desk. A leather folder with a lock and an envelope with the pontifical coat of arms of his predecessor were inside. He took everything out of the drawer and set it on the desk in front of Benedict.
‘Pope John Paul specifically instructed me to have Your Holiness carefully read the contents of this folder today. He left all the information specifically for you in this envelope,’ Ambrosiano explained, handing over the sealed envelope. ‘No one else may read it.’
Benedict looked at the priest, the cardinals, and the envelope. ‘I shall respect his will,’ he said at last.
The two cardinals heard this as a request to retire, and complied without delay. The wish of a pope was an order.
‘Read it at your leisure, Holy Father,’ the Jesuit priest said, going out. ‘When you’re ready, just call.’
Benedict closed his eyes and leaned back. Thousands of thoughts flooded his mind. He was going to read a secret shared only among popes. What an extraordinary way to begin his reign. Moments later he broke the seal on the envelope the Pole had left. The paper smelled musty.
Dear Chosen One,
I congratulate you on your election. History continues its glorious path after two thousand years. You have just accepted the most demanding duty on the planet. Prepare yourself. It will be a hard, ungrateful road, and the worst is that that begins right now.
Inside this folder you will find information read by few others. Crucial information about our church. You must not… you cannot refuse to read it and you must instruct your secretaries to present it to your successor on the night of the next election.
The ritual began with Clement VII and developed further with Pius IX and John XXIII. It has always been complied with, AND ALWAYS MUST BE. Unfortunately, you’ll soon understand why.
I leave you in the good graces of God. May He illuminate you and give you strength to carry out the enormous duty you will find in the final pages. On your strength the future of our church will depend.
John Paul II P.P.
October 29, 1978
Benedict was filled with curiosity after reading the letter Lolek had written almost twenty-seven years ago. What could be inside this folder?
The envelope held a small gilt key that opened the folder. He took out almost one hundred pages and started reading. Soon he realized by the sting of his tired eyes that he was not prepared. He read some passages again to make sure he had read them correctly, others he raced through as quickly as possible, as if to escape something distressing or inconvenient.
He finished reading after midnight. Exhausted, he locked up the folder and shut it in the desk drawer. Drops of sweat stood out on his forehead. His hands trembled. He laid his head on the desk until he regained some control over his nerves. Finally he calmed down. When he pushed himself up, he felt older, exhausted.
‘God have mercy upon us,’ he said, making the sign of the cross.
At this moment Father Ambrosiano returned to the papal office. Ratzinger looked different. Sorrow was wasting his soul. Silence was punishing him. The Jesuit knew why. This time he didn’t kneel to kiss the pope’s hand. Ratzinger approached him humbly and fell at his feet. He sobbed with tears that fell in torrents.
‘Forgive me, Father. I have sinned,’ the pope implored, closing his eyes.
Ambrosiano caressed the pope’s head with a comforting hand. ‘I know, my son. I know.’
2
Father Ernesto Aragones knew that his hour would come. It was a question of minutes. Sooner or later he would end up finding him inside. The light given off by the candle flame gave the place a murky yellow look. Shadows swarmed over the walls and the floor like drunken phantoms from other times. But the father was not there to let himself be frightened or enchanted by the spells of the place.
The watchman could not be found anywhere. He was his last hope. Otherwise he wouldn’t find anyone to help him. Natural for that hour of the night. The tourists had left long ago to find other attractions, more of the body than of the soul. Sweat spread over his face. He was very nervous, but the moment demanded lucidity. He felt like a crusader in the land of infidels who had to perform one last act of heroism.
Aragones made him out in the apse, next to the stairs that led to the Chapel of Adam, leaning against Golgotha, and escaped as quickly as he could. His eighty years didn’t allow him much speed or flexibility. He took off his shoes to silence his steps. He set his shoes very straight on top of the stone of Unction, where supposedly the body of Christ was prepared for burial: not on this one, which dated from 1810, but in this place, at least according to legend. He forced himself to walk under the rotunda and enter the tomb. There was no holier place for Christians, though it was totally unknown to the masses. For Ernesto it was a great privilege, despite his fear. To give himself to God in the place where the body of Jesus Christ had been laid before His resurrection on the third day. How ironic. Ernesto felt fear as he knew he would. Few could go through this moment safely and without fear.
Aragones heard steps in the rotunda outside. It was him. He searched his memory to retrieve an image of the man next to the grilles of the Chapel of Adam. He was tall. He wore a well-cut suit and a blue shirt, but no tie. Unimportant details, but his mind retained them. He couldn’t make out the color of the suit precisely, since the place was poorly lit during the day, to say nothing of the night.
My Father, protect Your servant, Ernesto prayed, kneeling on a marble flagstone. He made the sign of the cross unhurriedly, shut his eyes, and prayed. There was nothing more to do.
Shadows still trembled on the walls in an ever more frenetic rhythm, matching the pounding of his heart. Reaching a certain height, they stretched out gigantically, and despite Ernesto’s closed eyes and a moment of apparent calm, his heartbeat accelerated in his chest for what would be the last in his life. He knew it. He remained kneeling on the marble flagstone, which protected the rock that had borne the weight of Christ. But Ernesto wasn’t thinking of this. In his final moments, he needed some inner peace.
He felt breath down the back of his neck.
‘Good evening, Father,’ the killer whispered next to Ernesto’s left ear, as if he didn’t want to disturb the souls wandering through the sacred place. An inhuman coldness, almost lifeless. He got no response, obviously. ‘I want to ask you a question,’ the intruder explained. ‘You may choose to answer or not.’
He waited a few moments for this to sink in.
‘Where is it?’
It was not the question he expected. Terror filled his veins. He knows, he thought without saying a word. Oh, my God. He knows. How is it possible?
‘Who are you?’ He tried to buy himself some time. Sweat dampened his face.
A blow struck on the back of the neck, pushing him forward. He steadied himself on the marble flagstone, a few inches from the floor.
‘Don’t answer a question with a question. Where are your manners, Father?’ the tall man asked, raising his voice.
‘Who are you? Who are you looking for?’
Another blow. ‘Again? You all have a very limited repertoire.’
You all? He knew of their existence? Ernesto opened his eyes. He would do everything to protect the secret, but he failed… completely.
He felt a cold object press into the back of his neck. Lifeless, without will. The most faithful servant.
‘You have ten seconds. Use them well.’
Who was he?
Nine. How could he be so well informed?
Eight. Someone had betrayed them?
Seven. The Status Quo had been broken. From this moment on, it would be every man for himself.
Six.
Protect our beloved Roman Catholic Church, which does everything for Your honor and glory.
Five. I give myself to You, my Father.
