The Fifth Gospel(50)

            “Who are you?” I ask, backing away.

            In the dark, the man’s eyes are splinters of silver.

            “Father,” he says in a gruff voice, “what were you doing up there?”

            His face is completely unfamiliar.

            “Why are you following us?” I demand.

            “Because those are my orders.”

            I take one more step back. Another ten feet and we’ll be in public view.

            The man extends his arms so they press against the walls of the stairwell. He says, “Father Andreou?”

            In my arms, Peter’s body is tense. I don’t respond.

            The man reaches for something in his pocket. I begin to retreat. Then I see what it is: two metal laurels around a yellow-and-white Vatican flag.

            A badge.

            “I’m your security escort,” he says.



* * *



            “HOW LONG HAVE YOU been following us?” I say.

            “Since you left the Casa.”

            “Why aren’t you in uniform?”

            “Because those are the orders that came down from His Eminence.”

            I wonder if Lucio did this for Peter’s sake. To frighten him less.

            “Tell me your name,” I say.

            “Agent Martelli.”

            “Agent Martelli, the next time you follow us, wear your uniform.”

            He grinds his teeth. “Yes, Father.”

            “Are you the one who’s going to guard us overnight, too?”

            “Someone else will work that shift, Father.”

            “Who?”

            “I wouldn’t know his name.”

            “Tell him to wear his uniform, too.”

            “Yes, Father.”

            He waits, as if I’m delaying his own question: why were Peter and I in Ugo’s apartment? But priests don’t answer to policemen inside these walls. Peter and I turn and descend toward the light.



* * *



            OUR ROOM AT THE Casa is a fourth-floor suite. Peter, who has never stayed in a hotel before, says, “Where’s the rest?” No kitchen, no living room, no toys. Boys in our building have told him that hotels are like heaven. But this can’t be heaven. There’s no television.

            A plain cross hangs over the narrow metal bed frame. The parquet floor, polished like a Secretariat priest’s shoes, reflects the featureless white walls. Other than a bedside table and a valet stand that seems designed for a Roman Catholic priest suit rather than any traditional robe, there’s only a radiator beneath a window. The window, though, opens onto the small inner courtyard of this oddly shaped building, and below us are earthenware flower boxes and a potted tree with fantastic stalks of sharp fronds resembling towers of green Christmas stars. The air smells of lavender.

            “Who was that man?” Peter asks, hopping onto the bed while still wearing his shoes, to test the lone pillow.

            “A policeman,” I say. “He’s going to help keep us safe.”

            There’s no longer any point avoiding it. The escort will be around us at all hours.

            “We’re safe here?” Peter asks, rifling the contents of the nightstand.