At five-twenty in the afternoon, according to the watches, whether more or less on time, Wojtyla became the first non-Italian pope in more than four hundred fifty years of history. The last one was a Dutchman, Adrian VI, elected in 1522, very unpopular in Rome for defending and referring in one of his works to the
haeresiam per suam determinationem aut decretalem asserendo
, which meant that the popes could commit errors in matters of faith. Sacrilege. Sacrilege. He died little more than a year after his enthronement, leaving behind no desire to remember him.
The two hundred sixty-fourth pope of the Catholic Church put his hands to his head and began to weep, spreading emotion through the chapel that turned into moderate applause. Cardinal Jean-Marie Villot, chamberlain to the pope, and the equivalent of interim pope, a duty that only exists from the death of a pope until the election of the successor, approached Wojtyla with a frown, a sign of solemnity.
“Do you accept your canonic election for Supreme Pontiff ?”
With wet eyes Wojtyla raised his head and looked at everyone. Tears slid down his face.
“With obedience to the faith of Christ, Our Lord, and with confidence in the Mother of Christ and in the Church, in spite of great difficulties, I accept.”
A sigh of relief ran through the chapel, especially around the Austrian, Franz Koenig. Electing a pope was easy. Accepting the duty was up to the elected one alone.
“By what name do you wish to be called?” Villot continued. The same question that only six months ago had been asked the unlucky Albino Luciani, later found dead in his apartments in the early morning of the twenty-ninth of September, the pope who died alone, according to the official version. Some claimed it was a shady death, that he’d been murdered because of his reformer impetus and total incorruptibility. They even talked of poison or a pillow that suffocated him in the silence of the night. But that was the story of Pope Luciani. What is important now is the story of the Pole, Wojtyla.
Karol Wojtyla thought for a few seconds and smiled for the first time.
“John Paul the Second.”
The opening of the chapel was ordered. The brothers Gammarelli came in to robe the new pope in the sacristy. They had made three spotless tunics. One of them must fit the Pole.
The papers were burned in the way that produces the famous white smoke, but the problem wasn’t in the chemical compounds, but in the dirty chimney that hadn’t been cleaned in a century. Onlookers were not sure if the smoke was white or black. A few spectators stayed uncertainly in Saint Peter’s Square. Others delayed returning to their homes or hotels, to their own lives.
Two hours later the bells rang announcing the good news and the doors of the portico of Saint Peter’s Basilica opened. The plaza seethed with the faithful in silence for Pericle Felici to pronounce the same words of August 26, substituting only the name of Luciani’s successor.
Annuntio vobis gaudium magnum, habemus Papam! Eminentissimum ac Reverendissimum Dominum, Dominum Carolum, Sanctae Romanae Ecclesiae Cardinalem Wojtyla, qui sibi nomen imposuit . . . Ioannis Pauli Secundi
.
Chapter 10
S
arah Monteiro knew she was one and only one of the wheels in the greater set of gears. Journalist, Portuguese/British, daughter of the captain of the Portuguese Army, Raul Brandão Monteiro, and of Elizabeth Sullivan Monteiro, she realized that her position depended on her work serving the greater interests of those who controlled the gears.
If someone had told her months ago that today Sarah would be the editor for international politics for the prestigious
Times
of London, they would have provoked a guttural laugh, blunt but true, followed by a loud “You’re crazy!”
But those who controlled life, the gears, wanted it so. Sarah was the respected editor of international politics, a position immensely sought after and envied, one that she’d never expected to reach. The way she managed to get exclusive information or foresaw consequences was astonishing. Other editors of international politics followed her, waiting for her to show the path. In England that respect and admiration among colleagues had earned her the nickname “Bob Woodward.”
As always, there were some greedy naysayers who, out of incompetence, misfortune, or pure malice, never succeeded in reaching Sarah’s level of professionalism and who sullied her good name by inventing a supposed lover she had in the secret services. The truth was that someone did give her information, which always turned out to be correct, but it was not a lover or any agent in the secret services of any country. It was very much beyond all that.
To understand how Sarah reached this position, we would have to go back several months, almost a year, to a night in her old apartment in a house on Belgrave Road, right next to the stop for bus 24, which goes from Pimlico/Grosvenor Road to Trafalgar Square, and tell another story. We would have to speak of secret Masonic lodges and spies, assassins and assassinated priests and cardinals, documents lost and found, a pope mysteriously dead before his time.
