The Fifth Gospel

by Ian Caldwell

  John 19:28–29

  agrees with your agenda for the meeting. First, I’ve taken my gospel lessons from Alex very seriously. I study scripture morning and night. I’ve also kept up my work with the Diatessaron. These two avenues of investigation, together, have repaid me richly. Brace yourself, because I’m about to use a word that, at this late stage in the process, probably

  Mark 15:45–46

  horrifies you. I’ve made a discovery. Yes. What I’ve found erases everything I thought I knew about the Turin Shroud. It demolishes what we both expected to be the central message of my

  John 19:38–40

  keynote. It might come as a surprise—or even as a shock—to the guests you’re inviting to the

  Luke 24:36–40

  exhibit. For it proves that the Turin Shroud

  John 20:19–20

  has a dark past. The radiocarbon verdict killed serious scholarship on the Shroud’s history before 1300 AD, but now, as that past comes to light, I think a small minority of our audience may find the truth harder to accept than the old idea that the Shroud

  Luke 23:46–47

  is a fake. Studying the Diatessaron has taught me what a gross misreading we’ve been guilty of. The same gross misreading, in fact, that reveals the truth about the Shroud.

  My discovery is outlined in the proof enclosed here. Please read it carefully, as this is what I’ll be telling your friends at the Casina. In the meantime, I send my best to Michael, who I know has become your close follower.

  John 19:34

  In friendship,

  Ugo

  The echo of Ugo’s voice leaves a dull throb at the bottom of my throat. He’s alive in this letter. Excitable; eager; full of anticipation. The final e-mail he sent me was full of urgency and worry, but almost none of that is present here. Simon seems to have removed the proof Ugo mentioned, but what he left behind is enough.

  So it’s true: Ugo made a dramatic discovery. Oddly, this letter credits it to a combination of my lessons with him and the work Ugo did on the Diatessaron, even though I never knew of any discovery arising from either. Surely what he found was our theft of the Shroud in 1204—though I can’t imagine how he ever stumbled across that by comparing gospel verses on sheets of homily paper. Nor does Ugo seem to realize how devastating 1204 would be to his audience, how his enthusiasm for proving the Shroud to be older than the carbon-dating range was coming at the cost of resurrecting a poisonous ancient hatred. I don’t have to guess how my brother would’ve reacted to the news. No wonder Ugo’s proof isn’t in this envelope anymore. In Simon’s shoes I might’ve been tempted to dispose of it, too. Maybe this is why Ugo sounded so upset in his final e-mail to me, sent only four days later: Simon had just explained to him what a bombshell 1204 was and what a storm it would create if he mounted his discovery. Maybe Ugo wanted a second opinion from an Eastern priest like me.

  There are bigger surprises in this letter, too. Michael Black was right: Simon has been inviting Orthodox clergy to Rome. Ugo seems to have been very aware of it—he refers to the trips Simon was taking and the gesture that should be made toward the Orthodox at an upcoming meeting. Strangest of all, there’s even a hint in the final lines that he and Simon were joined by Michael in the work they did together. The only contributor to Ugo’s exhibit who seems not to have known of these other arrangements was me.

  I open the bedroom door and ask Diego if he can look up something for me.

  “Daily schedules from the past few weeks,” I say. “For the Casina.”

  The Casina, mentioned in this letter, where Ugo was preparing to deliver a keynote to visiting Orthodox, is a summer house in the middle of the Vatican gardens, a ten-minute walk from my apartment. It was built in the Renaissance as a papal retreat from the Vatican palace, but John Paul rarely uses it, and the building stays vacant other than the occasional meetings of the Pontifical Academy of Sciences. That connection may be a clue about the meeting Ugo is discussing here. The Pontifical Academy is a group of eighty international researchers and theoreticians, including dozens of Nobel laureates, whose stamp of approval on Ugo’s exhibit might erase the radiocarbon stigma for good. No one would be better qualified to send the message that today’s science has overthrown yesterday’s. I could envision Simon inviting Orthodox priests to a meeting of the academy just as reassurance that my father’s Turin fiasco was not about to be repeated.

