“What, and he had an inventory?”
“Yes, last December, the day after the feast of the Nativity, Gäenswein went into the file room and found them missing. He consulted a file log and had an exact count.”
“Germans,” said Molino.
Ritti laughed. “Yes, Germans.”
“Does he know what’s in the missing box?”
Ritti shook his head. “He didn’t say. You’ll have to ask him yourself.”
Molino nodded, and started to get up, as if they were through.
“One more thing,” said Ritti, now almost like a lecturing father. Molino settled back in his chair, chastened. “It is very important that you find this box.”
Molino nodded in acknowledgment. “I know, I’m on the case.”
“No,” said Ritti, staring Molino down. “It is very important that you find this box.” Molino stared back, looking for clues in Ritti’s eyes. He clearly wasn’t going to let on why exactly this box was important. Molino knew that was for him to find out. “If you need any help,” said Ritti, “any help at all, you let me know and you will get it.”
Molino nodded again. He could tell that Ritti was now finished. “You’ve got a lot of work to do,” said Molino. “I’ll get out of your way.”
“Get Gäenswein’s information from Roberta up front,” said Ritti.
“Può fare.”
Molino left Ritti’s office and headed to the front desk. Roberta Agonstini, Ritti’s enduring assistant, had the telephone receiver to her ear, but was not talking. Molino raised his hand, motioning to interrupt. She wagged a finger at him, shaking her head. She shifted in her seat, adjusting the telephone handpiece against her ear. It was clear she had been listening to someone, and was not on hold. “Uh huh, yes,” she said, scribbling on a pad. “Yes, okay, thank you,” she finished, hanging up the telephone.
“Excuse me,” said Molino, I need to...”
“Monsignor Gäenswein will see you tomorrow morning at nine,” said Roberta, tearing off the sheet off the top of her pad. She handed it to Molino. He smiled.
“You guys have a pretty smooth operation,” said Molino.
“If you only knew,” said Roberta, chuckling to herself.
It had already been a long day. Molino left the Vatican with his officers in tow. They stopped at Porta Castello, their regular lunch place. They took their usual table. “Buoni signori pomeriggio,” greeted Maria, their regular waitress. The men ordered their meals. As one got up to use the lavatory, Molino caught something in the corner of his eye. The red cardigan sweater.
The man in the red cardigan sweater was at the bar, positioned to see the table from behind Molino’s back. He was sipping coffee but Molino could tell the man in the red cardigan sweater was watching him. A mirror on the far wall confirmed it. The man was close enough to hear what they were saying. Molino shrugged it off. The cops were talking sports, nothing worth overhearing.
After lunch was paid, the cops got up to leave. Molino looked over his shoulder and the man in the red cardigan was gone. As they walked toward the commando locale, Molino saw him again, on the other side of the street, half a block behind. “Vai avanti,” Molino said to his men. They continued. Molino crossed the street and headed toward the man in the red cardigan, who stopped cold in his tracks and started quickly in the opposite direction.
“Just a minute,” said Molino, catching up to the man. “What’s going on here?”
“Wh- What?” asked the man, “Nothing. Nothing’s going on.”
“You’re following me,” said Molino.
“Uh, oh geeze. Yes. Sorry, I’m so terribly sorry. I meant no offense, honestly.” The man was in his late 60s, thin with fast blue eyes, and had a noticeable Irish accent.
“Following police is not an offense, but interfering with an investigation is.”
“Interfere?” scoffed the man. “Interfere? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You were trying to listen in on us in the restaurant.”
The man almost wilted. “Yes, you are correct. I was trying to listen to you in the restaurant.”
“So what is it? Is it Gabriele? Do you know him?”
“I know of him, but I’ve never met him.”
The man seemed nervous but Molino knew he wasn’t lying. “So why were you at his apartment this morning?”
“I was just watching.”
“But why were you watching?”
The man shrugged, as if to give in. “I’d like to tell you, but it may take a few minutes.”
“I’ll give you five.”
