The Fifth Gospel (48 page)

C
HAPTER
32

W
ATCHING CARDINAL BOIA
approach is like standing in the path of a steamroller. He fills the doorway, bullies the light out of the room. “Prepotente,” people call him: high-handed, overbearing, bullying. A man the size of two men, with the ego of three.

I rise from my chair. A cardinal always presents himself to inferiors for a bow or a kiss of his ring. I don't want to start this conversation groveling, but it would be worse to ignore protocol.

Yet Boia doesn't bother. He walks straight to the table, lowers a stack of papers and a tape recorder, and says, “The exhibit begins in twelve hours. If your brother wants my help, the window is closing.”

“Eminence, I won't help you unless I can see him first.”

Boia rakes a hand through the air, waving my words away. “My offer is this. Give me what I want, and I protect your brother from prosecution. Anything less, and I see to it that he's dismissed from the priesthood.”

I don't know what to say. Everyone knows what kind of man Cardinal Boia is. His cousin was arrested in a tax evasion scheme in Naples. His brother, a bishop in Sicily, was sentenced to prison for enriching other relatives with Church property. Cardinal Boia himself throws his weight behind the pet projects of rich religious groups who thank him with envelopes of cash. He is the face of the old Vatican. For more than a decade he has flattened every other cardinal who cast an eye toward his job.

He puts aside the tape recorder, as if he's decided not to make a re
cord of what we say here. His fingers begin crawling through the stack of papers. Fat as sausage casings, they lift layer after layer of sheets until he finds what he wants. Finally he slides two folders across the table. The labels say
ANDREOU, S
. and
BLACK, M.

Already I feel myself losing ground. Mignatto has been trying to get his hands on these two personnel files for days.

Then Boia slides a white square of paper between us. A paper sleeve containing a disc. On the front of the disc is written
SECURITY CAMERA B-E-9
.

I feel his eyes on me as I stare at it. He wants to see the weakness register in my face. This is the key piece of evidence that never surfaced. I'd assumed this footage from Castel Gandolfo was in the hands of Simon's guardian angel.

“These are all copies,” he says. “The originals are on their way to the tribunal, to be entered into evidence if I don't get what I want by the end of this meeting.”

My traction is fleeting. “I know my brother's here,” I say. “I want to see him.”

Cardinal Boia growls, “Your brother is
not
here.”

In my coolest voice I say, “The Swiss Guards at the checkpoints saw his car drive into this palace. I know he's here.”

Boia barks a word. I barely recognize it as a name: Testa. Instantly his priest-secretary appears at the door.

“Father Andreou wants to see his brother,” Boia commands.

The monsignor hesitates. “But Eminence . . .”

“Show him. Now.”

Testa begins parting the drapes. Sunlight slopes in from the south. The north windows suddenly give way to tiny balconies overlooking the private courtyard below.

“Follow me, Father,” he says.

The monsignor leads me into a hallway surrounded by doors, then opens them one by one. Every corridor leads to a new one, branching in a new direction. The floor plan is so disorienting that Simon could be in a room I don't even see.

“Where is he?” I say.

Testa shows me the dining room and kitchen. The chapel and sacristy. Even Testa's own bedroom. He is making a point. Simon isn't here.

I demand to see Cardinal Boia's own bedroom.

“That's out of the question,” Testa says.

Yet I feel Boia there, hovering in the doorway again.

“Do what Father Andreou asks,” he says.

It's hopeless. Any place they're willing to show me, Simon won't be. “I know he's here,” I say. “I talked to the driver who brought him to your private elevator.”

Suddenly Boia turns. For the first time, in his eyes, there is a ferocious sharpness. I've made a mistake. I just don't know what it is.

“Come here, Father,” he says, stepping onto one of the small balconies overlooking the courtyard. He points and says, “Do you see that?”

On the far side of the courtyard, near the arched entry, is what appears to be a chimney leading from the ground to the roof.