“That’s another book,” Sarah protested. “It’s for sale in the bookstores. You don’t need me to tell you. This is a new story.”
“Is it published?” Simon asked curiously.
“What?”
“That book.”
“Don’t be so literal,” she explained. “And don’t think the world revolves around you. I wasn’t talking to you.”
Simon looked around.
“There’s no one else here.”
“I have a lot to do. Come on, let me work.”
Simon, Sarah’s intern and assistant, recruited from Cardiff, with a thick accent difficult for even English to understand, left the office with his head down. Sarah was a mystery to him in every way. She was considered extremely attractive by all her peers. She hired him after only two questions, the first to confirm the name of Simon Lloyd and the second if she could confide in him, dissolving all the fears and afflictions, cold sweats and nerves that surrounded the day before an interview. He was prepared for something more intense in which he’d have to show his worth, self-confidence, and self-esteem, but, unexpectedly, before he even settled into the chair, Sarah gave him her hand, telling him to show up the next day at nine in the morning prepared to work. He often asked himself in the few months he’d spent in that newsroom what made her offer him the job. He tried also, many times, to know more about his corporate superior, but without success. Sarah fiercely guarded her privacy and always made clear that going in that direction was like hitting a brick wall. If a door existed in that wall, it would open when and if she wanted to reveal it.
The truth was that these last months were going well for him in every way. There are those phases in life in which we seem unstoppable, everything works out, nothing seems impossible, and the future seems very easy to reach. A job at the best British newspaper could not have come at a better time. At the same time a new love affair full of passion had appeared by chance the night he celebrated his new position, a blessing. Simon was full of calm and confidence, courage and passion for life. He felt capable of everything and emanated love, for himself and his new lover, as well as gratitude and admiration for his mysterious boss, who gave him, without knowing it, all that professional and emotional stability.
The phone rang on his desk—yes, he had his own desk outside Sarah’s office, turned toward the noisy editorial office always overflowing with frenzied activity—shaking him out of that happy daydreaming and recalling him to work.
“Simon Lloyd,” the person on the other end of the line said.
“Hello, my love.” A wide smile gradually spread over his lips as soon as he recognized the voice. A blush colored the skin of his face and stirred other corporal reactions, normal in this case. “I wasn’t expecting a call from you.”
A conversation began at this point between lovers that is not worth following, topics like “Did you sleep well? You’re an angel,” and even “I didn’t want to wake you, so I left quietly.” Let’s move on to the persistent ring of the phone five minutes later, another call that required his attention.
“Hold on a minute. I have another call on the line,” Simon said. “Just a minute, angel. Kiss, kiss, kiss.” He forced himself to press Hold.
“Simon Lloyd,” he answered professionally, although he let some irritation show in his voice.
“Good morning, Simon,” he heard a voice say in a not very friendly foreign accent. “I want to talk to Sarah.”
“She’s busy. I’ll have to see if she wants to take the call. Who’s calling?” he asked while he looked at the nails of his right hand, analyzing whether they needed to be trimmed. Image was everything in this business and in this city.
“Tell her it’s her father.”
“Oh, Senhor Raul. How are you? I didn’t recognize your voice. I beg your pardon.”
“No problem. I’m fine, and you?” If it weren’t for Cupid’s arrow, Simon would have noticed a certain impatience in the captain’s voice with talking for the sake of talking.
“Very well. I’m very well.” The same stupid smile spread over his mouth, a smile of happiness. “I’m going to transfer you, Senhor Raul. Have a good day.” If it hadn’t been for his lover on hold on the other line, Simon would have started a long conversation with Sarah’s father, whom he had not yet had a chance to meet. Better that he chose not to. Better for the two of them, of course.
He pressed the buttons to transfer the call to Sarah without telling her first, since his instructions were to send any family calls through directly.
“I’m back, my love,” he said with the same stupid grin and blush covering his face. “It was my boss’s father. Nothing important.”
Let us leave the love affair on that side and move on to Sarah’s office, where the telephone began to ring. It was not Simon; that would sound different—the marvels of technology—it was an outside call, and a glance at the screen identified the familiar number of the family home of her parents in Beja. She stopped the work she was doing and answered immediately.
“Hello?”
