The Last Pope Luís Miguel Rocha

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It was always a joy to come back, even if only for a couple of days, and to breathe the Baltic Sea’s salt air, which wafted over the city God had chosen for his birth. Coming to this part of the world was like an omen, an unmistakable sign of the importance of the mission entrusted to him. He walked around the familiar streets of Gdansk, Poland’s economic center and the cradle of the famous Solidarity movement. He had always known a great mission awaited him, and he was right. When he was on Chmielna Street six years before, it had been confirmed by a phone call in the middle of the night. Now, going past the small apartment where he had grown up and spent his early adult life, he remembered his parents, who died when he was young. It was all a divine design, completing the circle of perfection he admired so much. The phone call didn’t happen by chance—nothing ever did—but by specific providential design. This was the first time in six years that he had been back in Gdansk and seen the Wisła again. The Master had asked him to wait there for the next stage of the plan, and the Master always knew what he was doing. He was one of the Illuminati, a saint guarding the higher interests of the Holy Trinity on Earth.

It was almost noon now. He walked on Miesczanska toward Chiebnicka, turned right and then left, on the way to Długie Pobrzeze. He was having dinner at the Gdanska Restaurant, as if it were a familiar place, though he had never patronized it. The sumptuous setting resembled a palace dining room more than a restaurant.

“Na zdrowie,” the impeccably dressed waiter greeted him.

“Dzie dobry,” he answered politely. It had been a long time since he had greeted anybody in his native tongue. He ordered the specialty of the house for two, and a bottle of red wine.

The food came quickly, efficiently, and the waiter departed with a friendly “Smacznego.”

“How are you?” a voice behind him asked.

“Very well, sir,” the man answered, getting up obsequiously. Someone who had seen him a few moments before wouldn’t think he was the same man. His self-assurance was transformed into subservience before this newcomer, who sat down across from him. He was wearing an elegant Armani suit, discreetly black, similar to that of the man who’d arrived first. There was no doubt he was the boss.

“You have done a good job.”

“Thank you. It’s an honor to serve you.”

They were speaking Italian.

“The Great Master as usual will know how to reward your efforts. He will soon summon you to his presence.”

“I’ll be honored.”

“You’re right. It’s an honor not many enjoy. And very few live to tell about it. Only those closest to him and those who serve him with dignity, like you.”

The Polish man lowered his head in acknowledgment and, pulling out an envelope from an inside pocket, he placed it on the table.

“This is what I found in Buenos Aires. The photo I told you about. It’s a simple trick. Under ultraviolet light, another image appears. Take a look.”

The other man examined the photo. “Interesting what these people can come up with,” he said, keeping his eyes fixed on the Pole. “It won’t be long before we find a name for this face.”

Now it was the boss’s turn to hand over an envelope, which he did, placing it on the table without any attempt to disguise his action.

“Here are your orders to go ahead. Everything you need is inside,” he said, returning the photo. “Take it with you. The plan is on. Beware of traitors, many people are after this. Don’t arouse suspicions, and do not fail. So long.”

He left without another word, without even touching his food. The one who stayed took the envelope and put it in the inside pocket of his jacket. He wolfed down the house specialty, enjoyed the wine, and, once satiated, paid the check, leaving a generous tip. A celebration was in order. He who served well, deserved to be well rewarded.

“Dzikuj,” the waiter said gratefully, happy to see the green American dollars that the well-dressed man deposited on the silver tray.

“See you tomorrow,” the man said.

By the Wisła, he opened the envelope and examined its contents. A document with his photo and his new identity, a plane ticket from Frankfurt, and some papers. He added the photo he had brought from Buenos Aires.

“Now it’s your turn,” he said in a paternal tone, not so much addressing the personage in the photo as the task ahead, which he intended to carry out meticulously, as he had all the previous ones. He decided to go for a walk in the small Sunday market, perhaps to enjoy for the last time the flavor of a city he might not see again. He took off his jacket and his short-sleeved shirt revealed the tattoo of a serpent that extended down to his wrist. He put everything back in the envelope, after taking another look at the photo he had obtained in Buenos Aires from the home of the parish priest, Padre Pablo. The priest had another home now, a more permanent one, underground. The photo, if anyone was watching, showed only the face of Pope Benedict XVI.

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