The Fifth Gospel

  Canon law. The code of the Church. But the Rota spends most of its time ruling on requests for marriage annulments. It never handles murders.

  “That’s impossible,” I say. “Who decided that?”

  The Vatican has a separate civil law. We can convict criminals and send them to Italian prisons. That’s how Ugo’s murder should be prosecuted. Not under Church law.

  “I don’t know,” Simon whispers. “But Lucio has a friend coming over with more news tonight. I think you should be there.”

  I tug at my beard. Our criminal court is run by a layman, but our canonical courts are run by priests. Somewhere in this I hear an echo of Michael Black’s warning. Someone in a collar has a hand in this and won’t give up until he has what he wants.

  “Okay,” I tell Simon. “I’ll be there.”

  But my brother’s focus has been distracted by something else. The rear door to the museum is open. Standing at the threshold are Don Diego and Agent Martelli.

  I raise a hand in the air and call out, “We’re okay. I just need a minute with my brother.”

  But Diego says, “Father Simon, the curators need you.”

  So my brother puts Peter down and kneels to hug him. To me he murmurs, “Stay safe. I’ll see you both in a few hours.”

  * * *

  THE CASA HAS A small library for guests. When Peter and I arrive back at the hotel, I borrow the law book that applies to all Roman Catholics—Codex Iuris Canonici, the Code of Canon Law—and we go straight to our room.

  The code and its built-in legal commentary are immense. They make the Bible look like beach reading. Here in my hands is the combined wisdom of two thousand years of solving the Church’s day-to-day problems. How much can a priest be paid for performing a funeral? Is it okay to marry a Protestant? Can the pope retire? Canon law dictates who can teach at a Catholic school, or sell Church property, or lift an excommunication. But Ugo’s case will revolve around canon 1397: A person who commits a homicide or who kidnaps, detains, mutilates, or gravely wounds a person by force or fraud is to be punished. Nowhere in the list of punishments, though, is there any mention of prison. This is the most obvious problem with trying Ugo’s murder under Church law: the killer won’t spend a day behind bars, because prison isn’t a punishment under canon law. If the killer is a priest, though, a more harrowing punishment looms—dismissal from the clerical state.

  It’s hard for a layman to understand the gravity of being laicized. Saying that a priest is no longer a priest is paradoxical, like saying a mother is childless or a person is inhuman. What God gives a man at his ordination, no human power can remove. So while a laicized priest can still validly celebrate the sacraments, he’s forbidden to. Any Mass he celebrates must be shunned by the Catholic laity. He may not give a homily or hear a confession except on a deathbed. He may not even work at a seminary or teach theology at any school, Catholic or not. This is what gives the sentence such power: it turns us into ghosts. It obligates the world to deny our existence. No secular court has this power over laymen. It’s a verdict that pushes many priests to suicide. As I think about it now, this may be a clue to what’s happening in Ugo’s trial. Trying the case in a canonical court isn’t just a way to let priests control the outcome. It’s a peculiarly awful way to threaten a priest as well.

  “Peter,” I say, “can you get my pack of index cards from the suitcase?”

  “Why?”

  “There’s something I need to figure out.”

  He groans. Though he’s too young to know the meaning of these legal terms, he knows what it means when Babbo needs to figure something out. Bookwork.

  At first, it’s painstaking. The gaps in my education seem chasmic. Every priest takes a basic class on canon law in seminary, but nothing serious until fourth year, when men choose between theology and canon law for their graduate work. My choice of theology has never seemed so inconvenient.

  “Write down this number,” I tell Peter. “One-four-two-zero.”

  Canon 1420: Each diocesan bishop is bound to appoint a judicial vicar . . . distinct from the vicar general.

