by Ian Caldwell
“Why are you helping him?”
He leans over slightly, lessening the distance between us. His drooping eyes follow mine as I speak, showing me that he is listening.
“Your brother did something extraordinary,” Archbishop Nowak says, inflecting this last word, this un-Polish word, with his accent. “The Holy Father is grateful.”
So Nowak knows about the exhibit. About the Orthodox.
“Your Grace, do you know where my brother’s being held?”
This is a more emotional question than I mean to ask. But he seems so solicitous, so invested in what I feel.
“Yes,” Nowak says with a downturn of his eyes, acknowledging that this must be a painful subject for me.
“Can’t you set him free? Can’t you stop the trial?”
As we pass through the first entrance of the papal palace, the Swiss Guards stand and salute.
“The trial has a purpose,” Nowak says. “To find the truth.”
“But you know the truth. You know he invited Orthodox here, and you know why. The trial is just Cardinal Boia’s way of pressuring Simon for answers about the exhibit.”
One by one we slip past the security checkpoints. The sedan never slows.
“Father,” Nowak says quietly, “before the exhibit opens tomorrow, it is important that we know the truth about why Doctor Nogara was killed.”
As if to underscore the importance of this question, he asks the driver to stop the car. The final branch of the palace—John Paul’s and Boia’s—is before us. We are idling in the courtyard of the Secretariat.
“My brother didn’t kill anyone, Your Grace.”
“You know this for certain, because you were at Castel Gandolfo?”
“I just know my brother.”
A pair of Swiss Guards marches up, sensing something amiss, but the driver waves them off.
“If I could set him free from house arrest,” Archbishop Nowak says, “would you tell me the reason Doctor Nogara was killed?”
I understand now. He forbade discussion of the exhibit because he doesn’t want Boia finding out about the visiting Orthodox—but without that testimony, Nowak has no idea why Ugo was killed either and can only guess who had a reason to kill him. Simon has kept everyone in the dark about 1204. Even the man who signed the papers bringing the Shroud here from Turin.
“Your Grace,” I say, “Ugo Nogara discovered that Catholic knights stole the Shroud from Constantinople during the Fourth Crusade. The Shroud doesn’t belong to us. It belongs to the Orthodox.”
Nowak studies me. A pinch of something registers in his eyes. Surprise. Maybe disappointment.
“Yes,” he says. “That is correct.”
“You already knew?”
“But there is something more?” he says. “Something in addition to this?”
“No. Of course not.”
The archbishop reaches out and takes my hand. “You are very unlike your brother.”
Never taking his eyes off me, he taps the seat twice with his hand. The driver opens his door and steps out of the car. A moment later, the door beside me opens.
“I don’t understand,” I say. “Are you going to make Cardinal Boia let Simon go?”
I feel the driver’s hand on my shoulder, instructing me to step out.
“Father, I am sorry,” Nowak says. “It is not as simple as you believe. Your brother has not told you the whole truth.”
He reaches out and squeezes my hand, the way John Paul used to do in Saint Peter’s Square when comforting perfect strangers. As if I’ve come all this way for something I don’t really understand.
A Swiss Guard behind me says, “Father.” Nothing more.
Nowak’s hand lets go of mine as I slide out. Even then, he continues to watch me.
THERE ARE ALREADY THREE messages on my phone from Mignatto, urgently commanding me to return to the Palace of the Tribunal. I ignore them.
I walk up to the Swiss Guard on duty at the eastern door. He saw me get out of Archbishop Nowak’s car.
“It’s David?” I say.
“Denis, Father.”
“Denis, I need to see my brother.”
Cardinal Boia’s apartments are overhead. Simon is right up there.
“I’ll call up for you,” he says.
“No, I’ll see myself up.”
I step toward the door, but he blocks my way. “Father, I’ll need to call first.”
I push him aside. “Tell Cardinal Boia that Simon Andreou’s brother is coming to see him.”
A second guard materializes from thin air.
“Loris,” I say, recognizing him, “I need to get through.”
He puts an arm around me and guides me down the steps. At the bottom he says, “Father, what’s wrong?”
I pull away. “I’m going to see Simon.”
“You know you’re not allowed to do that.”
“He’s up there.”
“I know.”
I stop short. “You’ve seen him?”
“We’re not allowed inside the apartments.”
“Tell me the truth.”
He hesitates. “Once,” he says.
The emotion feels like a fist against my throat.
“Is he okay?”
“I don’t know.”
“Let me inside.”
“You should go home now.”
I feel his hand on me again. I shake it off. The other Swiss Guard, seeing this, calls into his radio for backup.
“Father,” Loris says, “go. Now.”
I back away. At the top of my lungs I shout at the windows on the second floor, “Cardinal Boia!”
Two more Swiss Guards come running from the direction of the Secretariat.
I take another step back and shout, “Your Eminence, I want to see my brother!”
Their hands are on me. They begin forcing me toward the exit of the courtyard.
“Whatever you want to know, I’ll tell you!” I shout. “Just let me see my brother!”
