Jack folded down the backseat to gain access to the trunk, from which he took out a green wooden box. He returned the seat to its normal position, sat up, and rolled down all the windows. Following this, he opened the wooden box, took out the small balls it contained, and began throwing them one by one to one side of the street, and then the other, almost rhythmically. The balls rolled under the automobiles parked at the curb.
“No matter what happens, don’t stop until I tell you.”
The car was already about a hundred yards from Euston Station.
“Now speed up and then stop in front of the station,” Rafael ordered, throwing the last ball.
“What are you doing?” Sarah asked.
“We’re almost there,” he said.
Then, when the car was just outside Euston Station, the unexpected happened.
“Okay, shut off the engine.”
Sarah obeyed, and right away all hell broke loose. A succession of small explosions moved toward them from the King’s Cross intersection, approaching from both sides of Euston Road. A thick cloud of tear gas invaded the street. Shouts could be heard. People who lived in the neighborhood woke up terrified.
Shielded by the gas barrier behind them, Rafael and Sarah ran toward Euston Station.
Without exchanging a word, they ran to the taxi stop on the lower level. From there, everything became much simpler. They asked the taxi driver to take them to the Waterloo Station, where they arrived in time to catch the Eurostar headed for Paris.
They took advantage of the comfortable trip to rest a bit. Sarah slept almost the entire way, and Rafael leaned back in his seat, although only after making two inspections of the whole train. No one was following them.
Two hours and thirty-seven minutes later they arrived at the famous Gare du Nord in the center of Paris. From there they moved on to Orly. They had managed to disappear.
39
The Airbus A320 reached its cruising altitude of 36,000 at a speed of 540 miles per hour. Within approximately two hours it would land at Portela Airport, Lisbon, the destination of the 111 passengers that included Sarah Monteiro, now officially Sharon Stone, a French citizen, and Rafael, officially John Doe, a British subject. Flight TP433 had left Orly a bit more than twenty minutes before, behind schedule. Since they were both awake, Rafael had to face questions and more questions from the career reporter at his side.
Rafael had once heard someone say that “the fathers were in Jerusalem.” Probably the reference was to the mythical builders of the Temple of Solomon. Those venerable architects had conveyed their knowledge to the carpenters and stonecutters of the West, the same ones who erected the cathedrals in the Middle Ages. They were the
maçons,
users of the drop hammer, chisel, square, compass, and plumb line. Those powerful guilds knew the Lord’s secrets. Even now, in Notre Dame or Reims or Amiens, one could see that those men truly knew what God wanted for the world. The Lord Jesus Christ proclaimed: “Render to Caesar that which is Caesar’s and to God that which is God’s.” The whole world knew this, including politicians, university professors, doctors, bankers, civil servants, soldiers, writers, and journalists. Even the pope knew it. “God is to be found everywhere, my child, even in arms factories and bank safe-deposit boxes.”
From what Rafael had heard, the Masons had been on the scaffolds when the bloody heads of kings and nobles rolled in revolutionary France. And later they were behind the wars and violent regime changes in Europe and the Americas. The members of the P2 could take satisfaction in belonging to the same organization as many presidents of the United States and of Europe.
In Rome, Italy’s Grande Oriente began to suffer from internal schisms near the turn of the twentieth century. It was then that Propaganda Due was founded. Those who held the strings of power around the world complained that Masonry was being bandied about, with members’ names in the papers and their activities directed by inept, vain politicians. The number
2
would provide the anonymity they sought, ending the announcements, photos, and leaked names. The P2 did not exist. Nobody should know anything about it. The
loggia coperta
welcomed, among those privileged to know God, everybody ready to devote his life to building the Kingdom of Heaven on earth.
“Those were very bitter times for them,” Rafael told Sarah, who listened eagerly. “Hitler and Mussolini fascinated them, but as they saw it, their spiritual goals were being betrayed by those men.”
