The Last Pope (15 page)

“Misleading assumptions are at the root of most problems,” Rafael said cryptically.

The organizations connected with the P2, and the lodge itself, knew that Pecorelli had revealed the names on the list or that, at least, such actions had been attributed to him. There was no doubt that Pecorelli had tried to blackmail Gelli, and in fact, that was a very dangerous game to play with Gelli.

In March 1979, the body of the journalist was found, shot twice in the mouth. It was relatively easy to think of Gelli as his assassin, but that would be very difficult to prove. Besides, it would be very complicated to find the real capo behind that murder. Rafael could only suggest that behind the whole thing there was an ex-prime minister.

“A prime minister?” Sarah exclaimed in astonishment. “From what kind of country?”

“A country like any other,” Rafael said. “If you knew just half of what happens in yours, or anywhere else in the world, you’d be horrified. The P2 listings are not dangerous in themselves,” Rafael went on, “except for what they reveal or suggest, or what they prove, in connection with politics in Italy, in Europe, or the rest of the world during the past thirty years.

“Anyway, it seemed that Pecorelli knew too much. For instance, he knew that this obscure prime minister was involved in Operation Gladio, a paramilitary and terrorist organization created by the CIA and the MI6 after World War II, with the objective to prepare for the eventual invasion of Europe by the USSR. Later, during the sixties, the organization focused on preventing Communist and Socialist parties from taking power in Western Europe and South America. For many years this network was sustained and financed by the CIA, NATO, the British secret services, and other Western institutions.

“In Italy, Gladio carried out a far-reaching operation, the so-called strategy of tension. Basically, it financed leftist terrorist groups so that democratic Communist and Socialist parties became the recipients of citizens’ hate. In this strategy of tension, Gladio supported, financed, and carried out the attacks on Piazza Fontana in 1969 and on Peteano in 1972.

“And as far as its European structure was concerned, Gladio operated in Greece, Turkey, Spain, Argentina, France, and Germany, among many other places. The objective was always the same: to spread supposedly Communist-sponsored terror, and thus to create a favorable environment for conservatism and the extreme Right.

“Giulio Andreotti discovered this plot in 1990, when it was judged. It was revealed during the trials that the P2 was heavily involved in that plot. It made sense. The P2 and Gladio shared the same fascist roots.

“One of the dangerous details that Pecorelli knew was about the connection among Gladio, the P2, the Red Brigades, and the assassination of Aldo Moro, prime minister of Italy and a member of the Christian Democrats. According to Pecorelli, the Red Brigades were indeed a leftist terrorist group, but manipulated—even created—by Gladio and the P2. Some people thought it was heavily infiltrated by CIA agents. All these organizations, according to their strategic plans, promoted the kidnapping of Aldo Moro in 1978.”

Sarah sat again at the edge of the bed, overwhelmed by the intricate network of conspiracy, corruption, and manipulation her roommate was describing for her. Nonplussed, she looked at Rafael, nervously wringing her hands.

“Could you bring me something to drink?”

“Of course.”

Rafael got up and went to the minibar by the door. He returned with a bottle of water and a soda.

“If the P2 took part in Operation Gladio, in addition to the CIA and all the others”—Sarah was trying to make the right connections—“that means that the world intelligence services not only knew about the existence of the P2, but had some relations with it, right?”

“Exactly. Except that it’s ‘have,’ and not ‘had.’ To give you an idea, the CIA hands the P2 eleven million dollars every month. They still spend a lot of dough on them.”

“Even right now?”

“Yes, now. This whole network of lies and manipulations stemmed from World War II. Right after the end of the war, a period of total mistrust developed. The old Soviet Union sealed itself off and became isolated, together with its satellite countries of the Warsaw Pact, always fearful of some destabilizing action from the West. On the other side, the democratic countries were afraid of tricks by the KGB and other Soviet secret services.

