Chapter IV

The city of Rio De Janeiro was warm and humid, they skies clear. It was approaching the early evening.

THE ENTOURAGE OF VEHICLES MADE their way across the blocked off parkway, cars honking their horns, and people lining the streets to wave and cheer. Though they couldn’t see Pope John Paul III, they knew he was in one of the four vehicles. He wasn’t. But the cheers continued, unknowing. The closest thing to the lord Christ was driving past them. Just to be so close to him filled their hearts and minds with hope. And in a city like Rio, plagued with violence and corruption . . . a little hope can go a long way.

Three streets over, a smaller, less conspicuous caravan of two armored Land Rovers with blacked-out windows and solid rubber tires, made its way towards the same destination as the cadre of limousines. Inside the Land Rovers were several security service members from the Brazilian government, as well as five Swiss Guard agents, and let’s not forget the Pope, himself. He was in the second vehicle, his eyes closed, concentrating on the task at hand.

The Papal Nuncio had called him earlier and informed him of their progress, making it very clear that there were problems at the Vatican. Pasquale had explained that it was nothing that they couldn’t handle in-house, but the matter was puzzling.

When the Pope had asked about any relationship to the killings that had occurred across Europe, and the latest killing in Sao Paulo . . . Pasquale had been very reluctant to comment. Could be a statement of the local political tension. Besides, the Nuncio had reminded, whoever he was, this killer could have easily made an attempt on the Pope’s life . . . if that had been his goal. In short, the Nuncio didn’t think that there was an immediate risk to the Pope.

The Swiss Guard had not been so sure. Ritti, himself, had recommended that the Pope immediately return to Rome.

The Pope had decided to split the difference. He would fulfill his next speaking obligation, in Rio De Janeiro, at the ‘Copa de Christo.’ It was a religious festival-slash-fund raising junket. Several hundred influential people would bring their families and get a chance to hear the Pope speak.

If they were among the ‘special’ donators, they would be allowed a smaller, more intimate engagement with his holiness.

The Pope had been very clear. “This will be the last function I attend.”

His desire to do God’s work was paralleling his desire to stay alive, and be able to continue to do so. It wasn’t that he was scared for his life, but that he knew there was lore at stake than just his life. What happened to the Pope, and in-turn to the Vatican, emanated outward like the tiny ripples in a pond after a small pebble is thrown. With the Vatican, those ripples could look a lot like tidal waves when they ran their course.

Dimitri, one of the Swiss Guards, turned to him. “We’re going to be arriving at the back of the complex. We’ll make our way through the kitchen, which has already been cleared.” He checked a small photocopy of the floor plan and spoke to the driver in Portuguese. They spoke in a rather musical cadence that the Pope had always found fascinating.

Dimitri turned back. “Right. Everything has been cleared. We will enter at the exact same time the limos pull into the front of the hotel. They will sit, with the engines on for a couple of minutes . . . wait for us to give the ’all-clear,′ then they’ll unload.”

“How long will it be until we arrive?” the Pope asked.

Dimitri turned his head towards the driver. They exchanged a few words. turned back. “No more than ten minutes. Traffic is a bit slower with all of the people trying to catch a glimpse of you, in the limos.”

The Pope smiled. All those people. All rich with faith and hope and promise. They just want some guidance.

Steffan, one of the other Swiss Guards leaned forward from the back seat of the truck. “Let us keep in mind that anyone we don’t know could be an assassin.”

Dimitri nodded. “We would like you to wear the shirt we gave you.” “That thing,” the Pope said dismissingly. “It’s hot.”

“Trust me, sir,” Dimitri said with a pleading smile, “if somebody tries to attack you, we will be prepared. But . . . if there is a sniper, or a shooter, the heat of their bullets will be much worse than any slight discomfort you will feel.”

The Pope knew better than to argue matters of security with the Dimitri, or any of the other bodyguards. These were well-trained men. They knew their jobs, and they knew the mind of the attackers. Who knew how many assassination attempts had been averted, or avoided by their tenacity and resolve?

“I’ve got it on,” the Pope said with a wave of his hand. He would be much more relaxed when they got back to Rome. Inside the Vatican’s protective walls, these killers, or killer would not be able to threaten him. But, who else would be slain, hung, or attacked during this ordeal?

As for that last question, nobody could answer it . . . at least, nobody that was in Brazil. The Pope knew that there were answers . . . if he looked deep within the Vatican. And soon, very soon, he would do exactly that.