The Holy Bullet

14

NESTOR

August 18, 1981

I’m so happy to see you recuperating, Your Holiness.”

“Thank you, Marcinkus.”

The two men were sitting on a scarlet sofa in the papal office. Wojtyla had seated himself with difficulty. The scars of the attempt on his life remained engraved in his body.

“To what do I owe the honor?” the Pole wished to know.

The American sipped a little tea that the Holy Father had amiably sent for, the plate in one hand, the cup in the other.

“A subject I fear will not please you, Your Holiness.”

The High Pontiff frowned, showing complete attention.

“Tell me.”

Marcinkus arranged his black cassock on the sofa before speaking.

“Well, I’ll be direct and concise, as the Holy Father deserves. I’ve been contacted by a man who calls himself Nestor and claims to belong to the KGB. He’s informed me that he was behind the assassination attempt of a year ago, and you can prepare yourself for others if you don’t comply with his demands.”

The pope’s face took on a look of disgust and suspicion.

“And what are these demands?”

“That you immediately stop financing Solidarity and stop pressuring the Iron Curtain. Suspend all the audits of the IWR. Increase investments in South America in a way he’ll specify.”

The pope closed his eyes and sighed.

“Is that it?”

“Immediately,” Marcinkus replied.

“And why did he contact you?”

“Because I represent the IWR. I manage the money. He was specific,” Marcinkus warned, taking a more serious tone. “Cease the donations immediately or you could be the victim of a new attempt and, he guarantees, this time-”

“I understand,” the pope interrupted with a raised hand. “What’s the time limit?”

“The first offer was fifteen days, but I’ve managed to get a month.”

“I’m grateful to you,” offered Wojtyla, who got up and walked painfully through the office.

With his hands behind his back, cold sweat made the pope tremble, but Marcinkus didn’t notice. Being pope was more difficult than one thinks. Besides countless obligations, his life was always in danger, always.

“What did you say this agent calls himself?”

“Nestor, Your Holiness.”

“Nestor, yes.”

“Have you heard his name, Your Holiness?”

“No, no.”

The pope walked slowly to the red sofa and looked at Marcinkus.

“A month. We’ll talk again.”

“Naturally, Your Holiness.”

Marcinkus got up, kissed the ring of the Fisherman, and left the office.

The pope let him leave in silence and remained silent for some time. Later, he got on his knees in the middle of the office and kissed the rosary he always carried with him.

“Help me, Mary.”