The Fifth Gospel(167)

            It was Cardinal Boia who must’ve seen another kind of potential in Michael. Whenever John Paul proposed a new olive branch to the Orthodox, Boia would send one of his Quasimodos to make sure nothing came of it. A few good slurs, maybe a pushing match or two, and years of diplomatic work could be undermined in hours. Simon blamed Michael for becoming Boia’s favorite Quasimodo in Turkey. But I blamed Michael’s keepers for recruiting a volatile young priest and convincing him, at his most vulnerable moment, that he’d been right to attack an Orthodox reporter. That he could make a whole career of fighting that way. Priests are institutional men, clay in the hands of the Church. It would’ve taken a man of unusual strength to shrug off the Secretariat’s influence. A man like Simon. And that is hardly the kind of man I see before me.

            Michael is shorter than I remember. He breathes loudly, almost panting. A thousand cocktail parties and seven-course dinners have made him fat. He appears uncomfortable, adjusting his sash and making a wordless guttural noise that seems to be a complaint of exertion. He looks rougher than I remember. He hasn’t shaved in days. The reason is obvious. It must be hard to work a razor around the divots in his face.

            The wounds are still visible. One runs like a seam beneath his left eye. His nose isn’t right either; the bridge still bends to one side. He reaches out a hand to offer an American shake instead of an Italian embrace. The first words he says to me, after more than a decade, are, “Damn, Alex. Nobody told me you stayed Eastern. I figured you jumped ship like Simon.”

            And yet, at the bottom of those words, I hear guilt. His presence under this roof says he’s here to repent for what he did to Peter and me.

            “Did you meet with Monsignor Mignatto?” I say.

            “Lawyers,” Michael says with disgust. “Yeah, I did.”

            “And?”

            “He’s got me on the stand tomorrow.”

            Tomorrow. Mignatto wastes no time.

            “But I told him,” he continues, “I’m not going to lie up there. I don’t believe in this garbage. Reuniting Churches. Kowtowing to the beards. And if they ask me, that’s what I’m going to say.”

            “Michael, you told me on the phone that before these people beat you up, they wanted to know about Ugo’s research.”

            He nods.

            “What about it?” I say.

            He stares at his knuckles. “They thought he discovered something. Something bad for business with the Orthodox. They thought Simon made him hide it. So they wanted to know what it was.”

            I’m tired of the secrets. “The Fourth Crusade. We stole the Shroud from the Orthodox in 1204.”

            “No. It wasn’t that.”

            I’m taken aback. “Michael, I’m sure of it.”

            He’s a Roman Catholic. Even after working for years with my father, he may not understand what 1204 means in the East.

            But he shakes his head. “It was something Nogara found in the Diatessaron.”

            “That’s impossible. I worked with Ugo for a month on the Diatessaron.”

            He whistles. “Then you’re lucky.”

            “Lucky?”

            “That Cardinal Boia didn’t find you before now. You’re the one he should’ve been looking for all along.”

            Maybe he feels betrayed by Boia. Attacked by his own master. I wonder why it happened.

            “Why were you in that airport?” I say. “Were you helping Simon?”