To Kill the Pope Read Online Free PDF Page A

restaurant on Borgo Pio, just three blocks east of the Sant’Anna Gate, the principal entrance to the Vatican. Borgo Pio, a narrow street of eateries and small shops, starts at Sant’Anna Gate and is commonly known to Romans as the “Vatican Ghetto.” Roberto is patronized mainly by foreign tourists and foreign priests, especially Americans, working at the Vatican.
    The two men arrived at the restaurant within minutes of each other. The first was a solidly built, grizzled man with a malevolent face, its hard features frozen like a Notre Dame gargoyle, and bloodshot eyes. He looked to be in his mid-sixties and seemed to be more accustomed to a military uniform than the ill-fitting brown sports jacket and flowery shirt he wore today. He had commandeered the table by the wall, and now he rose at the approach of a much younger man in a well-tailored dark suit.
    â€œIt’s a lovely day, isn’t it, Mister Kurtski?” he said in English,which he spoke with a pronounced French accent. “And it’s a pleasure to see you again.”
    â€œSure,” the older man replied curtly, “but you’re not here to talk about the weather.” His English came with an Eastern European accent and intonation.
    â€œThen let us get down to business and waste no time,” the Frenchman suggested. “When we first met in Paris, I told you how impressed we were with your reputation.”
    â€œYeah, let’s talk business,” Jake Kurtski said. “But first, I want a cold beer. And what do you have in mind, anyway?”
    â€œIt is simple. We wish to see the pope dead,” the elegant young man explained. “And we understand that you would know how to go about it.”
    Kurtski’s expression did not change. The waiter had brought the beer and the old soldier took a deep draft from the bottle.
    â€œNever mind what I know,” he said. “Tell me your ideas . . .”
    The Frenchman smiled engagingly. “Let me quote from your famous compatriot, Joseph Conrad, on the subject: ‘. . . The attack must have all the shocking senselessness of gratuitous blasphemy,’,” he told Kurtski. “And Conrad was alluding to bombs. That’s from Heart of Darkness . . . That’s our idea.”
    â€œI don’t know who the fuck Conrad was,” Kurtski announced gruffly, pronouncing “fuck” as “fock.” He went on: “So you want to blow him out of the sky? You want me to bomb the plane when the pope next goes traveling?”
    â€œThat’s right,” the young man said. “We want to blow him right into heaven. Can you do it?”
    â€œI don’t know. I have to think about it. You know, it’s not all that easy with all the security around him and the airplanes,” Kurtski observed.
    â€œOh, we understand. That’s why we’re offering you a million dollars if you make it happen,” the Frenchman whispered.
    â€œI’m not sure I can take it seriously,” Kurtski told him. “You guys, whoever you are, seem to fock it up every time. “Your Turk focked it up on the square. And I know that you tried and failed to get a bomb aboard the Alitalia plane when the pope was going to Portugal: It was really stupid to stick the bomb in the food that was being loaded on the airliner. Of course, it was found. Andwasn’t that crazy Spanish priest with the bayonet at Fátima one of your people?”
    â€œWell, yes, and that’s why we’re now turning to professionals,” the younger man said. “And we also know that, as they say at the Vatican, patience is a cardinal virtue. So we can wait for your answer and your detailed plan as long as necessary. I’ll contact you in exactly one month to arrange for another conversation.”
    Kurtski nodded and walked out of the restaurant without a word. Passing a fruit stand in front of a food store, he grabbed a