“That,” Boia says, “is the elevator shaft. Now follow me.”

We circle the halls until we approach the entrance again. “Do you notice anything?” he says, pointing to the inner wall.

There's no door here. No elevator.

Cardinal Boia snorts like a bull. “The elevator goes only one place. So now you know who has your brother.”

WHEN HE LEADS ME
back to the negotiating table, I hear him order Testa to have the nuns bring us something to drink. Something to eat. I see him put a hand on my chair, not quite pulling it out for me, but making a small gesture of hospitality. I sense a softening in his voice when he tells me I have it all wrong. He knows he doesn't have to bully me anymore. The facts are doing that enough.

“Did you really think he was innocent in all this?” Boia says.

“I
know
he's innocent.”

His Eminence smiles thinly. “I didn't mean your brother.” He points upward. “I meant
him
.”

“Why would the Holy Father put my brother under house arrest?”

“Because he can't risk a scandal with so many important guests in town, and I'm sure he thought your brother would break down and tell him the truth in private.”

I shake my head. “The Holy Father must've put Simon under house arrest to keep him away from
you
. From the trial you opened against him.”

“If this were a trial
I
had opened,” Cardinal Boia says acidly, “you can be sure the witnesses wouldn't be forbidden to testify about Nogara's exhibit. Punishing your brother means much less to me than knowing what Nogara was hiding.”

I gape at him. “How do you know witnesses were forbidden to testify about the exhibit?”

He ignores me. “The Holy Father opened the trial because he wants to know if your brother killed Nogara. But he won't let them discuss the exhibit because he doesn't want me to know his plans for tonight. He's been so busy keeping the secret from me that he doesn't realize Nogara was keeping a secret from
him
.”

“That's why you invited me here?” I say, repulsed.

His Eminence folds his hands together. “You and your brother have something I want: you know what Nogara found. And in return, I have something
you
want.”

I stare at the evidence on the table. So this is how Simon's guardian angel answers prayers.

“Many weeks ago,” Cardinal Boia continues, “when I learned what your brother had begun doing with the Orthodox, I asked the Holy Father to summon him back to Rome to answer for it. I thought the problem was solved. But ten days later, I received word that your brother was still making trips, so I had to find a solution myself.”

The last sentence emerges in a growl, as if this was when John Paul made it personal. I wonder if Boia's solution is an allusion to the attack on Michael Black.

“Why are you fighting the Holy Father?” I say. “He wants the Orthodox here.”

His Eminence lifts a hand over his head and curls a finger toward himself. I don't understand the gesture. Then I see two nuns waiting at the door behind me. Beckoned, they come bearing demitasse cups and a plate of chocolates. When they're gone, Boia throws back the espresso and smudges his mouth with a napkin. Then he pushes his chair back and leans his huge frame into it.

“The idea sounds pretty, you think?” he says, forcing his meaty hands together. “Two Churches, reunited after a thousand years?” He smiles. “But you're the gospel teacher. The one Nogara talked about. You know that isn't what scripture says.”

My hands clench into fists under the table. “What scripture says is,
Every kingdom divided against itself will be laid waste, and no house divided against itself will stand.
”

For a second, Cardinal Boia unconsciously bares his teeth. Then he says something I don't expect.

“Tell me something: what does the Beloved Disciple do? In the fourth gospel, what sets him apart?”

I can't imagine what point he thinks he's making. The Beloved Disciple is a mysterious character who appears only in the gospel of John. He is never named except by this title.

Not waiting for me to answer, Boia continues, “When Jesus is arrested and brought before the high priest, the Beloved Disciple goes right in with him, even though Peter doesn't. When Jesus is crucified, the Beloved Disciple is standing at the cross, even though Peter isn't. When Peter rushes to see Christ's empty tomb, the Beloved Disciple runs faster and gets there first. The other gospels never mention this fellow. They say only Peter followed Jesus to the high priest. Only Peter ran to the empty tomb. There was only one true leader of the disciples: Peter. So how can the gospel of John claim to be the testimony of this one man, the Beloved Disciple, when he doesn't even seem to have existed?”

