Prologue

As he scrutinized the room of the pope, he looked for a place to hide. Pope Adrian XVII must not see him.

The pope went to the altar and made the sign of the cross. He kissed his rosary, a wooden rosary he got out of his pocket, his robe almost immaculate. This wooden rosary was one of his most prized possessions aside from the Holy Bible that his mother gifted him before she passed away. He could still remember her fair countenance, just like the Virgin Mary, but with the former’s own human flaws.

While he could not reminisce about everything about his mother, he could still remember that wooden rosary. And the Holy Bible. Those memories were precious to His Holiness. If only he could carry it with him until the last days of his life.

Now that he was old he would forget a lot of things, even his own birthday. Sometimes he even forgot where he placed his eyeglasses.

The old man felt a bit hesitant to kneel before the altar, he forgot something, something important. He looked left and right to search for it but found nothing. It must be really challenging to get old like this, he thought. Difficult as it might seem, he tried to recall what he ought to do.

Yes, the Filipino martyrs, he would pray for them. Tomorrow morning, he would hold a mass for them as well as the new heroes of our society. As the pope, he had to help raise awareness about the sacrifices of these martyrs since many people often neglect these heroes in their prayers. The pope thought about how young people often forget even without suffering from Alzheimer's disease or dementia.

He stared at the ceiling thinking of something he wanted to do tonight but again forgetfulness struck, leaving him with emptiness.

At present, nobody was guarding His Holiness. The old man was all by himself, vulnerable. The Pontifical Swiss Guards were outside; they were busy observing the whole environment though there was no sign of threat that could harm the pope.

The room felt neglected, like the pope himself. Nobody seemed to care to clean it this very hour of the night. The pope wanted it all for himself because he would be devoting his time to worship the Lord even if he was His unworthy servant. 

As the pope, he would usually listen to what God always tells him to do, though it was a bit apparent that sometimes he finds it hard to follow Him.

After removing the old man's zucchetto, the pope went inside his room and arranged his papal regalia and insignia, carefully arranging each piece. He was tired of wearing the miter, the traditional ceremonial headdress for the Catholic clergy. And he was also tired of being the pope. For almost a year, he had been thinking of retiring, spending his time meditating in his own place, maybe in Rome or somewhere better, but duties always bound him. As the pope, he knew that he would soon be a candidate for a saint. Like Pope John Paul II. But he was not saintly at all. Years from now, people would nominate him for a saint even if he would retire now or not. He learned not to mention it to anybody for fear that they might think he really wanted it for himself. Saint or not, he would retire.

And the retraction. He had been ruminating about the retraction for more than a month. Did Napoleon Victor really write it? What mysterious illness did he unveil to the public about the pope? Did he really know the Vatican’s secret?

When the pope discovered that a journalist had written a tirade against the Vatican, he was not aware that Napoleon knew about his dementia, the mysterious illness that crippled him since last year. Pope Adrian XVII had been on medication since then. Dementia was a gift; he always told himself. It was a gift Napoleon unwrapped without Pope Adrian XVII's permission, and the old man felt humiliated about it. He had not answered the issue yet. The Vatican would not allow him to speak. And he knew why. A secret society would be destroyed if he would, and he promised not to talk about a word about it to protect its members even if it meant he had to keep quiet about the rumors against him.

A promise is a promise is a promise. Whether he would keep it until his last breath, solely depended on him. However, he vowed not to share it with anyone even if he ought to be transparent to the public. As the pope, he must be honest about his health conditions no matter how painful it might seem. This might be tragic, but this secret was worth the effort of hiding. And no one would rejoice if they found out about it either. Or will there be?

The old man forgot where he placed the Ring of the Fisherman, so he returned to the anteroom to search for it.

“Are you looking for this?” the killer said. The young man had livid eyes, scorching yet piercing, penetrating the very core.

Face to face with his attacker, the pope noticed the young man's pale countenance, like that of a living ghost. Pope Adrian XVII uttered a prayer to himself. He knew that the killer was sent by someone, someone whose power was greater than the pope himself.

“You must be –" the pope did not finish his sentence.

“So, you knew me, then?” the killer said.

“No, I do not know you. You are not familiar at all,” the pope said.

The old man felt chills all over his body, he was not ready to die yet. If he passes away soon, who will replace him? And all the efforts of the secret society will be put to an end. 

This could never be. He thought of all their sacrifices, how can God permit this to happen?

As a servant of God, he was ready to die early, but not too soon. Or was he lying to himself? Was he simply lying to everyone? Was truth a simulation of reality?

He could not think of any other way to survive now so he would make the most of his time.

The old man said a short prayer to himself. Probably it would take less than ten minutes or so to play the assassin's game, but it was worthwhile. The pope needed to devise a plot to escape this. But how could a frail man outwin and outwit this young killer?

The assassin looked confident all throughout, his smile produced goblin-like laughter, evil and sacrilegious. He was almost bald, but it was fitting.

"Are you sent by-" the pope said.

"Yes. And no."

"If you kill me now, the whole foundation of the Roman Catholic Church will be put to an end. All our sacrifices. All our efforts. All our deeds."

"You talk as if you are an institution?" he laughed.

"I humble myself in front of God."

"No, you humble yourself in front of the real God."

"Who is the real God for you?"

"You are too talkative. How verbose for a dying man to ask me trivial questions!"

The pope tried to hide something from his robe.

"Is that the-"

"No!"

"Give it to me! Now!"

