The old man greets Simon by name, then turns to me and says, “Are you Father Alexander Andreou? Your brother mentioned you would be here.”
He offers a handshake, then spots Lucio down the hall and begins to plod toward him. I glance at Simon, wondering if the monsignor is a Secretariat friend, but he gives no sign.
Lucio sits in his private library, at a long table with a red felt top and a red silk skirt. A poor man’s version of the furnishings in the papal palace. At Lucio’s invitation, the monsignor takes a chair and puts his briefcase on the table. Simon and I follow him in.
“Diego,” my uncle says, “that will be all. Hold my calls.”
Without a word from me, Diego brings Peter out with him. Now the four of us are alone.
“Alexander,” Lucio says, “this is Monsignor Mignatto, an old friend of mine from seminary. He works at the Rota now. Last night we received some important news, and I’ve asked him to advise the family about what happens next.”
Mignatto bows his head slightly. My uncle is constantly surrounded by old priests trying to make themselves useful to our family in the hope that Lucio will be their meal ticket. Already I wonder about this man’s motives. The title monsignor is an honorary promotion only halfway up from priest. In most dioceses it’s a badge of pride, but around here, for a man of Mignatto’s age, it’s a sign of not really having made it. A consolation prize for not having reached bishop. Simon will make monsignor next year, the standard promotion after five years of Secretariat work.
With a hint of lawyerly self-importance, Mignatto places three sheets of paper on the table, one at a time. Then he clicks the briefcase shut. A Rotal advocate ranks far below a cardinal, but Mignatto’s cassock is still expensive-looking and tailored, nothing like the ones in the clerical supply catalogs I shop from. Monsignors of his grade have the honor of wearing purple buttons and sashes instead of black, to set them apart from ordinary priests. Though Eastern Catholics consider this finicky—there’s no biblical basis for the title of monsignor, let alone for the color of their buttons—it’s still daunting to be the only Greek priest in a room of successful Romans.
“Father Andreou,” he says, turning to me, “let’s begin with your situation.”
I stare at him. “What situation?”
“Don Diego says you lost your police escort today. Would you like to know why?”
He has my full attention.
Mignatto slides a sheet toward me. It looks like a police report.
“They examined your apartment twice,” he says. “And they found no signs of forced entry.”
“I don’t understand.”
“They think your housekeeper lied. They think the break-in never happened.”
“What? ”
Mignatto’s eyes never leave mine. “They believe the damage to your apartment was staged.”
I turn to Simon, but he’s wearing his diplomat face, trained to register no surprise. Uncle Lucio lifts a finger in the air, asking me to contain my disbelief.
“This,” Mignatto says, “is important in Nogara’s murder trial because the prosecution pivots on what happened at your apartment. If there was a break-in, then you and your brother are victims, and we have more than one crime. Without the break-in, we have only what happened at Castel Gandolfo.”
“Why,” I say, trying to sound calm, “would they think she lied about something like this?”
“Because your brother told her to do it.”