Licio Gelli, who headed Italian Masonry in the mid-twentieth century, was the true driving force of the P2 Lodge. “Gelli had more ideas than ability to carry out his projects,” Rafael told Sarah. The Grand Master of the Grande Oriente of Italy granted him powers far beyond his talents. Gelli was a small businessman from Tuscany who venerated Der Führer, Il Duce, and El Generalísimo. In fact, he enlisted as a volunteer, fighting against the Republicans in the Spanish Civil War. He also served as a Nazi spy in the Balkans, actively collaborated with the CIA, and incited several coups d’état in South America.
“Gelli’s rise in the organization is a mystery,” Rafael continued. “The Lord’s ways are beyond understanding. That’s why it’s surprising how many idiots manage to gain power, glory, or fame.”
Licio Gelli was at the top of the P2 Lodge in the early seventies, and in 1971 he became one of the most powerful men in the underworld. Gelli, always with a penchant for conspiracy, founded the P1 Lodge, even more secret than the P2, exclusively to cover presidents, high dignitaries, secretaries general, and CEOs.
Some of Rafael’s older comrades told him about those meetings. As many as twenty shiny black armored cars with tinted windows would gather at a luxury hotel near Lake Como or in Geneva or Baden-Baden. The cars stayed for two or three hours, then left using back roads and eventually merged onto the European highways.
It was probably Gelli who persuaded many of the Masons from the Giustizia e Libertà organization to join the ranks of the P2. There they met with all sorts of politicians, military men, and bankers. They all felt privileged, belonging to such a select group.
“Vanity is a tragic flaw, Sarah. Gelli couldn’t resist having his picture taken with Juan Perón at the Casa Rosada.”
When Gelli found himself under judicial attack in the mid-seventies, he sealed off his organization, severing all ties with any other Masonic Lodge. That was how the P2 became a supersecret entity and Gelli himself became Grand Master. Those times were dubbed “the Cosa Nostra era.” The P2 operated exactly like mobsters or the Mafia—“the Gelli,” became their moniker. Gelli’s neofascist ideology prevented his lodge’s advancement in the divine master plan. But seen from a different angle, his work was highly effective, because his collaborators managed to infiltrate all sectors of the Italian government, in addition to the Vatican and several foreign national security agencies.
Many politicians during this period considered the real president of the country to be Licio Gelli, who manipulated the media, investigations, voting, and electoral campaigns so that the country’s top spot would be filled by his own predesignated nominee.
Rafael was watching Sarah’s reaction.
“Gelli was done in by that scumbag, what’s-his-name, Pecorelli. The Gellis dug their grave when they let the lodge’s membership list fall into that journalist’s hands.
“The judges started asking questions, and old man Gelli needed to hide out in Uruguay.
“Along came the current leadership of the lodge,” Rafael went on. “They distanced themselves from Gelli and got busy trying to get the organization back on track. Those years involved a lot of work. They had to amend the Constitution, reorganize the judiciary and the university, and influence certain men, particularly Craxi, Andreotti, and Bisaglia. It didn’t much matter what party they belonged to. The crucial factor was getting them to ‘collaborate,’ even without knowing they were doing so. Reporters, in general, were on board. They liked money,” he concluded.
The lodge was now a collection of shadow figures that nobody could uncover. It was a fantasy of conspiracy addicts, an irrational urban legend, an organization that inspired terror only among solitary investigators on the Internet. They did not exist. And nonexistence was highly recommended for someone trying to carry out a plan like his.
Sarah began to realize that the organization had grown and continued to extend its networks worldwide. Even in the Vatican, where the P2 was called the Ecclesia Lodge. When Pope John Paul I died suddenly, the lodge included numerous members carrying out their duties in the palaces of the Holy See.
“In those years, Rome was the best place in the world. Archbishop Marcinkus was involved in the finances, and everything he touched turned to gold,” Rafael continued. “Of course the investments were in pornography, contraceptives, and other businesses ill suited to the image of the Church. But the funds Marcinkus invested in arms factories, political subversion, bribes, blackmail, and money laundering proved much more productive in the long run.”
