“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.”
“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.”