"The Last Pope" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rocha Luis Miguel)20The man claiming to be Rafael drove at a moderate speed to avoid attracting attention. He seemed to know what he was doing. He picked up a package from the passenger seat, and offered it to Sarah in the backseat. “What’s that?” she asked. “Food.” “I’m not hungry.” “If I were you, I’d eat something. A hamburger and a Coke aren’t enough for a whole night.” “How did you know-” She interrupted herself midsentence, knowing the answer to her own question. “Forget it.” Sarah was confused. This man had pursued and shot at her in the underground, beyond the slightest doubt, and now he claimed to be Rafael, the one her father had said she could trust. Was he deceiving her in some way? Yes, that had to be it. She should be expecting some higher member of the organization to appear, interrogate her using atrocious methods, and end up killing her, whether he got what he wanted or not. She had in her possession a list that they knew more about than she did. “I assume you have a lot of questions for me,” Rafael said cordially. “Huh?” Sarah was unsettled by his new attitude. There was a silence, which didn’t seem to bother the man, who kept driving calmly. He exuded a certain air of satisfaction, as if Sarah’s torment amused him. But this could also be his natural way of being. The young woman’s imagination was racing at full speed. “I’m at your disposal,” Rafael reassured her, apparently persisting in his attempt to make her feel more relaxed. Even so, and in perfect English, his tone sounded more like an order to Sarah. “The first question that comes to me is, why did you try to kill me in the underground?” “Did I try to kill you?” “Yes. You know very well what I’m talking about.” “Hmm.” “Are you denying it?” “I’m going to tell you, so you won’t have any further confusion about this, that if I’d really shot at you with the intent to kill, we wouldn’t be having this conversation now.” “And what the hell happened at my flat? Can you explain to me what’s going on?” “Yes, I can. The question is, would you be ready to hear it?” the man said in all earnestness. “Ready or not, I need to know. No other choice.” “You’re right,” Rafael admitted, forcing a smile. Then he gave her a thoughtful look. “Have you ever heard of Albino Luciani?” “Yes, of course.” Sarah was offended by Rafael’s condescending tone, as if she were an ignoramus. “Albino Luciani was known as John Paul I, also popularly known as ‘the Smiling Pope.’ ” Sarah remembered the papacy of John Paul I. Although she had never been especially interested in religious matters, she knew that this pope had spent a very short time on Saint Peter’s throne. “He was only pope for a few months.” “No,” Rafael corrected, “Albino Luciani held the post for thirty-three days, in August and September of 1978.” “Only thirty-three days?” “Very little time for some, and too much for others. The death of John Paul I is shrouded in great mystery. There are some who think he was murdered.” “Well, there are always crazy people who subscribe to conspiracy theories.” “Try saying that to Pietro Saviotti, the prosecutor of the District of Rome. Apparently he’s one of those ‘crazies’ who think there are still shadows that haven’t been cleared up in that story.” “But who would want to kill the pope?” “Instead of who, the more important question is, why. The motive for the crime counts more than the criminal’s identity.” “All right. Why, then?” “Let me answer you with another question. Have you ever heard of the P2?” “Vaguely. Wasn’t it a secret society or something like that?” “Something like that. It’s the initials of Propaganda Due, an Italian Masonic lodge whose objective is to conquer the political, military, religious, and economic power of all the communities it manages to penetrate.” Rafael gave Sarah a brief account of this organization, founded in 1877 as a branch of Italy ’s Grande Oriente, formed by people who had no possibility of creating their own lodge. In 1960 it had barely fourteen members, or that’s what people said. When a certain man named Licio Gelli became its grand master, its membership increased to a thousand in one year. And later, at its peak, its body grew to 2,400 members, including generals, politicians, judges, television executives, bankers, professors, priests, bishops, cardinals, and many other people of different professions and levels of power. In 1976 Italy ’s Grande Oriente broke its ties with Licio Gelli and the P2. That was how the organization became a separate lodge, alien to Italian Masonry. “Nevertheless,” Rafael kept explaining, “Gelli didn’t abandon his ambitions, and he continued to build networks for secretly gaining control of the Italian government. For this he devised the ‘Plan for the Democratic Rebirth of the P2 Lodge.’ Knowing Gelli’s fondness for European fascism, it’s easy to see that he meant to install a totalitarian system, not a democracy. He almost achieved his objectives in the late seventies, judging by the mass media news. Gelli’s methods were not very different from those of other Mafia-type organizations around the world. Anybody who got in his way risked meeting his Maker ahead of time. A lot of the murders, attacks, and massacres of those times carried the seal of the P2 Lodge.” “So,” Sarah concluded, “if I understood you correctly, you’re suggesting that his organization was very interested in assassinating John Paul I. Fine, but where do I come in? Are the P2 men the ones running me down? Why?” “Because God favored you with the possession of a very valuable list, containing the names of the members of the organization. An old list, more than twenty-five years old, that until now hasn’t seen the light of day. Many on the list are already dead, but others aren’t, and if their names were revealed, it could cause a lot of problems for a lot of people. It’s worth the effort to kill anyone if that could prevent this from happening.” But Sarah had stopped paying attention. What this man was saying had already set her mind spinning. The list. The list she possessed contained the names of the members, dead and alive, of the Propaganda Due, the P2. And it included one name that weighed heavily on her heart, burying her in uncertainty and indecision-her father’s, Raul Brandão Monteiro. How could it be? Rafael was reading her thoughts but said nothing. This was a road she had to travel alone. “Do you belong to the P2?” Rafael reflected for a few moments before answering. “I belong to a superior entity. I’m guided by a plan that happens to include the P2.” “I don’t understand.” The young lady sighed, aware that she was probing into some very complicated matters. But it was best to discover the truth directly, without detours. “The P2 is after you,” Rafael continued. “Now, as to my connection with the P2, I can say that it ended quite recently, when you got into this car, actually. In fact, I was an infiltrator.” “An infiltrator?” “If you can’t go after your enemies, join them. Destroy them from within. Obviously my work is now compromised. No longer is the P2 just chasing you. It’s also after me. And, believe me, sooner or later they’re going to find us.” “Then what’s the point of this conversation, if we’re going to die?” “It all depends on what cards we get to play at that point,” Rafael smiled faintly. “Do you have the list with you?” Sarah pulled the papers out of her jacket pocket, took the two that made up the list, and handed them to Rafael. He examined them silently, without needing to slow down. After a few minutes, he gave them back to her. “Do you know any of the names, besides your father’s?” “Well, from what you’ve told me, I’m sure we could Google all these names and probably find descriptions of important men.” “Maybe you’re right. But give it a closer look.” Sarah looked down the columns, now studying them line by line, and no longer surprised by the predominance of Italian names. She noticed that the numbers before each name were unpredictable, not following any recognizable order. Each number was followed by a letter, and in some cases by two or three. “The numbers aren’t in order. And the letters don’t seem to follow any logical pattern.” “Those are registration numbers within the organization for each person. And the letters refer to their place of origin. For example”-he reached again for the papers Sarah was holding-“let’s take this one, which is right to the point, the Grand Master: ‘440ARZ Licio Gelli.’ His registration number is 440, and he’s from Arezzo. Get it?” “Yes,” Sarah answered, her eyes zipping down to the name that mattered most to her: 843PRT Raul Brandão Monteiro. “PRT. Portugal.” “Sarah, you weren’t even born yet.” “Neither were you.” Rafael smiled at the comment. “I was probably five or six years old.” The girl continued perusing the papers, until she found another familiar name. “This name, and this ‘MIL,’ is from…?” “ Milan. But don’t fool yourself. At that time he wasn’t yet in politics. And he’s no longer a member of the P2.” “Yes, but he was. A prime minister of Italy? The dimensions of this, I mean, I don’t know what to think.” “Don’t think.” Sarah buried herself in the list again. She was terrified by the magnitude of all this. But, besides, her father’s name was on it. How far did he go? And how far could Captain Raul Brandão Monteiro perhaps still reach? “What are these handwritten scribbled notes?” the girl asked, trying to push back her more painful thoughts. “They are what give an incalculable value to this list. Handwritten annotations by John Paul I.” “Seriously?” “Yes.” “And what do they say?” “It’s a classification. He underscored the names and the occupations of the ones he knew. For example, notice this one, Jean-Marie Villot: “Was he a member of the P2?” “Of course.” “And what’s on this page? Are those also the pope’s notes? And this key?” Sarah handed to Rafael the sheet with the hastily written scribblings. He read them closely. “What does it say?” “ ‘It is God’s will and I will do His bidding. His wish is my command.’ In not very correct Italian.” Seconds later, Rafael made a complete U-turn. “What’s wrong?” Sarah asked. “We’re going to see someone.” “Who?” “Someone who knows.” “Knows what?” Rafael was driving very fast down a narrow street. He seemed to have no intention of answering her question. “Someone who knows what? Did you see something on that paper?” The car entered a wider street and turned east. Rafael sped up, not caring if the police could see him in one of the patrol cars that passed by moments before. “Yes,” Rafael said finally, without going into detail, as if that one word were an adequate explanation. Then he took out his cell phone. “What was it you saw?” Sarah insisted, alarmed. “A code.” |
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