“I don’t know if you’re trying to tell me the truth or terrify me,” Sarah remarked, then fell silent.
Sarah was deep in thought, and Rafael retreated into his own reflections. A peaceful quiet ensued between them.
The flight attendant offered the snacks tray to both of them. They ate silently, buried in their thoughts.
“What I need now is a shower.” Sarah twisted in her seat, trying to wake up her numbed arms and legs.
“We can arrange that,” Rafael assured her. “When we land, we’ll take care of it.”
“Is that a promise?” she asked, half smiling.
“No. I never make promises. But I do keep my word.”
They were silent a few moments longer. The noise of the plane’s engines drowned out the other passengers’ conversations. Sarah turned to him again.
“Do you think my father’s all right?”
“Yes. Don’t worry.” His voice was so assured that she believed him.
“What I’m afraid of now is having them catch us at the airport,” Sarah said.
“You can relax. That’s not going to happen.”
“How can you be sure?”
“It’s one of the advantages of my position. We may have half the world after us, but we know how they think. We’re always one step ahead. And what matters for us is to keep going like that. We have to keep the initiative.”
“And how do they think?”
“The first thing they’re going to do is clear the scene of the shooting and the street where I threw the tear gas.”
Somehow Rafael’s voice inexplicably calmed Sarah. To her it was a killer’s voice, the voice of a man without scruples, but its effect was reassuring.
“What will we do after talking to my father?”
“We’ll see. We’ve got to go step by step.”
“You’re always holding back information.”
“That’s true. But in this case I don’t have much more to tell you. The objective is to have you reunite with your father. That’s basic. Then we’ll see what to do next.”
“But isn’t there a risk that when we arrive in Lisbon, they’ll have photos of us in some paper? It’s possible the authorities will be looking for us.”
“Definitely not. It’s in their interest for us to go through unnoticed. Their objective is to see us six feet under. Besides, as long as we have the list, no one’s going to let us appear in the papers. If they did that, they’d lose everything.”
I hope you’re not wrong, Sarah thought.
“How did Firenzi get my address?” she asked herself out loud. “Of course, considering my father belonged to the organization, I can see why they knew my home address. What I can’t figure out is why he wrote to me.”
Rafael didn’t even seem to react to her. Once more he brought his hand to the wounded arm.
“Does it hurt?”
“Yes,” he answered, massaging the area softly. Hours before, he’d bandaged it in the bathroom on the train, and the pain had eased somewhat. But now it was bothering him again, badly.
“Do you need anything? Can I help you?”
“No, thanks, I’ll be fine,” Rafael replied.
As they circled the airport, flying over the northern part of Sarah’s native land, she felt a renewed anguish suffocating her.
“Do you know the man who broke into my house?”
“Yes.”
Rafael kept silent again, just staring out the small window.
“Who was it?” Sarah insisted.
“It was an American Secret Service agent. Actually he was a Czech-born naturalized American, though that’s irrelevant. But other people connected with you have died recently. There was a Spanish priest named Felipe Aragón, and an Argentinian one, Pablo Rincón. Both of them received information concerning John Paul I’s papers.”
“Papers like mine?”
“On the night he died, the pope had various papers with him. The list that you got is only part of it.” Rafael seemed to want to talk.
“And they also received papers?”
“Probably, but they had worse luck than you. Father Pablo couldn’t manage to get away. And unfortunately, Father Felipe died of a heart attack at almost the same time.”
“If Father Pablo received any papers, then they must be in the P2’s hands now. If, on the other hand, he received only an indication, let’s say, as to the whereabouts of the remaining documents, the P2 could also have obtained that information before killing him,” Sarah reasoned.
“That may be, I don’t know. Your father might be able to clear all of this up for us.”
“How can you be acting like that, making decisions without sufficient information?”
“In my work, we’re all small cogs in a big wheel. What counts is for us to know our part and perform effectively. As for the whole puzzle, only its inventor knows.”
“And you aren’t curious?”
“Curiosity is very dangerous.”
The plane completed its approach, and moments later landed smoothly.