“Get up and listen carefully,” he ordered decisively. “From today on, your family will be mine, and mine, yours. I’ll protect them with all my power.”

Tears ran down the young Turk’s submissive face.

“But remember. Never tell this to anyone. Make up a new version each day. Say whatever comes into your head. One thing in the morning, and another, completely different, in the afternoon.”

The young man looked at the pope in surprise. The pope understood his confusion.

“We’re going to save your family and mine… ours. The best for yours and mine is that no one know the truth. The truth could kill the Church, my family, and, consequently, yours… ours.”

The young Turk’s legs doubled under him, and he fell on the floor weeping copiously.

The pope stroked the Turk’s head and started for the door. He looked at him one last time.

“I came here to see my executioner, and I leave with a friend in my heart.”

Twenty minutes can be a long time.

73

Amen.

– The last word of John Paul II before his death, April 2, 2005

Eight days have passed, though they seemed like months. Sarah has wandered through the small city of Wadowice, fifty kilometers from Krakow, in the venerable land of Poland. She’s passed by number seven on Ulica Koscielna and visited the house where the young Karol Wojtyla was born and raised. The place where Wojtyla’s life began, which led to his becoming the most beloved pope in history, it must be confessed, filled her with emotion. One thing was certain, sooner or later, one day he would be Saint John Paul. Keeping in mind all that Sarah had come to know in this last week, it was just that it be so. If a saint worthy of the name exists, he was it. A man who helped his executioner from the beginning without judgment, censure, or reprobation, who gave himself to God without anything and without anything departed to Him. Humble, benevolent, placid, serene, the highest example for millions of the faithful. What was important was to believe in God the Father, Omnipotent, Creator of all that was, is, and will be to eternity.

The car came down Ulica Wisniowa and entered Gimnazjalna. Rafael drove. He didn’t wear cassock or suit, just jeans and a sweater, since this was spring, the mild season of the year.

“Do you miss much?” Sarah asked.

“No,” he answered without taking his eyes off the road.

Sarah remembered a few days ago when Rafael drove her to Rome for the reunion with her parents. The meeting was in the Piazza Navona, full of people in mid-afternoon. Elizabeth covered her with kisses and embraces, as did Raul. They radiated health and looked tan.

“Were you at the beach while I was gone?” Sarah asked jokingly.

“Istanbul has this effect on people,” JC interjected, sending a shiver down Sarah’s spine; she had not expected to see him.

“JC,” she stammered.

Rafael looked him over from top to bottom, evaluating him. He looked older than a year ago. Time had passed and worn him down. The cripple looked at Rafael out of the corner of his eye, anger present but controlled, as it had to be. He couldn’t help but think about the disability in his leg and who was responsible for it, there in front of him, with a few dark bruises on his face, nothing to leave a scar, while his walking…

JC watched Sarah with a cool stare. He enjoyed it. He knew they all feared him except for Rafael, from whom he’d just turned his eyes away.

“You’ve conducted yourself well,” he praised him.

“I tried,” Rafael replied.

There were no thanks or appreciations.

“What’s going to happen to Harvey Littel?” Sarah timidly asked.

“He’s going to be promoted to secretary of defense.”

“What? You’re joking.” Sarah was shocked.

JC showed her the front page of The New York Times where she could read the headline: “Harvey Littel to Run Defense.” Sarah read it but couldn’t believe it. How could that be possible? A small headline at the bottom of the page caught her attention: “Ford Accused of Pedophilia.” Sebastian Ford, Rafael’s man on Barnes’s and Littel’s team. He who risked his life to save Rafael and, as a consequence, her and Simon.

“I don’t understand,” Sarah protested. “How could this happen?”

She looked at Rafael, who didn’t look surprised.

“Littel belongs to the system. He knows a lot. Now they’ve put him in a position out of the CIA, but where he’s going to have all his movements watched by the CIA… and public opinion. They’re keeping the dog, but on a shorter leash,” JC explained.

“And you? Have you seen what’s happening to your friend?” Sarah spoke angrily.

“Littel’s revenge. In politics there’s no room for honest men,” Rafael said. “But don’t worry. The Vatican’s going to need his services as a mediator with the United States.”

So, at first blush, nothing seemed bad. Rafael was not the type to turn his back on friends, that was certain, especially those who hadn’t turned their backs on him in his hour of need.

“What happened finally? What was it Phelps wanted?” Sarah changed the subject. She needed explanations.

“Phelps wanted what many people do. To get rid of anything that could be harmful to the image of his organization. No one could know that Marcinkus was Opus Dei.”

“And P2,” Sarah added.

“Yes, but that didn’t matter to him. He was afraid that someone would find out that a man like that, who presided over the operations of the IWR for such a long time, could be linked to the organization. It would be a step away from discovering that Marcinkus had made an attempt on the pope’s life, and, worst of all, was recommended for that position by Opus Dei’s own founder José María Escrivá.”

“Oh, my God.”

“But you also had your own agenda,” Rafael accused him.

“I’m sorry about your uncle,” JC said.

“You’re not sorry about him.”

“I like direct people.” He turned to Sarah. “There’s a box in the post office at Kings Cross that this key unlocks.” He showed her a small key and placed it in her hand. “Inside you’ll find a pile of documents and copies I collected over my lifetime.”

Sarah couldn’t believe what she was hearing. JC trusted her.

“Soon you’ll receive instructions about what to do with them,” he said. “Don’t do what you did with the Turk’s file,” he criticized. He looked at Rafael. “Help her with anything she needs.”

The priest said neither yes nor no.

The old man took a yellow envelope out of his jacket that Raul recognized as the one that Cardinal Sebastiani had handed him in Istanbul.

“Add this to the spoils.”

“What is it?” Sarah asked curiously.

“A letter that should have been delivered to Wojtyla but never was.”

“Can I read it?”

“Please,” JC permitted her.

Sarah opened the envelope and took out a paper worn through the passage of years. It was once white, the date above, 11/04/1981.

“Sebastiani didn’t want to believe the letter. He hid it as if this action would put off the warning until much later. That same day, the Pole was shot, and Sebastiani knew it was true.”

To my very esteemed Holy Father:

I take the liberty to address myself to Your Excellency with the deepest humility.

I know you will consecrate your pontificate to the Virgin Mary, since you feel the same love for Her as I do.

I wrote to many predecessors of the Holy Father in the same respectful terms that I write in these lines… The Virgin has always sent me, and sends me, many different revelations all my simple life.

In one of my recent visions, the person of the Holy Father was mentioned:

“Tell him that no bullet will kill unless it is His will. Men love to make others suffer, they don’t respect the values of goodness and love, but that is not reason enough not to forgive. Unconditional love implies unconditional forgiveness. The two go hand in hand like brothers.”