The Fifth Gospel(38)

            “The priest who came with them,” continued the voice, “knew your name.”

            Ugo cleared his throat. “The new system is still being tested?”

            “Yes.”

            “So the door’s still open?”

            “It is. But it’s not a good idea for you to be down there alone anymore.”

            “Agreed.” Ugo came to the door and admitted me. “Meet Father Alexander Andreou. He’ll be joining me tonight.”

            The Frenchman was a silver fox of a priest. He had a bottle-brush beard that almost concealed the sharp downturn in his mouth at the sight of me.

            “But Ugolino . . .” he began.

            Ugo collected his friend’s hat and umbrella from the coatrack. “You’re wasting your breath. And they’re going to notice if you don’t leave at the usual time. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

            The priest closed the blinds over the glazed office door. “This isn’t wise. Every little sound travels in these halls. With him here, you’re bound to talk. To draw attention.”

            But Ugo only nudged him toward the door. The clock over the door read twelve past five. In the reading rooms, scholars had already packed away their notebooks and laptops. They were returning to the main desk for keys to their lockers, and in a few minutes they would be gone. After that point, it would be impossible to explain why Ugo and I were here.

            “What was he warning you about?” I asked when Ugo closed the door.

            He peeked between the blinds. “Nothing.”

            “Then why are you looking into the hallway?”

            “Because I wish your uncle would hire a few curators who look like Signorina de Santis next door!”

            I slumped against the wall. In camaraderie, Ugo followed suit, retrieving the loaf of bread from his duffel bag. He smiled sadly. “You understand you won’t be able to tell anyone what you see tonight. Not even your students.”

            Under the door, the hall lights began to go dark.

            “I’m not doing this for my students,” I said.

            “Father Simon tells me your father trained both of you to read the New Testament in Greek.”

            I nodded.

            “He also said you were the studious one, and he was the laggard.”

            “The gospels were my favorite subject in seminary.”

            For any gospel teacher—even one who taught altar boys in pre-seminary like I did—there was excitement in knowing that our understanding of the Bible was imperfect. That older, better, more-complete manuscripts of the gospels were always waiting to be discovered. Tonight was a chance to hold one of those manuscripts before it was locked away like the rest.

            Ugo cleaned his glasses on his handkerchief. He peered at me with eyes that were surprisingly lucid. “And did we tell Father Simon what we were doing this evening?”

            “No. I haven’t been able to reach him for a couple days.”

            He sighed. “Neither have I. Your brother disappears sometimes. Glad to know it isn’t personal.” He checked his watch and stood up. “Now, there’s something you need to know before we go. We mustn’t leave a trail, because it seems someone’s been following me.”

            Remembering his conversation with the French priest, I said, “Who?”

            “I don’t know. But after tonight I hope he won’t have another opportunity.” Ugo removed his shoes and changed into the slippers from his duffel bag. “Just follow me. Down we go.”