Free The Last Pope by Luis Miguel Rocha

his ticket to the usher, who indicated the location of his seat.
    “You can check your overcoat, if you wish, sir.”
    “Thanks very much. Can you tell me where the bathroom is?”
    “Of course. First door on your left, sir.”
    The man kept talking on his cell phone on his way to the restroom.
    “Please confirm, once the reserve has neutralized the London target. . . . Yes, I know I can consider it done, but . . . of course, sir. . . . For now, things will continue as they are. . . . Fine. Good-bye.”
    He took the stairs to the mezzanine. It seemed totally full, but after a careful search, he located an empty seat in the first row right. Excellent spot. Not that he was interested in watching this children’s musical, though it was based on a book by Ian Fleming, creator of the famous James Bond. He smiled at the irony. Secret agents, undercover plots—just like his own—Ian Fleming, James Bond . . . though in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, there was nothing secret or undercover. It was two and a half hours of pure musical comedy. But this man hadn’t come looking for entertainment. He had a job to do.
    The lights came down slowly. The musicians began the overture. The man pulled a small pair of binoculars out of his pocket to see what was going on in the boxes and orchestra seats. It seemed innocuous, but this accessory was actually equipped for night vision, allowing him to scan the rows of seats in the dark. In less than a minute he focused on the person he was looking for. The old man was sitting halfway back, near the center.
    Leaning back comfortably in his seat, he smiled. With his thumb and index finger, he pointed at the old man down below.
    “Bang, bang.”

12
    The first thing is to get away from Belgrave Road, Sarah thought. And with that in mind she turned left, without thinking, toward Charlwood Street. She had the feeling she wasn’t completely alone. Feverishly, she looked everywhere—corners, doors, windows—searching for someone who might be spying on her. It felt as if everybody, with just their look, was telling her, “You’re doomed” or “They’re right behind you.”
    She tried to regain her composure. If someone’s following me, she thought, he’s not going to let himself be seen, and I won’t be able to find him.
    She took another left, onto Tachbrook Street, looking for a public phone to call her father. Better in a crowded place. And the only place she could think of was Victoria Station. Taking Belgrave Road would have been shorter, but she opted for a roundabout route, choosing less crowded streets. Again she turned left on Warwick Way, followed by a right on Wilton Road. She darted across Neathouse Place and then Bridge Place, finally ending up at Victoria Station.
    As soon as she got there she felt relieved. Despite the fact that the big clock on the main facade showed it was a bit before midnight, there was constant movement, hundreds of people wandering through the enormous station, with its many stores announcing countless sales. Going by a McDonald’s, she realized she hadn’t eaten for hours. A double hamburger and a Coke were just right.
    Looking for a phone, Sarah mixed in with the people bumping against one another trying to read the enormous panel of train schedules. The PA system warned people to mind their luggage.
    There was a special ticket booth for the Orient Express, with stops in Istanbul, Bucharest, Budapest, Prague, Vienna, Innsbruck, Venice, Verona, Florence, Rome, Paris. Cities full of mystery, intrigue, secret plots. But for Sarah Monteiro there were more important mysteries.
    “Sarah, is that you?” her father inquired, answering her call.
    “Yes. But the morgue was about to call to inform you that your daughter was shot dead,” she answered, still enraged. “What the heck is going on? A guy breaks into my home, points his gun at me, and the only reason he doesn’t kill me is because somebody else kills him first.”
    “Is that what happened?” Her