“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: cardinal segretario di stato. That is, cardinal secretary of state of the Vatican.”

“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.

18, 15-34, H, 2, 23, V, 11

Dio bisogno e IO fare lo. Suo augurio Y mio comando

GCT (15)-9, 30-31, 15, 16, 2, 21, 6-14, 11, 16, 16, 2, 20

“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.”

The Bentley was moving slowly on an unpaved narrow road, lined by trimmed hedges. The road connected somebody’s private estate with the main highway.

Almost two miles from the highway, the car slowed in front of a pair of imposing automated gates, which immediately opened to receive the Bentley. Whoever was inside the car had to be very close to the lord of the manor. The driver didn’t really have to stop fully or even announce the passenger in the backseat.

The car finally stopped by the three steps leading to the entry landing. The passenger didn’t even wait for the driver to open the car door, as etiquette dictated, and just burst out of the vehicle. He didn’t ring the door-bell, either, but pressed a six-digit code in a panel on the wall. Before going inside, he carefully dusted his elegant Armani suit and straightened his jacket.

The lord of the manor, or more precisely, the Grand Master, was waiting for him in a salon, not because this would be the usual or most convenient place, but because the operations to be carried out that night required space. The old man, his face livid, was listening to someone on the phone.

It didn’t take a lot for the new arrival to see that things weren’t going well. If the information he received about the success of the mission had been accurate, Geoffrey Barnes must have made a serious error. The assistant cleared his throat to make sure his presence was noticed. The old man lifted his eyes and greeted him with a nod. The newcomer sharpened his ears, trying to pick up some of the conversation as he prepared two vodka drinks. When the old man hung up, his assistant quietly handed him the drink and sat down.

“I understand there have been some changes since we talked,” he said.