The Holy assassin

72

The Confession

December 27, 1983

Twenty minutes could be a long time.

In the narrow cell four people pressed together, only one talking, the rest listening.

Two years, seven months, and fourteen days he’d spent in judicial confinement for having carried out an unsuccessful attempt on the pope’s life.

The Supreme Pontiff sat on a small chair brought in especially for him. His secretary and the guard entrusted with preventing any possible menace against His Holiness waited standing up, although the latter had to pretend not to hear what was being said.

Not for a moment had the Turk left his position as a penitent, his hands touching the white tunic.

‘Was it so simple, my son?’ asked the Holy Father, to whom the gift of omniscience hadn’t been granted.

‘It was.’

‘A simple phone call and a meeting?’

The other said nothing. His silence was agreement. Besides he was the one who had told the story.

‘And his name?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You didn’t ask?’

‘No. He paid half in our first and only meeting. You don’t question men like that.’

‘Where was that meeting?’

‘In Athens.’

‘When?’

‘In March.’

They let the silence settle around them. He had to think more deeply about what had been said.

The Holy Father placed a benevolent hand on the head of his beloved, unsuccessful executioner. A sincere caress filled with positive energy and love from someone who knew there was nothing to forgive.

‘In regard to the date and time,’ the Supreme Pontiff returned. ‘Was that decided by you?’

‘No. I didn’t decide anything. I received orders with the precise date and time.’

‘How much ahead of time?’

‘Eight days. Time enough to prepare myself. I arrived in Milan on the seventh of May and Rome, the tenth of May.’

The pope and his secretary exchanged glances, hiding the unease caused by that answer.

‘Did you act alone?’

‘As far as I know, yes,’ the Turk responded, bowing his head.

‘I believe you, my son.

‘Was there a plan for escape?’ Only the Holy Father formulated the questions.

The young man raised his head, letting his shame show.

‘There was,’ he confessed, bowing his head again. He didn’t continue.

The pope had to force his reply by lifting the Turk’s head so that he would look him in the eye. There was no room for pardons or vengeance. What’s done was done.

‘To flee under cover of the confusion… stupid, I know now.’

‘How were they going to pay you the rest of the money?’

‘It depended. If I survived, fifteen days later in a place to be determined. It would be in cash. If I was caught, it would be given to my family.’

‘Had you foreseen that possibility?’

‘Never,’ the Turk alleged. ‘After all, I fired six times. Even today I don’t know how you can be here talking to me.’

‘No bullet can kill unless it’s the will of God.’

‘I am completely aware of that. I know exactly where I pointed the gun.’

In spite of the kind attitude of the Polish pope, he clearly wanted to bring together all the facts of the case. Someone in the heart of his own clerical family wished him ill. Once he knew that, his disgust was incredible. It was as if they shared the same blood, since a man of the Church lived among his clerical brothers more than his family members. They were only a far-off memory of Wadowice on Ulica Koscielna.

He knew that the simple fact of being chosen by the Holy Spirit — and one hundred and ten cardinals — to direct the destinies of the Church had earned him many enemies. According to his mental arithmetic, at least half of the ninety-seven who voted for him. It was known that after a certain time, the factions in which the conclave was divided would have to reach a gentlemen’s agreement to permit the choice of only one of all those eligible. Besides those forty-eight cardinals and half of those who simply didn’t like him as a person, there were also assistants, secretaries, subsecretaries, priests, bishops, archbishops, monsignors, simple employees without a diploma in theology. Any one of them might be behind all this, but he could only manage to call one to mind.

‘Does the name Nestor mean anything to you?’ the Holy Father asked.

The young Turk searched his memory for the name.

‘That name means nothing to me,’ he finally said.

‘Could it have been the name of the man who hired you?’

‘It could.’

‘Did he seem Eastern European? A Soviet?’

‘Soviet? No way. American or English,’ the young man replied.

Wojtyla got up suddenly, leaving the Turk on his knees.

‘Holy Father, I’m worried about what they could do to my family.’ He grasped the white tunic begging for mercy. ‘Protect them. Please. I’m desperate.’

The Pole looked him up and down, thoughtfully.

‘Someone has threatened you, my son?’

‘Me, no. But they’ve threatened my family. If I open my mouth, they’re going to pay.’

The pope assumed a serious expression. One had to adopt measures very carefully. The pieces fit together very easily. He needed no guarantee to feel that the young man’s admissions were the truth, without inventions, knowing he could even be sacrificing his family.

‘Get up and listen carefully,’ he ordered decisively. ‘From today on, your family will be mine, and mine, yours. I’ll protect them with all my power.’

Tears ran down the young Turk’s submissive face.

‘But remember. Never tell this to anyone. Make up a new version each day. Say whatever comes into your head. One thing in the morning, and another, completely different, in the afternoon.’

The young man looked at the pope in surprise. The pope understood his confusion.

‘We’re going to save your family and mine… ours. The best for yours and mine is that no one know the truth. The truth could kill the Church, my family, and, consequently, yours… ours.’

The young Turk’s legs doubled under him, and he fell on the floor weeping copiously.

The pope stroked the Turk’s head and started for the door. He looked at him one last time.

‘I came here to see my executioner, and I leave with a friend in my heart.’

Twenty minutes can be a long time.