The Fifth Gospel by Ian Caldwell Read Free Book Online Page A

callous jokes about stigmata. Simon thumps a fist on the table and growls, “Enough!”
    The silence is instant. He is the sum of authority in their world—tall, commanding, priestly. At thirty-three years old, I realize, he may also seem old.
    â€œDo they know how someone could’ve gotten into the gardens?” I ask.
    The men twitter like birds on a wire. The consensus: no.
    â€œSo nobody saw anything?” I press.
    At last it’s Leo who speaks up. “ I saw something.”
    The table grows hushed.
    â€œLast week,” he says, “when I was running third shift at Saint Anne’s, a vehicle pulled up to request entry.”
    Saint Anne’s is the gate beside this barracks. Swiss Guards are posted there at all hours to check incoming vehicles from Rome. During third shift, though, the border gates are closed. No one is allowed into our country at night.
    â€œIt’s oh-three-hundred,” Leo continues, “and a cargo truck starts flashing its lights at me. I wave it off, but the driver steps out.”
    The men grimace. This isn’t the protocol. Drivers must lower their windows and display their IDs.
    â€œI approach,” Leo goes on, “with Vice Corporal Frei in a supportingposition. The driver has an Italian license. Lo and behold, he also has a permission of entry. Guess whose signature is on this permission.”
    He waits. These men are still young enough to be thrilled by the possibilities.
    â€œIt was signed,” Leo says, “by Archbishop Nowak.”
    There are whistles. Antoni Nowak is the highest-ranking priest-­secretary in the world. The right-hand man of Pope John Paul.
    â€œI tell Vice Corporal Frei to call upstairs,” Leo continues, “to confirm the signature. Meanwhile, I have a look in the truck bed.” He leans forward. “And there’s a coffin back there. With a sheet covering it, and Latin words written on top. Don’t ask me what they say. But under the sheet is a big metal casket. And I mean big .”
    All around the table, the halberdiers cross themselves. Every man in this barracks, hearing of a metal casket, shares the same thought. When a pope dies, he’s buried in a triple coffin. The first is cypress, the last is oak. But the middle one is made of lead.
    John Paul’s health has been the subject of urgent concern. He’s weak. He’s been unable to walk. His face is a mask of pain. The Cardinal Secretary of State, the second-most powerful man in the Holy See, has broken the code of silence by saying retirement is possible, that if the pope’s health prevents him from ruling, it’s a matter of conscience whether he must step down. Journalists circle like vultures, some of them offering to pay Vatican villagers for any whiff of intelligence. I wonder why Leo is risking a story like this in front of such an unseasoned audience.
    But he answers that question by saying: “And who should I find sitting on the bench beside this casket? The name on the ID says: ‘Nogara, Ugolino.’ ” Leo raps the table gently with his knuckles. “A minute later, we get the callback. Archbishop Nowak confirms the permission of entry. My truck pulls away, and that’s the last I ever see of the coffin or Nogara. Now: someone please tell me what that means.”
    It has the ring of a ghost story. A waking dream that has intruded on dark third-shift hours. These are superstitious men.
    Before anyone can respond, Simon stands up. He murmurs something that sounds like I’m sick , or possibly I’m sick of this . Without apologizing or saying good-bye, he walks out of the cantina.
    I get to my feet and follow him, my body feeling clumsy beneath me. Leo’s story has added a giant new circumstance to Ugo’s death.These Swiss Guards have missed it, because the days are gone when any Roman Catholic with a few years of school would’ve known Latin. But my father raised his