The Fifth Gospel

by Ian Caldwell

  I thought he would pick up food from downstairs. Instead, Sofia has cooked us a meal.

  “How’s Little P holding up?” he asks.

  “Scared.”

  “Still? I thought kids were supposed to rebound fast.”

  Fatherhood has many surprises in store for him.

  I enter the bedroom with Peter’s food, only to find he has fallen asleep. I close the wooden shutters to dim the room almost to black. Though the autumn afternoon is warm, I pull the counterpane over him.

  “Come on,” Leo whispers, handing me a plate of food. “Let’s talk.”

  But just as we sit down, my mobile phone begins to ring. The voice on the other end is gruff.

  “Alex, it’s Michael again. I’ve been thinking about what you said.”

  He sounds different. More on edge.

  “I didn’t know you had a kid,” he goes on. “There are some things you deserve to hear.”

  “Then tell me.”

  “Go to the pay phone outside the walls, near the train station.”

  “We’re safe. This is my mobile.”

  There is rampant fear in our country of talking on bugged lines. Some Secretariat men won’t use phones at all, except to set up face-to-face meetings.

  “I don’t trust your idea of safe,” he says. “Go to the phone on Via della Stazione Vaticana. It’s near the billboard by the service station. I’ll call you there in twenty minutes.”

  The place he is describing is almost immediately behind the Casa. I could be there in five. I turn to Leo and mouth, Can you stay with Peter for a few minutes?

  When he nods, I say, “Fine. I’ll be waiting.”

  * * *

  THE SERVICE STATION IS a dump with spray-painted walls and metal grates behind its porthole windows. On the billboard, a woman with football-size breasts advertises phone service. The dumpster across the street gapes at her with a half-open lid. From here I can make out the rear of the Casa over the Vatican walls, and towering above it, the dome of Saint Peter’s. What catches my eye, though, are the train tracks in the distance.

  Simon and I used to love watching the freight trains come and go at the Vatican station. Instead of hoppers of coal or grain, they carried business suits for our department store, or marble for Lucio’s construction projects, or vaccines for missionaries in far-off countries. When I was twelve, Guido Canali tried to steal a box of wristwatches from a train car and ended up tipping two stacks of crates on himself. FOR HIS HOLINESS ONLY, the crates said, so the other boys wouldn’t touch them, not even to lift them from Guido’s body. Only Simon would heave them off, a hundred pounds apiece. Blood oranges: that’s what ended up down on the station platform, smashed like Easter eggs. Blood oranges sent to John Paul by some monastery in Sicily. That’s what Guido had almost died for.

  I wonder if the Simon of that night lives only in my imagination now. If the Secretariat has trained him out of existence. An oath is a weighty thing for any Catholic; there can be penalties under Church law for breaking one. But even Michael Black has the heart to make an exception.

  Michael is the Judas of our family—in Simon’s eyes, at least. Sixteen years ago, Michael and my father traveled together to Turin for the unveiling of the radiocarbon dating on the Shroud. My father left Turin shattered. By the time he died, eight weeks later, Michael had quit his job and written my family a letter saying that our idea of a reunion between the Churches was laughable. The Orthodox obviously wanted nothing from us but fodder for ancient hatreds, fresh reasons to blame us for everything. Michael demanded to know why my father would push for a reunion with three hundred million Orthodox who treated Eastern Catholics—many of us minorities in Orthodox countries—like heretics and turncoats. Soon after, Michael found a new job working for the Vatican’s new second-in-command: Cardinal Boia.

  Boia was just beginning to clamp down on John Paul’s outreach to the Orthodox, and Michael fit into his plans as a type of priest known as a Quasimodo—a man sent out to frighten the villagers, to create ugly misunderstandings and ruin the clockwork of diplomacy. The Quasimodo is the valve of dissent in a bureaucracy where no one can outwardly defy the pope. Michael got into shouting matches with Orthodox bishops, uttered public slurs, made an art of the bombshell interview. To Simon, this was the deepest betrayal. My brother could never accept that faith sometimes lends itself to wild changes of heart, and that a man who turns his back on one thing will often repent by becoming its opposite. Get behind me, Satan.

