The Fifth Gospel

by Ian Caldwell

  John is making a theological point: “I AM” is the mystical name of God Himself. In the Old Testament, Moses hears the burning bush command: “Say to the Israelites: ‘I AM has sent me to you.’ ” The point is that Jesus is this same God. But Ugo must be making a point, too: Mark’s verse shows that John’s verse is theological. It expresses a spiritual truth, but it never really happened.

  The next two verses work the same way. Jesus is marched to the site of his crucifixion. But after being scourged and beaten, he’s too weak to carry the beam of his own cross. It has to be carried by a passerby named Simon of Cyrene. Luke agrees with Matthew’s account, as does Mark, who even names two of Simon’s sons to make sure there’s no confusion about who he was. But once again Ugo has chosen the companion verse from John, and it’s theological. Since Jesus is shouldering the burden for all of us—since he’s about to die for the good of all mankind—John has no room for a character who shoulders the burden for Jesus. So Simon of Cyrene vanishes from the text. Instead, John says: “they took Jesus, and he went out, bearing his own cross.” Ugo is making the same point as before: John has changed the facts to make a spiritual statement.

  As I scan Ugo’s column of verses, I notice that this pattern repeats itself again and again. I also notice that many of the verses here are the same ones from Ugo’s caduceus drawings. They focus on the two powerful Old Testament symbols—the Good Shepherd and the Lamb of God—that John summons to answer the hardest question in all of Christianity: why did an all-powerful Jesus let us crucify him? These symbols seem to follow Jesus throughout the final days of his life. When Jesus enters Jerusalem, John says, he rides an ass, just like the Good Shepherd of the Old Testament. When Jesus is dying on the cross, John says, he has a sponge of wine raised up to his lips on a stalk of hyssop, a flimsy little plant that could never really have held the weight of a sponge. The other gospels say the sponge was raised on a reed, but John is more interested in symbolism, and hyssop was the plant used to wipe the Passover lamb’s blood on the doorposts of the ancient Jews. John even changes the day of Jesus’ death so that Jesus, the Lamb of God, is crucified on the same day that the Passover lambs are slaughtered.

  This obsession with the Good Shepherd and the Lamb of God is so obvious in Ugo’s choices that it must be significant. Yet how these verses can form a proof of any discovery he made, I continue not to see. I feel uncomfortably close, however, to understanding something I couldn’t make sense of before.

  On the first day of the trial, Ugo’s assistant Bachmeier said that Simon had done something odd when he was tasked with overseeing the exhibit: my brother removed one of Ugo’s photo enlargements of the Diatessaron. At the time, the accusation seemed absurd. Now I wonder if the gospel verses on that page of the Diatessaron are somehow related to the ones in this letter. If Ugo’s proof, whatever it is, depends on seeing both.

  Time is working against me. The trial has been under way for half an hour. I need to hurry back to the Palace of the Tribunal.

  CHAPTER 34

  MIGNATTO IS MILLING in the courtyard when I arrive.

  “Why are you late?” he demands.

  “Why are you out here?”

  “We’re recessed,” he says angrily, “so the judges can consider the new evidence.”

  Boia.

  “The letter,” I say.

  “And the security video. And the personnel files.”

  “Monsignor, I need to talk to you.”

  But at that moment, the gendarmes reopen the doors.

  “No, you need to come inside,” Mignatto snaps. “We’re back in session.”

  * * *

  WHEN WE’RE SEATED, THE gendarmes bring in Michael Black. He sits down at the witness table in the center of the room and takes a sip from a glass of water that’s already half-drunk. His testimony must’ve been interrupted by the arrival of the evidence.

  I try to whisper to Michael, but Mignatto squeezes my arm. When I steal another look at the photocopy of Ugo’s letter, a new thought crosses my mind.

  Cardinal Boia compared the Orthodox patriarchs to the Beloved Disciple. The gospel of John was on his mind. I wonder if he was trying to crack Ugo’s letter, too.

  On the legal pad before me, I write a note—I need to call my uncle—and slide it over to Mignatto.

  Lucio was with Simon in the museums that day. If Simon took down the photo enlargement, then Lucio must have an idea where he put it.

  Mignatto hisses something that sounds like, It’s too late. I glance around the courtroom, wondering if Lucio might be in attendance, but the only spectator is Archbishop Nowak.

  We rise for the entrance of the three judges, then the notary administers the oaths. Michael takes them officiously, as if the rest of us are amateurs and he’s the only one here who’s been to the Olympics of protocol.

  “Please identify yourself to the tribunal,” the presiding judge asks.

  “Father Michael Black, auditor first class in the Second Section.”

  The tribunal approaches him deferentially. “Thank you, Father,” the presiding judge says, “for agreeing to travel here from Turkey. The tribunal notes your efforts.”

  Michael nods. On his face is the reserved geniality that Secretariat priests are famous for. Imperturbable. Aristocratic. He makes a surprisingly effective witness.

  “Father,” the judge says, “did you know the deceased, Doctor ­Nogara?”

  “I did.”

  “Were you in personal contact with him before he was killed?”

