by Ian Caldwell
The courtyard is small. The walls seem immensely high, giving me the sensation of standing at the bottom of a pit. The earth is crossed with shadows. On the opposite side, two guards sit in a glass-paneled kiosk, watching us. But Gugel drives in a circle and returns to the archway, stopping so that my door is opposite an entrance in the wall. When he lets me out, he says, “Father, this way.”
The private elevator.
He inserts a key and operates it himself. When the car stops, Signor Gugel pushes aside the metal grate and opens a door. The flesh of my neck tingles.
We have arrived. I am standing inside the Holy Father’s apartments. In front of me is a sitting room furnished with odd pieces of furniture and a few potted plants. No Swiss Guards anywhere. Leo says they aren’t allowed inside here. Gugel leads me on.
We enter a library with walls of gold damask. Beneath a towering painting of Jesus there stands a single desk. On the desk is nothing but a gold clock and a white telephone.
Gugel points to a long table in the center of the room and says, “Please wait here.”
Then, to my surprise, he leaves.
I look all around me, tense with feelings. Every night of my childhood I stared at the windows of this top floor, wondering what these rooms contained. What it was like for a poor soldier’s son from Poland, who grew up in a small room on the rented floor of another family’s house, to live in the penthouse of the world’s most famous palace. John Paul haunted so many of my thoughts in those days. Gave me strength against so many fears. He, too, had his parents die when he was young. He, too, once felt like an outsider in this city. For what I’m about to do, I am a traitor to my own guardian angel.
More men are ushered into the library. First comes Falcone, the gendarme chief. Then the promoter of justice. Lucio arrives with Mignatto in his wake.
Then, from a different door, Simon.
All the rest of us stare. Lucio’s arms reach outward. He shuffles forward and raises his hands to Simon’s cheeks.
But Simon’s eyes are locked on mine.
I can’t move. He seems cadaverous. His eyes are sunken. His ropy arms could encircle his torso twice. I feel the gun case pressed against my ribs. Simon motions for me to come closer, but I steel myself and don’t respond. I’ve prepared myself for this moment. It’s important now for us to keep our distance.
A moment later, Archbishop Nowak appears at the door. “Father Alexandros Andreou,” he says. “His Holiness will see you now.”
* * *
I FOLLOW HIM INTO a smaller, more secluded room. I recognize it as the private study where John Paul makes his appearances to the crowds in Saint Peter’s Square. Bulletproof glass fills the enormous window, but behind the window is a modest desk littered with folders and papers to sign, the dossiers that arrive unstoppably from the Secretariat. They have so outpaced the pope’s ability to return them that they now choke the room, standing in stacks around the desk. The mounds are so large that at first I don’t see who sits behind them.
I freeze. He is only an arm’s length away. But he looks nothing like the man I saw in the Sistine Chapel, who found the strength to kneel at patriarchs’ feet. This man is frail and sunken, with small, narrow eyes that barely conceal his pain. He doesn’t move except to breathe. He looks at me, but there’s no moment between us. No connection, no greeting. Humans are thrown in front of him as fast as they can appear and disappear. He might as well be staring at a mannequin.
Nowak says, “Please be seated, Father.” He gestures to a chair opposite the desk, then sits beside John Paul, serving in a capacity I don’t understand.
“His Holiness,” he continues, “has studied the evidence that the tribunal gathered. He wishes to ask you a small number of questions.”
The Holy Father doesn’t budge in his chair. I wonder if he will speak at all.
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“Very well. Please begin by explaining how you knew Doctor No-gara.”
“Your Grace, I met him—”
But Archbishop Nowak makes a polite gesture of correction.
I force myself to meet John Paul’s unwavering stare. “Your Holiness, I met Doctor Nogara through my brother. Doctor Nogara found a missing manuscript in the library, and I helped him read it.”
This registers as just another fact. Nowak doesn’t pursue it. Instead he asks, “How would you characterize your brother’s working relationship with Nogara?”
“They were good friends. My brother saved his life.”
“Yet I have heard the voice message from Doctor Nogara. It indicates they were not on friendly terms.”
I choose my words carefully.
“When my brother began to travel on his missions to the Orthodox, he couldn’t spend as much time tending to Nogara. It upset them both.”
I watch Nowak’s expression. I need to make sure he remembers the demands on Simon’s time. The source of Simon’s obligations. Just a few feet from here is the private chapel where the Holy Father would’ve performed the rite of consecration to make Simon a bishop.
“But the voice message suggests,” Archbishop Nowak says, “that Nogara made a discovery which complicated their working relationship. Were you aware of this?”
I brace myself. “Yes. I was.”
“What was the discovery?”
“He found a manuscript of an ancient gospel called the Diatessaron.”
Nowak nods. “The one that is now missing.”
“I helped him to read the Diatessaron,” I continue. “Until that time, Doctor Nogara hadn’t realized that the gospels have different testimony about the Holy Shroud. This was the origin of his problem.”
“Go on.”
Now I begin my own job of weaving verses. I must do it perfectly.