  I know how a canonical trial starts. In theory, a bishop investigates an accusation. If it has merit, he summons a tribunal. But the reality is different. A bishop is a busy man, so his work is done by assistants. This is especially true of John Paul, who oversees not only the diocese of Rome but the universal Church. So which of John Paul’s underlings is making this decision? The answer is in this canon: the special assistant in charge of legal matters, a priest known as the judicial vicar. Now that I know his title, I can use the Vatican yearbook to hunt down his name.

  “Next,” I say, “write one-four-two-five. And then a little squiggle with the number three.”

  Peter frowns. “Which way does three go again?”

  I tousle his hair. “Like B, without the line.”

  Canon 1425 §3 says the judicial vicar also assigns the judges. The whole trial now seems to lie in the hands of this one man, whoever he is. It leaves me curious about who these judges will be. But I came here looking for something more: a back-door way to find out who stands accused of Ugo’s murder.

  Church trials are secretive. A parish may never find out that a crime was committed in its backyard, let alone that a Church court has rendered a verdict. Knowing the name of the judicial vicar will be helpful, but it isn’t as if I can call his office and ask about his investigation. Fortunately, in our Church there is always—always—a paper trail. And canon law tells me what to look for.

  “One-seven-two-one,” I tell Peter. “Then add a star. And below it, one-five-zero-seven.”

  I repeat each number to him, digit by digit. The code, like the Bible, jumps forward and backward, each line referencing others hundreds of pages away. Canon 1721 says that when the bishop decides there’s enough evidence for a trial, he asks a Church prosecutor to write a formal accusation, called the libellus, which includes the name and address of the accused. This invokes 1507, which says the libellus must be sent to all parties of the trial. In other words, the libellus is how word of the trial seeps beyond the bishop and his immediate contacts. If Lucio is receiving a visit from a friend with information about the trial, then I infer the libellus is in circulation. And if that’s true, then I know where one copy of it must’ve been sent. The Holy Father’s safety requires that the Swiss Guard be notified about any dangerous persons on Vatican soil.

  “Peter,” I say, “put a rubber band around those cards. I think we’re done.”

  I’m already dialing the phone number.

  “Alex?” Leo answers. “Is everything okay?”

  I explain the situation. “Have you seen anything about a name?”

  “No. Nothing.”

  “But did they tell you to keep an eye out for anyone?”

  “No.”

  I’m taken aback. If the libellus is out, then whoever killed Ugo knows he’s being prosecuted. Yet no one is even looking for him.

  “I’ll make some calls,” Leo says to reassure me. “I’ll double-check with the guards on palace duty. Maybe their orders were different.”

  But Leo is senior enough that I doubt orders go over his head. I’m about to dig back into the code when a sound in the hallway distracts me. The swish of something sliding under the door.

  “Hold on, Leo,” I say.

  It’s an envelope. My name is written on the front of it. The handwriting is somehow familiar.

  When I open it, I find a single photograph. It shows the exterior of the Casa with an Eastern priest leaving the front doors.

  My breath slips out.

  “What’s wrong?” Leo asks.

  The Eastern priest is me.

  This picture was taken yesterday. Whoever took it was standing just across the courtyard.

  There’s a note on the back, in the same handwriting.

  T
ell us what Nogara was hiding.

  Below is a phone number.

  I lurch toward the door and open it.

  “Agent Martelli!”

  Distantly I hear a sound. An elevator opening. When I turn to look, I see the tail of a black robe entering the car. A priest, leaving.

  I turn back. “Martelli! ”

  But this end of the hall is empty. Martelli is gone.

  A knot of Eastern priests stands by the elevator bank. They stare at me with concern.

  I feel Peter behind me, tugging at my cassock. Without a word I lift him in my arms and run to the nearest stairwell.

  “What’s wrong?” he cries.

  “Nothing. Everything’s okay.”

  I pull the handle to the stairwell door, but it doesn’t budge. The door is locked.

  We return to the room and bolt the door. I call Simon’s mobile, but there must be no reception at the museums. I dial gendarme headquarters instead.

  “Pronto. Gendarmeria.”