  Michael nods. “A couple times Nogara drove ten hours from Edessa to Ankara to see Father Andreou at the nunciature. Both times, Andreou was off on one of his trips, so I made a point of getting to know Nogara myself.”

  As he says this, Mignatto glances back toward Nowak, waiting to see if he’ll object to this mention of Simon’s trips. So far, nothing.

  “Were Nogara and Father Andreou on good terms?”

  Michael makes a sour face. “That’s complicated, Monsignor.”

  “Why?”

  “I’ll be honest with you. Nogara was a pain in the neck. He clung to Andreou like a tick. My impression is that when Simon saved him from—”

  “Father Andreou,” the judge says, correcting him.

  “When Father Andreou saved him from drinking himself to death, Nogara got very dependent on him.”

  “You seem to have a positive view of Father Andreou.”

  “I wouldn’t say that. I have very mixed views. But he’s a special kind of priest. And when people see the things he can do, they put certain expectations on him. Which, unfortunately, he encourages. In my opinion that’s a bad recipe.”

  The judges smell blood. Michael is circling something, putting a good face on a situation he won’t quite describe. Mignatto jots a note and submits it to one of the judges, who immediately reads it aloud.

  “What were the expectations placed on Father Andreou in this situation?”

  Michael turns his head a few degrees before he answers. A sidelong glance at Archbishop Nowak.

  “Well,” he says, “Father Andreou was working for someone who—”

  Nowak lifts a hand in the air. “No,” he says.

  Michael goes silent.

  The judges look chastened. After a moment’s silence, one of them says, “Did Doctor Nogara ever say anything to you that would suggest Father Simon Andreou was pressuring him not to discuss a discovery he had made?”

  “Yes.”

  “When?”

  “Twice. Including the day before he was killed.”

  I look at Mignatto. I didn’t know Ugo called Michael that day. But Mignatto seems unsurprised. He only stares at one of the judges, who makes intermittent eye contact with him.

  “Can you elaborate?” the judge says.

  “Not really. Like you said, Nogara thought he had found
something important. Father Andreou asked him not to ruffle feathers with it. I asked him what it was all about, but he told me he was waiting to discuss it with Father Andreou.”

  The judge leans forward. “Do I understand you correctly? On the day before Doctor Nogara was killed, he was waiting to discuss this disagreement with Father Simon Andreou?”

  Michael seems impatient. “That’s what he told me, anyway.”

  In the silence that follows, the presiding judge lifts a folder in his hand. I recognize the markings on it. A personnel file from the Secretariat. It must’ve just come from Cardinal Boia.

  “Father Black,” the judge says, “could you explain to the tribunal how you received the wounds on your face?”

  Michael’s lip curls. “No. I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I took an oath not to talk about it.”

  Archbishop Nowak seems to be following this intently.

  “Can you tell the tribunal where it happened?”

  “No. I can’t.”

  “An airport, wasn’t it?”

  “No comment.”

  “In Bucharest?”

  “I said no comment.”

  The judge removes a photo from the personnel file and lifts it in the air. I recognize it as a copy of the picture I found in Ugo’s safe. The same one I now have in my wallet.

  “That’s you, isn’t it, Father Black?”

  Michael bristles.

  The judge puts it down and raises a second photo, which I’ve never seen before. It shows the baggage claim where Michael was beaten up.

  “What were you doing there?” the judge asks.

  For the first time, Mignatto looks concerned. The appearance of the file is a wild card.

  “Since you’ve got all the answers,” Michael growls, “why do I need to be here?”

  “The investigation report,” the judge continues, “says another Secretariat priest was in Bucharest with you. Who was it?”

  The muscles of Michael’s neck are flexed. His right hand is rubbing the corner of the table. The judge is picking on him. The tribunal is tired of the silences.

  The judge says, “You were there with Father Andreou, weren’t you?”

  “Yeah. That’s right. I was.”

  There’s a pulse of silence. Michael has broken his oath. His temper is rising.

  “So what was the accused doing in Romania, Father Black?”

  Archbishop Nowak raises his hand again and says, “No.”

  But Michael ignores him. “I’ll tell you what he was doing. The same thing I was doing. Following orders.”

  Nowak stands. He ignores Michael and keeps his eyes on the judges when he says, “You may ask about Father Black’s injury but not about Father Andreou’s trips. Thank you.”

  “Yes, Your Grace,” the lead judge says. Then, as if afraid this will be his last chance to ask it, he poses the question.

  “Father Black, who attacked you?”

  Michael squirms. The interruption has given him a moment to collect his wits. “No comment,” he says.

  Wordlessly, the judge lifts a photo from the file. “Taken by a security camera at the airport,” he says.

  Mignatto and I both crane our necks, trying to see what the photo shows. A black cassock hovers over Michael’s body on the floor, staring down at it. The picture is grainy and small. But at the witness table, Michael glances pointedly over at Nowak.

  Mignatto’s eyes have never left the photo. I hear him murmur, “My God.”

  “Who is it?” I whisper.

  “Tell us what happened, Father Black,” the judge says quickly, as if trying to make the most of Nowak’s silence.

  When I look at the photo again, I still can’t make out the face. But in the pit of my stomach, something clenches. The priest standing over Michael’s body has the posture of a boxer standing over his opponent.