  While I wait for Diego to return, I riffle through Simon’s day planner. Most of what I see is familiar. Simon’s trips to Rome are marked off with black Xs, over which he’s written Alex and Peter! in red. Michael emphasized Simon’s habit of disappearing over the weekends, and sure enough there are weekend meetings penciled here. But the notations tell me nothing. Written slapdash in pencil on the third Saturday in July is RM—10 AM. I presume RM means “Reverendissimo”—archbishop. But there’s no name, no location. The next weekend says SER 8:45 AM, which probably means “Sua Eccellenza Reverendissima”—a bishop—but again, no name or place.

  Still, one thing gives me pause. At the beginning of the planner, in the directory of my brother’s contacts, I find a listing for the nameless archbishop: RM it says again. His phone number is odd. It has too many digits to be Turkish. It looks more like an international line.

  I punch it into my mobile and wait for someone to answer.

  “Bună ziua,” comes a man’s voice. “Palatul Patriarhiei.”

  I’ve spoken to many Turks on the phone. This is not Turkish.

  “Parla Italiano?” I say.

  No answer.

  “Do you speak English?”

  “Small. Little.”

  “What country am I calling right now? Can you tell me where you’re located?”

  He pauses, and seems about to hang up, when I say, “Where are you? ”

  “Bucureşti.”

  “Thank you,” I fumble.

  I stare at the letters Simon has written in the book: RM. They don’t mean “Reverendissimo.” They mean “Romania.” My brother has been doing business with someone in Bucharest.

  So SER can’t be “Sua Eccellenza Reverendissima.” It must be—

  “Belgrade,” says the man who answers the second number I call.

  Serbia.

  I can’t believe my ears. Romania and Serbia are Orthodox countries. Simon has been reaching out to Orthodox clergy on a scale I didn’t imagine. From Turkey and Bulgaria to Romania and Serbia, he has paved a wide path toward Italy that travels through half of Orthodox Eastern Europe. If he has invited a few priests from each of these countries, then he has begun to create a symbolic bridge between the capital cities of our two Churches.

  I pull out my wallet and stare at the photo of bloody Michael Black. Just visible behind him is the airport sign I noticed before. PRELUARE BAGAJE. I wonder.

  Calling the main offices of Vatican Radio, I ask for a translator on the Slavic Languages desk. An ancient-sounding Jesuit answers. When I explain the situation, he chuckles. “Those words are Romanian, Father. They mean ‘baggage claim.’ ”

  So Michael was in Romania. It seems impossible that he could’ve been helping Simon, and yet the casual way Ugo invokes his name in the final lines—send my best to Michael—suggests the three of them were closer than I imagined. Your close follower, Ugo called him. I was never able to do more than guess at the reasons for Michael’s first change of heart. I wonder if Ugo’s research on the Shroud was enough to propel him into another.

  I find his number in my call log, but when I dial it, no one answers.

  “Michael,” I say excitedly into his voice mail
. “It’s Alex Andreou. Please call me. I need to talk to you about Romania.” Remembering what Mignatto asked me, I add, “Simon’s in trouble. We need your help. Please, call as soon as you can.”

  I leave him my number but don’t mention that I need him to fly to Rome. It’s too soon for that; this is more delicate than I realized. If Michael was working amicably with my brother only weeks ago, then what happened in the airport must’ve changed everything. Michael seemed so hostile toward Simon on the phone, so quick to point out Simon’s responsibility for what the rest of us have suffered since.

  Diego returns, holding his laptop like an open book between his hands. “Calendar’s up.”

  I scan the screen. “This is everything? You’re sure?”

  He nods.

  Strange: the Casina has been vacant all summer.

  “When’s the next meeting of the Pontifical Academy?” I ask.

