The Fifth Gospel(205)

            He nods, mistaking this for an opening. A negotiation.

            “How did you open Ugo’s gun case? Did he tell you the combination?”

            Michael emits a thin, nervous laugh. “That lunatic was so paranoid he had three bolts on his apartment door. You think he told me a combination?”

            My God. He did all of it. Everything. When Peter and I went to Ugo’s apartment, we found broken glass on the floor. Michael couldn’t pick the locks on the door, so he climbed in through the window.

            “Leo,” I say, knocking at the door, “we’re done here. I’m coming out.”

            Michael stares at me uncomprehendingly. “So you’ll help me?”

            They were right, sixteen years ago, when they sent him to that treatment facility in the mountains. They knew the sort of help he really needed.

            Leo opens the door and waits for me to exit.

            “Pray, Michael,” I say. “Ask for forgiveness. Then you need to confess.”





CHAPTER 38





I HAVE TO FIND Lucio and Mignatto. We can end Simon’s trial tonight.

            On my way home, the streets of the Vatican village are quiet. News of the exhibit hasn’t leaked yet. Or maybe these good Roman Catholics, discovering that they’ve given away the Shroud, are waiting to see what tomorrow holds.

            When I get back, I hear Mona’s and Peter’s laughter coming from behind Brother Samuel’s door. I leave them be. When I let myself into the apartment, everything’s black. Neither Mignatto nor Lucio answers when I call. Even Diego isn’t picking up at the palace.

            I sit at the kitchen table and wait. I unfasten my outer cassock. I breathe. When I close my eyes, even for an instant, the darkness fills with thoughts of Ugo. Memories of him. Gratitude for what he made possible tonight. Tomorrow, millions of people who never knew him will hear that the architect of John Paul’s exhibit was killed in the act of bringing a pope’s dream to fruition. And they will think of him as a martyr. A hero. He never wanted anything to do with a reunion   of the Churches. But if he’d been there tonight, maybe he would’ve understood.

            I peel off my sweaty inner cassock. A tiny hope begins to take root in me. I try to ignore it, but the longer the phone stays quiet, the bigger it grows. Maybe Simon is free. Now that the exhibit has accomplished its purpose, maybe Lucio and Mignatto have gone to bring him home.

            I shoo the idea away, busying myself around the apartment. But Mona has done the dishes, and Peter’s room is already clean. So I take a quick shower to scrub off the residue of my meeting with Michael. Then, just as I’ve changed back into clothes, I hear a knock at the door. I hurry to let Peter and Mona in.

            Standing at my threshold, instead, is a man with silver hair. A layman in black suit and tie. He’s not one of my neighbors. I’ve never seen him before. But he looks at me as if my face is familiar.

            “May I help you?” I say.

            “Father Andreou?”

            A tiny flame of panic flickers at the bottom of my throat.

            “Alexandros Andreou?” he repeats.

            Alexandros. The name on my official documents. There’s something in his hand. An envelope.

            “Yes, that’s me. Please tell me what’s going on.”

            He hands me the envelope. It’s engraved with the words PREFECTURE OF THE PONTIFICAL HOUSEHOLD. Above the words is John Paul’s coat of arms. This man is a cursore, one of the pope’s private messengers.

            “What’s this?” I murmur.