The Fifth Gospel (34 page)

Western Catholics today don't understand the permanence of this wound. But another moment in history illustrates it well. Two and a half centuries later, long after Catholics had come and gone from Constantinople, Muslim armies arrived in their place. Orthodox bishops, faced with the extinction of their civilization, were forced to ask for help. They traveled west and negotiated a humiliating pact with the pope. But when they returned home, their own flock threw them out. The ordinary men and women of the Orthodox Church had made their choice. They would rather die at the hands of Muslims than owe their lives to Catholics.

So Constantinople fell. Istanbul was born. And to this day, if you asked an Orthodox what sealed the split between our two Churches, he would grit his teeth and say, with the knife still jiggling in his back: 1204.

The letter before my eyes resurrects the horror of that year. Ugo has discovered the most damning fact I can imagine. It's no longer a mystery how the Shroud arrived in medieval France. It's no longer a mystery why it seemed to have no past. We Catholics had every reason to forget where it came from. Because we stole it from the Orthodox.

I am speechless that Ugo had the audacity to mount such a thing on
these walls, under the pope's own roof. It is a shocking confession of Catholic sin. Though no one can be more familiar than I am with Ugo's allegiance to the truth, and his insistence on presenting the facts at any cost, even I am stunned. If ever there was time to paper over a discovery and hew to a respectful silence, surely it was now. I wish that I could be moved by Ugo's bravery. Instead I am shocked by his indifference to the cost.

A single thought bubbles up from my emotions. I have misunderstood everything. The Secretariat wouldn't have tried to silence a discovery like this. The Secretariat would've encouraged it. If Simon invited Orthodox priests into this hall, the same way my father invited Orthodox to Turin sixteen years ago, it would only accomplish what Cardinal Boia has tried to do since becoming Secretary of State: set back our relations with the Orthodox Church by half a century. Thousands of Christians have lost their lives over the hatreds born in 1204. Now Ugo makes one more.

So this is why Simon refuses to talk. Here is the secret he values more than his own priesthood. The unfinished galleries tell the story. No wonder Ugo's work came to a halt. No wonder he didn't give Lucio his final notes to finish the exhibit. Yet Lucio gave Simon the power to finish Ugo's exhibit, the power to change what was mounted in these halls, and I found him working in an entirely different branch of the museum. How could he have let this remain?

I feel Peter tugging at my cassock. But I can't speak. Instead I kneel and hold him and try to collect myself.

“Is it time?” he says. “Can we go?”

I nod and whisper, “Yes. It's time.”

He reaches down and grabs my hand. He tugs and tugs, pulling me up. “What are we going to do now?”

I don't know. I simply do not know.

C
HAPTER
19

M
IGNATTO'S OFFICE LIES
across the Tiber River, at Via di Monserrato 149. We pass a dozen churches, a pontifical seminary, and a handful of Renaissance buildings marked with plaques identifying the former homes of saints. The apartments here are owned by the Church and rented cheap to papal employees, so that even by Roman standards, Mignatto's neighborhood is a virtual extension of the Vatican.

We are early, but I don't know where else to go. Peter and I sit on the steps of a church and try calling Simon's mobile, but he doesn't answer. If the phone is on, the battery will die by tonight. If it's off, Simon has already made his choice. His silence is total.

“I want to go home,” Peter says.

Home. What home?

I lift him into my lap and say, “Peter, I'm sorry.”

He nods.

“This is going to be a hard time,” I tell him. “But we're going to get through it.”

Ugo's discovery must be part of the case against Simon. Any Orthodox priests he invited to the exhibit will be aghast and outraged, so no one stands to be more humiliated than my brother. The half-finished exhibit halls even lend themselves to the idea that Ugo was killed to stop the secret from coming out. The threats Michael and I received contain an echo of this, too.

Tell us what Nogara was hiding.

Strange feelings skate through me. Thoughts of Mona. Pangs of loss with no object or cause, as if the experience of losing my wife has been reattached to the dread of losing my brother.

“Monsignor Mignatto can help us,” I say. “Let's go find him.”

Peter counteroffers, “Can we see Simon instead?”

“Maybe tomorrow, Pete.”

He rolls the soccer ball ahead of him on the cobblestone street and practices his Marseille turn, the dribbling move he imagined Simon would help him perfect. “Okay,” he says. He practices the move again and again. “Maybe tomorrow,” he repeats.

There is a trace of disappointment in his voice. But only a trace. Life has taught this boy to string nets beneath his hopes.

WHEN WE REACH 149,
Peter pushes the button, and Mignatto buzzes us to the top floor. “You're early, Father,” he begins. Then he sees Peter in tow, and with the slightest hitch he says, “But please. Both of you. Come in.”

