“And all this was going on a few decades after the crucifixion?” asked Molino. “Why don’t people talk about this?”
“Historians do,” said Cullinane. “And don’t forget the great fire of Rome during Nero’s reign. That was the year 64. And the eruption of Mount Vesuvius in 79. It would be quite reasonable for a person living in the Roman Empire then to believe that the world was coming to an end.”
“Fascinating,” said Molino.
“After the Ebionites moved to Pella,” said Phillips, “they lived there, led by Jesus’s relatives who succeeded James, until the Bar Kochba revolt in the year 135. In the years before, the Romans were known to raid Pella. But 135 was when, of all people, the Jews came and attacked the Ebionites for refusing to agree that Bar Kochba was the messiah.”
“They denied Our Lord’s divinity altogether,” added Cullinane. “They also denied the virgin birth and the bodily resurrection. According to Eusebius, an early church historian, ‘they considered him a plain and common man, who was justified only because of his superior virtue.’”
“They were clearly heretical,” said Phillips. “Either way, most of the Ebionites were either killed or fled further into the wilderness. Some joined nascent Christian communities. But while in Pella, they were true to their faith to the very end.”
“When the last Pella Ebionite died,” said Cullinane, “Jesus’s ministry died with him.”
“Now that’s nonsense,” said Phillips, “Paul’s teaching was authentically Christian.”
“Yes, but Jesus was a Jew,” said Cullinane. “And Paul never met Jesus. With the Pella Ebionites, the closest connection we have to Jesus’s actual teachings was lost.”
“What do you mean?” asked Molino.
“Most historians place the Gospel of Mark before the destruction of the Second Temple in the year 70,” said Cullinane. “If this is truly the gospel of James the Just, it would pre-date his death in the year 62, possibly placing it before Mark.”
“We’d have to see it to make that determination,” said Phillips. “Mark was probably written in Rome. Matthew and Luke were written in exile in the aftermath of the destruction of the temple, probably in the 80s. John was later, probably closer to the end of the first century. If James the Just was the author of the Q gospel, it would be the only gospel written in Jerusalem prior to the destruction of the temple. James was Jesus’s disciple, it could be a verifiable first-hand account of Jesus’s words.”
“And it hasn’t been subjected to centuries of scriptorial emendations,” said Cullinane. “It could change how we know and understand Jesus,” adding, “I wonder if this Pella library was hidden to keep the books safe from the Jews and the Romans during the Bar Kochba revolt?”
“I find it remarkable that these books were found in 1946,” said Phillips. “That’s almost the same time as the Dead Sea Scrolls were discovered at Qumran, and the Gnostic Gospels were discovered in Nag Hammadi.”
“These things do tend to come in threes,” said Cullinane. “It is as if, after suffering the affliction of two world wars, the Lord decided to reveal himself to us.”
“But the Gospel of James is not yet revealed,” said Phillips. “Where is it?”
“In Istanbul,” said Molino, “the priest who discovered the books is studying them at the Patriarchate of Constantinople.”
“Oh what I wouldn’t give to see them,” said Cullinane.
“I sincerely doubt we’ll ever get the chance,” said Phillips.
“I know, you’ll bury me first,” said Cullinane.
Nine
“Cardinal Herranz will see you now,” said the bespectacled man, now familiar with Molino’s visits. He led Molino down the ornate loggia, up the staircase, down the decorous hallway, and with a bow, took his leave. The Cardinal was sitting in the Carver chair next to the small table in Gäenswein’s former office. He wore a black simar with a cape, red piping, a scarlet sash, and a scarlet skullcap. He rose regally, presenting his apostolic ring as Molino entered the room.
“Your eminence,” said Molino, bowing to kiss the ring.
“Please, have a seat,” said Herranz. Cardinal Julián Herranz Casado was Spanish, with degrees in medicine and canon law. In 2006, when Herranz headed the Pontifical Council for Legislative Texts, they issued Actus Formalis Defectionis Ab Ecclesia Catholica, which addressed the question of formally excommunicating people who had “notoriously” and “publicly” abandoned the faith, meaning in writing, or on television. It provided for the excommunication of people who expressed “true separation from the constitutive elements of the life of the Church.”
It was widely seen as a threat to liberals who criticized church hierarchy and church doctrine. It was abolished two years after Herranz left office.
“Thank you for seeing me,” said Molino, with a confused awkwardness, because it was Herranz’s secretary who called the meeting.
“My pleasure,” said Herranz with a languid Castilian accent. “This is terrible business. How on earth could it have come to this?”
“You are aware, your eminence, of the contents of the missing box.”
“Yes, and I know about this secret ecumenical council that our friends in Pallazo Malta wish to convene.”
“Realistically, I cannot resolve Monsignor Gäenswein’s murder unless...”
“...Not to worry my son. This is internal church business.”
“But it happened in my city.”
“But it happened on church property. I’m sure that was intentional. Captain, this matter is between and among our people and you will treat it as such.”
Molino became frustrated. These are the people who called him in. It was as if none of them wanted him to do his job. “So then why did you call me?”
“I would like for you to tell Mr. Clark that we will gladly attend his secret ecumenical council.”
