a much more sensitive version. It includes the names of great personalities and, specifically, of one prime minister. Any third-rate judge would have a clear basis to prosecute them for the death of a pope. Nobody could have imagined that any such thing was going to happen. That damned prosecutor of the District of Rome . . .

“Nobody would have suspected any irregularity in the pope’s death, except that Villot, in his excessive zeal, made a series of mistakes after the body was found by Sister Vincenza. He demanded an absolutely unnecessary vow of silence from all the residents of the palace, and he then invented an official story, later proved false by the Vatican itself.”

“I don’t understand.”

“The first official version said that John Magee, the pope’s secretary, found him dead at five thirty in the morning, when actually he was found forty-five minutes earlier by Sister Vincenza, his personal assistant.”

“Why did he do that?”

“It didn’t seem appropriate for a woman, even though she was a nun, to be freely entering the pope’s private quarters. Image issues. Then Villot got too personally involved. He issued a series of mistaken declarations and made outlandish decisions. He said that the pope had his bedside book,
The Imitation of Christ,
by Kempis, in his hands. This special edition was actually in Venice. He hastily summoned the embalmers. Soon it was learned that the nun had discovered the body. If one added the rushed cleaning of the papal private quarters to all these incongruities, it became easy to understand why everybody would think this reflected the personal behavior of somebody who had something to hide.

“On the other hand, the doctors would collaborate with us only if they didn’t have to face another doctor’s opinion. Luciani’s physician was Dr. Giuseppe de Rós, who always attended him in Venice, and during his month in the Vatican. It was important that he corroborate the diagnosis of his colleagues when he arrived in Rome. Villot would not, however, authorize an autopsy, also prohibited under canon law. Villot was the cardinal camerlengo and, as such, the head of the Church until the end of the next conclave. He was very busy, and very nervous about all that had occurred.”

“Understandable,” Sarah remarked.

“Dr. Giuseppe de Rós approved the diagnosis of the other doctors, but he actually had little chance to do anything else, because he could only conduct a superficial examination. Since an autopsy was out of the question, if Villot had not acted so precipitously, it would have been a perfect crime. A new pope was elected and life went on. But the death of John Paul I had already aroused too many suspicions, and everything began to fall apart, and in a way particularly damaging to the P2, which disbanded in 1981. Since then, we’ve been more in the shadows than ever.”

“And how did they manage to bury the P2?”

“The details are complicated. Let’s just say that, for years, judges, journalists, and some police organizations followed clues that led to the IOR, the Banco Ambrosiano, the P2, and businesses that connected them.”

“And what happened with Villot, Marcinkus, and the manager of the Banco Ambrosiano?”

“Villot was very sick at the time of Luciani’s assassination. He himself had asked to be relieved, but he wouldn’t allow Benelli to serve as his replacement. Villot wanted to choose his own successor. Benelli was a man too much like John Paul I. He, too, would have caused irreparable damage. After Luciani’s death, Villot relaxed a little, and he died in peace in March 1979, very well attended.

“Marcinkus continued with his shenanigans in the IOR for a long time, until he was taken away, and he returned to Chicago. Later he retreated to a parish on the outskirts of Phoenix, Arizona.”

In old J.C.’s opinion, Marcinkus was a villain. He had no friends, no associates, no allies. He was only a friend to himself and served his own interests. Because of that, he could continue his businesses for a long time, after both John Paul I and Villot had left this world. There he was, at the head of the IOR until 1989, under the aegis of Pope John Paul II himself.

“As for the others,” J.C. went on, “Calvi was found dead in 1982, strangled beneath the Blackfriars Bridge in London. The embezzlement of the Banco Ambrosiano finally amounted to some two billion dollars. That money was lost, but it was very profitable for Gelli and Marcinkus.

“Would you like to know where Gelli is?” the old man asked, making a dramatic pause. He knew he was nearing the end of his story. “He’s fulfilling a residential imprisonment in Arezzo, Italy. And as for me, well, I’m not anywhere.”

Again he fell silent. Then Sarah threw out a question that still hadn’t been answered, perhaps the one she was most interested in.

“How did you kill the pope?”

“Come on, Miss Sarah Monteiro, you can’t expect to be told everything in exchange for nothing, right? One thing for another, isn’t that what you said? I more than fulfilled my part. Now it’s your turn.” He smiled, satisfied, like someone who knew he had reason on his side.

“It’s my last question. I need to know how you did it.”

“And I need to know where you stored the papers.”

