Albino Luciani got up from his chair, visibly disturbed. He’d known since he presided over the Banca Católica del Veneto, many years ago, that Marcinkus and his cohorts, rather than directing the Church finances in keeping with the dictates of the Lord, were instead following the schemes of Wall Street.

The pope opened the door of the office and left without saying good-bye.

In one of the private rooms, in front of a mirror supported by a marble table covered with ebony boxes, small silver monstrances, crystal balls, and photographic frames, Don Albino Luciani gritted his teeth, enraged. He swept the table with his forearm, sending all the objects flying through the air, shattering to smithereens all over the room.

“I curse you! You’ve turned the house of the Lord into a den of thieves!”

How can a plan fall apart? It was going so well a short while ago.”

“We still have time to head to London, sir,” the assistant suggested to the old man nestled comfortably in the seat of his private plane. “Consider it a minor detour.”

“Don’t even think about it!” he adamantly refused. “We’ll stick with the plan to the end.”

“Aren’t we running the risk that they’ll make an irreparable change in the plan?”

“Have faith, my dear friend. It will all work out in the end.”

“We usually leave faith to the believers,” the assistant argued, convinced that this change of destination could make the difference between success and failure. “It’s important to recover the documents.”

“The documents are the reason for all this. We’re making this trip for them. It isn’t necessary to remind me. Besides, our presence in London won’t be of any use. Things are going well.”

“What? They are still free and we are wasting time.”

“But they are within our grasp.”

The assistant hadn’t realized that the Master had a new, still-undisclosed plan.

“Would you like to share your plans?” he asked.

“You’ll soon see. You’ve got access to more information than most men. And you can connect the dots quickly.”

“As you wish,” the assistant answered, somewhat irritated. The old man loved having secrets, controlling information until it had redeemed its value. When its uselessness became apparent, that meant he had already accomplished his objective. Privileged information was useful, but he hated the old man’s keeping it from him. If he didn’t know him well, he would think this was from lack of trust. Instead, it had a very simple explanation. The Master wanted to send a message to his own demons: “I’m still here, I’m still in command, deciding everybody’s fate.”

The old man picked up the satellite handset on the left arm of his seat, and pressed a few numbers. Moments later someone answered.

“Ciao, Francesco,” he said, smiling coldly. “A short while ago I found out that you lost one of your associates.” He allowed time for the message to sink in. “Consider this firsthand news. The body will appear in due time.” Again he gave Francesco time to absorb his meaning. “But that isn’t why I called. I might be in need of your services… When? Yesterday… I want you to get on the next plane. They’ll give you all the necessary information at the airport, and then you’ll wait for my call.” He cut off without another word. “Soon they will both be in front of me,” he muttered aloud to himself, his eyes fixed on the small plane window. “And we’ll see who’s the smartest.”

At this moment while he was thinking out loud, he was again approached by the assistant. At least it seemed that his irritation was gone.

“They’ve called from London,” the assistant said in a low voice. “The worst has happened.”

Geoffrey Barnes hadn’t slept a wink the whole night. Despite the fact that the one giving the orders was an Italian, or at least spoke in Italian, Barnes was more worried than if it had actually been the president of the United States giving the orders. He could handle the president better than this character from the P2.

While the old man was in flight, Barnes had spoken with him twice. First, he explained what had led him to the decisions he was making. The man didn’t react with any kind of feeling, but limited himself to a singular theme.

“What’s essential is to recover those papers. Obviously we underestimated our adversaries, but that won’t happen again. Use all necessary means. Once the papers are in your control, get rid of all witnesses. Understood?”

“Of course, sir,” Barnes affirmed.

The second call was to remind him that he mustn’t lose sight of the adversaries, not even for a moment. He needed to follow those orders, whatever the cost.

“Should there be collateral damage, put the blame on any Arab group.

The next day, have some protest marches, paying homage to the victims and condemning terrorism. Problem solved,” the Italian said, with no tinge of irony whatsoever.

“That’s what we’ll do,” the CIA agent agreed. Barnes knew that in the course of operations there could be a stray bullet, or several of them. A bomb might explode at the wrong moment. And targets could pick up reinforcements. That’s how it was.

“One more thing. Wait for my instructions. Don’t do anything without my authorization.”

And the Master hung up in the abrupt manner to which Barnes had grown accustomed. It was five o’clock in the morning.

SARAH AND JACK were driving in circles around London, forcing the agents who trailed them to retrace a tourist’s itinerary through the historic central city. Several times they had gone by Buckingham Palace, then followed the Mall to Trafalgar. Again they took Charing Cross Road or any other street. And finally, back to the beginning. All at a leisurely pace, as was required for an enjoyable visitor’s tour. And that was the impression Barnes got every ten minutes from Staughton’s methodical reports.

“It’s strange that they haven’t even attempted to flee,” Barnes thought out loud, alone in his office. “They haven’t stopped for gas. At some point they’ll have to,” his soliloquy continued while he awaited new information. “I need something decent to eat.”

Jack Payne was a legend in the P2 Lodge, so much so that the CIA recruited him for some of its most delicate work. His name meant competence, work well done. The P2 was an arrogant organization. It would not hesitate to demand that certain forces in the CIA serve its purposes, a useful means of gaining the benefits of American technology and of charging a monthly fee on top of that, but he didn’t approve, then or now, of the lending of its members to Uncle Sam’s agency, especially its top performers such as Jack. At times, however, when this Masonic Lodge thought it could gain something from the practice, it simply authorized the use of some of its members, as happened with Jack on three or four operations that he completed under Barnes’s orders. Jack Payne was the kind of man a director liked to have in his ranks. Barnes had even made the proposal for his admission to the CIA.

What a huge mistake. It’ll be my downfall at the agency, Barnes reflected, leaning back in his chair, exhausted by all the events of the long night. He realized that he’d be fired from the job he’d earned through so much blood, sweat, and tears. It was for good reason that Americans said, “No pain, no gain.” His position at the agency was truly the result of a lot of effort, a lot of pain, a lot of hours without sleep, and without a decent meal, like today. If there was anything that this night reminded him of, it was the uncertain times of the cold war, when the world was crazy.

“You must have been crazy, Jack, when you decided to follow me,” the great bulk of a man muttered resentfully to himself.