I fight to get my arms free, but they drag me across the cobblestones.
“Please,” I beg them. “I have to see him.”
But when we reach the perimeter of the courtyard, the two Swiss posted there close a metal gate.
“Leave, Father,” Loris says, pointing down the path that leads back out of the palace complex. “While you still can.”
I stagger back, numb on my own legs.
Your brother has not told you the whole truth.
I stare through the bars of the iron gate, feeling myself crumple. And there, across the courtyard, I see something. Up in a second-floor window, the curtains have parted. Between them, just for an instant, is Cardinal Boia.
I MOVE NUMBLY AWAY. When I reach the outer palace gate, Mignatto is waiting. Seeing the look in my eyes, he loops an arm through mine and tells the guards, “I’ll take him from here.”
We walk in silence back to the tribunal. I don’t know if he heard me shouting. I don’t care.
Beside the courtroom is an office. Mignatto carries out an errand without a word to me. An archival aide hands him a folder of papers to sign. More new evidence. More new witnesses.
“Still no surveillance footage?” he asks her.
She shakes her head.
I wonder how he can keep this up. How he can pretend this isn’t a travesty.
“These are the ones I requested?” he asks, pointing to a series of photos.
She flips through the pictures, trying to confirm. I see images of familiar evidence bags. The items from Ugo’s car. Mignatto dressed me down for breaking into the impound lot, yet now he has requested the evidence I discovered there. I glare at him. He still says nothing to me.
“That’s correct, Monsignor,” the aide says.
“Thank you, signora.”
His hand is at my back again, leading me out. Finally he turns.
“Have dinner with me, Father.”
Afternoon has peaked and waned. He holds up a hand as a visor.
“No,” I say.
“Peter is welcome to join us. And it’s important that we discuss the voice mail message Nogara left for your brother at the nunciature. The tribunal admitted it.”
“No.”
He takes the visor away, stares at his feet. “I understand what you’re feeling, but Father, perhaps it’s best for you to take a break from the trial.”
“I’m going to do what I need to do.”
Mignatto squints. “What exactly did Archbishop Nowak say to you?”
“That my brother’s been lying to me.”
“About what?”
I don’t know. If the reason is good enough, it could be anything.
“Father Andreou, tell me.”
But at that moment, my phone rings. And I recognize the number.
“Michael?” I say, answering immediately.
“Alex, I was on an airplane. That’s why I couldn’t pick up.”
“What?”
“I’m at the airport now.”
“Which airport?”
“Timbuktu. What do you think? I’ll be downtown in an hour. If Simon’s lawyer wants to talk, he’d better be ready to talk.”
Is that him? Mignatto mouths.
I nod.
“Let me speak to him.”
I hand over the phone.
“Father Black?” Mignatto asks.
He pulls a pen from the French cuff of his cassock and flips back the evidence folder to write inside the cover. Behind him, trucks come and go from the museums. I think again of what Archbishop Nowak said. Opening night. Just twenty-four hours away.
“Will you testify?” Mignatto is saying. “How soon can you be ready?”
I stare at the folder in his hand. At the photos he was asking the clerk about. In one of them is Ugo’s phone charger. In another, the scrap of stationery scrawled with my phone number.
“We need to discuss what happened to you. Can we meet at my office tonight?”
Beside them are the evidence bags I couldn’t examine before Gianni hurried me out of the impound garage. A pack of cigarettes. The sun-faded Vatican ID Ugo probably flashed to the Swiss Guards every time he drove into the country. A key chain. Nothing big enough to match the impression under the driver’s seat of Ugo’s car.
“He can’t be present when we meet. That’s not part of the procurator’s job.”
My jaw goes slack. The fob of the key chain: it’s oval, engraved with three letters and three numbers. DSM 328.
I pull the folder out of Mignatto’s hand. He bobbles the phone and glowers at me.
DSM. Domus Sanctae Marthae. The Latin name of the Casa. The three digits are the room number. A sliver is missing from the metal fob.
This can’t be Ugo’s key. He didn’t need a hotel room. So this must belong to whoever broke into the Alfa.
“I didn’t hear that. You’re breaking up. Say again?”
I close my eyes. I’m deceiving myself. The killer wouldn’t have left behind his own key. So whose is it?
Mignatto takes back the folder to write more information on its cover. I wonder why Michael is being so forthcoming. It’s unlike him.
The answer comes a moment later, when Mignatto hands back the phone and says, “Father Black wants to speak to you again.”
“Listen up,” Michael says. “The lawyer tells me you can’t be at our little meeting tonight, so there’s something you and I need to talk about in private. Meet me at Saint Peter’s afterward.”
“In the square?”
“No, in the right transept. I’ll leave the north door open. You know the one I mean?”
Mignatto is trying to overhear. I step away.
“What time?” I say.
“Let’s make it eight. And if I’m not there, you need to find yourself a new witness tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Eight o’clock. Got it?”
When I hang up, Mignatto says, “You’re not to meet with him. Understood? Not outside my presence.”