Molino and the man sat at a café table. The waiter poured them water. The man began. “This has been a big day for me. I heard that there is a box that wasn’t in Gabriele’s apartment. I heard the Vatican is sorely vexed about this. I heard that you’ve been called in to find the box. I only want to be there when it is found.”
“Who are you?”
“My name is Daniel Cullinane. I’m a biblical scholar and a teacher, that’s all.”
“That’s all? What’s a biblical scholar care about this box?”
“To be honest, I’m not sure. But the rumor mill in the Vatican is positively alight with the news of this box. For me, it’s not the box, it’s the people who are interested in the box.”
“Like who?”
“Like Cardinal Julian Herranz Casado.”
“Who’s he?”
“Well,” Cullinane chuckled, “he’s a cardinal. But more importantly, for thirteen years he was the president of the Pontifical Council for Interpretation of Legislative Texts.”
“What’s that?”
“They’re sort of like the Attorney General’s office, they interpret biblical text in its application to canon law.”
“And he’s interested in this box?”
“Yes, very much so. And that’s unusual because this supposedly criminal matter is far outside of his field of competence. I’m told that Cardinal Herranz lobbied very heavily to get appointed to the commission.”
“The Vatican commission investigating the leak?”
“The very one.”
“And why are you interested in Cardinal Herranz?”
“Because he’s one of only two Cardinals that are Opus Dei.”
Molino shook his head. “So you’re one of those guys who thinks that Opus Dei is a cult?”
“Well, it sort of is,” said Cullinane. “But my concern is with the Bible, and when it comes to textual interpretation, Herranz is a radical. He is well outside of the mainstream of current scholarship, and his for his entire career has been actively trying to undo the last twenty years of biblical exegesis. He claims it is pushing the faithful away from the church. You combine an Opus Dei Cardinal’s undeniable power with a radical orthodox interpretation of the text, that tells me there is more than corruption involved in this leak.”
“And he’s afraid of this box.”
“Precisely. Very afraid.”
They chatted for what turned out to be an hour. It turned out that Cullinane was much more than just a scholar – he was one of the world’s leading authorities on the historical Jesus, with over a dozen books on the subject, and his willingness to speak plainly and openly about his conclusions left him not well loved in many Christian circles. Molino knew that the New Testament was a compilation of books and letters, but he had no idea they were originally written in Greek. He also had no idea that there were other books written about the same time, called apocrypha, that were not included in the New Testament. Cullinane told him how the books that made it into the Bible were chosen at the Council of Nicea in the year 325. Emperor Constantine called the Council of Nicea to eliminate any dissenting voices among Christians, so that the Roman Empire could unite under one religion – Christianity. There were many different texts floating around at the time, such as the Gospel of Thomas and the Gnostic Gospels. The Gospel of Thomas was discovered in 1947 at Qumran, on the hills of the Dead Sea outside of Jerusalem. The
Gnostic Gospels were discovered in 1945 at Nag Hammadi on the Nile. None of those texts made it into the Bible and, as Cullinane put it, they paint a different picture of Jesus and his teachings than the canonical texts of the New Testament.
Molino had his own perspective on this case. He would treat it like any other case. When you’re trying to find out what’s really going on, you follow the money.
Three
“Monsignor Gäenswein will see you now,” said the bespectacled man at the desk.
Molino had never been inside the Papal Apartments in the Vatican. They were immense. The building itself is called the Apostolic Palace, but it’s not so much a palace as a group of palaces, organized around a central courtyard. They include the lavishly decorated Borgia Apartments and the famous Sistine Chapel. It is run by the Prefecture of the Pontifical Household, a bureaucratic maze that few fully understand. It also houses the Vatican Library and the Vatican Secret Archives.
The entrance foyer was modest by comparison to the rest of the building, and the desk where the bespectacled man sat was solid but simple. He rose from his chair and led Molino through a door which opened onto a breathtaking loggia, the walls covered with ornate Middle Age tapestries, the ceilings covered with sixteenth century frescoes. The marble mosaic underfoot was detailed and polished. It smelled vaguely of incense. The sun shone through the iron-framed windows, giving the long hallway a sense of warmth. The loggia was lined with a series of tall double doors made of heavy knurled hardwood, leaving the observer curious to know what cultural treasures lay behind.
