Free The Last Pope by Luis Miguel Rocha Page A

father’s voice sounded even stranger than the first time she had spoken with him.
    “That’s exactly what happened. Who are these people?”
    “My child, I can’t tell you anything over the phone. Someone’s surely listening to this conversation and I can’t go into anything that could compromise me—or you. You can’t imagine how bad I feel about getting you into this mess.”
    “What the fuck are you talking about? What am I supposed do? I can’t go home. Can’t say anything, can’t do anything. Shit. Son of a bitch!”
    “Calm down, child.”
    “I’m not referring to you, Dad. I mean the people listening to us talk. I’m sorry.” Taking a deep breath, she added, “Bastards! But who are we talking about? The MI6? The CIA, the FBI? The Mossad? Who?”
    “All I can say is all those people are angels compared to who’s behind this.”
    “Seriously?
    “Yes, unfortunately.”
    “What have you gotten into, Dad?”
    “Nothing you need to know right now. Past mistakes that I’m regretting every day of my life, you can be sure.”
    “So what do I do?”
    “First, don’t call me again, no matter what. And don’t try to get me at home. No one’s going to be there. In the meantime, don’t worry about your mother and me, we’ll be fine.”
    “Is Mother in this, too?”
    “No. She didn’t know anything. It’s taken her by surprise, and it’s been tough to calm her down. She’s just as scared as you are. Please, you’ve got to trust me. It’s crucial. Now I need to solve this. . . . Later we’ll see, when all the dust has settled.”
    “Only if it’s settled down for me, too.”
    After Sarah’s sarcastic comment, there was silence.
    “It will settle for you, too. A lot of people’s lives depend on it.”
    “Good to know! I feel better already.”
    “What counts is to think about the here and now,” her father said. “Do you hear me, Sarah?”
    “Yes,” she answered, her eyes closed.
    “Someone’s waiting to help you,” her father added. “You can completely trust him. He’s waiting for you at King William IV Square.”
    “Oh, that’s better. How can I recognize him?”
    “Don’t worry about that. He’ll recognize you. And another thing—”
    “What’s his name?”
    “Rafael. His name is Rafael. One other thing, don’t use your name anywhere, and never say where you are. . . . And pay cash for everything.”
    “Why?”
    “Don’t use your credit card.”
    “Oh, I just paid at McDonald’s with the same card I’m using for this call,” she responded, her eyes gleaming with anxiety. She glanced around, not feeling safe at all.
    “Hang up immediately and go where I’ve told you.”
    “Didn’t you say your phone could be tapped? How can you now be sending me to such a specific place?”
    “I’m sure you’ve never heard of King William IV Square.” With that, he hung up.

13
    Staughton was an analyst of confidential data. That meant he was a professional who collected important private data for an operation and then transferred it to the agents in charge of the case. In fact, his position was known as a “real-time analyst,” meaning the data he collected referred only to the immediate present. For example, phone calls, bank transactions, or if necessary even satellite images. The degree of confidentiality varied according to the particular operation, and it was divided into four levels. Level four, the most confidential, was available only to the president of the United States. Staughton worked for the Central Intelligence Agency, the CIA.
    There were many sophisticated devices in Staughton’s room. It looked more like an airplane cockpit than an office. He pressed a few buttons and then, with the ease of an expert, waited for the results.
    What mess am I in now? he thought. Oh, come on, give me a sign, one simple sign.
    “So, nothing yet? Nothing?” a man thundered, barging into the room.
    A novice would have been petrified by the sudden appearance of the