“Sarah Monteiro?” She heard someone call her. It was the sweeper. “Come with me. Trust me.”

Without waiting for her consent, the man took her by the arm, pushing her past people, heading out of the square.

“Where are we going?” There was no answer. “Are you Rafael?” Sarah insisted, still recovering from the daze that was overwhelming her.

There was a sharp buzzing coming from a pocket in the man’s fluorescent uniform, and Sarah saw him pull out a radio transmitter and start talking in Italian.

“La porto alla centrale… Sì, l’obiettivo è con me… Negativo. Non posso rifinirla qui… Benissimo.”

Not really understanding what the man said, Sarah noted that the voice coming out of the transmitter was strong, hollow sounding-certainly that of the boss. Was this man Rafael, or one of the men trying to kill her?

Clearly her father had specifically mentioned Rafael, one man, only one person. Sarah tried to break free, but the sweeper firmly held her back.

“Don’t be foolish. There’s no need to force the inevitable. But if it’s necessary-” A word to the wise.

Sarah had tried everything possible to avoid being caught, but at this point, what else could she do? Maybe her father should have chosen another place. What a terrible thing-to be killed without even knowing why. So be it, she thought. Once more she felt powerless, defeated.

But Sarah’s fate was not yet sealed. A black car shot out from one of the square’s adjacent streets, between the statue of Sir Henry Havelock and Nelson’s Column, screeching to a stop.

“I’ll take care of her,” said the man who got out of the car.

Sarah had an alarming sensation of déjà vu. Her instinct put her on guard, and she instantly remembered. It was the man who had pursued her and shot at her in the underground.

“Va bene,” the sweeper said.

Without another word, the man in control pushed Sarah toward the car, shoved her into the backseat, and got in the front, next to the driver. The vehicle tore out at full speed.

With the car headed toward Parliament Street, Sarah Monteiro studied the man who apparently was in charge of her. He was middle aged and had a relaxed manner. She was troubled by a chaotic blend of sensations, doubts, and anxieties.

“Who are all of you?” she asked. Silence. Not even a glance in the rearview mirror. “Who are you?”

There was no answer.

About a half hour later, according to Sarah’s shaky calculations, the driver stopped the car, and the two men got out, disappearing from Sarah’s view. Only one man came back to the car, the one who had taken her away from the sweeper. This time he sat at the wheel. A few minutes later, the car slowed down as it entered a very posh residential neighborhood. Sarah’s heartbeat sped up with fear. Time was closing in. An automatic garage door opened, and their vehicle parked beside a shiny new Jaguar.

They both got out of the car.

“Come with me,” the icy voice commanded. He opened the back door of the Jaguar and didn’t need to say more. Sarah got in without delay.

“Where are we going?” He didn’t answer. “I’m fed up. And I’m not going to keep putting up with this. What are you going to do with me?”

“Don’t worry, I won’t finish with you until I find out what treasures you’re keeping.” The man’s voice was no longer cold, but warm. “Besides, what kind of help did you think your father sent you?”

“Who are you?”

“I am Rafael. And you will be my guest tonight.”

19

It was already well into night, but Carmine “Mino” Pecorelli was still at work in his office on Via Orazio, resolving last-minute details for the forthcoming issue of Osservatorio Politico. Pecorelli knew that his weekly bulletin offended the taste of the most discriminating individuals, who not infrequently confronted him face-to-face for his tendency to delve into scandals and reveal sordid tales full of speculation and lies. But this didn’t bother Pecorelli too much. His obligation was to his readers, and they were delighted by his work. The Osservatorio relayed accounts of celebrities linked with secret organizations, major diversions of government funds through illicit activities, unsolved murders, and a host of other scurrilous matters.

At fifty, Pecorelli bragged about his exclusives and inside scoops, access no other reporter was getting. His successes came from his presumed contacts in high places, and it was said that he frequented the powerful gatherings of newsmakers, cultivating relationships with important people. His paper received financing from one of those personages, a first-tier politician who managed a considerable portion of Italy ’s public business.

That day the lawyer-journalist was seated in his office, feet crossed on the coffee table, and leaning back in his executive chair. With his telephone anchored between ear and shoulder, he was conducting a serious conversation, replete with suggestions, invitations, interjections, and subtle taunts. His lips traced a slight smile as he rested in the chair, obviously comfortable or self-satisfied, or both.

That particular phone call, nevertheless, had no direct bearing on his weekly. It concerned a private matter. Pecorelli was attempting to augment his personal wealth by manipulating, or rather blackmailing, the individual on the other end of the line. For this he wielded certain detailed information in his possession that, if made public, could damage the person he was speaking to. This was no regular fellow, but the Grand Master of the Italian Masonic Propaganda Due lodge, or P2. His name was Licio Gelli. Pecorelli belonged to the same lodge.

“I’d like to meet personally to go over this,” Gelli suggested.

“Fine.”

“How about dinner tomorrow night, in Rome?”

“Sounds like a terrific idea,” Pecorelli replied. “Don’t forget to bring the money.”

“Where’s my assurance, Mino, that you won’t use that information anyway? Don’t you realize the trouble you’d be causing the organization by publishing that list?”

“It’s journalism, Licio. Pure journalism.”

“I know what ‘journalism’ means for you. Who’s going to guarantee me that you won’t be trying to make more ‘journalism’ in the future?”

“Fifteen million is a more than ample guarantee.”

“Fifteen million!” he echoed, nearly screaming. Several moments of silence followed, but Gelli was in no position to argue. “We did not agree on that amount, Mino.”

“Yes, I know. But I’ve concluded that this is what the information’s worth.”

“The list isn’t worth fifteen million.”

“Well, of course the P2 membership roster isn’t worth that amount. But, you know, those on the ultrasecret P1 list, the one with certain compromising details, is worth it. Also, as you know, the part of the world that supports you is going to crumble if I make it public.” Mino tossed this in, making no attempt to keep his words from sounding like an implacable threat. “And the murder of Pope John Paul I, and the help that you and my boss offered Mario to put Moro in power are worth a lot more.”

“We always use your bulletin for our purposes, Mino. Why this sudden change of attitude? Is the money we’re contributing not sufficient?”

“Fifteen million would be a sufficient sum. I’ll publish the P2 list. Actually, many already know it. When you see it in print, you’ll know that the other one is waiting in the wings. Think about it. It’ll be good for you, and for a lot of others.”

Gelli reflected on this for a minute. At the other end, his silence indicated his gauging of Mino ’s obstinacy.

“Tomorrow we can review whatever’s necessary, over dinner. You’ll need to lower the price.”

“I’m not going to do that. Bring the money and everything will be fine.”