I begin to tell him what he already knows—that the Beloved Disciple is a literary creation, an attempt to justify why John's gospel is so ­different—but His Eminence cuts me off.

“He's a fiction. He's some other group of Christians trying to say, ‘We matter, too. What we say is worth reading. We're just as important as Peter.' But they
weren't
as important as Peter. Our Lord founded the Church on Peter alone. The other gospels are clear about that. Yet these Orthodox patriarchs say the same thing: ‘We descend from apostles, too. We're just as important as the pope.' But they aren't. There was only one Peter, and he has only one successor: the pope. No one sits at the table with him. That's what our Lord intended, and I will do everything in my power to keep it that way.”

I'm speechless. In all the gospels there is no mention of anything I see around me. No palaces. No cardinals. No Secretariats of State. Boia is the fiction, the power-grabber with no roots in scripture.

“Now,” he says, leaning forward again, “your brother needs my help. Tell me what I want and I'll put the original copies of this evidence in
your hand.” The corner of his upper lip rises. “You can burn them in my fireplace.”

He's right. Without this evidence, the tribunal can't convict Simon. But I have nothing to offer him. Only the truth.

When I hesitate, Boia's eyes flash as if I'm about to give him what John Paul has been unable to get out of Simon. And I would, if I knew the answers he wanted.

“Nogara never told me what he discovered,” I say. “And I don't think he told my brother either.”

Cardinal Boia's eyes narrow.

“In fact,” I continue, “as far as I know, the only controversial discovery Ugo ever made was about the Fourth Crusade.”

Boia thrusts a finger in the air. “Don't lie to me!
You're
the gospel teacher.
You're
the one who taught Nogara. You know the truth.”

I blink at him.

His eyes never leave me as his hand engulfs the tape recorder at his side. His thumb presses a single button, and suddenly I hear an automated voice.

Tuesday, August third.
Four seventeen PM
.

A pause. Then:

Simon, it's Ugo again. Where the hell are you? Why won't you answer your phone?

His voice is barely recognizable, so full of anger and emotion that it almost quakes.

I won't change the galleries.
You and your uncle don't have my permission to alter one iota of the exhibit. The purpose of my work is to present the
truth
. Not cater to some political agenda.

A long silence follows. My hands are already gripping my cassock. This is the same Ugo I remember, fearless in support of the truth, but with a frightening, alien ferocity. His voice is even wilder than I remember it being when we met on the roof of Saint Peter's and he told me he
refused to let me work with him anymore. But it's nothing compared to what follows.

When he speaks again, his voice is transformed. The ferocity has vanished. There is almost no trace of life in him at all.

Forget it. It doesn't matter.
The real reason for this phone call is to tell you it's over, Simon. 1204 is irrelevant. The exhibit can't go forward. I'm sending you something in the mail that explains what I found.
Read it carefully and . . . and call me, Simon. For God's sake. Just call me.

Cardinal Boia stops the recording. I can only stare at him in horror. So this is what the tribunal admitted into evidence yesterday after Corvi confirmed the voice was really Ugo's.

“You had Simon's phone bugged,” I say.

I still can't believe what I've heard. Ugo sounded so enraged.

“I was made aware of this voice message promptly enough,” Boia says, “that I was able to have your brother's nunciature mail opened and copied before it was delivered to him.”

He digs one more sheet from his stack of papers and slides it over to me. My chest tightens.

“Your expression suggests you recognize it,” he says.

A photocopy of the letter I found with Simon's day planner. The letter Ugo wrote about their meeting at the Casina.

Cardinal Boia's finger points to a particular line.

I've taken my gospel lessons from Alex very seriously.

This must be how Boia knew who I was.

“The letter is very clear,” His Eminence says. “Nogara said he was enclosing a proof. So where is it?”