As far as Rafael knew, that ominous list was formerly in the hands of Paul VI and, if it didn’t cause a huge problem then, it was only because the pontiff was very sick and surely lacked stamina to attack the disease that had thoroughly contaminated the very core of the Holy See.

When John Paul I came to occupy Saint Peter’s throne, at some point he had the list of the P2 in his office. He made the appropriate inquiries to verify the information, and it seemed he was ready to make a clean sweep. It was a well-known fact that ecclesiastical offices were incompatible with membership in secret societies alien to the Church, and especially organizations connected with Masonry. When they found Albino Luciani, he was already dead and he had the list of the P2 in his hands.

“It’s possible,” Rafael concluded, “that John Paul I wanted to resolve this problem discreetly, as everything is done in the Vatican. Perhaps he just wanted to remove those deeply involved in the lodge from positions of ecclesiastical power, without causing a major scandal. Perhaps he even made a copy for the Vatican Secret Archives, and that may be where Firenzi happened to find it. I’m not sure how all this business unfolded. If you still have questions, you’ll have to ask your father.”

“Ask my father? But what was his part in all this?”

The sound of steps in an adjoining corridor stopped the conversation. Sarah gave Rafael a quizzical look.

“Why did we come here?” she asked in a low voice.

“To decipher the code.”

A fat man of about sixty in an overcoat came out and approached them. Rafael recognized his friend.

“Professor Margulies.”

“How are you, old boy? Do you think this is a good time to inconvenience a man of God?”

“Any time is a good time for God.”

“Who is this woman?”

Professor Joseph Margulies wasn’t a man to beat around the bush.

“She’s a friend, Sharon… uh… Stone, Sharon Stone.”

“Sharon Stone?” Sarah repeated, astonished.

“Pleased to meet you, Miss Stone.” He gave her a condescending look. “I’m sorry, but I haven’t washed my hands.”

“No problem.”

Sarah observed the professor, trying to figure out what he did.

“We’re involved in secret matters of national interest,” Rafael said half jokingly. “We can’t tell you what it’s all about. But I have some kind of puzzle here and I’d like to know if you can help me.” He pulled the paper out of his pocket and handed it to Margulies.

The big man just grunted and stared fixedly at the list. Five minutes later, he came out of his trance.

“I’ll see what I can do. Follow me.”

After going into the museum exhibits section, they went up a grand staircase and turned right and left several times. Then they entered a very long, dark corridor.

“Don’t make any noise, you might wake up the mummies,” Margulies joked. “Where did you meet this crazy nut?” he asked Sarah.

“He’s not-” Sarah tried to explain.

“In Rio de Janeiro, in a convent,” Rafael interrupted.

“A nun, eh?” The professor looked at him wryly.

“Not really,” Sarah started to say, but Rafael squeezed her arm.

“Here we are,” Margulies announced, opening a double door leading to a big hall full of shelves and books, and several tables placed in a row. This became visible only when Margulies lit two sad lamps, which lent a somber tone to the place. He left the paper on one of the tables and walked toward a bookshelf. “Let’s see. Here it is: cryptography.”

“Do you need any help?”

“No. Just have a seat with your girlfriend.”

Rafael turned to Sarah, and their eyes met for a moment.

“Why did you tell him that load of crap?” she murmured.

“I told him what he wanted to hear.”

“And what was that? That you’re involved with a Brazilian nun named Sharon Stone?”

“Don’t give it another thought. The end justifies the means. Or do you think he would rather know the truth?”

“Look, I don’t even know my own name anymore.”

Rafael grabbed Sarah’s shoulders and exerted some pressure, making sure she paid attention.

“The truth can kill us all. You’re the proof of it, even though you’re still alive. Don’t forget it.”

Sarah shuddered. Rafael let her go and watched Margulies seated at a table, paper in hand, with three open books in front of him.

“How do you know him?” she asked him.

“Margulies? He was my professor aeons ago. I know he doesn’t seem it, but he’s a very serious scholar. He studied at the Vatican, and has a deep knowledge of cryptography. If this is actually a code, he’ll decipher it.”

“What class did you take with him?”

“Is this an interrogation?”

“No. I’m just trying to pass the time.”

“A class in theology.”

“Theology? Is he a theologian?”

“Among other things.”

Margulies looked up from the paper.

“My dear old chap, this is going to take a few hours. I have to run a few tests to discover the kind of model used. I still don’t know if it’s a code or a cipher. Couldn’t you find something to do in the meantime?”

Rafael thought for a moment.

“Yes. But can I copy it on a piece of paper?”

“Of course.”

Intrigued, Sarah walked up to Rafael.

“Where are we going now?”

“Do you know how to get out?” Dr. Margulies asked.

“Yes, don’t worry. As soon as you find something, call me at this number.”

When he finished copying the mysterious words and digits, he handed Margulies a note with his phone number. Then he walked toward the exit, followed by Sarah.

“Where are we going?”

“To cut our hair.”

“What? At this hour?”

They walked back along the long corridor leading to the door, and then to the front entrance. It was about fifty yards from there to the big gate and the sentry box, where the guard was watching a black-and-white monitor. Soon they were out on Great Russell Street.

“If we can visit a prestigious professor at the British Museum at two thirty in the morning, we can also wake up a hairdresser a little after three.”

“But do we have to?”

“It’s not my hair we’re talking about, my dear. It’s yours. It’s definitely too long.”

Some meetings were meant to occur sooner or later. Human beings aren’t always masters of their fate.

A man of advanced age walked confidently amid a crowd of strangers, though he may not have been a total stranger to all of them. He hadn’t realized yet that, among so many people, someone was following him. Of course, that man was very competent. They had both come out of the Hilton Theater, where they saw an excellent musical, Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, and then walked south, down Sixth Avenue. After turning on Thirty-eighth Street, the old man went into a residential building. A uniformed doorman greeted him.

The pursuer watched from a distance. He looked at the number above the door and compared it with his notes, confirming that it was the old man’s address.

He made a call as soon as the old man disappeared into the building. A few moments later, a black van stopped beside him and he climbed in. The vehicle remained parked. One had to be patient.

“He lives here?” the driver of the van asked in some East European language, perhaps Polish, and then he whistled, admiring the luxury of the place.

The man in the black coat just nodded, his eyes fixed on the entrance of the posh residence.

“The London situation turned out negative?” the driver asked.

“Yeah, it did.”

“Tell me something, then. Why can’t we go in and rub that guy out, once and for all?”

The man took his time answering, as if considering several possibilities. “Because he is the key.”

He kept watching a while longer. Finally, he asked the Polish man to keep an eye on the entrance, while he pulled a photo out of his pocket. It was the familiar picture of the present pope, Benedict XVI. Then he took out a small black-light lamp and aimed it at the photo. Thousands of filaments neatly depicted the image of the old man they were shadowing, while the photo of the pope seemed to fade out. When the ultraviolet light was turned off, the concealed image vanished, as with bank bills, and the original image came back, again showing the smiling pope, greeting the faithful with a wave of his hand.