  “Officer,” I blurt, “this is Father Andreou. I was assigned a security escort, but he’s disappeared. I need help.”

  “Yes, Father. Of course. One moment.”

  But when he returns to the line, he says, “I’m sorry. There’s no escort under your name.”

  “That’s a mistake. I—I need a way to find Agent Martelli.”

  “Martelli’s right here. Please hold.”

  I’m stunned. The voice that comes on the line is unmistakable. “This is Martelli.”

  “Agent,” I fumble, “it’s Father Andreou. Where are you?”

  “At my desk,” he says gruffly. “Your escort was canceled.”

  “I don’t understand. Something’s happening. We need your help. Please come back to the Casa.”

  “Sorry, Father. You’ll have to call security there like all the other guests do.”

  Then the line goes dead.

  * * *

  PETER WATCHES IN A frantic state as I gather our belongings.

  “Babbo, where are we going?”

  “To Prozio Lucio.”

  I’ve called Lucio’s apartments. Don Diego is on his way. He will escort us back to the penthouse of my uncle’s palace.

  “What’s wrong?” Peter asks, clutching my arm.

  “I don’t know. Just help me finish packing.”

  Ten long minutes later, the knock comes. Glancing through the peephole, I see Diego standing beside an unfamiliar Swiss Guard. I unbolt the door.

  “Father Alex,” Diego says, “this is Captain Furrer.”

  “Father, what happened?” Furrer asks.

  “Someone left this message under my door.”

  He shakes his head. “Impossible. Access to this floor is restricted.”

  I show him the envelope, but he disregards it.

  “The stairwells are secured,” he says, “and the elevator attendants won’t bring anyone to this floor without a room key.”

  So this is what the nun meant yesterday about the precautions the sisters have taken.

  “I saw a priest in a cassock getting into the elevator,” I say.

  “There must be another explanation,” Furrer says. “We’ll straighten it out downstairs.”

  Diego extends his hands, offering to take our bags. Peter, misunderstanding the gesture, runs into his arms for a hug. Over his shoulder, Diego gives me a quizzical look, asking where our gendarme escort is. Down the hall, the Eastern priests continue to stare.

  * * *

  THE NUN AT THE front desk is wearing a black habit.

  “I brought up the envelope,” she says. “What’s the matter?”

  “Where did it come from?” I demand.

  “It was with the incoming mail.”

  But there’s no postage or address on it. Someone dropped it here by hand. I wonder if that was after they tried delivering it themselves.

  I notice the lobby is dead. The dining hall has closed early, and a sign says the rear chapel is closed, too. Cordons block the way.

  “What’s happening?” I ask the nun at the desk.

  “Repairs,” she says.

  Another sign announces that the top floor, where Peter and I were staying, can be reached only by the secondary elevator.

  “Sister, did you tell anyone where we were staying?” I ask.

  The nun looks concerned. “Of course not. We’re under strictest orders. There must be a misunderstanding.”

  But I reach into my cassock and fish out our room key. The Casa’s initials are raised on the fob, and engraved beside them, our room number. I wonder if this was my mistake. If someone saw this key. It’s an advertisement of where Peter and I have been staying.

  “Will you be checking out, Father?” the nun asks, offering to take back the key.

  “No,” I say, slipping it back into my cassock. I doubt we’re coming back, but there’s no need to advertise that, too.

  Diego takes our bags and gestures toward the door. “Your sedan is waiting,” he says.

  Our sedan. It would take five minutes to walk to Lucio’s palace. Yet never in my life have I been more grateful to take a car.

  * * *

  ONLY THE NUNS ARE home when we arrive.

  “His Eminence and your brother are still working on the exhibit,” Diego explains. He shakes his head as if a new circle of hell is being excavated down at the museums. “So what happened?”

  I hand him the photo in the envelope. When he reads the message on the back, he frowns. “And your escort?”