  The Michael I remember is different. In a world of uptight Roman priests in cassocks, he was a young American in a short-sleeved priest shirt with a cheap tab collar. He wore a digital watch and Nike high-tops in priestly black. Two years before the radiocarbon fiasco, he brought Simon and me to the Spanish Steps for the opening of Rome’s first McDonald’s. He scandalized the Italians by drinking Coca-Cola at breakfast. I never understood, until I met Michael, the possibility of being successfully different. Of being happily and completely unassimilated. I am saddened to think that the Secretariat took that wonderful golem and shaped him into something worse than an ordinary bureaucrat. At the bottom of my father’s sadness I always sensed the unanswered conviction that the world would someday budge. That it would meet him in the middle. I never knew why Michael had his change of heart, but I suspected it was my father’s fault for infecting him with too much optimism. A Greek has twenty-five centuries of painful history to keep his dreams in check, but there’s nothing more dangerous than to give an American hope.

  The phone begins to ring, and I turn to grab it. Only then do I notice there’s a man standing at the next street corner, watching me.

  I step back. But the man raises a hand in the air.

  Agent Martelli. I didn’t even notice him follow me here from the Casa. Michael was right. My idea of safe isn’t safe enough.

  I pick up the receiver. “Michael?”

  “Are you alone?”

  I hesitate. “Yes.”

  “Before we do this, I need to be clear. If you tell anyone that I talked to you, these people will find me again.”

  I think of the photograph from Ugo’s apartment. “I understand. I just want to keep my son safe.”

  He lowers his voice and drops a long breath into the receiver. “Hard to believe you got a kid of your own. You were seven when I started working with your father.”

  Not with, I think. For. But there’s something touching about the way he says it. When my father took him home for the first time, to introduce him to the rest of us, Michael brought a gift for me, a Bible embossed with my name. He thought, mistakenly, that Greek Catholics celebrated first communion at age seven, as Romans do.

  “You name him after your dad?” he asks.

  “No, after Simon.”

  This strangles the warmth out of him. The conversation turns.

  “Well, down to business,” he says. “What I wanted to tell you is, I met that curator. The one who was killed.”

  I’m caught off guard. “Ugo?”

  “He came to visit your brother at the nunciature. I only talked to him once or twice, but the people who broke my nose thought I knew him. They threatened me. They wanted to know what he was working on.”

  “That’s . . . impossible.”

  The silence bristles, as if he mistakes this for skepticism.

  I ask, “What did they say to you?”

  “That he was working on an exhibit about the Holy Shroud. Is that true?”

  “It is.”

  Michael goes quiet. Maybe he’s surprised to hear that the Shroud really has been resurrected after so many years. Or maybe, like anyone reading the newspapers this summer, he imagined Ugo’s exhibit was on the Diatessaron.

  “What did they say about it?” I ask.

  “That Nogara was hiding something he found, and they wanted to know what it was.”
>
  “He wasn’t hiding anything. What did you tell them?”

  “To ask your brother. He was the one who would know.”

  My teeth are clenched. “You told them about Simon?”

  “He and Nogara were thick as thieves.”

  “Michael, I worked with Ugo myself. Simon doesn’t know anything. Who were the people who did this to you?”

  “Priests.”

  “Priests? ”

  It never seriously entered my mind that a cleric could’ve done this.

  “Romans,” he says, “not beards. Since I’m sure that’ll be your next question. They must’ve followed me from the nunciature.”

  Everything is slipping through my fingers. The motive I’ve been trying to piece together. The logic of what happened at Castel Gandolfo. Even in Rome, almost no one knew what Ugo was planning. I don’t know how this could’ve begun among priests one thousand miles away.

  “Did they catch anyone?” I ask.

  “The Secretariat did some kind of investigation, but it went nowhere.”

