“I think you’d better answer.”

“She can tell me from here, you idiot! Through the loudspeaker!”

Moments later, Barnes managed to activate the speakerphone on his cell phone, and the church loudspeakers projected a female voice. Everything echoed, as if even angels were filling the cathedral’s domes.

“Are you there?” the voice asked.

“Who’s speaking?” the old man demanded unceremoniously.

“Shut up, you bastard. You’ll have to wait as long as necessary,” the voice responded.

Rafael seemed as shocked as the old man. Only Sarah smiled slyly. “Are you all right, Sarah?” the voice asked.

“Yes, I’m all right.”

“Who is it?” Rafael inquired softly.

“A friend,” she declared triumphantly. “The same one who issued the ultimatum from the Vatican.”

The old man heard her.

“Oh, so it’s the young lady responsible for the fake ultimatum.”

“I already told you to shut up. Sarah, are you really all right, Sarah?”

“Yes, Natalie, I promise.”

“Natalie?” Rafael wanted to know. “Who’s Natalie?”

The question went unanswered.

“Let’s get to the point. Who’s the son of a bitch that got you in all this trouble?” Natalie continued.

“His name’s J.C.,” Sarah answered, looking him straight in the eye.

“J.C.? What a fucking bastard. Well, then, listen J.C., I am holding a list with various names of public personalities that belonged to the P2. There’s even a bloody prime minister on it.”

“What are you driving at?” the old man asked, staring into space.

“To start with, I want you to free my friend and everybody who’s with her.”

“And what do I get for that?”

“Relax, darling. Are you in a rush?”

Sarah couldn’t hide a smile of satisfaction. Natalie was something else.

“Let’s see. If you do, I won’t send my report to the BBC and I won’t give the Daily Mirror the article I have here, ready to be published immediately, with a copy of the list. How’s that?”

The old man’s face showed his total irritation.

“If I accept, what guarantee do I have that this wouldn’t come out?”

“Just think,” Natalie continued, “if the list is made public, that would surely be your death sentence. That’s why you’ll do what you should, and free them all. We’ll keep our part of the bargain. If you misbehave someday, you already know what will happen.”

The old man bowed his head and walked away a few steps, thinking.

“This is a reasonable enough pact for all concerned,” he announced, his voice resounding through the nave like a voice from the great beyond. “So, shall we seal the agreement?”

Fortunately his contact had secured a safe entry for him.

No Swiss Guard intercepted the man with the cruel, icy expression. He couldn’t have explained his presence there even if anybody had asked him. For the plan to be carried out with assured success, everyone knew it was crucial to have no person and no thing cross this man’s path before he reached the third floor of the Apostolic Palace.

The person for whom all paths were opened knew every nook and cranny of Vatican City. After all, the Status Civitatis Vaticanae was no larger than a village, with scarcely a thousand inhabitants.

Everything in the Vatican appeared modest, but at the same time, very ostentatious. That was the opinion of the man crossing the streets and turning the corners that night. The desire to make the capital of the pontifical state into a representation of heaven on earth had forced the Renaissance popes to devote all their money and effort to this objective. This explained why the best artists of all times had to go to Rome, to prove to God their skills and the quality of their work.

This same man had enjoyed the privilege of visiting Vatican City on numerous occasions. He knew the exact location of every palace, office, corner, and plaza, and he knew how to hide his presence that night. He knew the schedule and the routes of the Vatican guards, and the places they were usually posted.

By the time he arrived, half an hour after midnight, nobody-with the exception of members of the guard-would be in that part of the city. He needed only the assurance that the routine night rounds would not be altered and, of course, that the doors would be open.

Everything worked according to plan, so it was easy for him to get to the third floor of the Apostolic Palace, right next to the door to the pope’s private quarters.

The corridor was dimly lit, giving the place a sinister feeling. A thin sliver of light shone from beneath the door to the papal quarters, indicating that the pope was still awake. He was probably working on the changes that so many prelates, and perhaps other important people, feared. The fact that he was awake somewhat altered the execution of his plan. If the pope had been asleep, it would have been total surprise. He considered waiting until the pope fell asleep, but after ten minutes he realized that any delay would be pointless. He had a job to do anyway, and it didn’t matter whether the pope was awake or asleep. He would go in and quickly overcome any reaction. The rest would be easy.

He moved up to the door. With his gloved hand, he held the door knocker and waited a few seconds, struggling to be calm. This wasn’t his first murder and it wouldn’t be his last, but this one was particularly repugnant to him. His job was to end the life of a pontiff. It was like a direct blow to the hearts of the faithful. Nevertheless, there was some benefit. This murder would make similar ones unnecessary. And it would take only a few seconds to end the papacy of John Paul I.

He opened the door brusquely and went in. But the intruder was in for an immediate surprise. Albino Luciani was leaning back on the headboard, writing something on a piece of paper, and didn’t even raise his eyes to see who’d come in, without permission, at this hour of the night.

“Shut the door,” he said, and continued writing.

The intruder was a vigorous man, still youthful in 1978. He didn’t need a cane then. He radiated strength and efficiency. Anyway, Albino Luciani’s attitude surprised him, his total indifference to the unexplained presence.

Complying with the Holy Father’s request, he slowly closed the door. An awkward silence filled the room, while the pope continued to ignore him. That wasn’t at all the scene he’d pictured a few days before when planning the murder. He had always seen himself in total control. Go in, kill, and leave. This stupid situation was a complete departure from the way he’d imagined things. The words they exchanged convinced the executioner then that he was facing no ordinary man.

“Do you know man’s most important qualities?” Albino Luciani asked, still engrossed in his papers.

“Dignity and honor?” the intruder replied with a question, like a student hoping he had the right answer for the teacher.

“Dignity and honor are incidental,” the pope explained. “The most important qualities must be the capacity to love and to forgive.”

“Sir, you strive for these two qualities?”

“Constantly. But still, I am the pope, not God. My infallibility is institutional, not personal. This means I sometimes forget about these important qualities.” And for the first time, raising his eyes above his lenses, he looked at his executioner.

“Why are you telling me this?” the man asked.

“So you’ll know that I don’t blame you. I love you as my fellow man, and as such, I forgive you.”