“Why don’t you call and tell him yourself?”
“You, Captain Molino,” Herranz said with alacrity, “are now part of this process. If we are to keep this council secret, you are going to have to participate.”
“And if I refuse?”
“You are a Papal legate. You were given papers, no?”
“I was.”
“Then you must see this through. I am sure your father would be glad you did.”
Molino felt angry that his personal life had so clearly been thoroughly vetted by everyone in the process. It was violating. But he could tell that this is how these people operate, with hard threats veiled in soft comments. He thought about his father, piteously toiling his life away, his only comfort coming from the church. He thought about the thrill of being involved in something of historical importance. The thought did not appeal to him, pride was the only sin Molino recognized. Then he thought about his job. He was given this case, and therefore he should see it through. He looked up at the cardinal.
“Okay, I will do this. But it’s not for you, and it’s not for my father. I’ll do it because it’s my job.”
“I am happy to hear it Captain. You will come, and you will bring your friends Father Phillips and Mr. Cullinane. You are our legate, you should have your advisors with you.” Molino shrugged and nodded. “I have spoken with Metropolitan Theodosius, he has agreed,” continued Cardinal Herranz. “I would ask that you to return to the Palazzo Malta and make the final arrangements with Mr. Clark.”
Molino wasn’t sure he could look Clark in the eye, but he agreed.
It was raining out as Molino entered the gate at the Palazzo Malta. One of those summer rains that immediately evaporated on hot pavement, making the street a steam bath. Puddles formed on the Maltese Cross in the courtyard, reflecting the afternoon sky. Rain drops broke the mirror effect, sending concentric circles into one another, their lines intersecting and forming circles of their own. It was like a kaleidoscope of shifting patterns, images that are constantly changing and impossible to predict.
The well-tailored young man led Molino into the ornate l
obby. The blast of conditioned air made him shiver. They ascended in the elevator to the third floor and walked into a formal conference room. Classical artwork of the knights’ glories hung on the paneled walls. The floors were hardwood parquet with an elaborate medallion in the center of the floor. A broad crystal chandelier lit the room. The conference table had a Maltese Cross inlaid in cherry and ash, outlined in ebony. Molino sunk into one of the leather chairs surrounding the conference table.
“Mr. Clark will be with you in a moment,” said the young man. Molino thanked him.
Soon, Clark entered the room, wearing an ill-fitting suit, accompanied by three refined looking gentlemen, dressed with noble elegance. Molino surmised that these were professed knights.
“So you made it happen, congratulations!” said Clark, with an embracing two-handed handshake.
Molino retreated slightly, but kept his composure. “Your efforts made this happen sir, remember, I am just a messenger.” Molino looked to see if Clark would react to the implied accusation about Gäenswein’s murder.
Clark laughed it off as he and the others sat. Clark addressed his colleagues. “Captain Molino is a Papal legate on this matter. He has spent the last week between here, Istanbul, and the Vatican, and now he is here to formalize the terms of the second council.” Now addressing Molino, “We have prepared draft talking points but, seeing that your people are so adept at intercepting electronic communications, and there are others more interested and more technically adept than you who would make this public, we prefer to keep any communication strictly old school. No electronics. You can tell Cardinal Herranz that no device used in connection with this project has ever been attached to any means of electronic communication. No internet connections, no network cards, no wi-fi. We use only stand alone computers and thumb drives. We do not print anything we don’t shred. We suggest that you do the same. We have hired the best computer security people in Europe to make sure that everything on our end will never see the light of day. That is our word to you as the Papal legate, and to Metropolitan Theodosius.” Clark handed Molino a thumb drive. “These are the files. We will exchange comments to the talking points once, by thumb drive, but work off of the initial draft during the secret ecumenical council.”
“So when do you propose to have this secret council?” asked Molino.
“Next week, if His Eminence Herranz is amenable. Metropolitan Theodosius is available. We thought it appropriate that we meet on the island of Malta, where we could be host, and provide neutral territory to have these discussions. We have use of Fort St. Angelo in Birgu.”
“Thank you, I will pass this on to Cardinal Herranz,” said Molino, slipping the thumb drive into his breast pocket.
The eldest of the three gentlemen, with neatly cropped gray hair and a van dyke beard, addressed Molino, “Captain Molino, on behalf of the order, I would like to thank you for your efforts in this matter. We do appreciate them very much.”
“I am just doing my job, sir,” said Molino.
Another gentleman spoke, “It is God’s work.”
Molino wondered how anyone could presume to speak for God. He left the Palazzo Malta, stepping into the humid mist, still somehow feeling a sense of being lost. Murder to these people was nothing more than a diplomatic feint. Yes, it was all very impressive. These were powerful, resourceful people, engaged in a mission that could change the course of history. And they wanted him to be involved. He fought the urge to feel important. He recognized that he could be rich because of this. The gentleman with the van dyke was impliedly bribing him to help them push the Vatican into an agreement. Molino also knew this could make him famous. He was certain that Gianluigi Nuzzi could secure a huge media buyout to go public with what he knew.