Their footsteps ticked across the floor, out of synch, making an awkward, arrhythmic sound. At the end of the loggia, they ascended a staircase which led to a decorous but still impressive hallway. The lighting was artificial, and as the bespectacled man turned, he opened a door and bowed.
“Third door to your right,” he said.
Molino returned the bow and proceeded, finding it odd that, other than the bespectacled man, he had not seen one human soul since he arrived in the palace. He reached the door, it was open. The office was small, but very neat. A bookcase lined one wall, and there were windows looking out onto the courtyard. Gäenswein sat at his desk, tapping at a computer keyboard. Molino knocked on the door frame to announce his presence.
Pretending to be surprised, Gäenswein nearly leapt from his chair, “Captain Molino! Good sir! So glad to meet you!” He was in his 50s, strikingly handsome with an athletic build, a square-jawed toothy smile, crisp blue eyes, boyish brown hair, parted in the middle and flecked with grey. His German accent was thick. “Come! Come! Please sit down.”
They sat in leather Carver chairs at a small table. Gäenswein offered coffee, Molino politely declined. They exchanged pleasantries and then Gäenswein looked down at a manila folder he was holding in his hand. “Thank you for helping us with this very sensitive matter.”
Molino looked back at the Monsignor confidently. “We will devote every available resource to recovering your property. On that, you have my word.”
Gäenswein smiled warmly, “I have every confidence that you will succeed.”
“So when did you discover these boxes missing?”
“It was in December, on the 26th. It was the Monday after the feast of our Lord’s nativity. I went into the file room at approximately ten thirty in the morning and found them missing. It was two whole rows.”
“How many rows are in the file room?”
“Over fifty.”
“They were taken from contiguous rows, contiguous shelves?”
“Yes. Rows three and four.”
“Why do you think it was that way and not, say, different boxes around the room?”
“We file by subject. Those were the rows for ambassadorial activities. They had mostly external communications, correspondence with heads of state, governments, other congregations. He had to be looking for a particular communication.”
“Do you know which one?”
“Not yet.”
“And how is it that you came to suspect Paolo Gabriele?”
“He had been to see the file clerk on several occasions, asking questions about the file system. They are friends, so the clerk answered his questions. It was only after the break-in that the clerk found their conversation strange. This is something that His Holiness’s butler would have no business knowing.”
Molino nodded in understanding. “I hear you have an inventory.”
“Yes,” said Gäenswein, looking again at the folder in his hand. “Here it is, a printout of all of the boxes that Herr Gabriele stole.”
He handed the folder to Molino, who opened it and saw the list, printed on two pages. It was in tabular form, with columns of numbers from 1 to 83, location indices, and box descriptions. Molino glanced at the document and asked, “So, Monsignor, which box is the one that’s missing?”
“We don’t know yet,” said Gäenswein.
Molino looked down at the list, and then back at Gäenswein. “But you did get the 82 boxes seized in Gabriele’s apartment, no?”
“Oh, yes, of course. But we must do a careful review of each box to see what is missing.”
Molino was confused. “But surely you could at least cross reference the boxes you got back against this list.”
“It’s not that simple, Herr Captain. While the boxes themselves are coded, we have some indication that the contents inside have been tampered with. We cannot release any information about the missing material until this review is complete. And, surely, you would not want us wasting your time giving you incomplete information.”
“Honestly, I wouldn’t mind at all. I’ll take anything that will get me started.”
“You have your list Herr Captain. I will contact you with the results of our internal review when they become available.”
Molino was confused. Most theft victims will tell the police everything they can if it will help recover their property. But this was the Vatican. Rumors and competing agenda sweep though Vatican City both day and night like currents and tides eddying down a twisted canal. Intrigue is background noise in this city. Novices participate eagerly, veterans do so wearily. Molino realized that he wasn’t going to get anything more out of Gäenswein, so he popped the folder in his hand and rose. “This will be more than sufficient to get me started. I wish every theft victim I interviewed was as organized.”
