The Octopus at the Vatican

# 18 - a getaway

It was 1 a.m. this Tuesday, September 5, they had been driving for four hours in Vittorio's Fiat. In the Venetia, the former archbishop of Venice's Lancia 2000 was too well known.

"Are we spending the night in Bologna, or shall we carry on? He asked Vittorio, who was driving."

"I'm OK, what about you?"

"Me too, and I'm keen to get to Cortina. We're halfway. Shall I take over?"

"In Padua, is that OK?"

"Yes, said Albino, handing the driver a drink in the thermos mug. I'll relax till then."

Wednesday at 6 a.m., it was already daylight when they stopped outside Nina and Ettore's. They would have liked to bring something to them, but everything was still shut. Ettore and Nina would have enjoyed a hard cheese from the Latteria Perenzin from San Pedro di Feletto, the best in the area. It was heavenly served with a Prosecco. But circumstances were unusual. After the greeting, having not seen each other since the conclave, they settled down.

Albino told them about the election, without disclosing numbers which would mean excommunication. But as he was in power, he could let some information slip without having to excommunicate himself. He spoke of his hesitation, of his misgivings at not saying no, of the strange unfolding of events and his sudden change of status. Nina kept crossing herself, Ettore was mocking her. Then Albino talked about the luxurious straitjacket of life at the Vatican. The only exercise he could take was to walk around the thousands of rooms at the palace. But this pope, who had turned up out of the blue, was a nuisance. He had just received secure information that he was going to be shot at that very day, during the general audition at 10 a.m. Nina signed herself again, saying a prayer under her breath. Ettore had stopped mocking her, and almost signed himself, too.

"That's why we have taken shelter with you, empty-handed but with heavy hearts."

"We need to be very discreet about Uncle Albino being here. The pope having fun, in jeans and baseball cap, you can just imagine the crowd of reporters! Let alone those who want to kill him."

They would stay for two nights then set off for Rome.

"I can't stay away any longer. Three days is already a great feat, smiled Albino. I am so looking forward to staying with you for these three days, which will do me a power of good after all these emotions. Up in the mountains, I will be neither pope nor cardinal."

They had a wash, slept a little, had lunch together, took a siesta and set off on the local footpaths before dinner. Nina had said:

"We will not go with you; we are too well known here. Ettore and I will not change anything to our usual routine so as not to draw attention to us. I'll keep the shop open, 10-12/3-5. And I will cook up some nice dishes of you. Ettore, are you happy to go to the shops and the café as usual? You hear more there than on the radio. We will soon know if something's up. Vittorio, and you in particular, Albino, come and go through the old pigsty. Vittorio, you can leave your Fiat outside the house. You are visiting us, it's natural, as a son."

*

On Wednesday 6 September, Licio Gelli, the venerable from Lodge P2, was glued to the radio. He had switched it on at 9:50. Nothing at 10:15, still nothing at 10:30. The shooter must be biding his time. He kept channel switching. There was not mention of the expected catastrophe on RAI. Less still on Vatican radio. He had missed the 8 a.m. bulletin. He didn't want to call his contacts now. After the attack, it would seem suspect. He kept quiet but was struggling to keep so.

Giuseppe Calò, the godfather who was leading the operation was also listening to broadcasts. At 10:30, one of his deputies called him. The audience had not taken place. The Vatican had given no reason. Calò made a few calls. There were no comments from the Vatican. He called Gelli. He would find out under a different pretext. But not straightaway. Not before tomorrow. Giuseppe Calò was a particularly angry man and he was enraged. But he was also smart. He decided to wait. Gelli knew what he was doing.

The pope's escape had been kept well hidden by the secretary of State. Gelli tried to know more but he only found out what Villot was letting out: with whispers and without telling anyone, His Holiness was unwell. Nothing serious, a cold which confined him to his bedroom. His doctor hid behind confidentiality, along with reporters,

The Venerable and the godfather considered the next move. Thinking about it, they agreed that a shooting, even coming from a crazy anti-papist, wasn't sufficiently discreet to get rid of a pope. Many wouldn't believe it and that would create suspicions forever. There was nothing to be gained by shocked conservative Catholics leaving P2 and Cosa Nostra. They had to think of something else. A natural death was ideal. But John Paul was in great shape. What could one do? The thought of good old poison came up. One could engineer and simulate an ordinary death, without autopsy. The Secretary of State could be approached to avoid it. The plotters had a plan. They just had to work on the details. Thursday 7 ended in peace and quiet. 

*

Meanwhile, the sniper was frustrated. And concerned. He had to kill the pope. But his sermon had been canceled. He had also received orders not to contact his leaders. He was supposed to be mad, a loose cannon. He was alone. If he failed, the organization would show him and his family no mercy. But if he succeeded, he and his family would never know poverty again. He would be in jail or in a psychiatric hospital with all the comforts that went with men of honor. He absolutely had to kill the pope.

On the night from 6 to 7, he was watching the pontifical apartments with binoculars. He saw no sign of life. The pope wasn't ill. He was not at the Vatican. At Castel Gondolfo? On the morning of the 7, he traveled there. The official flag, which indicated the pope was in residence, wasn't flying. So where was he? He had read in a magazine after the election that the pope came from the Canale d'Agordo, a hole in the northern Pre-Alps. Perhaps he was visiting his family? Why not, after all? He was a man like any other, this guy.

The killer arrived at Canale d'Agordo on Thursday 7. He had a chat with a waitress in a restaurant and he had no trouble getting her to spill the beans. The entire village was talking about their local celebrity. It was easy to talk about him. His sister lived in a nearby valley, at Cortina d'Ampezzo, the ski resort; the siblings were very close. She had a souvenir shop. They even gave him its name. On the evening of 7, he was in Cortina and he knew where to find the sister. He watched the household. After dark, he could see the comings and goings of several people, who went to bed late. There was an air of festivity, of conviviality. He knew about this, being a Sicilian himself. He wasn't a sentimental killer, no, just an ordinary one, it was his job. Like so many others. He mustn't ask himself questions about his work. It wasn't good for him. He was a soldier. As soldiers, he did as he was told. He killed. Without cruelty. Simple. Technical. Same as abattoir employees who were no worse than those who planted tomatoes.