“The Soviet Union and its own or closely related agencies used to spend a lot of money to finance Communist parties and even terrorist groups in the West. The secret services of the United States, Great Britain, and other democratic countries maintained a similar campaign to prevent leftist parties from gaining power and, to do that, didn’t hesitate to form alliances with Masonic lodges, violent groups, fascist associations, whatever they needed.”

“Masonic lodges, the military, secret services . . . Who is actually governing us?”

“In theory, we are free citizens.”

“Yes, but who’s in charge? The governments we vote to elect are manipulated by secret organizations.”

“That’s a pretty good assessment.”

“It was meant to be a question.”

“A question, yes, but also an answer.”

“This is terrifying.”

“Then don’t think about it.”

“As if it were easy not to think about it.”

“It is,” Rafael asserted. “Try to think about less worrisome things.”

Sarah put down the bottle of soda and wrung her hands impatiently. “What an incredible amount of lies! This is terrifying,” she said again. “What’re we going to do now?”

“We’re going to see your father.”

“Where? Is he in London?”

Rafael got up and pulled his cell from the pocket of his jacket. He dialed a number and waited. When someone answered, he spoke in fluent German.
“Hallo. Ich benötige einige Pässe. Ich bin dort in fünf Minuten.”

26

Who were you just calling?” Sarah asked, back in the Jaguar, sitting beside the driver.

“A German guy who’s going to make you a passport.”

“Just me?”

“Yes. I’ve got several.”

“Can he be trusted?”

“No.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just that—he can’t be trusted. These counterfeiters work for money. That’s what keeps them in business. He’ll do anything for money.”

“But—”

“But he’ll only talk for money, too. If you’re worried he’ll go running out to report us, that’s not going to happen. You can relax.”

“Oh, yes, I feel much more relaxed now,” Sarah answered sarcastically.

“You should.”

It was a short trip, less than five minutes, including the time it took to park in front of a crowded, noisy pub. Next to it, a door was ajar. They climbed to the third floor, where Rafael rang the bell. The door opened instantly.

“Hello, how are you?” the German greeted them effusively.

“Terrific. And you?”

“Wonderful. Come in.”

“You’re the best,” Rafael said, stepping in and winking at the German.

Hans was a young man, barely in his twenties. His forgeries, besides being fast, were clean, and hadn’t drawn attention at any border post so far.

“So, old chap, tell me what you need.”

“I need you to make a passport for this lady.”

“For this
lady.
I like your elegant words, my friend.”

The young man took a camera and grabbed Sarah by the arm.

“Stand there.”

It was a wall prepared for making ID photos, with a neutral blue background.

“Don’t smile.”

“What?”

“Don’t smile. For passport photos you don’t need to smile.”

“Right.”

Sarah turned serious, perhaps too serious, while Rafael inspected a wall covered with photographs.

“Who are all these people?”

“All the chaps who’ve passed through here.”

“You’ve got quite a sizable clientele.”

“No complaints.” He connected the camera to a computer and began his work. “Do you have a particular country in mind, or a name that you especially like?”

Sarah was embarrassed. She hadn’t thought about this.

“Sharon Stone,” Rafael answered.

“I like that name, old chap. I think I might even know someone by that name.”

“As for the country, anything in the Schöningen region.”

“Okay, man. Do you have five thousand?”

Sarah went back to Rafael.

“Did you know this character?” she asked in a low voice.

“I didn’t. I know somebody who knew him.”

“Anyone would think you were friends for years.”

“Well, we aren’t.”

Hans continued working on the passport on his computer, typing and retouching the photo he’d just taken. Then he stood up and opened a cabinet. Reflecting for a few moments, he picked out several blank passports of different countries.

“Are you only going to be traveling through Europe, sister?”

“Good question. We might need to go to the States,” Rafael intervened thoughtfully.

Sarah looked at him, intrigued.

“The United States?”

“All right, old chap. Then I’m going to make one French and the other American. The French one to use in Europe, and the other for across the pond, okay?”

