The Last Pope by Luis Miguel Rocha Page B

going to put his hand over his mouth to talk, like the agents in the underground, but he did have a live walkie-talkie like everybody. A sweeper didn’t need a radio transmitter to do his job. No, either that man was the Rafael her father had mentioned, or else . . . best not to think about it.
    Sarah moved on, trying to blend in with the passersby. Then, sharply turning her head, she tried to locate her sweeper. She also observed the rest of the sweeping crew. Those in sight made no attempt to conceal their presence and, to be honest, showed no interest in Sarah Monteiro or anyone else. Each one indifferently confined himself to cleaning his assigned area.
    Which one of those guys could be Rafael? she thought.
    At any moment, Sarah could be dragged into a passing car. Or one good shot could end her erratic flight. So many movies, so many scenes, so many theories ran through her mind, she was overcome with vertigo, feeling faint. People, people, and more people everywhere.
    “Sarah Monteiro?” She heard someone call her. It was the sweeper. “Come with me. Trust me.”
    Without waiting for her consent, the man took her by the arm, pushing her past people, heading out of the square.
    “Where are we going?” There was no answer. “Are you Rafael?” Sarah insisted, still recovering from the daze that was overwhelming her.
    There was a sharp buzzing coming from a pocket in the man’s fluorescent uniform, and Sarah saw him pull out a radio transmitter and start talking in Italian.
    “La porto alla centrale . . . Sì, l’obiettivo è con me. . . . Negativo. Non posso rifinirla qui. . . . Benissimo.”
    Not really understanding what the man said, Sarah noted that the voice coming out of the transmitter was strong, hollow sounding—certainly that of the boss. Was this man Rafael, or one of the men trying to kill her?
    Clearly her father had specifically mentioned Rafael, one man, only one person. Sarah tried to break free, but the sweeper firmly held her back.
    “Don’t be foolish. There’s no need to force the inevitable. But if it’s necessary—” A word to the wise.
    Sarah had tried everything possible to avoid being caught, but at this point, what else could she do? Maybe her father should have chosen another place. What a terrible thing—to be killed without even knowing why. So be it, she thought. Once more she felt powerless, defeated.
    But Sarah’s fate was not yet sealed. A black car shot out from one of the square’s adjacent streets, between the statue of Sir Henry Havelock and Nelson’s Column, screeching to a stop.
    “I’ll take care of her,” said the man who got out of the car.
    Sarah had an alarming sensation of déjà vu. Her instinct put her on guard, and she instantly remembered. It was the man who had pursued her and shot at her in the underground.
    “Va bene,” the sweeper said.
    Without another word, the man in control pushed Sarah toward the car, shoved her into the backseat, and got in the front, next to the driver. The vehicle tore out at full speed.
    With the car headed toward Parliament Street, Sarah Monteiro studied the man who apparently was in charge of her. He was middle aged and had a relaxed manner. She was troubled by a chaotic blend of sensations, doubts, and anxieties.
    “Who are all of you?” she asked. Silence. Not even a glance in the rearview mirror. “Who are you?”
    There was no answer.
    About a half hour later, according to Sarah’s shaky calculations, the driver stopped the car, and the two men got out, disappearing from Sarah’s view. Only one man came back to the car, the one who had taken her away from the sweeper. This time he sat at the wheel. A few minutes later, the car slowed down as it entered a very posh residential neighborhood. Sarah’s heartbeat sped up with fear. Time was closing in. An automatic garage door opened, and their vehicle parked beside a shiny new Jaguar.
    They both got out of the car.
    “Come with me,” the icy voice commanded.