“You yourself said that they don’t contain anything explosive.”

“I guarantee you they don’t. And if they had appeared on the night of the murder, except for the list and the secret of Fátima, there would have been no dire results. But if they reappeared now, after all these years, they would be looked on differently.”

Sarah couldn’t avoid agreeing with the old man. The Holy See would be revealed as an institution entirely at odds with the scruples and morality that it pretended to defend. Those documents, among other things, would confirm that someone made them disappear. They would point the finger at the top figures in the Curia, and the Church might never recover.

“What does all of this matter to you? It’s hard to believe you pay much attention to the Church.”

“There are secrets that ought to remain in the shadows, truths that should never be uncovered.”

“Sooner or later, somebody will bump into them again and the truth will come to light.”

“Then let that happen as late as possible. When I’m dead, it will hardly matter to me what anybody does with those papers. But until then, it’s better for me to have them.”

“Don’t you want to destroy them?”

“No. I might need them at some point. Now, cooperate with me and keep your word.”

“I’ll keep it. I only want you to answer my last question,” Sarah replied, in a final attempt to buy time.

The old man was wrapped in a disturbing silence for some time. Sarah became anxious. Though it might not have seemed so, she needed to know how J.C. killed the pontiff. She didn’t know why, but she felt a compulsion to know.

“We’ll do the following. You’ll tell me what I want to know and then I’ll tell you.”

“But—” The young woman was hesitating.

“I always keep my promises,” the old man added.

Sarah didn’t doubt it. Hers was a different problem. As soon as she spoke, J.C. would forget about her, or kill her.

“I’m waiting,” J.C. pressed.

“Very well. The papers are kept in a safe place.”

Sarah paused.

“I know that very well. Please finish.” His dry voice announced it would no longer tolerate any more detours.

“Then you’ll understand that they’re so secure that I’ve no control over them.”

“What do you mean?” He raised his voice, threatening. “Explain yourself.”

“The papers are in the Vatican,” Sarah answered, very sure of herself. “That’s where they came from, and that’s where they needed to return. A pope’s papers belong in the Vatican.”

“Surely you’re joking.”

“No. I’m serious.”

The somber expression on J.C.’s face left no room for doubt. His sudden pallor accentuated the deep wrinkles of his face. Suddenly he was gasping like an asthmatic. For the first time Sarah was aware of his humanity. Rather than an automaton who arbitrarily disposed of people, he was a fragile old man at the end of the road.

“Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

“Do
I
have any idea?” she spat back, both indignant and frightened.

“Your father and your friends are dead men, thanks to you.”

“So be it.” Her eyes welled with tears that she tried to contain. “I did what I had to do. You won’t have your way.”

“Do you really believe I won’t recover those papers just because they’re in the Vatican? What makes you think I don’t have people working there, as in 1978?”

“Times have changed.”

“Don’t kid yourself.”

Sarah wanted to believe that, yes, things had changed. It was true that conservatives had progressively gained more and more power in the heart of the Church. Now it was much less modern and liberal than Albino Luciani would have wanted, but there were also different people at its center now. There were no Villots or Marcinkuses in the new Vatican.

“If they haven’t changed, you have no reason to worry. Tomorrow, or at most in a couple days, you’ll have the papers under your control.”

The old man’s look indicated he thought that would not be the case. “And where are the others?”

“The others?”

“Don’t play the fool. Only you had the list. Where are the rest of the papers?”

For a moment she thought of making up something, but then rejected the idea. It was better not to tighten the rope too much. She may have already gone too far.

“I can only talk about the list. I know nothing about the rest.”

The old man waited a few minutes. When he was done, he struck the floor three times with his cane. The assistant immediately came in.

“Take her away. Eliminate the father, the daughter, and the double agent—the three of them. Then bring me Marius Ferris. We’ve got a lot to talk about. But first have him watch them die.”

“That would help loosen anyone’s tongue,” the assistant responded, smirking.

“Where are you taking her?” someone who had just come in asked.

“To the gallows,” the assistant answered sarcastically.

Barnes grabbed Sarah by her other arm and, without further ado, yanked her out of the assistant’s hands.

“What are you doing?” J.C. asked.

“Sit down,” Barnes ordered Sarah before he turned to the old man. “She sent the papers to the Vatican.”

“I know. She’ll pay for that.”

“I got a call, precisely from the Vatican, just minutes ago.”

The old man shuddered. Disbelief darkened his eyes.

“And what do they want?”

“It’s not what they want, but what they ordered.”