But more urgently, he knew that riches and fame were empty goals. He did not inherit his father’s piety, but his father did teach him something more important: integrity. Piety is a lifestyle, fame and riches are a lifestyle, both are ephemeral, evaporating as soon as the prayer stops or the accounts go empty, leaving only emptiness and desire. Integrity is a calling, a vocation that builds on itself and renders rewards actually worth having.
He understood that these were all essentially good men, intelligent and well-intentioned. Their efforts were for the good of the church. But they all had different perspectives, and the weight of history, even if no one ever heard of this secret council, would fill the room with heavy expectation. They would do their utmost, whatever that may be. In his mind, Molino resolved simply to do his job.
Ten
The private air services terminal at Fiumicino was where celebrities and the wealthy mingled while waiting to board their private jets. There were no boarding passes or security gates in private air. There was no check in, and there was no distinction between carry-on and checked luggage. It was a small building across the runway from the main terminal. The interior was lit fluorescent, ringed with service kiosks – car rental, a bar, a snack shop. The small lobby was populated with Eames chairs and glass tables.
Molino entered the terminal lobby with Phillips and Cullinane. Cardinal Herranz was already there, accompanied by four priests, all of whom looked sober and serious. The cardinal, on the other hand, had a Manhattan in his hand. “Come gentlemen!” said the cardinal, “fix yourself a drink.”
All three politely declined. They set down their bags. The eight of them made up the Vatican delegation to the secret council. Herranz told them that there could have been more, but the preliminary discussions with Clark and Metropolitan Theodosius included an agreement on the size of each delegation, and they purposely kept it small.
Molino felt uncomfortable in a suit. He was unaccustomed to wearing them. The suit, and he only owned one, was ill-fitting and smelled of too many months left unworn hanging in the closet. Still, he couldn’t wear his police uniform because he wasn’t there on police business. He was a papal legate. He wasn’t even sure what that meant.
From the private air ramp, where the jets were being fueled and tended to, a stiffly formal woman entered the terminal lobby, followed by a studious looking younger man. Both wore sharp navy and white pilot’s uniforms. She greeted the cardinal, “Good afternoon Your Eminence, is your party here for the Borg, Funk and Miller flight?”
The cardinal rose, “Yes, and you are our pilot?”
“Yes,” said the woman, gesturing to the young man, “Antonio is my co-pilot, he will be available to assist you with whatever you may need while we are in flight.” Antonio pulled up a cart and loaded the delegation’s bags. He held the door open as the men walked out onto the ramp, and pushed the cart to the luggage hold in the back while the delegation ascended the air stairs. The cabin was spacious, lined with wide leather chairs and hardwood tables. Crystal globes covered the cabin lights. None of the men in the delegation expressed any reaction to the luxury of it, but Molino fought back the feeling of being thrilled at this glimpse into the posh life.
“We will be leaving in ten minutes, the flight will take less than two hours,” said the captain. “I will be completing the pre-flight check. Please feel free to let Antonio know if you need anything.”
The men settled into their seats. Molino, Cullinane, and Phillips sat next to one another. They exchanged glances, expressing with their eyes the shared boyish excitement for the adventure that lay ahead.
The approach to Malta International Airport took them over ancient waters. The Apostle Paul was shipwrecked on Malta while being taken to custody in Rome. That part of the Mediterranean Sea, midway between Rome, Athens, Tunis, and Tripoli, has been strategically and commercially important since men first navigated the sea. Phoenician traders used it as a stop on their way to Cornwall. It was controlled by the Carthaginians, the Romans, and the Greek-speaking Byzantines. In 1530, Emperor Charles V gave the island to the Knights Hospitaller of St. John, whereon they renamed themselves the Knights of Malta. They defeated an Ottoman assault on the island. Napoleon captured the island in 1798 by asking for
safe harbor, and then opening up his guns on the flank of the exposed forts. The Knights of Malta were driven into exile from their eponymous island.
In the following centuries, the Knights of Malta maintained a low profile, but remained a source of power. Their extraterritoriality appealed to the noble and the powerful, people who thought themselves above nation states, flawed as they were with the infection of popular rule. What mattered more to these people was blood, more specifically, family blood. In the twentieth century, when monarchies around the world collapsed and plutocrats rose to fill the void, both royal blood and new wealth sought refuge in places that had no place, such as Swiss bank accounts and Cayman Island trusts. For devout Catholics, one such refuge was the Knights of Malta.
“Watch your step,” said Antonio, assisting the delegation down the air steps.
A sweet subtropical Mediterranean breeze hit Molino as soon as he stepped on to the executive air ramp at Malta International Airport. Two Mercedes Benz limousines awaited the Vatican delegation, both cars flying a Republic of Malta flag over the left front wheel, and the Maltese Cross over the right front wheel. The men entered the cars as Antonio and the drivers loaded their bags into the trunk, and soon the cars pulled off the ramp and on to Triq Giuseppe Garibaldi, the road to Birgu. They passed the Royal Malta Golf Club, with its close trimmed fairways and brand new clubhouse. Corn daisies and ficus hedges lined the roadways, which all seemed freshly paved and painted. Molino felt as if he was in a different world.
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