The Fifth Gospel(181)

            “Yes.”

            “When?”

            “Twice. Including the day before he was killed.”

            I look at Mignatto. I didn’t know Ugo called Michael that day. But Mignatto seems unsurprised. He only stares at one of the judges, who makes intermittent eye contact with him.

            “Can you elaborate?” the judge says.

            “Not really. Like you said, Nogara thought he had found something important. Father Andreou asked him not to ruffle feathers with it. I asked him what it was all about, but he told me he was waiting to discuss it with Father Andreou.”

            The judge leans forward. “Do I understand you correctly? On the day before Doctor Nogara was killed, he was waiting to discuss this disagreement with Father Simon Andreou?”

            Michael seems impatient. “That’s what he told me, anyway.”

            In the silence that follows, the presiding judge lifts a folder in his hand. I recognize the markings on it. A personnel file from the Secretariat. It must’ve just come from Cardinal Boia.

            “Father Black,” the judge says, “could you explain to the tribunal how you received the wounds on your face?”

            Michael’s lip curls. “No. I can’t.”

            “Why not?”

            “Because I took an oath not to talk about it.”

            Archbishop Nowak seems to be following this intently.

            “Can you tell the tribunal where it happened?”

            “No. I can’t.”

            “An airport, wasn’t it?”

            “No comment.”

            “In Bucharest?”

            “I said no comment.”

            The judge removes a photo from the personnel file and lifts it in the air. I recognize it as a copy of the picture I found in Ugo’s safe. The same one I now have in my wallet.

            “That’s you, isn’t it, Father Black?”

            Michael bristles.

            The judge puts it down and raises a second photo, which I’ve never seen before. It shows the baggage claim where Michael was beaten up.

            “What were you doing there?” the judge asks.

            For the first time, Mignatto looks concerned. The appearance of the file is a wild card.

            “Since you’ve got all the answers,” Michael growls, “why do I need to be here?”

            “The investigation report,” the judge continues, “says another Secretariat priest was in Bucharest with you. Who was it?”

            The muscles of Michael’s neck are flexed. His right hand is rubbing the corner of the table. The judge is picking on him. The tribunal is tired of the silences.

            The judge says, “You were there with Father Andreou, weren’t you?”

            “Yeah. That’s right. I was.”

            There’s a pulse of silence. Michael has broken his oath. His temper is rising.

            “So what was the accused doing in Romania, Father Black?”

            Archbishop Nowak raises his hand again and says, “No.”

            But Michael ignores him. “I’ll tell you what he was doing. The same thing I was doing. Following orders.”