“What would seem better to me is a nice hamburger,” Rafael suggested.
The assistant approached him, stone-faced, eyeing him directly.
“Is there something else you’d like to share with us?”
“With cheese, extra cheese. And smothered with ketchup.”
The assistant held his stare, inches away from Rafael’s face.
“I think Jack needs an appetizer. Something to remind him of what he shouldn’t do to his mates.” He signaled the servant. “Like betray them, for instance. That’s a no-no.” He stepped back to make way for the servant, who still held the terrible torture instrument he’d used on Raul.
Rafael didn’t change his sarcastic tone. He was well aware that the two men knew he was no ordinary person. They could tear him to shreds if they wanted, and he would let them kill him without saying a word. But that couldn’t save him from torture.
“Aren’t you going to clean the blood off that gadget?” he asked the Pole. “I could get an infection.” He turned to Raul. “No offense, Captain.”
“You can’t imagine the pleasure it’ll give me to cut you up, piece by piece, and watch you bleed like a pig until your last breath,” the torturer said, his face very close to Rafael’s, making sure he caught every word.
“At your disposal,” Rafael responded, “whatever you want.”
The servant answered the provocation, spitting in his face. There were many things he wanted to say, but it was better to concentrate his rage on the tool he was holding in his hand. The Pole savagely tore Rafael’s shirt, scattering most of the buttons on the floor.
“Stop that. Nobody here is going to gut anybody.”
The female voice filled the room, by surprise, catching everyone’s attention. All heads turned to look at the one who had spoken with such unqualified firmness.
“It’s a pleasure to see there’s one sensible person in the room, and that she has decided to be merciful to her companions,” the assistant said, facing Sarah, the one who expressed herself so unexpectedly.
“It’s hard to find anyone with any sense in this room,” she answered convincingly. “Tell your friend to back off.”
The assistant hesitated a few seconds, but finally ordered the servant to step back.
“Start talking,” he ordered.
“No, not yet. I’ll tell you everything you want to know, but—”
“Shut up,” Rafael interrupted her.
“You can’t do it, Sarah,” her father pleaded in a weak voice.
The servant hit Rafael with a well-aimed, painful smack.
“Shut up. Let her talk.”
“Please continue,” the assistant asked Sarah, regaining control of the situation.
“I’ll tell you everything you want to know,” Sarah repeated, “but only to the one in charge.”
“What?” The assistant seemed startled. “I’m the one in charge here.”
“No, you aren’t. You’re only an employee,” Sarah staunchly contradicted him. “What I know, I’ll tell J.C., and no one else.”
The Pole was astonished.
“Who do you think you are, giving orders here?”
A look from the assistant made him stop. Sarah was playing her card. She had earned that right.
“J.C. won’t speak with you. It’s better for you to say whatever you have to say now.”
“You want something that we have. I’m ready to give it to you, but that’s my condition and it’s not negotiable. I’ll only talk to J.C. Otherwise, you can continue with your torture until you kill us all. Nobody will say anything.”
The assistant walked over to Sarah, took out a gun with a silencer, and balanced it on her forehead.
“Who do you think you are, making demands on me?” His voice had a chilling tone, a mix of anger and impatience. “Haven’t you realized your situation? You’re in no position to demand anything. Tell me what you know.”
“If there’s anybody here who can demand anything, it’s me. I may be in chains, but if that’s the case, it’s because I’ve got what you want,” Sarah said defiantly. “Take the gun off my forehead and do what I say. Call J.C.”
“Don’t abuse my patience,” the man threatened, switching off the safety on the gun. “Nobody’s calling J.C. Talk.”
Sarah was determined not to submit, not to give up. She wanted to close her eyes, but even that could be interpreted as a sign of weakness, just when the man in the Armani suit pointed his gun and prepared to shoot.
“Your stubbornness only makes it worse,” Sarah said, in a final attempt to convince him. It could all be over in seconds, her life and that of the others, but if she could manage to open a tiny crack in the assistant’s resolve, there was a chance to save everyone. Perhaps she could find it, risking a bit more. “Surely your boss won’t be pleased to have you waste our lives without any tangible results.”