“I am, after all, German by birth,” grinned Gäenswein, reaching into his jacket pocket, and pulling out an envelope. “Please take this as well,” he said, handing Molino the envelope.
“What is it?” asked Molino, taking the envelope.
“Open it,” said Gäenswein.
Molino opened it. It contained a piece of parchment with ornate ink handwriting, all in Latin. He repeated his question. “What is it?”
“It’s a Papal legate,” said Gäenswein. “As you conduct your inquiry, we would like others to know you are doing so with the authority of the Apostolic chair.” Molino looked down again, it was signed Benedictus PP XVI.
“Is this necessary?” asked Molino.
“Perhaps not, but we would like you to have it in case you need it. It also requests that you keep any sensitive information that you may come across during your investigation confidential.”
Molino sensed that was the real reason they wanted to give him this document. “I keep everything in my investigations confidential. I only reveal what I need to reveal to witnesses to get more leads.”
“We trust your judgment. Just be aware that this case is highly sensitive. We wish to resolve it quickly, and quietly.”
“Understood.”
Cullinane was waiting in St. Peter’s Square as Molino emerged. Although suspicious of Cullinane’s motives, the man’s utter lack of guile convinced Molino of his sincerity. What’s more, Molino realized that Cullinane’s expertise may be of use in this case. They went to a café and discussed the Gäenswein interview over coffee.
“So did he tell you which box was
missing?”
“No.”
“That’s strange.”
“It is. But he did give me this list.” Cullinane scanned the first page of the list, then the second, then his eyes widened. “What is it?” Molino asked.
“Number 52,” said Cullinane, pointing to the list.
“Yes,” said Molino, “I thought that one strange too. All of the descriptions are rather long, that one’s just a letter.”
“Q,” said Cullinane. “That’s not just any letter.” Molino looked at him curiously. Cullinane continued. “Q is short for what we call the Q source, the missing gospel in the two-source hypothesis.”
Molino chuckled. “Okay, explain please.”
“You see, textual analysts have long ago concluded that the Gospel of Mark pre-dated the gospels of Matthew and Luke. In other words, the authors of Matthew and Luke borrowed from Mark. That much is clear. But there is also agreement that they also drew on a second gospel, what we call the Q source, but that gospel is missing. We’ve reconstructed it from the gaps between Mark and the synoptic gospels, Matthew and Luke. Since the nineteenth century, that missing gospel has been known as Q for quelle, the German word for source. No one in modernity has ever seen it.”
“So you think the Q on Gäenswein’s inventory is referring to this Q source?”
“I don’t know, but if it does, that would be astounding. If it exists, it pre-dates Matthew and Luke, it is very ancient indeed.”
“So why would your Cardinal Herranz be interested in the Q gospel?”
“Oh, for the love of all that is sacred I wish I knew,” said Cullinane, eyes gleaming.
“So how can we find out?”
Cullinane drew a sly grin. “I have a friend who can help, but you’ll need to throw some weight around if you want to talk to him.”
“Major Ritti please,” said Father Phillips with his potent Oxford accent. Roland Phillips was a student of the “Received Pronunciation.” Throughout his adult life, he used the accent to establish superiority over his intellectual inferiors. He paused, looking up at Molino and Cullinane with furrowed brow. “No, ma’am, now please, this is urgent.” There was a brief pause and then his face lit in recognition. “Yes, Major Ritti, Roland Phillips at the Vatican Library. Yes. Yes, thank you. Yes. I understand but you must know that this ‘expert’ that Captain Molino has with him is an excommunicated priest who for years has been promoting nothing but conspiracy theories. We have refused his Letter of Surety many times... I realize he is here under Captain Molino’s authority, but... Cardinal Farina will be most displeased if you allow this man into the Secret Archives. He does? A Papal legate? Well... I know, but... But sir...” And with that Father Phillips sighed in resignation. “Very well sir, but please note it is over my protest. Yes. Thank you.”
Book of James: a novel Page 2