The office turns out to be a room in his small apartment. There's no money in canon law, and men in his position often moonlight as professors at pontifical universities or editors of Church journals, finding dignity in the priestly middle class.

The office itself is spare but handsome. The oriental carpet, though thinning, shows signs of its former elegance. Most of the atmosphere is supplied by shelves of legal texts and by Mignatto's desk, a burl-wood table with rococo legs that may be a bona fide antique. It holds the compulsory photo of Mignatto with John Paul. Both are much younger men.

“Is there a room where Peter could play while we talk?” I ask.

The edges of Mignatto's cheeks flush. “Of course,” he says.

When he leads Peter across the hall, I realize how I've embarrassed him. The kitchen isn't large enough for a table and chair, and the only other room is his bedroom. Its furnishings are stark: a crucifix over the bed, and a tiny TV on a narrow table with a single placemat.

“May he watch the television?” Mignatto asks.

“How many channels do you get?” Peter asks innocently.

The monsignor hands him the remote control and says, “Only the ones that come over the antenna.”

WHEN WE'RE ALONE IN
his office, I say, “Monsignor, I was just at the museums. There's something you need to know about Ugo's exhibit.”

I explain everything—the unfinished galleries and the discovery that's about to upend the whole question of who owns the Shroud.

“I was wrong,” I tell him. “The Secretariat can't be trying to stop the exhibit. If anything, they'd be trying to make the show go on.”

Darkly, Mignatto says, “Then we've found your brother's motive.”

“No. He would never have killed Ugo.”

The monsignor weaves his head back and forth, balancing facts on either side. “His Eminence,” he says, meaning Lucio, “has informed me that Orthodox relations are your brother's fixation.”

“But Ugo would've done anything for my brother. All Simon had to do was ask.”

Now that I say it, I wonder if that's exactly what happened. Ugo tried to contact me about what he'd found. But he would've gone to Simon first. And if Simon begged him to keep quiet, then the result might've been the galleries he left unfinished and the Secretariat's sudden interest in the reason for his change of heart.

Mignatto makes a long note, then slips it into a folder. “We'll need to return to this later,” he says. “First I need to ask you some important questions. Above all, I haven't heard a word about your brother's location. Have you?”

“No. But I have someone working on it. How long do we have?”

“If this were an ordinary trial we would have weeks, months. But this is developing with astonishing speed. I hope we'll have at least a week.” To my surprise, he smiles. “Since there have been some
developments
since last night.”

He pauses to reach into a stack of papers, and I hang on his words. I'm eager for good news but anxious that what appeared as such yesterday is already proving otherwise.

Mignatto hands me an open envelope. “Your brother's Secretariat file is mentioned in the libellus, but I never received a copy with my
acta causae
, so I petitioned for one. An hour ago, this came by courier.” He waves me on. “Go ahead and look. As procurator, you may see it.”

Inside is a single sheet of stationery.

Reverend and Dear Monsignor Mignatto,

It is my pleasure to confirm receipt of y
our request for the personnel file of Rev. Simon Andreou. At this time, however, the information you requested cannot be found in the general records of the Secretariat of State, and is therefore unavailable.

With every good wish, I remain,

Yours devotedly in the Lord,

+ Stefano Annibale

I turn the page over for something more. “I don't understand.”

“The file is missing.”

“How is that possible?”

“It's not. Someone doesn't want it to be seen.”

I slam the paper on his desk. “How are we supposed to make a defense without seeing the evidence?”

Mignatto lifts a finger of caution. “If the file's gone, the judges can't see it either.”

“But what if the personnel file could help Simon?”

Mignatto rolls an old fountain pen across his lips. “I asked myself the same question. Until I received a phone call twenty minutes ago from the tribunal clerk. It seems your brother's file isn't the only piece of evidence that's gone missing.”

His eyes sparkle as he slides a copy of the libellus toward me. His middle finger is glued to one line in the list of evidence.

“You're kidding,” I say.

With a flourish of his other hand, Mignatto says, “No more surveillance video.”

My eyes hang on the printed words. A giddy feeling stirs inside me.

“I can't tell you how concerned I've been about that video,” the monsignor continues. “Any detail contradicting your brother's testimony would be damning.”

“So where's the footage?”

“They're looking for it, of course. Somewhere between Castel Gandolfo and here it took a detour.” His eyebrows rise, as if waiting for my reaction.

“This is good news, right?” I say tentatively.

He chuckles. “Oh, I would say so.”

Then the smile dims. His eyes sharpen.

“Father, I want to suggest something to you. And I need to know your honest reaction.”

“Of course.”

“I think your brother has a friend on high. A guardian angel. He's being protected by someone who has access to the evidence.”