“Don’t underestimate my intelligence. For the last time, spill it, or your father will be without a daughter.”
“You’re risking too much,” Sarah challenged in desperation. “If you think killing me will solve the problem, you’re very mistaken. You’ll create another, bigger problem.”
“Shut up.” The man was incensed. “One of you is going to talk. There’s always someone who ends up talking.”
“Stop,” said a voice behind them, catching everybody’s attention. The assistant turned toward the doorway, where the Master had called out the order. He leaned on his usual cane and was carrying a black briefcase.
“Sir,” the assistant began, removing the weapon from Sarah’s head.
“Silence,” the Master answered. “Would you like to talk with me?” he asked Sarah.
“If you’re J.C., then yes,” the young woman answered, her eyes wide, as though she were confused by the turn of events.
The old man turned around and walked away.
“Bring her along.”
“But, sir,” the assistant mumbled.
“Bring her over here,” the old man repeated, now from the hallway. His tone allowed no rebuttal. “And leave the others alone until further notice.”
55
For Geoffrey Barnes, one of New York’s greatest advantages was the food. For the first time in several days, he enjoyed a first-rate lunch in a good restaurant. He was now much calmer, and understood that the whole business with Jack was part of the job. A game, which Jack had played masterfully, making him lose his head. It was apparent that if Barnes had been able to dispose of Jack at will, he would have handled the matter differently. That bastard, that sly fox, realized this, and knew how and when to take advantage of him.
To hell with the Italian, or whatever he might be. The fact that he spoke the language didn’t necessarily mean he was from that country. The man had said categorically, “Nobody dies without my authorization.” And when the boss spoke, everybody bowed their heads and obeyed. In that moment of confusion, he lost track of his orders. He got caught in the trap Jack set for him. It wasn’t easy to avoid. It was a mistake to have lost his temper.
But it was better not to think about it anymore. He devoted himself to enjoying the rest of his meal, his eyes already set on the dessert. And then his cell phone rang, the damned cell phone that robbed him of marvelous moments like this. He fished it out of his pocket without paying attention to who was calling.
“Barnes.”
During the next moments, Geoffrey Barnes confined himself to listening and answering with a few monosyllables. “Yes.” “No.” “Done.” One could readily infer he wasn’t talking to a subordinate, since whatever he was hearing made him shift restlessly in his chair. A few more monosyllables followed, and then a good-bye.
When he hung up, his expression was changed. Small beads of sweat trickled down his forehead. He put down the fork, still in his hand. The shit had just hit the fan, and if he didn’t act immediately, it wouldn’t take long to splatter everything. He left his money on top of the check on the table, and quickly headed for the door. He pressed some numbers on the cell phone and, now out on the street, brought it to his ear. His pace was fast and steady.
“Staughton, it’s Barnes. Don’t let them do anything till I get there.” The exertion affected the sound of his voice. He was walking very fast as he talked, but even so, his was a firm, emphatic voice. “Nothing about anything. Don’t explain why, just say I’ll clear everything up when I get there.” Barnes listened for a few seconds and then spoke again. “Not even Payne or anybody. They shouldn’t touch anything, or even move. And tell the rest to do the same, or else this is going to blow up.” He crossed the street without looking. Cars grazed past him, but he kept talking. “The reason? I’ll tell you, and you only, understood? But you can’t talk to anyone, Staughton.” The subordinate assented, on an office phone in the heart of Manhattan. “I’ve just received a call from the top levels of the Vatican.” He sighed. “The girl has tricked us.”
56
How did you kill John Paul I?” Sarah asked without preamble as she sat on the chair, in the same room where Rafael had been with Barnes. She rested her hands on the table to appear relaxed.
The Master stayed on his feet, his back to her, in a thoughtful pose. On hearing the question, he turned to Sarah and smiled.
“You’re not here to ask questions, Miss Sarah Monteiro. You demanded my assistant allow you to tell me personally all that you know. That’s why you’re here.” It was an old man’s voice, hoarse and cracked, but also definitive.
“It will be a small exchange of information. You’ll tell me what I asked you, and I’ll give you what you want so much. You know I wouldn’t be able to use anything against you that you tell me.”