  “Like I told you,” Michael says, “he was doing what he was told. And I was doing what I was told.”

  The dull shock spreads. The breath is heavy in my chest.

  The judge lifts the picture of Michael’s face again. “You’re suggesting someone told the accused to do this?”

  “Andreou was sent to meet with the Orthodox patriarch. Cardinal Boia wanted to know where he was going, so I was sent to follow him. Father Simon saw me, and it got physical.”

  “He almost killed you.”

  “No. We argued. I’m the one that threw the first punch. He just responded. And he was only there because he was sent there.”

  The presiding judge squints. “Are you defending him?”

  Michael smashes a hand on the table. “Like hell! I had to have surgery! They still won’t let me come back to work!”

  “Then what are you saying?”

  “I’m saying that you”—he points to all three of them up there, in their silk and ermine cloaks—“don’t get it. Everything with you is right or wrong, black or white. But that’s not how it is. Down here, you fight for what you believe in. You fight for it.”

  “What on earth are you—”

  And this is the moment Michael chooses to turn to me and say, with wild eyes, “Alex, I’m sorry I lied to you about what happened in that airport. But you gotta know something. Simon’s wrong about this. He’s wrong.”

  I don’t even understand what he means. Everything feels so foggy and faraway. My eyes are fixed on Michael’s face. On the wounds that still haven’t healed. Simon can’t have done that. Can’t have.

  The judges stop Michael. They tell him his deposition is over. Numbly I stare as he exits the courtroom. Then I hear the presiding judge calling the next witness. The one I fear most.

  “Officer, bring in your commander.”

  * * *

  A BROODING FIGURE WALKS in, wearing his familiar midnight-blue blazer and patterned charcoal necktie. From a distance his face is all hooked nose and web of wrinkles. But as he approaches, everything converges in his tiny black eyes. Here is the man who sees all, who registers every face that stops to gawk at the pope. Nearly sixty years he has served inside these walls, forty as director of papal security, and on the day John Paul was shot twice and nearly killed in Saint Peter’s Square, he hunted down the shooter on foot. Now, taking his oaths, he murmurs the words unintelligibly. And the judges, knowing his reputation, give him this latitude. The Vatican newspaper says he has never granted an interview. Not one, in six decades.

  “Commander,” says the presiding judge, “would you please identify yourself to the tribunal?”

  He studies each monsignor, one by one. Then, in a deep voice, he says, “Eugenio Falcone. Inspector General of Vatican gendarmes.”

  Without prompting, he reaches into his breast pocket and produces a sheet of paper. His notes.

  The sight shakes Mignatto into action. He raises his hand and scribbles something on his pad. I’m just able to read it before he slips it to the judges.

  Canon 1566: Witnesses are to give testimony orally and are not to read written materials.

  The judges ignore him. The tribunal will listen.

  “The deceased,” Falcone reads aloud, “was killed by a single gunshot to his right temple from a 6.35-millimeter round discharged at close range. A firearm of this caliber was registered to the deceased, and we have reason to believe it was kept in a gun case in his automobile just prior to the murder.”

  This statement chokes the judges. But inside it is the missing piece: the object taken from under the driver’s seat of Ugo’s car was a gun case.

  “The window of the deceased’s automobile,” Falcone continues, “was found to be shattered, and the gun case was no longer present within the automobile. Our conclusion is that the defendant broke into the deceased’s car and took his gun in order to commit the murder.”

  The presidi
ng judge plods into his first line of questioning. “We’ve heard from a forensic specialist, Doctor Corvi, that you expected to find a particular model of gun. Your prediction was correct?”

  Falcone tucks his notes away. The slit of his mouth is thinner than an incision when he says, “We’re still searching for the gun case and gun.”

  “Can you tell us, then, about the medical examiner’s finding that no wallet or wristwatch were present on the body of the deceased? Those items were recovered at Castel Gandolfo?”

  “No.”

  “Yet that doesn’t lead you to suspect this was a robbery?”

  “It leads me to suspect that a robbery was staged.”

  “Why?”

  “The deceased’s car was broken into, but the glove box wasn’t rifled.”

  Mignatto dashes out another note and sends it to the youngest judge.

  “Eh, Inspector,” the judge breaks in, “could you tell us how many days you’ve been searching for all these items? The gun, the case, the wallet, the watch?”

  “Six days.”

  “And how many of your men have been conducting this search?”

  A defensive note enters Falcone’s voice. “Twelve per shift. Three shifts per day.”

  Almost a third of our national police force.

  “Have you also had help?”

  “From the carabinieri, yes.”

  The Italian police.

  “So where could these items be?”

  Falcone glares at the judge. It is said that he can toss a full-grown man off the hem of the pope’s cassock like throwing away a tissue. He doesn’t answer.

  “Right here,” the young judge says, “I have the transcript from your police report. One of your agents, Bracco, questioned Father Andreou at Castel Gandolfo. Is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “How close were the two men standing during the questioning?”

  Falcone scowls. He finds the question unintelligible.

  “An arm’s length from each other?” the judge clarifies. “Across a table?”