“The most detailed description of Jesus’ burial,” I say, “is in the gospel of John. The other gospels say Jesus was buried in a σινδόνι, ‘shroud,’ but John says όθονίοις, ‘cloths.’ John also gives us the most specific description of the empty tomb, and it corroborates his first one: the disciples didn’t just find the όθονίοις, ‘burial cloths’; they also found the σουδάριον, the kerchief or napkin, that had been wrapped around Jesus’ head. This would obviously be problematic for any image on the Shroud.”
Archbishop Nowak frowns. He seems about to ask another question, but I push forward, heaping up evidence, burying him in Greek. At all cost, I must keep him away from the lance wound. I must keep him looking in the other direction, at all the minor details where John’s discrepancies don’t match the Shroud, because Nowak will know Ugo should’ve brushed them aside, since no one turns to John for hard facts.
“These problems are deepened by John’s testimony about the άρωμάτων, ‘burial spices.’ The other gospels suggest Jesus wasn’t buried with spices, since the Jewish Sabbath had come and the burial took place in a hurry. But John says a huge weight of spices—μίγμα σμύρνης καί άλόης ώς λίτρας έκατόν, ‘a mixture of myrrh and aloes about a hundred pounds’ weight’—was used. And this is a problem, because the scientific tests on the Shroud haven’t found any trace of burial spices. Without belaboring the point, Your Holiness, Nogara felt that our most detailed testimony about Jesus’ burial was John’s, and that John’s account did not support the existence of the Shroud. Nogara went to Castel Gandolfo to say as much to the Orthodox.”
Archbishop Nowak’s soft features sag with concern. His brow is heavy. His hand is folded pensively over his jowls. “But Father, did you not explain to him about the gospel of John?”
“I did. I explained to him that it’s the most theological. The least historical. That it was written decades after the others. But he knew the Orthodox would be less likely to apply a scientific reading to the gospel. He knew the Orthodox were more likely to feel that John needed to be taken at face value.”<
br />
Nowak rubs his temples. He seems pained. “That is what Nogara discovered? A misunderstanding?”
I nod.
He grimaces. When he begins to speak again, I detect a change in his voice. The question at the tip of his tongue is no longer legal, no longer scriptural. It is deeper than that: it is human. The worst, I hope, is over.
“Then why,” he says, “was Doctor Nogara killed?”
Now is the time to scratch at the old scabs. They bleed so readily. “My father spent thirty years here trying to reunite our Church with Orthodoxy.” I bow toward John Paul. “Holy Father, I know it’s impossible to remember every priest who works inside these walls, but my father gave his life to a reunion. You invited him to these apartments once, before the carbon-dating was announced, and he was so honored. He was devastated when he heard the radiocarbon results.”
For the first time, there is a twinge in John Paul’s mouth. It deepens his frown.
“My brother and I,” I continue, “were raised to believe in that work. It was upsetting to think that the Orthodox, on their historic visit here, would be hearing something disturbing. My brother tried explaining that to Doctor Nogara. But it didn’t work.”
Archbishop Nowak’s brow casts shadows over his eyes. “Then I would like to understand the events of that night. You arrived around six thirty, after Nogara was already dead. Is that correct?”
Now the difficult part begins. “Not exactly, Your Grace.”
He shuffles papers on the desk, trying to sift facts from pages of testimony. “That isn’t when Signor Canali opened the garden gate for you?”
I am tense in my chair.
“It is when he opened the gate,” I say. “But that’s not when I arrived.”
He looks up darkly. “Please explain.”
My heart is with Simon. It has always been with Simon.
“Your Grace, I called Guido Canali in order to create the appearance that I had arrived at Castel Gandolfo later than I actually did.”
John Paul tries to turn his head to glance at Nowak but can’t. His hand stays clamped on the arm of the chair. Only his eyes peer across at his old priest-secretary.
“What are you saying?” the archbishop asks.
“I was there before five o’clock,” I say.
The time shown on the surveillance video.
Nowak waits.
“I found Doctor Nogara at his car,” I say. “We got into an argument.”
Here is the darkness I’ve spent my priesthood trying to stamp out of myself. The emotions no good man should even feign. But my performance doesn’t need to be perfect. Nowak knows these feelings even less well than I do.
He raises a hand to interrupt. “Wait, Father. We need someone else here.”
My breathing is shallow. My lungs feel tight. With a notary, it will become official.
Archbishop Nowak lifts the phone and says something in Polish to someone on the other end. A moment later, the second secretary, Monsignor Mietek, opens the door. But the man he ushers inside is the last person I want to see.
“Inspector Falcone,” says Nowak, “the Holy Father would like you to hear the testimony that is being given. It seems Father Andreou is about to confess to the murder of Doctor Nogara.”
CHAPTER 42
NOWAK OFFERS THE gendarme chief a chair and explains what I’ve said. Then he instructs me to proceed.
I don’t know where to begin again. With Falcone here, I have to keep meticulous track of every detail.
“My brother,” I say, “must’ve come out of the villa looking for Nogara and me. He saw us standing by Nogara’s car.”
4:50 on the surveillance video. Simon passes by.
“Where was the car parked?” Falcone asks.
He’s testing me.
“In the small parking lot south of the villa,” I say, “just inside the gate.”