  “A working group is coming next month to discuss international water conflicts,” Diego says.

  That’s long after opening night of Ugo’s exhibit.

  To be sure, I say, “Do you have the list of attendees?”

  “I can get it by tomorrow.”

  “Thanks, Diego.”

  Just as he leaves, my phone rings.

  Michael, I think.

  But the number is local.

  “Father Andreou?” says the voice.

  Mignatto. He sounds shaken.

  “Is everything okay?” I ask.

  “I just got word. They’re opening the trial tomorrow.”

  “What? ”

  “I don’t know where these orders are coming from. But I need you to find your brother immediately.”

  CHAPTER 22

  DIEGO AGREES TO watch Peter while I hurry down to the Swiss Guard barracks. But Leo and I almost run into each other on the stairs of Lucio’s palace.

  “Come on,” he says. “I’ve got something for you. Follow me.”

  Outside, late afternoon has struck. The angry heat of the Roman summer bakes my outer cassock. I don’t understand how Leo ran here in full uniform, beret in hand, eight pounds of ribbons tied to his body with straps and cords. Yet he only urges me to move faster. “Shifts are changing,” he says. “We need to get there before he’s gone.”

  “Who?” I say.

  “Just come on.”

  We cross half the country until we’re nearly at Saint Anne’s Gate, the border entry from Rome that employees and residents use. Here the papal palace reaches its eastern terminus in the hulking tower of the Vatican Bank, which casts a long shadow at this hour. Just before reaching it, we stop.

  Here in the immense defensive wall is one of the strangest spots in our country. Just across the wall is a part of the palace so private that even villagers never see it. Up there, in a private wing, lives John Paul. Any vehicle trying to reach his apartments must enter a guarded gate one-eighth of a mile west of here, pass through tunnels and checkpoints, cross the patrolled cortile of the Secretariat, and enter a private courtyard across from where Leo and I now stand, which is kept behind locked wooden doors. From there, I don’t know the rest of the procedure, since I’ve never even seen the inside of that courtyard. And yet one hundred years ago, part of the Vatican near the palace exit was occupied by enemy soldiers, so Pope Pius X cut a hole right through that courtyard wall, straight down to where Leo and I now stand. Whether he did it to give his palace employees a route home to the village or to give himself a back door into his gardens, I’ve never known, but today that hole is the biggest weakness in the pope’s security bubble. An iron gate has been built inside the tunnel, and pickets of Swiss Guards keep watch there around the clock. It must be one of those guards we’ve come to see.

  “This way,” Leo says, waving me up into the tunnel.

  It’s dark and cool inside. I peer up the staircase. Silhouettes of four men impress themselves against the grid of the iron gate. Leo reaches out his hand to stop me from taking another step. We wait in the darkness.

  Above us, the two pairs of guards are switching places. Second shift is beginning. As the replaced men descend, Leo says, “A word, Corporal Egger?”

  Both silhouettes stop. “About what?” says the first sharply.

  “This is Father Andreou,” Leo tells him.

  A flashlight clicks on. Its beam plays over my face. The silhouette I take to be Corporal Egger turns to Leo and says, “No it’s not.”

  In the reflection of the flashlight, I briefly see his face. Now the name registers with me. I realize why Leo has brought me along.

  “You’re thinking of my brother,” I say. “Simon. I’m Alex Andreou.”

  There’s a long hesitation. “Simon’s your brother?”

  Six years ago, when a guard committed suicide in the barracks with his service weapon, Simon volunteered to counsel any other men considered at risk. Egger’s CO identified him. My brother worked with him for more than a year, and according to Leo, Simon is now the only man in this country other than John Paul whom Egger would lift a finger to defend.

  “Okay,” Egger says.

  His voice is deadpan. The other guards have a clipped, military way of speaking. Egger just sounds vacant.

  “Last night,” Leo begins, “a gendarme at the railway service post saw Father Andreou enter a car outside the Governor’s Palace. He says the car drove down toward the basilica. It didn’t turn right toward the gate, so he thinks it went left toward Piazza del Forno.”

