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.’
You will be remembered every day in my prayers to the Merciful Lord and the Lady of the Rosary.
Respectfully,
Lucia de Jesus dos Santos
‘That’s incredible,’ Sarah declared ecstatically.
JC turned his back accompanied by the cripple. Everything had been predicted.
‘Where are you going?’ Sarah asked him.
The old man turned to her.
‘I’m going where we all have to go. Stay out of trouble.’
‘Thank you for my job at the newspaper.’
JC looked from her to Rafael.
‘I’m not the one to thank. If it were up to me, you’d have been dead in London or New York a year ago.’
He flashed a sarcastic smile and continued toward the rest of his life. They would never see him again.
Sarah considered his words now inside the car on the streets of Wadowice. Rafael followed a secondary road that led to the outskirts.
‘Why did you get the job for me at the newspaper?’ she asked.
Rafael drove in silence.
‘Don’t I deserve an answer?’ she pressured him, slightly insulted.
‘I didn’t get you any job.’
‘Are you lying, Father Rafael?’ she reproved him ironically.
‘Why did someone have to find you a job?’ Rafael continued, confused. ‘Did it ever cross your mind you got the position on your own merits?’
Sarah had never seen things in this light. On the other hand, he could be trying to mislead her for some other reason. Let him have his way.
They entered a very steep dirt road.
‘Where are we going? Cross-country?’ Sarah protested.
‘Only a few more miles.’
They continued in silence for a few minutes, not a contemplative silence appropriate to the situation, but an oppressive, awkward silence.
‘How could the pope pardon someone who wished him such ill?’ Sarah asked.
‘He was a noble soul.’
‘I think he would have liked to read the letter,’ Sarah added, mentioning the letter she had read in the Piazza Navona and carried with her.
‘He always knew that the bullet was special. Divinely turned aside inside his body.’
‘A holy bullet.’
‘A holy bullet.’
‘I’m sorry about your uncle Clemente,’ Sarah finally said. She should have said it much earlier but hadn’t been able.
‘Thanks.’
‘Were you very close?’
‘He was my only living relative,’ he admitted.
They arrived at an enormous gate with two wings, fixed in a high wall that surrounded an enormous property. It was open, so Rafael drove in without stopping. The road continued for a few more miles.
Where the hell are we going? Sarah wondered, tired of so much mystery.
Silence descended again. Rafael and Sarah were only comfortable with each other when the situation involved revolvers, shots, bombs, chases, and torture. A ride in the car through the fields on a sunny day was too complicated for both of them to deal with.
‘I hope you’ll look upon me as a family member,’ Sarah suggested sincerely.
Rafael looked at her and stopped the car.
‘Thanks, I already do.’
They exchanged looks, and for moments nothing else existed. Only she and he inside the car.
A knock on the window woke them from their romantic trance.
‘We’ve arrived,’ Rafael told her.
He opened the door and left the car, while Sarah closed her eyes in frustration before getting out.
‘Tim,’ Rafael greeted him.
‘How are you, Rafael?’
‘I got here at the last moment, but I got here.’
Sarah joined them. They were in an open space surrounded by trees. On one side there was a kind of well.
‘This is Sarah, a… close friend.’
‘How do you do?’ He shook her hand. ‘Tim Baynard.’
Sarah looked at him. He was a calm, happy man. He carried a black briefcase he gave to Rafael.
‘Safe and sound.’
Tim went over to the well that turned out to be stairs going underground. The panel that covered it was half open. It wouldn’t have been easy for Tim to lift it alone.
‘Let’s go,’ he said, going down rapidly ahead of them.
Sarah couldn’t figure out precisely how long they descended, but she was surprised to see electric lights illuminating the way, very different from Moscow.
‘This is private property?’ Rafael asked.
‘Yes, bought by the Vatican,’ Tim answered eagerly.
‘Do you know what you’re going to do with your life now?’ Rafael changed the subject.
‘No. Time will tell. Whatever comes, I hope it’ll be for the best.’
‘That’s a good philosophy,’ Rafael agreed.
They entered something that seemed to be a crypt, confirmed as such by a tomb in the center of the wide space.
It was new, granite, with letters engraved in gold.
Krystian Janusz Wladyslaw.
II–IV-MMV.
‘What does that mean?’ Sarah asked, confused.
‘Thirty-three days after his interment in the tomb of the popes in the Vatican, Karol Jozef Wojtyla was
