The Fifth Gospel(28)

            I lower my voice. “Do you think this could have to do with the Shroud? Moving it here from Turin?”

            Tendrils of smoke creep from his nostrils. I can’t tell whether he’s considering it.

            “No one could’ve known it was moved here,” he says flatly.

            “Word could’ve gotten out. People hear things. The same way we just did from Leo.”

            It would’ve taken a team of men to load the new Shroud reliquary onto a truck. Priests to open the chapel. Then more men and more priests to unload it here. If just one of them had mentioned the news to a wife, a friend, a neighbor . . .

            “Ugo was on the truck that night,” I say. “Anyone else who was involved would’ve seen him. Maybe that’s why they came after him.”

            “But they didn’t see you or me. Why come after us?”

            “What do you think happened, then?”

            Simon flicks an ash off the tip of his cigarette and watches an ember tumble through the darkness. “Ugo was robbed. I think whatever happened at the apartment had to be different.”

            Yet there’s the slightest wobble in his voice.

            My phone rings. I check the screen.

            “It’s Uncle,” I say. “Should I take it?”

            He nods.

            On the other end of the line, a deep, slow voice says, “Alexander?”

            Uncle Lucio always seems discommoded by people who answer their own phones. He can’t understand why the rest of us don’t have priest-secretaries.

            “Yes,” I say.

            “Where are you right now? Are Simon and Peter safe?”

            He must already know about the break-in. “We’re fine. Thanks for asking.”

            “I’m told you were both at Castel Gandolfo earlier tonight.”

            “Yes.”

            “You must be very upset. I’ve had the guest rooms prepared for the three of you to stay here tonight, so tell me where you are and I’ll send a car.”

            I falter. Simon is already shaking his head, whispering, “No. We’re not doing that.”

            “Thank you,” I say, “but we’re staying with a friend at the Swiss Guard barracks.”

            There’s no answer, just a familiar silence, the courier of my uncle’s displeasure. “Then I want you to meet me at the palace tomorrow,” he says finally. “First thing. To discuss the situation.”

            “What time?”

            “Eight o’clock. And tell Simon, too. I expect to see him as well.”

            “We’ll be there.”

            “I’m glad to hear it. Good night, Alexander.”

            Unceremoniously, the line goes dead.

            I turn to Simon. “He wants to meet us at eight.”

            The news makes no impression.

            “So,” I say, “maybe we should get some sleep.”

            But Simon announces, “You go ahead. I’m going to sleep right here.”

            Here. In the open. Under the pope’s window.