“Who?”

“You tell me. It's extremely important that I know who our friends are.”

“I don't even know who could
do
something like this.”

Mignatto tugs at his earlobe, waiting.

“You think my uncle did it?”

“Did he?”

I'm speechless.

“Don't the groundskeepers at Castel Gandolfo report to him?” Mignatto prods.

“Maybe. But he couldn't make a file disappear from the Secretariat. And you saw the condition he was in last night.”

The monsignor shrugs, as if my uncle is a clever man. “Food for thought.”

I glance at the libellus. With the video footage gone and the personnel file missing, the case against Simon has shrunk dramatically. Two-thirds of the direct evidence has evaporated.

“Is there still grounds for a trial?” I ask.

Mignatto becomes more solemn. “Unfortunately, not all the developments since last night are positive. You probably remember that the libellus mentions a voice message left at the nunciature by No-gara. I haven't heard the message yet, but the promoter of justice—the ­prosecutor—feels it's an important part of the evidence against your brother.”

“Why haven't you heard it yet?”

“Because I've petitioned the court for forensic verification that it was really left by Nogara.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I'm trying to win us a few more days of preparation time. The message probably
was
left by Nogara, but—”

“If the message is really from Ugo, then there's nothing to worry about. Ugo and Simon were close friends.”

Mignatto frowns. “Father, there's something irregular about this piece of evidence that suggests to me a certain attitude of caution.”

“What is it?”

The monsignor runs his thumbs along the inner edge of the desk surface. For a second, his eyes leave mine. “Nogara left your brother the voice mail on his bedroom phone at the embassy. Somehow a recording of the voice mail was made. It appears someone was tapping your brother's phone.”

I feel myself go hot. “Monsignor . . .”

“I realize,” Mignatto continues quickly, “this might strengthen your feeling that your brother was somehow targeted. But I want to warn you against premature conclusions. I don't pretend to understand how the Secretariat operates, but recordings like this may be routine. We both know that in practice Secretariat priests rarely talk over an open line and seem to have little expectation of privacy. There's no reason to worry ourselves over this until we have more information.”

“Monsignor, you have to make the judges throw out the voice mail. There has to be a rule against stolen evidence.”

“It may not have been stolen. Secretariat phones are property of the nunciature, as may have been the voice mail system or answering machine where the message was left. Regardless, the fact is that the judges have already ruled on this. They will accept the message.”

I'm taken aback. “Why?”

Mignatto presses his hands downward through the air, asking for a détente. “Please,” he says, “try to remember that this isn't civil law. In our inquisitorial system, the highest good is not protection of the accused's rights but pursuit of truth. Information with probative value, even if illegally obtained, must be considered by the tribunal.”

“So then,” I fume, “what else can they do to Simon? Anything they want? You still think all of this is fair and normal?”

“It
is
fair. And no murder trial in a canonical court is normal.”

“Then who made the recording?”

“I assure you I'm trying to find out.”

Michael said that before he was beaten up, he was followed to the
airport by priests who had come from the nunciature. Too many threads lead back to the Secretariat.

“Please,” Mignatto says, pushing forward, “leave this to me. For now, there's one other point we need to discuss. As I mentioned to you last night, the defense may suggest deponents, even though the tribunal isn't required to hear their testimony. Since your brother's priesthood is at risk, I hope to convince the judges that they should accept character witnesses. It would help me if you could provide a list of candidates. The more impressive, the better.”

Immediately I say, “Michael Black.”

He brandishes a pen. “Say again?”

“Father Michael Black.”

“My advice is that these witnesses should be at least bishops.”

“He's not a character witness. He was threatened by the same people. They beat him up.” I slip the photo out of my wallet and hand it to him.

Mignatto studies the picture gravely. “Where is this man now? I need to speak to him.”

“He works at the same nunciature as Simon, but he's laying low.”

“How do I reach him?”

I have Michael's mobile number, but if Mignatto calls him directly, Michael will take it as a breach of trust.

“Let me talk to him first,” I say.

He told his attackers where to find my spare key. He owes me much more than a call on a pay phone.

“If Black's going to be deposed, we need him in Rome as soon as possible.”

“I'll make it happen.”

He nods, and his acquiescence soothes my nerves. The sight of Michael's injuries seems to have made him less hostile to my concerns. We run through a short list of character witnesses whom Mignatto appears to have been sent by Diego, but my mind remains on Michael. With testimony from him, the gendarmes might reevaluate the break-in. In which case, one more piece of proof might be all the court needs.

“Monsignor,” I say, “there's something else I need to tell you. I think Peter saw the man who broke into our apartment.”

His expression changes. The last of his cheer fades. “You talked to him about it?”