The Fifth Gospel(225)

            “I didn’t know what to do,” I continue. “I begged him to help me.”

            Archbishop Nowak glances up from the pages in front of him.

            “Your Grace,” I say, “my brother would do anything for me.”

            John Paul suddenly lurches to one side, wincing, as if these final words have dealt him a blow. Nowak rises to help him.

            But Falcone never takes his eyes off me. In his low, almost inaudible voice, he asks, “What exactly did your brother do for you?”

            He doesn’t realize that my story, from this point forward, is almost watertight.

            “He got rid of the wallet and watch,” I say, “while I got rid of the gun.”

            “Whose idea was it to create the impression of a robbery?”

            “Mine. I only found out later what my brother’s idea was.”

            Falcone is waiting to pounce. Waiting, but failing to see an opportunity.

            “The last thing he told me,” I say, “was to get my car. Drive down the mountain and wait until everyone from the meeting had left. Then call my friend Guido and tell him I’d just arrived from Rome. Simon said he needed to go back to the meeting, but then he would meet me again in the gardens.”

            “There is no evidence to suggest,” Falcone says, “that your brother returned to the meeting.”

            He doesn’t see that this is the crux of my story.

            “He lied to me,” I say. “He never intended to go back.”

            Falcone looks bemused.

            But Archbishop Nowak seems to understand. He thinks like a priest. He must see that there’s finally a reason at hand for my brother’s silence. Me.

            His sad Slavic eyes study me, neither disgusted nor compassionate. They convey only that Middle European familiarity with tragedy. His hands organize the papers on his master’s desk.

            Falcone, though, isn’t satisfied. “What did you do with the gun?” he demands.

            I am, like the serpent, victorious. Reaching inside my cassock, I remove the plastic bag containing the gun case. The proof that silences all doubt.

            As Falcone stares at it, I see a slow transformation in his eyes. The pieces are finally arranging themselves. The only fact he cares about is finally in evidence.

            “Your brother,” he says, without any hint of feeling, “has been protecting you?”

            But before I can answer, Falcone’s head suddenly turns. He’s on alert, as if he’s seen something out of the corner of his eye.

            Then I see it, too.

            The Holy Father is moving. His right hand—his good one—is bobbing in the air, signaling to Archbishop Nowak.

            His Grace lowers himself beside John Paul’s ear. Then a voice comes out of the ancient body. A husky, faint voice too hoarse for me to hear.

            Nowak glances at me. There’s a change in his face. Something tumbles through his eyes. He whispers something back to John Paul, but I can’t understand their Polish. Finally the pope’s head nods. I’m frozen in my seat.

            Falcone watches warily as Nowak takes the handles of the wheelchair. The chair rolls forward. Around the desk it comes. Past Falcone. Toward me.

            The eyes are fixed on mine. A hypnotic Mediterranean color, a pelagic blue. They swim with life. He has missed nothing.

            My body tightens. My backbone curves. He sees through me. I’m a faceless priest to him, one of tens of thousands, but he can recognize a lie as surely as he can sense the change of weather in his bones. The pain in his face tells me that he feels it.