“Don’t underestimate me, miss. I’m no cheap-movie villain. I’m flesh and blood, very real.”
“I don’t understand why you’re telling me this.” The old man’s answer had confused her.
“Forget it. It’s a digression,” J.C. explained, taking his seat in the chair across the table. “Actually, it wasn’t meant for you.”
“How did the pope die?”
There was a silence that Sarah found disturbing.
“The official version is that he died of a myocardial infarction,” the old man finally answered.
“We both know that’s not what happened.”
“We do?” J.C. said. “Do we really know that? Are you trying to contradict an official truth?”
“An official truth doesn’t have to be true. In the past few days I’ve learned that we’re all victims of deceit,” Sarah answered, with an insolence she never would have thought herself capable of.
J.C. let out a throaty but real guffaw.
“What does a girl know about all this?”
“Do you admit that the official truth is false?”
“False or not, it’s the only one we have.” His tone of voice still seemed normal. The old man never lost his cool, never said anything he would later regret.
Then he looked for something in his suitcase, which he had left by the table and was now rummaging inside. He finally found what he was looking for, an old piece of paper that he handed to Sarah.
“Read it.”
“What’s this?” She looked at its printed heading: DEATH CERTICATE.
“Read it,” J.C. repeated.
It was the death certificate of Albino Luciani, John Paul I. CAUSE OF DEATH: myocardial infarction. PROBABLE TIME: 23:30, September 28, 1978. An illegible signature, possibly of the Vatican doctor on duty.
“That’s the official truth of the pope’s death,” J.C. declared with a satisfied smile.
Sarah examined the document. How did the Master have this with him? she wondered.
“Let’s move on to what matters,” the old man insisted.
Sarah returned the certificate and looked into his eyes.
“No, not yet. I want to hear your truth.”
“What truth do you have in mind?”
“That certificate was made without any examination of the pope’s body,” Sarah said, remembering the conversation with her father at the Mafra monastery. “Tell me the truth. You know, a simple exchange of facts.”
“I’ve got other means of obtaining what I want from you.”
“I don’t doubt it. But that could take hours, or days, and there’s no guarantee you’ll get it. What I’m proposing is a fair exchange.”
“Why do you want to know?”
“No reason in particular. Just anybody’s normal curiosity after seeing so many long-held beliefs come tumbling down.”
There was a momentary pause in the conversation. The Master was lost in thought. For Sarah it wasn’t just curiosity, though it might have seemed so, but also a way of buying time. Beyond that, she had no idea where she wanted to go.
“Come on. Tell me what happened the night of September 28, 1978.”
The old man took some time before he spoke.
“Before even starting, I’d like to clear up one historical error. Albino Luciani died in the hour after midnight, very early on September 29. No need to ask how I know. I was the last man to see him alive and the first one to see him dead. Surely you already know why he died. He had become an unwanted pope, a dangerous enemy, and he had to be eliminated.
“I’m not talking about religion. There was a mistaken evaluation of his character. If we had a sliver of hope after the conclave, we quickly learned it was misplaced. His fragile appearance was just that, an appearance. He intended to clean house right away.
“Archbishop Marcinkus and Cardinal Jean-Marie Villot were going to be the first to fall. The most valuable cards in the deck. And, believe me, many others were going to be running the same risk. With Marcinkus and Villot out, it wouldn’t have taken long to get to Calvi and Gelli, and after that, the collapse would be total. John Paul I was actually digging his own grave. He wasn’t like Paul VI, who stayed focused on religion and faith, and delegated the rest to the Curia and other competent people. John Paul I stuck out. He was going to end the Church as we knew it.”
“How?” Sarah was paying close attention to the Italian’s words.
“Do you think the Church could have survived the housecleaning he intended to do? Of course not. The faithful would have been scandalized by even a hint of the Church’s financial excesses. Even though Paul VI wasn’t to blame for any of it, he would have been seen as a crook ordering his people to launder black market money, and to invest it in enterprises forbidden by the Church, such as the manufacture of condoms, birth-control pills, and weapons. All of this in the attempt to make a lot of money, and to siphon off as much as possible into personal accounts.”