The Fifth Gospel(188)

            It’s a black rubber clamshell, rectangular with rounded edges, barely big enough to hold three packs of playing cards side by side. When Leo passes it to me, I’m surprised by its heft. Beneath the layer of rubber is a solid metal frame. Inside is something very dense.

            “Simon came to me,” Leo begins hesitantly. “He said Nogara had illegally bought a gun in Turkey because he’d been threatened.”

            “How could you not mention this to me?”

            “Hear me out. It was a shotgun. Simon begged me to get it out of his hands, so I told Nogara what he really wanted was a nice subcompact, this peashooter Beretta I knew wouldn’t blow his leg off by accident. We got it registered. I swear to you, we took the maximum time with every step, trying to keep it out of his hands as long as possible. Then Simon asked me for a safe way to carry it, a gun case Nogara would have a hard time opening when he was drunk. Those were his words. That’s when I handed him over to Roger.”

            He gives the clamshell back to his partner. “Rog, show him how it works.”

            “Leo . . .” I say, wondering how he could’ve sat beside me in the Casa, listening to everything I said about Ugo’s death, without mentioning this. How he could’ve kept this to himself even if Simon told him to keep it quiet.

            But his eyes are begging me to wait. Begging me not to ask in front of his fellow soldier.

            Grudgingly Roger points to numbered cylinders built into the front of the case. “Combination lock,” he says.

            Then he turns the clamshell around and points to a reinforced steel tube running along the back. “For the chain,” he adds.

            “What chain?”

            He points down toward the foot well. There, beneath the splitting upholstery of his seat cushion, are the metal sleds that hold the seat to the car frame. Wrapped around them is a sleek black cable thinner than a bicycle chain. It has its own lock, opened by a key.

            “The cable ties the case to the seat,” Leo says.

            Roger demonstrates by chaining it back in place.

            “The key removes the chain,” Leo says. “But the only way to open the case is with the combination. And if you’re not opening it regularly, it’s easy to forget the combo. Especially after you’ve had a few drinks.”

            I study the dimensions. “You’re sure a 6.35-millimeter gun would fit in here?”

            Roger snorts.

            “Our service piece,” Leo says, “is a nine millimeter. Which fits snug in that model. I happen to know it’s the same case Simon bought for Nogara.”

            I lower my voice. “So let’s say a stranger didn’t have the combination. How could he pry this open?”

            Roger smiles. “Try it, Father.”

            I make a halfhearted attempt to pry it open with my fingers, knowing this is what he wants to see. Then I draw my Casa key from my cassock. I force the edge of the metal fob into the narrow channel between the clamshell’s lips. It fits perfectly, but the case doesn’t budge. When I press the metal sharply downward, the fob begins to whiten and bend. It would break exactly like the piece I found under Ugo’s seat.

            “Without the combination,” Roger says, “it’s impossible.”

            So this is another oddity about Ugo’s death. Ugo was killed by a weapon that—according to the chipped metal on the floor—was never successfully removed from its case.

            Leo signals to Roger that his help is no longer needed. The giant locks up his car and lumbers off.