“But why?” Archbishop Nowak says, impatient at the interruption.
The lies come more and more easily. “All I could think of was my father,” I say. “He never recovered from his humiliation in front of the Orthodox. I couldn’t let that happen to Simon.”
Falcone interrupts again. “How did you know about the presence of the gun?”
I had hoped to rush through this part of the story. Even now, I can’t square this circle. Simon must’ve had keys to the chain of the gun case. Yet he didn’t have the keys to the car. He must’ve known the combination but had to break the window with his fist. There’s something here that, even now, I don’t understand.
“Nogara came back to his car,” I say, “to get his lecture notes. While he was pulling them out of his glove compartment, I saw the gun case under his seat. It didn’t look like it was closed all the way. I don’t know why I did it. The sight of that case just changed something in me.”
John Paul’s lips are parted. He breathes through his mouth. I am disgusted with myself.
But Falcone is relentless. “So you took the gun out of the open car?”
“No. Ugo closed the door and walked away. We were arguing with each other. He didn’t care what would happen when the Orthodox found out. He thought the exhibit was destroyed. I . . . I told him I wasn’t going to let him do it. I threatened him. That’s when I went back to his car for the gun.”
Archbishop Nowak nods. He must see it on one of the pages in front of him: my hair found in the foot well of Ugo’s car.
But nothing distracts Falcone. The human conflict is irrelevant. All that matters to him is the gun. “You knew the combination to the case?”
“No. As I told you, it wasn’t completely shut.”
“Then how did you remove the chain?”
“I didn’t. Not until I needed to hide it later. Then I used Nogara’s keys.”
Falcone scowls. “From his dead body?”
I can’t hold his stare. I simply nod.
“Go on,” Nowak says.
“I caught up to Ugo when he was walking back into the gardens. I only meant to scare him. But he wouldn’t turn around to look at me, so I had to come right up to him. He saw the gun. He put up one of his hands to protect himself. When his hand hit the gun, the gun went off.”
I watch Falcone, certain he will remember that the autopsy found gunshot residue on one of Ugo’s hands. A single bullet wound at close range.
“Where was your brother as this happened?” he says.
“When Simon heard the gunshot, he came running. He got down on his knees and tried to revive Doctor Nogara, but it was too late.”
I haven’t invented this last detail. I believe it’s the explanation for the mud on Simon’s cassock.
“I didn’t know what to do,” I continue. “I begged him to help me.”
Archbishop Nowak glances up from the pages in front of him.
“Your Grace,” I say, “my brother would do anything for me.”
John Paul suddenly lurches to one side, wincing, as if these final words have dealt him a blow. Nowak rises to help him.
But Falcone never takes his eyes off me. In his low, almost inaudible voice, he asks, “What exactly did your brother do for you?”
He doesn’t realize that my story, from this point forward, is almost watertight.
“He got rid of the wallet and watch,” I say, “while I got rid of the gun.”
“Whose idea was it to create the impression of a robbery?”
“Mine. I only found out later what my brother’s idea was.”
Falcone is waiting to pounce. Waiting, but failing to see an opportunity.
“The last thing he told me,” I say, “was to get my car. Drive down the mountain and wait until everyone from the meeting had left. Then call my friend Guido and tell him I’d just arrived from Rome. Simon said he needed to go back to the meeting, but then he would meet me again in the g
ardens.”
“There is no evidence to suggest,” Falcone says, “that your brother returned to the meeting.”
He doesn’t see that this is the crux of my story.
“He lied to me,” I say. “He never intended to go back.”
Falcone looks bemused.
But Archbishop Nowak seems to understand. He thinks like a priest. He must see that there’s finally a reason at hand for my brother’s silence. Me.
His sad Slavic eyes study me, neither disgusted nor compassionate. They convey only that Middle European familiarity with tragedy. His hands organize the papers on his master’s desk.
Falcone, though, isn’t satisfied. “What did you do with the gun?” he demands.
I am, like the serpent, victorious. Reaching inside my cassock, I remove the plastic bag containing the gun case. The proof that silences all doubt.
As Falcone stares at it, I see a slow transformation in his eyes. The pieces are finally arranging themselves. The only fact he cares about is finally in evidence.
“Your brother,” he says, without any hint of feeling, “has been protecting you?”
But before I can answer, Falcone’s head suddenly turns. He’s on alert, as if he’s seen something out of the corner of his eye.
Then I see it, too.
The Holy Father is moving. His right hand—his good one—is bobbing in the air, signaling to Archbishop Nowak.
His Grace lowers himself beside John Paul’s ear. Then a voice comes out of the ancient body. A husky, faint voice too hoarse for me to hear.
Nowak glances at me. There’s a change in his face. Something tumbles through his eyes. He whispers something back to John Paul, but I can’t understand their Polish. Finally the pope’s head nods. I’m frozen in my seat.
Falcone watches warily as Nowak takes the handles of the wheelchair. The chair rolls forward. Around the desk it comes. Past Falcone. Toward me.
The eyes are fixed on mine. A hypnotic Mediterranean color, a pelagic blue. They swim with life. He has missed nothing.
