The Octopus at the Vatican

# 28 - the switch

Thursday 28 – the Vatican

The following day went by. The pope had, for once, followed the routine dictated by his secretariat. Audiences, a meeting with Costa Rica's ambassador, a siesta, a meeting with a few Church high dignitaries to deal with nominations, beatification projects, a pilgrimage and taking part in an inauguration.

He ate dinner on his own and asked not to be disturbed before the next morning, when he withdrew to his private apartment.

He swung the panel in the library, then dragged both bags, one after the other, along the floor to his bedroom and started to assemble his double.

"Hi you, we won't have known each other very long. If it works, you're going to have a global destiny. Good luck. And please don't wake up like Pinocchio did. Promise? Don't trick me."

The dummy agreed, put on its pajamas and got into bed.

The pope put his ring down, on the bedside table. But he kept his glasses on.

He said out loud with a malicious grin like Captain Haddock, one of his favorite characters,

"At least the Vaticanologists will have a mystery to solve."

Once in the bathroom, he dyed his hair black, the color it was when he was young, leaving gray at the temples. He shoved the dyeing stuff into the bag, including the waste, and put in his new soft contact lenses. He had tried them out in Cortina. He was unrecognizable with his baseball cap. At most, someone might say, 'ah! I've seen that chap before'.

Then he dressed like a tourist, with a multi-pocket waistcoat, jeans, jacket, his camera. His backpack, a gift from Vittorio, half mountain bag, half travel bag, was made of thin and strong fabric. He filled it with what he had planned, that is, very little. He carried the dollars and travelers checks on him. At the last moment, he left his watch, with a twinge, on the bedside table. It bore an inscription by his mother on the back. If the watch were to disappear as well as the glasses, it would really be a bit much.

Then it took him a long time to check the place. To be sure he'd not left anything behind. His ordinary shoes were, as they should be, in the bedroom and not on his feet. His socks, underwear, shirt and trousers were also there. It was easier for the cassock: he wasn't going to leave with it. He went through all the rooms with a vague feeling something wasn't quite right. No, he couldn't find anything, it all seemed in order. The time had come to say goodbye to this strange place where he had spent the most intense month of his whole life. And yet he couldn't leave it. He sat for a while to allow his mind to join his body. A month earlier, he had experienced the rarest change of status a man could go through. And he was preparing now for an even crazier leap into the unknown. He no longer felt light and free as he had done the previous evening. He felt stressed. He began to pray, which helped him when he had doubts or worries. He prayed for a long time. Too long. Vittorio was waiting for him. He went back to his sleeping dummy to check his watch. Half past nine already! He was late. I know what was wrong! What was bothering me! The bags in which my dummy was delivered, I have to take them back. Where are they? He found them half hidden under the bed, in the bedroom. Mustn't leave them here. Nor behind the bookcase. I'll give them to Vittorio who will use them for something else.

He finally left through the now familiar passage. The light was falling outside. It was still hot. He felt a light breeze on his face as he walked towards Saint-Angelo Castle. The winds of freedom, he thought, happily,

"Phew, I'm no longer pope!", he whispered to himself, laughing.

*

As agreed, Vittorio was waiting for his uncle, in a car rental under a false name. He was parked right near the Saint-Angelo Castle.

He outlined the main steps of their plan.

He would take Albino to the station. He, Vittorio, would stay in Rome at IOR as if nothing had happened. He would take the car back to the rental agency on the 30th. On the 29th, he would take a day off. Officially, to recover from the distress. In fact, to go into hiding, until the pope was placed in his tomb. If the trick were to be uncovered, it would be better if he couldn't be found. He would only be safe when the pseudo-pope was buried in the four coffins of the necropolis. Before that, there would be a few difficult days of public exposure.

Albino Luciani would go to Bari on the train. Then take a one-way ferry ticket to Greece. Patras and so forth. An average retired European cultural tourist. He would come back in a couple of years, via Yugoslavia and settle in the Ticino. In a modest flat already bought for him by Aldo Bonassoli. He would teach Greek and Latin in a private school. Or be just a retired bricklayer. He would get a monthly pay on an account opened under his new name at UBS in Lugano. Albino had found it difficult to accept charity. Wasn't charity encouraged by the Church, Aldo had retorted? He would get no pension for having been priest, bishop or pope; although he had worked his whole life. It was right he got a pension. Albino was still resisting. Wouldn't Aldo suffer financially with that unexpected expense? Aldo Bonassoli reassured him: he had earned, in France, more money than he could ever spend during a century with his invention of oil detectors. Albino accepted.

At this moment of his daydream, Albino opened the passenger door. Vittorio turned his head just in time to see him collapse next to him. His cap had fallen on the gear lever. In the next moment, Vittorio himself was pulled from his seat and knocked out.