Read Online The Last Pope by Luis Miguel Rocha - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Luis Miguel Rocha
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pain? The man’s body hit the floor facedown with a heavy thud. She couldn’t believe it, and had to refocus. It was a miracle. Not until moments later, however, could Sarah begin to understand what had just happened. She saw two small holes in the windowpane. The shots had come from outside. Somebody had been her guardian angel. But who?
“Dad, you’ve got a lot of explaining to do.”
It was time to flee.
11
Times Square was one of the nerve centers of the first world, a lot like Trafalgar Square, the Champs-Élysées, Alexanderplatz, Saint Peter’s Square, and a few others. In these places nighttime and daytime activity didn’t differ much. Particularly Times Square in Manhattan, which was as mythical a place for Americans as for many Europeans. The neon lights and the frenzied traffic enthralled visitors, fascinated by the excitement of the labyrinth of streets, avenues, tunnels, and bridges.
Thousands of people traversed the neighborhood surrounding Times Square. One man was walking at a brisk, steady pace, his overcoat open to the wind like a cape. Where he’d come from didn’t matter, only where he was going, following a plan devised by a mind brighter than his own. He reached the TKTS booth on Forty-seventh Street between Broadway and Seventh Avenue, got in line, and tuned in to the voices around him.
“One ticket for Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, please, the seven o’clock show,” an elderly man, two people ahead of him, asked at the window.
Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. The man in the overcoat smiled. How fitting, he thought. When he reached the ticket booth, he bought a ticket for the same play, same performance.
He wandered around, looking at the store windows for a while, then stopped for an espresso at Charley’s Co. One might have thought he was killing time until the theater opened, but on closer examination his behavior wasn’t just whimsical. He was following the other guy, the old man who was buying his ticket at the TKTS booth a few minutes before.
They both headed south on Seventh Avenue, the man in the overcoat following, always maintaining a prudent distance from the old man. He knew how to do these things, not distracted by the people or the noise. Nothing seemed to interfere with his pursuit. In fact, he didn’t need to follow the old man to know his destination, he knew very well.
His cell phone vibrated.
“Yes,” he answered firmly, as he crossed Seventh Avenue at Forty-second Street. “Did everything go all right?” he asked, gesticulating impatiently. “What? Then make sure all the traces are cleaned up.”
He turned right on Forty-third, visibly annoyed.
“If things don’t go according to plan, I don’t need to tell you what will happen to you. I want that woman erased today. I’ll expect your call confirming it.”
Right after hanging up abruptly, he called another number, still keeping an eye on the man he was following. The old man, seemingly over seventy, walked spiritedly, almost like an excited teenager on his way to a promising party, and evidently unaware of being followed.
“Hello. We’re headed for the theater. Everything’s fine here.” He paused a few seconds, closed his eyes, and caught his breath. “But sir, things aren’t going well in London. The target escaped and we took a loss. . . . Yes, I know . . . that’s minor . . . I’ve already ordered the site cleaned up.” He listened attentively to the instructions. “I don’t know if they’ll be able to finish the job. It could be better, Master, to activate the reserves.”
He stopped at the Hilton, formerly Ford Theater for the Performing Arts. In fact, the Hilton Theater, with entrances on both Forty-second and Forty-third, was until 1997 not one theater but two, the Lyric and the Apollo. After the renovation it became one of the largest theaters on Broadway, while keeping all its centennial charm.
The man in the overcoat, cell phone still pressed to his ear, entered the lobby and handed
“Dad, you’ve got a lot of explaining to do.”
It was time to flee.
11
Times Square was one of the nerve centers of the first world, a lot like Trafalgar Square, the Champs-Élysées, Alexanderplatz, Saint Peter’s Square, and a few others. In these places nighttime and daytime activity didn’t differ much. Particularly Times Square in Manhattan, which was as mythical a place for Americans as for many Europeans. The neon lights and the frenzied traffic enthralled visitors, fascinated by the excitement of the labyrinth of streets, avenues, tunnels, and bridges.
Thousands of people traversed the neighborhood surrounding Times Square. One man was walking at a brisk, steady pace, his overcoat open to the wind like a cape. Where he’d come from didn’t matter, only where he was going, following a plan devised by a mind brighter than his own. He reached the TKTS booth on Forty-seventh Street between Broadway and Seventh Avenue, got in line, and tuned in to the voices around him.
“One ticket for Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, please, the seven o’clock show,” an elderly man, two people ahead of him, asked at the window.
Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. The man in the overcoat smiled. How fitting, he thought. When he reached the ticket booth, he bought a ticket for the same play, same performance.
He wandered around, looking at the store windows for a while, then stopped for an espresso at Charley’s Co. One might have thought he was killing time until the theater opened, but on closer examination his behavior wasn’t just whimsical. He was following the other guy, the old man who was buying his ticket at the TKTS booth a few minutes before.
They both headed south on Seventh Avenue, the man in the overcoat following, always maintaining a prudent distance from the old man. He knew how to do these things, not distracted by the people or the noise. Nothing seemed to interfere with his pursuit. In fact, he didn’t need to follow the old man to know his destination, he knew very well.
His cell phone vibrated.
“Yes,” he answered firmly, as he crossed Seventh Avenue at Forty-second Street. “Did everything go all right?” he asked, gesticulating impatiently. “What? Then make sure all the traces are cleaned up.”
He turned right on Forty-third, visibly annoyed.
“If things don’t go according to plan, I don’t need to tell you what will happen to you. I want that woman erased today. I’ll expect your call confirming it.”
Right after hanging up abruptly, he called another number, still keeping an eye on the man he was following. The old man, seemingly over seventy, walked spiritedly, almost like an excited teenager on his way to a promising party, and evidently unaware of being followed.
“Hello. We’re headed for the theater. Everything’s fine here.” He paused a few seconds, closed his eyes, and caught his breath. “But sir, things aren’t going well in London. The target escaped and we took a loss. . . . Yes, I know . . . that’s minor . . . I’ve already ordered the site cleaned up.” He listened attentively to the instructions. “I don’t know if they’ll be able to finish the job. It could be better, Master, to activate the reserves.”
He stopped at the Hilton, formerly Ford Theater for the Performing Arts. In fact, the Hilton Theater, with entrances on both Forty-second and Forty-third, was until 1997 not one theater but two, the Lyric and the Apollo. After the renovation it became one of the largest theaters on Broadway, while keeping all its centennial charm.
The man in the overcoat, cell phone still pressed to his ear, entered the lobby and handed
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