The old man’s face showed his total irritation.
“If I accept, what guarantee do I have that this wouldn’t come out?”
“Just think,” Natalie continued, “if the list is made public, that would surely be your death sentence. That’s why you’ll do what you should, and free them all. We’ll keep our part of the bargain. If you misbehave someday, you already know what will happen.”
The old man bowed his head and walked away a few steps, thinking.
“This is a reasonable enough pact for all concerned,” he announced, his voice resounding through the nave like a voice from the great beyond. “So, shall we seal the agreement?”
62
The years of Christ will be my days.
Today is the twenty-fifth day of my papacy,
the years of Christ were thirty-three.
– FROM THE DIARY OF JOHN PAUL I, SEPTEMBER 20, 1978
Fortunately his contact had secured a safe entry for him.
No Swiss Guard intercepted the man with the cruel, icy expression. He couldn’t have explained his presence there even if anybody had asked him. For the plan to be carried out with assured success, everyone knew it was crucial to have no person and no thing cross this man’s path before he reached the third floor of the Apostolic Palace.
The person for whom all paths were opened knew every nook and cranny of Vatican City. After all, the Status Civitatis Vaticanae was no larger than a village, with scarcely a thousand inhabitants.
Everything in the Vatican appeared modest, but at the same time, very ostentatious. That was the opinion of the man crossing the streets and turning the corners that night. The desire to make the capital of the pontifical state into a representation of heaven on earth had forced the Renaissance popes to devote all their money and effort to this objective. This explained why the best artists of all times had to go to Rome, to prove to God their skills and the quality of their work.
This same man had enjoyed the privilege of visiting Vatican City on numerous occasions. He knew the exact location of every palace, office, corner, and plaza, and he knew how to hide his presence that night. He knew the schedule and the routes of the Vatican guards, and the places they were usually posted.
By the time he arrived, half an hour after midnight, nobody-with the exception of members of the guard-would be in that part of the city. He needed only the assurance that the routine night rounds would not be altered and, of course, that the doors would be open.
Everything worked according to plan, so it was easy for him to get to the third floor of the Apostolic Palace, right next to the door to the pope’s private quarters.
The corridor was dimly lit, giving the place a sinister feeling. A thin sliver of light shone from beneath the door to the papal quarters, indicating that the pope was still awake. He was probably working on the changes that so many prelates, and perhaps other important people, feared. The fact that he was awake somewhat altered the execution of his plan. If the pope had been asleep, it would have been total surprise. He considered waiting until the pope fell asleep, but after ten minutes he realized that any delay would be pointless. He had a job to do anyway, and it didn’t matter whether the pope was awake or asleep. He would go in and quickly overcome any reaction. The rest would be easy.
He moved up to the door. With his gloved hand, he held the door knocker and waited a few seconds, struggling to be calm. This wasn’t his first murder and it wouldn’t be his last, but this one was particularly repugnant to him. His job was to end the life of a pontiff. It was like a direct blow to the hearts of the faithful. Nevertheless, there was some benefit. This murder would make similar ones unnecessary. And it would take only a few seconds to end the papacy of John Paul I.
He opened the door brusquely and went in. But the intruder was in for an immediate surprise. Albino Luciani was leaning back on the headboard, writing something on a piece of paper, and didn’t even raise his eyes to see who’d come in, without permission, at this hour of the night.
“Shut the door,” he said, and continued writing.
The intruder was a vigorous man, still youthful in 1978. He didn’t need a cane then. He radiated strength and efficiency. Anyway, Albino Luciani’s attitude surprised him, his total indifference to the unexplained presence.
Complying with the Holy Father’s request, he slowly closed the door. An awkward silence filled the room, while the pope continued to ignore him. That wasn’t at all the scene he’d pictured a few days before when planning the murder. He had always seen himself in total control. Go in, kill, and leave. This stupid situation was a complete departure from the way he’d imagined things. The words they exchanged convinced the executioner then that he was facing no ordinary man.
“Do you know man’s most important qualities?” Albino Luciani asked, still engrossed in his papers.
“Dignity and honor?” the intruder replied with a question, like a student hoping he had the right answer for the teacher.
“Dignity and honor are incidental,” the pope explained. “The most important qualities must be the capacity to love and to forgive.”
“Sir, you strive for these two qualities?”
“Constantly. But still, I am the pope, not God. My infallibility is institutional, not personal. This means I sometimes forget about these important qualities.” And for the first time, raising his eyes above his lenses, he looked at his executioner.
“Why are you telling me this?” the man asked.
“So you’ll know that I don’t blame you. I love you as my fellow man, and as such, I forgive you.”
Only then did the intruder realize that Pope John Paul I had been waiting for him and already knew what he had come to do. That understanding provoked a strange, disturbing reaction in his mind and attitude, but not serious enough to make him desist. He put a pillow over Albino Luciani’s face, and pressed. Those were the longest moments of his life. He was killing a man that death itself couldn’t fool. That murderer knew that beneath the pillow was a human being who neither begged for mercy nor tried to flee. He could have avoided the whole thing, retreating just a little from his eagerness for reform, but he didn’t. He stayed true to the end, and that fact earned him the executioner’s respect. When the last breath left the body of His Holiness, the assassin got up. Without his realizing it, tears were streaming down his face. Then, in a move he couldn’t account for, he placed the dead body in the same position the pope was when he came in, leaning him against the headboard. Even his eyes stayed open, with his head turned to the right.
Later, the man learned that among the papers the pope had in his hands was a copy of one of the secrets of Fátima. It announced the death of a man dressed in white, by the hands of his peers. The prophecy couldn’t have been more precise.
The murderer made sure that everything remained exactly as it was before he entered the bedroom, and then left without making any noise at all. He didn’t even turn off the light. Others would have to clean the scene of the crime.
63
This room on the seventh floor of the Waldorf-Astoria was well suited for the body to recover from the hardships and anguish of the past few days. Sarah had just come out of the shower, wrapped in a towel. Rafael was lying down, his eyes half-closed.
Before going to the hotel, they went to GCT (DI)-NY. Or more exactly, GCT (15)-NY-Grand Central Terminal, New York, one of the city’s main train stations, located on Forty-second Street. Number 15 referred to the locker that contained the papers. The code that took so much trouble to decipher was that simple.