“Great.”

Sarah watched while Hans took two blank passports from the cabinet, one American and the other French.

“Are those real?”

“Why do you think they’re never detected?” Hans replied, as if offended by such an idiotic question.

“Coming here is almost like going to the embassy, with the advantage that you can choose your country and invent a name,” Rafael said. “That, of course, costs more.”

“Quality, my dear fellow,” Hans emphasizd. “You have to pay for quality.”

Rafael’s cell phone rang.

“Hello? . . . All’s going well . . . No problem . . . Where? . . . We’ve still got to go to one other place, and then we’ll be over there.”

“Who was that?” Sarah asked.

“Now, why is it I’m always explaining everything to you?”

“You’re my hero, old chap,” Hans broke in, admiring Rafael’s response. He used this opportunity to bring the passports over to a special printer. Placing them in what looked to Sarah like a scanner, he closed the top. “Ten seconds, and they’ll be ready, partners.”

27

Geoffrey Barnes continued talking on the phone. This time, his commanding tone, in English, made it clear he was not talking to a superior. Not on the red phone, with the president of the United States, or on the one he used to talk to the Italian man, but rather on the one reserved for giving orders and controlling his operations. Twenty-seven years of service and a spotless record gained him certain privileges. His work was still his primary passion. Beyond a doubt, one of the great advantages of his position was not having to be out in the field, but to manipulate the pieces as he pleased from an air-conditioned location, without major risks.

He was talking with his chief of operations about the progress and set-backs of the ongoing operation.

“He disappeared?” Barnes couldn’t reveal his jitters to his agents, but this entire operation now seemed like a useless endeavor. The woman vanished while his agents were pursuing her in one of the most frequented squares in London—very surprising. The old man had ordered him to hold back his men while the special cadre neutralized the target. Certainly the failure to do this would have its consequences, and even worse, cast doubt on the surefire reputation of his agents.

“An infiltrator? A double agent?” Holy shit, he thought. “Right, keep on searching. They couldn’t have become invisible.”

He hung up and leaned back in his chair, fingers interlaced behind his head. If they aren’t found, we’re screwed, he thought.

“Sir?” said Staughton, rushing into the office.

“Yes, Staughton.”

“Sir, are we still on hold, or do we have authority to act?”

Barnes considered this briefly, just for a moment, not wanting to appear indecisive. Here, nothing escaped interpretation, even silence.

“At this point we both hold the rod. Let the first one to spot the fish do the fishing.”

“Understood,” Staughton answered. “We intercepted an interesting phone call from the British Museum to the local police.”

28

With the Jaguar going at a good speed on the way back from the British Museum, Sarah was staring straight ahead, thinking, somewhat annoyed.

“I hope you’re not waiting for me to apologize,” Rafael said, perhaps regretting his offhand comment at Hans’s place. If he was now attempting to soothe her spirits, he hadn’t chosen the best way, since that wasn’t what Sarah wanted to hear.

“You’re wrong,” the young woman responded, glaring at him so intensely that he turned his head back to the road.

“Wrong?”

“I’m not expecting any apology.”

“You’re not?”

“No. What I want is an explanation.”

“I’m already aware of that.”

“You are?”

“Yes. But a forger’s den is not the place to be making plans or revelations.”

“Then you’ll tell me who called?”

“Your father.”

“My father? What did he want?” Her need to know was so intense that it made her angry with herself.

“He wanted to know how things were going.”

“And how are they going?”

“As well as can be expected,” Rafael answered, not taking his eyes off the road.

Sarah, too, was staring silently at the ribbon of asphalt. How could a life get torn to shreds in a matter of hours, or seconds? Yesterday she had a normal existence, and today she didn’t even know if she would live to see tomorrow.

“If the CIA is financing the P2, one could suppose it knew about the plan to kill the pope. Or is that just a reporter’s intuition?”