Barely fifteen minutes later, the other man managed to get into the old man’s flat. He did a professional job and was extremely careful, now that he had exceeded the limits of his assignment. His boss’s clear instructions did not include entering the apartment. Moreover, they expressly prohibited any action that could jeopardize the overall plan. Why was he placing himself in such danger? He was risking all of his previous accomplishments and taking his life in his hands, knowing that the Master’s hand did not tremble at the moment of exacting punishment. But he was trying to gain an edge, something that could please the old boss, whose arrival was imminent.
He’d had everything planned, waiting at a prudent distance from the residence. Less than ten minutes had gone by when a car stopped in front of it and the doorman went to open the car door for the lady and her children ready to climb in. The man wasted no time, already finding himself in the service elevator, on his way to the seventh floor. No one had seen him go in.
Now, inside the apartment, he inspected it with precision. The decor was modest, with old furniture and nothing too luxurious. Dark tones were predominant and there were many crosses, dispersed through all the rooms. The faith of the man living there was also evidenced by a humble wooden altar with enough extra space facing it to say Mass for ten or fifteen people, and by various copies of the New Testament, in different editions, sizes, and bindings.
During his hourlong inspection, the man made three phone calls to keep track of the tenant’s jaunt, well into Central Park, to the despair of the driver, who was already fed up with following him around. By the time he had completed his task, he had no doubt that what he had hoped to find wasn’t there. He had searched in the darkest nooks and hidden corners. Cautiously poking his head out the window, he saw the endless traffic on Sixth Avenue. He glanced at his car, still neatly parked. He tried to compose himself, for he couldn’t go out in an agitated state.
With a thoughtful expression, he sighed deeply. “Nothing.”
44
The Mafra National Palace, one of the most important architectural relics of Portugal, was located in the town from which it got its name. The enormous edifice was built according to the wishes of King Juan V of Portugal, who had promised to build it if the queen, Doña María of Austria, gave him an heir. The birth of Princess Doña María Bárbara made him keep his promise, and the king spared no expense in building that baroque architectural masterpiece. The luxurious royal quarters occupied the entire top floor, but the building also contained a monastery for more than 300 Franciscan priests, a basilica, and one of the most beautiful libraries in Europe, covered with marble and exotic woods. Its rococo shelves now housed more than 40,000 volumes, leather-bound with gold engraving. In addition to many other literary marvels, it held a first edition of Os Lusíadas, by Luíz Vaz de Camões. The building had not housed any Franciscan fathers for a long time now, since the religious orders were dissolved in 1834. In addition to its great intrinsic value, the palace also held many treasures. The basilica had two towers and a cupola, six pipe organs with an exclusive repertory, which couldn’t be heard in any other place, and two carillons of ninety-two bells, considered the best in the world.
“What are we doing here?”
“We’re going to meet your father.”
“Here?” Sarah was in a terrible mood. “He’s coming here?”
“He’s already here.”
They passed the enormous doors of the monastery and went into its magnificent interior. Rafael’s manner suggested he knew where they were going.
The serenity of the monastery began to ease Sarah’s anxieties. This environment served as a balm. A group of students was ahead of them, with a guide explaining the history of the place.
“Saramago, the Nobel Prize winner in literature-in his book Memorial do convento, which I recommend, by the way-describes the misfortunes and complications that occurred during the construction of this building.”
Rafael and Sarah were sneaking through a restricted-access doorway. Her heart began beating much faster. “He’s close.”
“Did you know it’s said that the height of this monastery is the same as its depth underground?” she asked nervously.
“I’m sure,” Rafael answered mechanically, obviously thinking about something else.
They went into what had once been a hospital, with an adjoining chapel, from which the patients could hear the Lord’s words. In one corner, Rafael skillfully opened a small wooden door.
They descended a narrow spiral staircase, illuminated by the flashlight Rafael had pulled out of his pocket.
“It’s also said that the basements have been inaccessible for centuries, due to the thousands of rats living there.” Sarah’s voice sounded tremulous, revealing her anxious jitters. “Countless treasures were lost because of that.”
They came to a very old door with rusty hinges and moldy wood. There was utter darkness. Sarah began picturing bats awakened from their sleep, infuriated by the two intruders. Rafael opened the door, which screeched sharply.
“Watch your head,” he warned, stooping to go through the narrow doorway. Sarah followed him, convinced she was about to enter fifteenth-century Portugal.
“What is this? Where are we?”
“Take this,” Rafael said, handing her the small flashlight.
Sarah grabbed the chance to survey the place, disregarding Rafael’s moves. But the only thing she managed to see was dirt. Dirt and more dirt. She couldn’t tell if it was a continuation of the passageway or a kind of catacomb.
“Would you mind pointing that over this way?” Rafael asked. “It has to be somewhere around here.”
“What?”
Set in the rock, or dirt wall, Sarah couldn’t tell, was a stick with a cloth wound around one end. A primitive torch.
Seconds later, using a lighter, Rafael ignited it. The fire spread an orange light that partly lifted the darkness. Before them was an enormous tunnel that looked endless, dug out of the rock.
“Where are we?”
“Welcome to the catacombs of the Mafra monastery,” Rafael said, noticing Sarah’s bewildered expression. “Shall we go?”
Sarah didn’t answer for a moment, stunned into silence.
“My father’s coming to meet us here?” she finally asked.
“No, your father lives here.”
45
There’s certainly nothing like the blue smoke of Havana cigars. It traces beautiful, unpredictable swirls, slow-moving and soulful, and their fragrance permeates rooms with an incomparable, refined elegance.
Paul Marcinkus was savoring a Havana cigar in his Rome office, while watching the television recap of a round of golf. Just at that moment, while an elegant golfer in a yellow jersey competed in the tournament against the all-powerful Jack Nicklaus, a bitter workday was coming to an end. Only the Masters at Augusta or the British Open could soothe life’s troubles. Although there’s nothing like Wimbledon, of course. he thought
False holiness made the Illinois archbishop sick, and he couldn’t understand certain cardinals’ disgust with life’s pleasures. “Holy rubbish!” was his usual response when some humble priest reminded him that the Church’s elaborate display wasn’t exactly the best model for the world’s faithful. In those cases, even if the observation came from a member of the Curia, Archbishop Marcinkus reminded them of a passage from the Gospels that always disarmed his opponents. “The Son of man, who ate and drank, came, and people said, ‘This is a gluttonous drunkard, friend of sinners and carousers.’ But his deeds bore witness to his wisdom.” Luckily for him, the prelates reproaching him never mentioned the passage where Jesus warned that one could not serve two masters, particularly if one of them was God and the other gold.