Gianni slices a hand through the air over his head. The answer is above his pay grade. But the timeline nags at me. As I try to arrange the dates in my mind, it seems to me that Michael was attacked around the same time Ugo wrote that letter. And everything since then—the secret transport of the Shroud, the furtive change of meeting place, the total silence Simon adopted even before he was accused of Ugo’s murder—could be a reaction to Michael’s attack. What happened to Michael might’ve been a warning sign that word of Simon’s outreach was leaking. And in that vein, I can’t help remembering that Mignatto said Simon’s phone was tapped. If there was a leak, I wonder if it started there: Ugo and Simon discussing the Casina meeting too openly.
My silence seems to make Gianni nervous. “So,” he says, popping a mint, “is Simon going to be okay?”
He catches me unprepared. “Of course. You know he didn’t murder anyone.”
He nods. “Not in a thousand years. I told the other drivers he would’ve put himself in the way of that bullet if he could’ve.”
I’m relieved to hear him say it. At least someone in this country remembers the real Simon. We both watched my brother fight in the boxing pit, so Gianni knows what he’s capable of, but also knows where he draws his lines.
“So,” I say, steering the conversation away from Simon, “tell me about the Alfa they brought back from Castel Gandolfo.”
“Something must’ve happened out there. The gendarmes were asking the mechanics about some problem with the driver’s seat.”
Mignatto wouldn’t approve of what I’m about to say, but I say it anyway. “Could you go down and have a look? Anything you can find out would help.”
“The Alfa’s not here. It’s in another garage that they turned into an impound lot.”
Even Ugo’s car is being hidden away. I’m beginning to feel that Castel Gandolfo is a black box. Fighting the accusations against Simon will be impossible without knowing what happened on that hillside.
“I’ll ask around,” Gianni volunteers. “I’m sure one of the other drivers has been in that lot since they put the Alfa there.”
But I can’t afford to have Gianni ask around. And I can’t settle for seeing things through other men’s eyes.
“Gian,” I say, “I need to ask an even bigger favor. I’ve got to see it myself.”
He stares as if I must be kidding.
“Please,” I say.
“It could get me canned.”
I look him in the eye. “I know.”
I wait for him to ask for something. A favor. A promise. A handout from Uncle Lucio.
But I’ve misjudged him. He empties his last mint into his palm and stares at it. “Damn,” he says. “Simon could lose his collar, and here I’m worried about my bullshit job.” He hurls the mint into the darkness, then rises and tucks in his shirt. “Stay here. When you see me pull up, get in.”
CHAPTER 23
WHEN HE’S OUT of sight, I hurriedly call Mignatto.
“Monsignor, I found out where Simon is. They took him to Boia’s apartments.”
“Damn it,” he growls. “They’re closing ranks. Cardinal Boia’s secretary called me an hour ago to say we won’t be getting Father Black’s personnel file.”
“Father Black’s?”
“To see what the Secretariat concluded about the attack against him.”