Sister Vincenza closed her eyes, tears streaming down her face.

“Oh, my God!”

She violently yanked at the cord next to Don Albino’s bed, and the sound of the bell ringing was heard through the nearby halls and rooms.

I have to call the sisters, she thought, trembling nervously. No, first I must call Father Magee. No, he’s too far away. Better call Father Lorenzi.

The bell stopped ringing, but nobody answered Sister Vincenza’s call. She rushed out to the corridor and, without thinking, overlooking all the rules imposed by the rigid defenders of protocol, opened the door to Father Lorenzi’s room. He always slept near Don Albino’s quarters. The secretary, Father John Magee, was staying in a room on another floor until the re-modeling of his own room was finished.

“Father Lorenzi! Father Lorenzi, for God’s sake!” Sister Vincenza screamed.

He woke up stunned, sleepy, and taken aback by such an unexpected visit.

“What’s the matter, Sister Vincenza? What’s happening?”

He could scarcely understand what was going on. The nun went up to him, pulling at his pajamas and crying profusely.

“What’s wrong, Sister Vincenza? What’s going on?”

“Father Lorenzi-Don Albino! It’s Don Albino, Father Lorenzi! Don Albino is dead! The pope is dead!”

The stars in the sky never failed in their routine, and on that day, September 29, 1978, the sun kept its daily appointment, spilling its golden beams on Saint Peter’s Square in Rome. It was a gorgeous day.

There was constant turmoil in the house on Via Veneto: on the stairs, the landings, in the entryway. An endless stream of relatives, friends, occupants, employees, and messengers were going up and down, again and again, in the busy daily routine. On the third floor, however, there was deathly silence. Three men had broken in at dawn. Two of them stayed about ten minutes. Nobody saw them come in or leave. Nothing at all was known about the third individual. He seemed to be the ideal silent guest. No one heard his steps, or the sound of turning on a faucet, or closing a drawer, or a cabinet. Perhaps he was drunk, his friends brought him in, and he was still nursing a hangover. Or maybe he worked nights and slept by day. There were many possibilities but only one certainty: no one had heard him, though for sure he was still inside.

An elderly gentleman was climbing the stairs with a lot of effort, leaning on a cane, accompanied by a man wearing his usual Armani suit. When they got to the closed door of the third floor, so silent one could hear a pin drop, the assistant put a key in the lock.

“Wait,” the old man said, gasping. “Let me catch my breath.”

The assistant waited. It took some time for the old man to recover. Once he did, he stood up straight, his cane becoming an accessory, not a support. He motioned for the assistant to open the door, which he did, turning the key twice. With a little push, the vestibule to the private rooms was revealed. They entered quietly, the old man leading the way and the assistant closing the door behind them without a sound.

“Where is he?” the old man demanded.

“In the room. They left him there.”

The two went in and found a man tied to the bed. The sheet was stained with blood. He was covered in sweat and wearing only his drawers and a short-sleeved undershirt. He raised his head to take a look at the newcomers, but despite his humiliating position, he showed no sign of submissiveness. It was Monsignor Valdemar Firenzi.

“Monsignor,” the old man greeted him, smiling cynically.

“You?” Firenzi stammered, flabbergasted.

“Yes,” and going around the bed, he sat on a chair facing the monsignor. “Did you think you could possibly escape?”

“Escape from what?” the cardinal asked, still in shock.

“Don’t play dumb, my dear friend. You have something that does not belong to you, but to me. And I am here to get it back.”

Firenzi glanced at the assistant, who was hanging his coat on the back of a chair.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

A heavy blow was the reaction, with blood trickling from Firenzi’s split lip. As he tried to regain his composure, the assistant towered menacingly above him. The expression on the cardinal’s face hardened.

“My dear monsignor, I would prefer not to have to resort to unpleasant methods to recover what is mine. But you have disappointed me so much that I don’t know if I’ll be able to refrain. After all, you have stolen something that belongs to me,” the Master said, leaning over Firenzi. “I am sure you must understand the gravity of this. You have committed a felony. If I cannot trust a man of the cloth, then whom can I trust?” The old man stood up and started to pace the room, thinking. “Do you understand the dilemma you put me in? I cannot even trust the Church, my friend. The Lord sent his Son to redeem us from evil. So I ask you, my dear monsignor, now what?” And, looking intently into his eyes, he added, “Now, what are we going to do?”

“You know very well what you have done,” Firenzi remarked.

“What have I done? What? Action is what moves the world. People must act. We all must take some action.”

“You are the one who’s playing dumb,” Firenzi interrupted, and he got smacked again to make sure he understood clearly that he couldn’t address the old man that way.

“I can’t wait all day. I want those papers. Now. Tell me where they are.”

The prelate was pummeled again for no apparent reason, since he hadn’t said another word. His face was swelling, and the trickle of blood from his mouth was staining his undershirt.

“Sometimes the Lord gives us heavy burdens to carry, but He also grants us the strength to bear them,” Monsignor said.

“Sure, and we’ll soon find out how much strength the Lord has granted you,” the old man said, motioning to his assistant.

The insistent ringing of a cell phone interrupted the questioning, which, despite its violence, had so far produced very little: a man’s name and the address of a parish in Buenos Aires. The assistant took his time fishing the ringing phone out of his coat pocket.

While he took the call, the old man moved in closer to Valdemar Firenzi, who looked tired and too old for all this turmoil.

“Come on, Monsignor, tell me where those papers are and we’ll get this over with right now, I guarantee it. You won’t need to suffer anymore.”

The prelate looked at his torturer, seeming to draw strength directly from his own faith. Blood was now streaming from his mouth down his chin, onto his chest. His voice sounded amazingly strong, though he couldn’t mask his pain. “Jesus Christ forgave. As He forgave, so will I.”

It took the old man with the cane a few moments to fully grasp the tortured man’s comment. Then, with a resigned, hateful sigh, he admitted that he could get nothing more out of Firenzi.

“As you wish.”

The assistant ended his phone call and then whispered a few words into his boss’s ear. “They found an address in his room at the Vatican.”

“Which address?”

“Of a Portuguese journalist, a woman who lives in London.”

“Strange.”

“She’s been traced. Daughter of an old member of the organization.”

The old man thought for a few moments.

“Call our man. Have him pay a visit to the parish priest in Buenos Aires. Maybe he can find something out. Then he’s to wait in Gdansk for further instructions. Later you’ll go to Argentina yourself.”

“Very well, sir,” the assistant said obsequiously. “And what about Monsignor?”

“Give him the last rites,” the old man shot back in a sarcastic tone. “I’ll wait for you in the car.”

The old man gave his assistant a friendly pat on the shoulder and left without a word of farewell to Monsignor Firenzi, without even a last look. Nor did he hear the shot that ended the prelate’s suffering. With the cell phone pressed to his ear, he went down the stairs, leaning on his cane. He no longer needed to preserve his command stance. The image of a decrepit old man was good enough for him now, and closer to the truth. Someone answered the number he had dialed.