  I’d assumed the break-in and murder were committed by the same person, if they were related at all. Now I wonder if two or more people were working in coordination. The facts even hint at this, since so little time elapsed between the attacks.

  “How could they have known where to find you?” I ask.

  Michael hesitates. “Probably the same way they knew where to find you. By threatening someone until he told them where to look.”

  “What do you mean?”

  In a dryer voice, he says, “I think you know what I mean.”

  A shadow passes over me. “You told them where I live? ”

  “Alex, look—”

  “My son could’ve been killed!”

  “I could’ve been killed!” he roars.

  “So you let them hunt down Simon? You even told them where to find him?”

  “Like hell. They already knew about your brother. His little weekend trips were how they got on Nogara’s scent in the first place.”

  I feel sick. The logic of this conversation is clearer now. There’s a reason Michael called back after hanging up on me the first time. He feels guilty. He was the one who reported Simon for missing work. Who created a paper trail that anyone could follow.

  “Keep Simon out of this,” I say, forcing my voice to stay level. My father always said Michael was prone to fits of emotion. “He was just helping Ugo.”

  It doesn’t seem to occur to him that he probably brought this on himself. By ratting on Simon, he made himself a reference point for anyone trying to hunt down Ugo.

  But Michael howls, “Helping Nogara? That’s what Simon told you he was doing?” He gives a scornful laugh. “What a pro, that guy. He’s got a real future. Alex, your brother’s been lying to you. Lying to everyone. He’s been doing some work on the side, inviting a few of his Eastern friends to Italy for the Shroud exhibit.”

  I’m taken aback. “That’s not true. Why on earth would you think that?”

  “Look,” Michael grunts, clearing his throat, “I said more than I wanted to. Go talk to your brother. Get him to answer some questions.”

  I’m too unnerved to respond.

  “And,” he adds, “keep your son safe. My impression is, these people won’t quit until they have what they want.”

  “Okay,” I tell him. “Thanks. For calling me back.”

  “Yeah. Well. You have my number?”

  “I do.”

  “If Simon tells you anything, drop a line. I’m owed some answers, too.”

  I say nothing.

  “And hey. Call if you need anything.”

  He must truly believe Simon can’t be counted on.

  “Michael, we’re going to be fine.”

  “Yeah,” he says. “I hope so, too.”

  CHAPTER 11

  THE FIRST THING Leo says when I get back to the Casa is, “Your uncle wasn’t kidding around.” He points toward the door. “They sent a replacement cop as soon as Martelli tailed you out.”

  In the hall, the two gendarmes are conferring with a nun from downstairs.

  I step out. “Is something wrong?”

  “Nothing,” Martelli answers. “This is Agent Fontana. He’ll be the night shift.”

  But the nun looks me up and down. “Father, we can’t have every visitor bringing a pair of bodyguards. You’re safe here without them.”

  “My situation isn’t the same as the other guests’,” I tell her.

  “I’ve been told about the situation,” she says. “We’ve taken every precaution.”

  I don’t know what to say. But Martelli does.

  “Take it up with our commander, Sister. We stay until our orders change.”

  * * *

  BACK IN THE ROOM, Leo is hurriedly collecting the dishes he brought over.

  “Sofia just texted,” he says. “We’ve got the hospital walk-through in an hour. How’d your call go?”

  “Fine.”

  “Anything you want to talk about?”

  I want to tell him more. But I made Michael a promise. “Not right now.”

  “Then I’ll be back in the morning,” he says. “You need anything before that, just call.”

  I thank him, then lock the bolt after he leaves, padding into the bedroom to sit down beside Peter.

  He sleeps like a furnace. His forehead is pink, bangs dark with sweat. His mouth is open in a tight oval, all his energy concentrated in the act of breathing. He’s exhausted. I’ve underestimated how much this is affecting him.

  I think of what Michael said on the phone: that the men who attacked him were priests. It seems absurd. Violence by clergy is always aimed at other denominations, other faiths. The Christmas brawl in Bethlehem last year was between Armenians and Greeks. Catholic priests in Turkey have been victims of brutality before, but always at the hands of Muslims.

