Nowak rubs his temples. He seems pained. “That is what Nogara discovered? A misunderstanding?”
I nod.
He grimaces. When he begins to speak again, I detect a change in his voice. The question at the tip of his tongue is no longer legal, no longer scriptural. It is deeper than that: it is human. The worst, I hope, is over.
“Then why,” he says, “was Doctor Nogara killed?”
Now is the time to scratch at the old scabs. They bleed so readily. “My father spent thirty years here trying to reunite our Church with Orthodoxy.” I bow toward John Paul. “Holy Father, I know it’s impossible to remember every priest who works inside these walls, but my father gave his life to a reunion . You invited him to these apartments once, before the carbon-dating was announced, and he was so honored. He was devastated when he heard the radiocarbon results.”
For the first time, there is a twinge in John Paul’s mouth. It deepens his frown.
“My brother and I,” I continue, “were raised to believe in that work. It was upsetting to think that the Orthodox, on their historic visit here, would be hearing something disturbing. My brother tried explaining that to Doctor Nogara. But it didn’t work.”
Archbishop Nowak’s brow casts shadows over his eyes. “Then I would like to understand the events of that night. You arrived around six thirty, after Nogara was already dead. Is that correct?”
Now the difficult part begins. “Not exactly, Your Grace.”
He shuffles papers on the desk, trying to sift facts from pages of testimony. “That isn’t when Signor Canali opened the garden gate for you?”
I am tense in my chair.
“It is when he opened the gate,” I say. “But that’s not when I arrived.”
He looks up darkly. “Please explain.”
My heart is with Simon. It has always been with Simon.
“Your Grace, I called Guido Canali in order to create the appearance that I had arrived at Castel Gandolfo later than I actually did.”
John Paul tries to turn his head to glance at Nowak but can’t. His hand stays clamped on the arm of the chair. Only his eyes peer across at his old priest-secretary.
“What are you saying?” the archbishop asks.
“I was there before five o’clock,” I say.
The time shown on the surveillance video.
Nowak waits.
“I found Doctor Nogara at his car,” I say. “We got into an argument.”
Here is the darkness I’ve spent my priesthood trying to stamp out of myself. The emotions no good man should even feign. But my performance doesn’t need to be perfect. Nowak knows these feelings even less well than I do.
He raises a hand to interrupt. “Wait, Father. We need someone else here.”
My breathing is shallow. My lungs feel tight. With a notary, it will become official.
Archbishop Nowak lifts the phone and says something in Polish to someone on the other end. A moment later, the second secretary, Monsignor Mietek, opens the door. But the man he ushers inside is the last person I want to see.
“Inspector Falcone,” says Nowak, “the Holy Father would like you to hear the testimony that is being given. It seems Father Andreou is about to confess to the murder of Doctor Nogara.”
CHAPTER 42
NOWAK OFFERS THE gendarme chief a chair and explains what I’ve said. Then he instructs me to proceed.