Our sedan. It would take five minutes to walk to Lucio’s palace. Yet never in my life have I been more grateful to take a car.
* * *
ONLY THE NUNS ARE home when we arrive.
“His Eminence and your brother are still working on the exhibit,” Diego explains. He shakes his head as if a new circle of hell is being excavated down at the museums. “So what happened?”
I hand him the photo in the envelope. When he reads the message on the back, he frowns. “And your escort?”
“The gendarme agent said it was called off.”
Diego growls. “We’ll see about that.”
Before he can reach for the phone on his desk, I say, “Diego, do you know anything about that?” I point to the message on the photo. “A discovery Ugo made?”
“The Diatessaron?”
“No. Something more than that.”
He turns the photo over. “That’s what this is about?”
“Michael Black mentioned something like it, too.”
He frowns, not recognizing Michael’s name. Few clerics below the grade of bishop can get their business onto my uncle’s desk. “First I’ve heard of it. But I’ll see what the chief of gendarmes says.”
I wave him off. “Let me talk to Simon and my uncle first.”
“You’re sure?”
I’m not sure I can trust the gendarmes now.
Diego looks me squarely in the eye. “Alex, you’re safe here. That’s a promise.”
“I appreciate that.”
Peter says, “Can I have a fruit punch, Diego?”
Diego smiles. “Three fruit punches, coming up,” he says, winking at me. He makes a good Negroni.
But just for a second, he hesitates. Under his breath he adds, “I ought to tell you that we have a visitor coming tonight.”
“I know.”
“Will you be joining us?”
“Yes.”
Something about the idea makes him frown again. But he continues on toward the kitchen.
* * *
WHEN PETER HAS HAD time to settle in, I tell him I need to unpack our bags. Diego takes the hint and distracts Peter so I can be alone in the bedroom.
Sliding the photo out of the envelope again, I look at the phone number on the back. It’s a landline somewhere inside these walls. Vatican numbers have the same area code as Rome but begin with 698. For a few euros, the owner of this number could’ve bought a nearly anonymous SIM card in Rome. Doing this instead sends a message.
I dial the switchboard and ask the nun to do a reverse lookup.
“Father,” she says politely, “we have a policy against that.”
I thank her for her time and hang up. There are a dozen nuns at the switchboard, so I know I won’t get the same one twice. When I call back, I explain that I’m an electrician in the maintenance department. Someone has called for a repair, but all I have is this callback number, no name or address.
“It’s an unregistered line,” she says helpfully. “In the Palazzo di Niccolò III. Third floor. That’s all it says here.”
“Thank you, Sister.”