IV

May 1, 2011, Vatican City, Apostolic Palace

The folded hands on the dark wood of the prayer kneeler were well manicured. But they were not fine hands, quite the contrary. Rough, rugged and used to hard work – the hands of a laborer. In youth, they had done heavy manual labor and often had packed a punch. These hands had boxed, welded, bled and offered blessings. Hands that never seemed to rest, only in prayer. Franz Laurenz was a huge man with a masculine appearance. But when people met the Pope for the first time, invariably his hands were what impressed them the most, seeming to have a life of their own. These hands accompanied and amplified the Pope’s words, grabbing and shaking them, plucking arguments like ripe pieces of fruit, squeezing them and tossing them at his interlocutors, or letting them float with unexpected grace. However, they could become wrathful, these hands. There had been instances when even the most seasoned cardinals and government leaders had winced because these hands had suddenly clenched into fists, driven by passionate outrage, and the index finger of the Pope had come down on his interlocutor like the sword of the Archangel Michael.

Those in the Pope’s circle talked about his handshake, which was so strong that it could crush a horse’s hoof, and about his jovial slaps on the back that could knock people off their feet. Old friends talked about his affectionate hugs, so strong as to threaten suffocation to the recipient. The head of the Vatican Gardens once confessed onRadio Vaticano, while laughing, that the Pope had shaken him so forcefully, when one of the rose bushes had died, he saw visions of the Holy Virgin for three days.

However, hardly anyone knew how tender and gentle these hands could be when stroking the pages of books or ancient scrolls of parchment in the Vatican Secret Archives.

Pope John Paul III was a human being who had to touch the world in order to understand and shape it. His hands were his antennas, allowing him to connect with the feelings of mankind, and were the secret of his persuasive power.

Now these hands were folded in prayer, resting on the old prayer kneeler in the Pope’s private chapel on the third floor of the Apostolic Palace, looking like huge creatures in peaceful slumber.

But the former Pope was not sleeping. He was desperately imploring his God for forgiveness. He had changed from the white papal cassock into a plain black suit and clerical collar, resembling a simple and amiable country pastor. Only the heavy golden Piscatory Ring with the papal seal on his right hand revealed that just a few hours earlier he had been one of the most powerful religious leaders in the world.

»Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned and trespassed against you. I was not worthy of representing your kingdom. I disappointed you and all the people who believed in me. And yet, I do not see any other alternative.«

Franz Laurenz’s eyes looked bleary. Forsaking sleep, he had spent the night in prayer.

»Help me, Father, in this hour of hardship. Give me strength for what I must do. For the evil is waiting at our gates and there is no one to fight it.«

He had been left with no other choice; he knew it immediately when he received the news from Nepal and Houston. He had no alternative, if he still wanted to find a way to prevent what he had seen coming all these years, even though he had always tried to disavow it: the Antichrist, the Whore of Babylon, the Beast had come to open the gates of hell.

»Lord, it is my fault. I hesitated; I’ve been hesitating far too long. I was not worthy of my ministry. Father, forgive me my sins and give me the strength to confront the evil now.«

Laurenz was no