  “The gendarme agent said it was called off.”

  Diego growls. “We’ll see about that.”

  Before he can reach for the phone on his desk, I say, “Diego, do you know anything about that?” I point to the message on the photo. “A discovery Ugo made?”

  “The Diatessaron?”

  “No. Something more than that.”

  He turns the photo over. “That’s what this is about?”

  “Michael Black mentioned something like it, too.”

  He frowns, not recognizing Michael’s name. Few clerics below the grade of bishop can get their business onto my uncle’s desk. “First I’ve heard of it. But I’ll see what the chief of gendarmes says.”

  I wave him off. “Let me talk to Simon and my uncle first.”

  “You’re sure?”

  I’m not sure I can trust the gendarmes now.

  Diego looks me squarely in the eye. “Alex, you’re safe here. That’s a promise.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  Peter says, “Can I have a fruit punch, Diego?”

  Diego smiles. “Three fruit punches, coming up,” he says, winking at me. He makes a good Negroni.

  But just for a second, he hesitates. Under his breath he adds, “I ought to tell you that we have a visitor coming tonight.”

  “I know.”

  “Will you be joining us?”

  “Yes.”

  Something about the idea makes him frown again. But he continues on toward the kitchen.

  * * *

  WHEN PETER HAS HAD time to settle in, I tell him I need to unpack our bags. Diego takes the hint and distracts Peter so I can be alone in the bedroom.

  Sliding the photo out of the envelope again, I look at the phone number on the back. It’s a landline somewhere inside these walls. Vatican numbers have the same area code as Rome but begin with 698. For a few euros, the owner of this number could’ve bought a nearly anonymous SIM card in Rome. Doing this instead sends a message.

  I dial the switchboard and ask the nun to do a reverse lookup.

  “Father,” she says politely, “we have a policy against that.”

  I thank her for her time and hang up. There are a dozen nuns at the switchboard, so I know I won’t get the same one twice.
When I call back, I explain that I’m an electrician in the maintenance department. Someone has called for a repair, but all I have is this callback number, no name or address.

  “It’s an unregistered line,” she says helpfully. “In the Palazzo di ­Niccolò III. Third floor. That’s all it says here.”

  “Thank you, Sister.”

  I close my eyes. The papal palace is a heap of smaller palaces built one on top of another by successive popes centuries ago. The Palace of Pope Nicholas III is its nucleus, more than seven hundred years old. It contains the most powerful organism in the Holy See. The Secretariat of State.

  My stomach churns. The Secretariat is faceless. Its men come and go. They are recruited, sent abroad, replaced. There’s only one way to know whose phone this is.

  When I dial the number, the line rings and rings. Finally an answering machine picks up. But there’s no voice. No message. Just silence, followed by a beep.

  I haven’t prepared anything to say. But it comes out.

  “Whatever you want from me, I don’t have it. I don’t know anything. Nogara never told me any secret. Please. Leave me and my son alone.”

  I hesitate, then hang up. In the adjacent room, through the crack in the door, I see Peter playing a game on Diego’s computer. Fishing. I watch him cast his line and wait. Cast his line and wait.

  * * *

  THE AFTERNOON FADES AWAY. From the windows of the penthouse I can see everything that happens in this country. Anyone coming from any direction will be visible; nothing can take us by surprise. This helps the panic to drain, replacing it with weary vigilance. Diego finds a deck of cards and introduces Peter to scopa, the game I played with Mona in the hospital after he was born. It’s just past six when Lucio and Simon return from the exhibit. My uncle immediately demands to know what happened, why Peter and I no longer have our security escort. Rather than belabor everything in front of Peter, I let the topic go. The nuns have finished preparing dinner and setting the places, so with a sense of expedition I don’t quite understand, we all sit down to eat. Lucio begins the blessing from the head of the table. We all say it together, four priests and a boy. To the extent that we’ve ever felt like a normal family, we feel like one now.