"I will never hand it to you! This ought to be destroyed rather than to be given to you."

"You're lying! You were holding your rosary a while ago, how can you have this artifact with you now?"

Pope Adrian XVII tried to hide a smile. He had been hiding this artifact with him since he was a pope. Now that he might die a painful death, nobody deserved to have this unless this person held the universal truth hidden from the entire world but who could be given this secret?

He thought of all the clergies in the Vatican but are they worthy enough for this sacrifice?

Then, suddenly, the killer asked, "So, you are playing a dirty game with me? I'll give you three names and you guess who my next target will be?"

"No! No! Please spare their lives."

"I'll start with your best friend, one of the Archbishops of Rome."

"He's a good person, a very dear person to my heart."

"Yes. But I know you already contacted him earlier that whatever happens to you, he will take care of your belongings. So, I guess it's only fair that I go after him. And you don't need to send all this rubbish to him."

"Not Archbishop Joaquin."

"You forgot his surname. How can a demented pope only remember his best friend's first name and not the last name?" he smiled.

The pope needed time to compose the last statements of his life. He needed to devise a plot to outwit this assassin.

"What are you hiding in your pockets?"

"It's just my rosary."

"You're lying! Bastard! Christianity is overrated. But the real Church will rise like a phoenix rising from the ashes.”

“What real Church?”

“It has nothing to do with your nonsense. What's in your pockets? Is that a religious artifact that could determine the fate of humanity?"

“That's more like a conspiracy theory!” the pope laughed.

The old man prayed silently. He was still thinking of ways to prolong his life so he could contact someone and hand over this artifact.

“Yes! I love this crazy game with my victims!”

“Please spare our lives.”

“Who cares? I believe your God must be laughing at you now.”

“He is a forgiving God.”

“Let's first continue our game. Your other best friend.”

“Who? The cardinal or my cousin?”

"No."

“Who will be the second?”

“Third?”

The phone rang. The killer answered it.

“I'm almost done. He would soon die a pain-free death. But we're playing games right now so please. I need to interrogate him first. He will soon surrender his knowledge about it. I'm certain about it.”

"How sure are you? He's senile so how could he still remember where he placed it?" 

"Trust me. He has it with him right now. But he won't let go of it. I might try to break his neck first or else-"

"Yes, but what if it's not with him?"

Now, the attacker motioned the pope to sit with him. The latter relaxed for a bit, he had to regain his composure. Sitting still with his killer meant suicide but it was better than standing still with him, the pope's knees were aching and shaking. His whole body was tense. Pope Adrian XVII could feel the wintry night, the coldness because it was nearing Christmas.

“My first plans include killing a known bishop, one of your trusted friends, but we had to postpone this scheme since he is not a good target. Even if it would really decapitate the Roman Catholic Church. Plus, he doesn't have the key.”

“Is this the key you are talking about?” The pope unveiled the key.

“I thought you had your rosary with you a while ago.” He could not believe what he was seeing. He must be dreaming or was the pope a magician?

The killer examined it carefully and it looked plausible enough though it was a bit evident the old man won't give it easily.

“I always hold this near to my heart.”

“Because you are a crazy man with crazy sentiments. Let me have it and we can still continue the game and probably prolong your life for a jiffy or so.”

Pope Adrian XVII hid it under his robe. He thought of numerous people who could be holding the greatest secret of the Catholic Church, who among the clergies could unearth it?

How undeserving were these men to unveil the sweetest treasure of mankind?

He tried to remember this exorcist, but he could not recall who among them was the next target. Oh! Maybe Fr. Donato Lorenzo or Fr. Juan Angelo Camino or Fr. Paul Sebastiano?

As if reading the old man's mind, the assassin said in an almost whisper, “Of course. We start with the reverend pastor. We need to torture him first before we murder him.”

“Not him.”

“Do you know him? Do you know your tribe?”

“Our God is a forgiving god. He listens to us.”

“Your God is a forgetful god. He doesn't listen to you. Where is he now? Can you see Him?”

“Your sarcasm is forgiven.”

“I'm just stating the obvious.”

“You can have this key if you will promise me to spare the life of Fr. Paul Sebastiano.”

“Is that your ultimate wish right now? Don't you want me to spare yours instead of that Catholic priest?”

“Maybe.”

“What if I tell you that they just made up that retraction? That it was Paul Sebastiano who wanted to parade to the public that Napoleon is not an asshole but a hero. Will you forgive them both?”

“If I still have a day to live, I will personally thank Napoleon Victor for his generosity.”

The killer was aghast with the very idea of it. He never thought that this old man was crazy.

“You must be a saint.”

“No. I will never be one. But if I will not live to see the dawn, let Napoleon Victor be forgiven as well as Fr. Paul Sebastiano. They are good people.”

“What if you do not have dementia but just play around?”

“Why?”

The demented pope revealed the key to his assassin, it was a small key with an intricate pattern. The key looked really old, almost ancient. But this could unlock the secret to the world's greatest mystery.

“Your Holiness, your end is near,” the attacker said, “You can choose your way of death. I am always considerate.”

The pope stared at his attacker for almost a minute. Without blinking, the old man tried to look into his attacker’s eyes for something profound but found nothing.

“Is it Illuminati?” Pope Adrian XVII said.

“Illuminati or not, you must die. You have sinned against the Church. And there is no forgiveness,” the killer said as he pulled the trigger of his silencer aiming at the pope’s heart.