I ignore the question. “Good night, Monsignor,” I say. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
I CALL BROTHER SAMUEL’S apartment and ask him to babysit Peter a while longer. Then I call Mona.
“I can’t make it tonight after all,” I say.
She must hear something in my voice. “Is everything all right? Do you want to talk about it?”
I don’t. But the words trickle out.
“I’m angry. Simon lied to me.”
Now the silence. The silence that reveals how, in her heart, she still doubts him.
“Lied about what?” she says finally.
“Never mind.”
More silence.
At last she says, “I’m at my parents’ place. I can meet you anywhere you want, just tell me where.”
“I can’t. Just . . . talk to me.”
“How’s Peter?” she asks.
I close my eyes. “I’ve been at the courthouse all day. Brother Samuel says he’s fine.”
“Alex, you don’t sound good. Let me help you.”
I’m sitting on the bench in the tribunal courtyard. The last commuters are queued at the gas station. Over the roofs of their cars I stare at the Casa.
“I just need some time to think,” I say. “I’ll call you tomorrow.” I hesitate. “I’m sorry about tonight.”
Before she can answer, I hang up. The ache that has been building for hours is now painful. When Simon and I used to feel this way after Mamma died, we would run cross-country and back. The hills. The steps. The shadows of the walls. We would run until we were buckled over, heaving on the ground, cooling ourselves in the overspray of the fountains. I close my eyes. Give him back to me, Lord. I need my brother.
I count the Casa windows. I know which room is 328. It’s only a floor beneath where Peter and I were staying, but along the far side of the building. By my count, a corner room. I’m staring at its west-facing windows right now.
Maybe tomorrow will be the day. Maybe that’s Boia’s plan. To keep Simon until the exhibit is over.
The west-facing windows have their shutters closed. Other rooms have their drapes opened, but the occupant in that one room wants no air at all. Wants no view of the Roman afternoon. I open my phone and dial the front desk.
“Sister, please connect me to three twenty-eight.”
“Just a moment.”
The phone rings without stop. Whoever’s up there doesn’t want to talk, either.
I hang up. The last car drives off from the gas station. The air becomes quiet again. A breeze snaps the Vatican flag on the pole above the Casa entrance.
I stand. With a feathery feeling in my chest I begin walking toward those doors.
AT THE DESK, THE nun surprises me.
“Welcome, Father. How are you?”
She says the words in Greek.
Instinct tells me to respond in the same tongue. “Very well, Sister. Thank you.”
“Are you enjoying your stay in our country?”
“Very much.”
“How may I help you?”
“Just returning to my room.” I flash my old room key and walk on.
But the security has been heightened since I left. A notice in the lobby says that each elevator will now serve only a specific floor of the building. I overhear the elevator operators asking passengers to show their keys before boarding the car.
I take the stairs instead. But just as I’m about to open the door to the third floor, a voice comes from overhead.
“Father, you’ve go
t the wrong floor. Up here.”
A Swiss Guard comes double-stepping down from the fourth-floor landing. Fortunately, we don’t know each other.
“May I see your key?” he says.
He seems to have been posted just outside the fire door.
When I show him, he nods. The key to the room Peter and I shared says 435.
“Follow me, Father,” he says in slow Italian. And with an exaggerated wave of the hand, he leads me upstairs.
* * *
THE FOURTH FLOOR BRIMS with activity. There are priests everywhere. I’m astonished. Every single one is dressed in Eastern attire. These must be Simon’s Orthodox. I count eleven of them standing in the hall. A twelfth priest opens his door, says something to a colleague outside, then turns back. His language is unfamiliar to me. Serbian? I wonder. Bulgarian?
Then it hits me: at least a few of these other priests must be Greek. The nun at the front desk, without knowing which country I came from, welcomed me in Greek. So Simon must’ve traveled there, too. He must’ve spread his invitations in the fatherland.
I wonder how many countries he visited in all. How many priests, from how many nations, are staying on this hall. Nothing like this has ever been attempted before.
I glance back at the Swiss Guard outside the fire door. Another thought settles over me. Only the pope controls the Swiss. Only John Paul and Nowak could’ve sent these soldiers here. They must know the scope of what Simon has done.
For a moment, all I can do is watch. The groups of priests form and re-form. Orthodox have no central power, no pope as Catholics do. The patriarch of Constantinople is their honorary leader, but really the Orthodox Church is a federation of national churches, many with patriarchs of their own. The mere idea of this kind of clerical democracy, with no bishop taking orders from any other, is a Catholic’s nightmare, a recipe for chaos. Yet for two thousand years, the bonds of tradition and communion have made Orthodox priests from every corner of Christendom into brothers. Even in the nervous atmosphere of this hallway, with its air of expectation, men cross boundaries and greet each other. They speak, sometimes fluently, sometimes haltingly, in one another’s languages. There are almost as many smiles as beards. I feel as if I’m witnessing the ancient Church, the world the apostles left behind. I feel strangely, deeply at home.