  This must be the car that drove Simon to house arrest. Leo has been tracking where it took him.

  “Captain Lustenberger tells me,” Leo continues, “that you were stationed at first gate last night. Is that right?”

  Egger scratches a lump at the corner of his lip and nods.

  Leo clears his throat. “So if the car came through Piazza del Forno, and you were at first gate, then it would’ve driven right in front of you.”

  Egger turns to me. “I don’t know you. And I didn’t see Father Simon in any car.”

  “Hey,” Leo says, tapping him on the chest. “I’m telling you he was in that vehicle. So did you see it or not? This would’ve been about . . .” He draws a scrap of paper from his pocket and plays his own flashlight over it. “Eight ten PM.”

  “There was a car at eight oh seven,” Egger says.

  Leo glances at me. “Okay, so where did it stop?”

  I know what Leo’s thinking, so I just say it. “Was it going to the old jail?”

  When the Vatican became its own country, the pope built a three-cell jail in the courtyard Leo mentioned. It used to hold the occasional thief or Nazi prisoner of war, but these days it’s used as a storage warehouse. No one looking for Simon would search for him there.

  “Maybe you should just look at the sheet,” Egger says.

  Leo grits his teeth. “I did, Egger. And since you didn’t record a sedan passing through the gate, we’re asking if the car stopped in the courtyard beside the jail.”

  “Corporal,” I say, “Simon helped you. Please help him.” I try to lock eyes with Egger, staring into the black zeroes. Simon always chooses the lost sheep.

  “The car didn’t stop in the courtyard,” Egger murmurs. “It came through the gate.”

  “Into the palace?” Leo’s anger flashes. “Then why the hell is there no record on the sheet?”

  Egger’s head slowly pivots. “Because I was doing what I was told.”

  Leo grabs Egger’s uniform, but I pull him back and whisper, “That means there’ll be records of it on the other sheets, right?”

  Leo never takes his eyes off Egger. “Wrong. I checked all the sheets for last night, and there’s no car on any of them. So what are you telling us, Corporal?”

  I can see it in Egger’s eyes, though. The spell is broken. He’s done helping us.

  “Leo,” I
whisper, “I believe him.”

  But Leo clamps a hand on Egger’s jaw and says, “Tell me how it’s possible for a car to go past three checkpoints and not get recorded once.”

  For the first time, Egger’s partner speaks up. “You’re out of line, Corporal Keller.” He breaks Leo’s grip and pulls his partner away. Leo stands in their way, blocking the end of the tunnel, but I sense we’re not going to get more information than this. We may have hit on something bigger than Egger.

  “Let them go,” I whisper to Leo. “You got me what I needed. I’ll take it from here.”

  * * *

  AFTER DROPPING LEO AT his post beside Saint Peter’s Square, I weave down a route I’ve known since I was a boy. Between the square and the Vatican village is a narrow no-man’s-land where walls have been built and torn down for centuries as the borders between public and private have changed. In the untraveled darkness beyond Bernini’s colonnade there are small gaps where the walls meet. I slip back into our village and head for a forgotten place.

  For years it’s been Uncle Lucio’s job to quietly demolish historic sites inside our walls. Our country of five hundred people hosts fifteen hundred commuters and ten thousand tourists a day, so the sad fact is that we need parking spaces more than we need ancient ruins. The first place to receive the treatment was the Belvedere Courtyard. Where Renaissance popes once held jousts and bullfights, palace employees now park their Fiats and Vespas. Next came a Roman temple beside our oldest church, which Lucio converted to underground parking for two hundred fifty. More recently he excavated a second-century villa to fit another eight hundred cars and a hundred tour buses. When people saw garbage trucks leaving our land with ancient mosaics heaped up like shavings of Parmesan, there was an uproar. But the granddaddy of them all is the garage I’m headed to now.