  And yet Catholic priests would’ve had much better odds of getting past security here and at Castel Gandolfo. Much better odds of entering my apartment building unnoticed. Turin priests, in particular, might’ve noticed the Shroud had been moved from its chapel and might’ve gone hunting for answers. The most revealing thing Michael said was that the priests who attacked him were looking for information about Ugo’s exhibit, because they claimed Ugo was hiding something. There’s a simple way to rule that out: Ugo’s research journal.

  The entries begin with something he taped inside the front cover. A letter sent to all Vatican Museums curators.

  IN VIEW OF THE IMPORTANCE OF MUSEUM TICKET INCOME TO THE ECONOMY OF THE CITY-STATE, HIS EMINENCE REQUESTS THAT ALL CURATORIAL STAFF SUBMIT PROPOSALS FOR THREE NEW EXHIBITS, INCLUDING BUDGET REQUIREMENTS, TO THE OFFICE OF THE DIRECTOR, COPYING HIS EMINENCE, WITHIN SIXTY DAYS.

  The letter is dated eighteen months ago. After it, Ugo’s diary begins with a handwritten list titled “Exhibit Ideas.” It mentions early medieval manuscripts. Late antique Christian graffiti. The evolution of Jesus portraiture in the Byzantine Empire. Nowhere does it mention the Holy Shroud. Only two weeks later does he come across an initial scientific study questioning the radiocarbon tests. His reaction is three underlined words at the bottom of the page: Resurrect the Shroud?

  On the following page is the relic itself, quickly sketched but with the wounds circled and the corresponding gospel verses noted: beating, scourging, crown of thorns, spear wound. One week later, Ugo proposes the exhibit to Uncle Lucio in person. Their meeting seems to have a galvanic effect on Ugo’s research. My uncle, the world’s most inexperienced motivational speaker, has somehow inspired Ugo. Diary entries grow longer. More scientific. Then, overnight, something odd happens.

  Without explanation, Ugo devotes two pages to titles of other books. The Gospel of Thomas. The Gospel of Philip. The Secret Book of James. These are noncanonical texts
, not recognized as scripture by Christians. Though he gives no reason for their inclusion here, I can read between the lines. Just as my uncle is showing interest in Ugo’s idea, the biblical gospels have brought him to a dead end. Their Shroud references lead nowhere. So Ugo is casting a wider net, trying to follow the Shroud out of Jerusalem in 33 AD by any road possible. For ten days, no entries follow. Then, in astonishment, I find this:

  Today I was put in touch with an Orthodox scholar who claims to know where the Shroud was brought after the Crucifixion. He says there is an ancient tradition about a mystical, Shroudlike image in a Byzantine city called Edessa. Despite my skepticism, I am meeting tomorrow with the priest who put us in touch. Can’t say no, since he’s H.E.’s nephew.

  His Eminence’s nephew.

  Simon.

  My eyes rise from the pages. An unpleasant, antic feeling buzzes through me like a fly trapped on the inside of a window. Something is wrong.

  There’s an unmistakable description in the next entry.

  He’s the quintessential Secretariat priest: handsome, blue-eyed, elegant. Very tall and thin. He acts so solicitous about my exhibit that I know he has some private investment in it. He wants to have dinner tomorrow. I see no way out of it.

  The unlikely first meeting of two future friends.

  Yet on my first visit to Ugo’s apartment, he and Simon told the story of how a Vatican curator collapsed in the Turkish desert and was saved by a young embassy priest. The entry in this diary is nine months older than that.

  Ugo and Simon lied to me about how they met.

  I put the book on my chest, feeling rattled. They had no reason to hide anything from me.

  And yet there was always something awkward about the story they told me. Simon seemed to recoil from it even as Ugo told it. The details were real enough—Ugo’s sunburn, his broken glasses—but if their encounter in the desert really happened, it may not have been their first meeting. So why the selective memory? What could they have felt they needed to dance around?