“Sarah?”
“Hi, Papa. Is everything all right?”
“Are you all right, Sarah?” One question followed another, as he completely ignored his daughter’s first concern.
“I’m fine.”
Something’s wrong
. Her father’s voice didn’t reflect his customary calm. The last time she’d heard this tone there was a man at the door of her old house in Belgrave Road preparing to kill her. And the only reason he didn’t was—
“Sarah, you need to pay attention to me,” her father ordered in a serious voice.
“What’s going on, Papa?” An anxiety returned that she hadn’t felt for a long time, a disagreeable sensation she hoped never to feel again.
“Listen, Sarah,” her father repeated. “Listen carefully. You have to leave London immediately—”
“Why?” she interrupted, her heart suddenly thumping with alarm. “Don’t treat me like a child. This time I want to know everything.”
Silence on the line, not total, punctuated by clicks and static electricity. Confusion and alarm spread through Sarah. The past was at the door like on that night. What the hell was going on?
“Papa?” She said his name to bring him back to earth.
“Sarah.” She heard a different voice that flooded her with panic and nervousness.
Oh no. It can’t be him. Is it?
“JC?” she asked fearfully, hoping she was confused and had heard wrong.
Please, no. Don’t let it be him
.
“I’m honored you haven’t forgotten me.”
It was him. Her legs gave out; if it weren’t for the fact she was seated, she would have fallen on the floor.
“How are you since our last conversation in the Palatino?” he asked just to make small talk, something that was not part of his personality and awakened distrust in Sarah. She thought back on the conversation she’d had with JC in the Grand Hotel Palatino in Rome and the promise they would talk again. Almost a year later, this call kept that promise.
“What do you want? What are you doing in my parents’ house?” Sarah cut the formalities as she regained her reason. She couldn’t show her fear, no matter how much she felt it. This was the way to fight with people like this, without mincing words. JC was in Portugal, at her parents’ house, if the caller ID on the phone didn’t lie.
“Where are your manners, dear?” JC protested without hiding his sarcasm. “I’m having a pleasant conversation with your father, accompanied by a magnificent wine. We are at the most crucial point of our reunion, the reason he’s called you.”
“What do you want from us?” Her voice came out hard, as she wished, in spite of the inner turmoil that tormented her.
“I’m going to simplify things to make myself understood completely with no room for misunderstanding.”
“I’m all ears.”
A second of silence to get Sarah’s complete concentration. The old man knew how to get his listener’s attention. A gun to the head wasn’t always necessary.
“Leave London now. Bring what I left you in the Palatino and do not talk to anyone, warn anyone, or wait for anyone.”
“And if I don’t do what you ask me?” Sarah confronted him.
“In that case your father can prepare to ship your corpse back here because you’ll be eliminated today.”
Chapter 11
H
ere we find the mortal remains of the patron of truck drivers, tunnel workers, hatmakers, pharmacists, haircutters, gentlemen and pilgrims, pilgrimages and roads, from Chile, Peru, Mexico, Colombia, Cuba, Guatemala, Nicaragua, Galicia, and Spain, and, to cut the long list short, the Spanish army. He is known by many names, Iacobus, Jacob, Jaco, James, Jacques, Jacome, Jaume, Jaime, but that which inspires most believers is Santiago. Santiago the Greater, apostle of Christ, killed by Herod’s sword, brother of the other apostle, Saint John the Evangelist, both sons of Salome and Zebediah.
The exact date is lost, thanks to the uncertainties of centuries when parchments were lost or consumed by the fire of despots or by the simple, implacable passage of time. In the year 813 or 814, Pelagius, a Christian hermit, told Teodomirus, the bishop of Iria Flavia, here in Galicia, about a star shining on a hill. There are also those who in this part of the legend, or truth, depending on how you see it, substitute strange lights or a sign from Heaven for the star. Whatever it was, it fell upon a specific place, an uninhabited hill, as if someone wanted to reveal something hidden. In this way Teodomirus found a tomb, and inside, a headless corpse with a head tucked under his arm, presumably his own. All the clues pointed to the corpse belonging to the apostle Santiago the Greater, forever immortalized as Santiago de Compostela, not to be confused with Santiago the Lesser, one of the other twelve followers of Christ. Legend or not, millions of people have visited this sacred place. For twelve centuries.