The Fifth Gospel(113)

            I pull out my wallet and stare at the photo of bloody Michael Black. Just visible behind him is the airport sign I noticed before. PRELUARE BAGAJE. I wonder.

            Calling the main offices of Vatican Radio, I ask for a translator on the Slavic Languages desk. An ancient-sounding Jesuit answers. When I explain the situation, he chuckles. “Those words are Romanian, Father. They mean ‘baggage claim.’ ”

            So Michael was in Romania. It seems impossible that he could’ve been helping Simon, and yet the casual way Ugo invokes his name in the final lines—send my best to Michael—suggests the three of them were closer than I imagined. Your close follower, Ugo called him. I was never able to do more than guess at the reasons for Michael’s first change of heart. I wonder if Ugo’s research on the Shroud was enough to propel him into another.

            I find his number in my call log, but when I dial it, no one answers.

            “Michael,” I say excitedly into his voice mail. “It’s Alex Andreou. Please call me. I need to talk to you about Romania.” Remembering what Mignatto asked me, I add, “Simon’s in trouble. We need your help. Please, call as soon as you can.”

            I leave him my number but don’t mention that I need him to fly to Rome. It’s too soon for that; this is more delicate than I realized. If Michael was working amicably with my brother only weeks ago, then what happened in the airport must’ve changed everything. Michael seemed so hostile toward Simon on the phone, so quick to point out Simon’s responsibility for what the rest of us have suffered since.

            Diego returns, holding his laptop like an open book between his hands. “Calendar’s up.”

            I scan the screen. “This is everything? You’re sure?”

            He nods.

            Strange: the Casina has been vacant all summer.

            “When’s the next meeting of the Pontifical Academy?” I ask.

            “A working group is coming next month to discuss international water conflicts,” Diego says.

            That’s long after opening night of Ugo’s exhibit.

            To be sure, I say, “Do you have the list of attendees?”

            “I can get it by tomorrow.”

            “Thanks, Diego.”

            Just as he leaves, my phone rings.

            Michael, I think.

            But the number is local.

            “Father Andreou?” says the voice.

            Mignatto. He sounds shaken.

            “Is everything okay?” I ask.

            “I just got word. They’re opening the trial tomorrow.”

            “What? ”

            “I don’t know where these orders are coming from. But I need you to find your brother immediately.”





CHAPTER 22





DIEGO AGREES TO watch Peter while I hurry down to the Swiss Guard barracks. But Leo and I almost run into each other on the stairs of Lucio’s palace.

            “Come on,” he says. “I’ve got something for you. Follow me.”

            Outside, late afternoon has struck. The angry heat of the Roman summer bakes my outer cassock. I don’t understand how Leo ran here in full uniform, beret in hand, eight pounds of ribbons tied to his body with straps and cords. Yet he only urges me to move faster. “Shifts are changing,” he says. “We need to get there before he’s gone.”

            “Who?” I say.