The Order

by Daniel Silva

  “Did you really try to find it? Or was that a story, too?”

  “No,” said Father Jordan. “I searched the Archives for more than twenty years. Because there’s no reference to the gospel in the Index Rooms, it was a bit like looking for the proverbial needle in a haystack. About ten years ago, I forced myself to stop. That book was ruining my life.”

  “And then?”

  “Someone gave it to the Holy Father. And the Holy Father decided to give it to you.”

  64

  ABBEY OF ST. PETER, ASSISI

  AT FIRST, HE THOUGHT IT was a practical joke. Yes, the voice on the phone sounded like the Holy Father’s, but surely it couldn’t really be him. He wanted Father Jordan to come to the papal apartments the following evening at half past nine. Father Jordan was to tell no one of the summons. Nor was he to arrive even a minute early.

  “I assume it was a Thursday,” said Gabriel.

  “How did you know?”

  Gabriel smiled and with a movement of his hand invited Father Jordan to continue. He arrived at the papal apartment, he said, at the stroke of nine thirty. A household nun escorted him to the private chapel. The Holy Father greeted him warmly, refusing to allow him to kiss the Ring of the Fisherman, and then showed him a most remarkable book.

  “Did Lucchesi know of your personal connection to the gospel?”

  “No,” said Father Jordan. “And I never told him about it. It was my personal connection to Donati that was important. The Holy Father trusted me. It was just a stroke of dumb luck.”

  “I assume he allowed you to read it.”

  “Of course. That’s why I was there. He wanted my opinion as to its authenticity.”

  “And?”

  “The text was lucid, at times bureaucratic, and granular in its detail. It was not the work of a creative mind. It was an important historical document based on the written or spoken recollections of its nominal author.”

  “What happened next?”

  “He invited me back the following Thursday. Once again, Donati was absent. Dinner with a friend, apparently. Outside the walls. That was when the Holy Father told me that he planned to give the book to you.” He paused, then added, “Without informing the prefetto of the Vatican Secret Archives.”

  “Did he know Albanese was a secret member of the Order of St. Helena?”

  “He suspected as much.”

  “Which is why Lucchesi asked you to make a copy of the book.”

  Father Jordan smiled. “Rather ingenious, don’t you think?”

  “Did you do the work yourself, or did you utilize the services of a professional?”

  “A little of both. I was a rather talented illustrator and calligrapher when I was young. Not like you, of course. But I wasn’t bad. The professional, who shall remain nameless, handled the artificial aging of the paper and the binding. It was an extraordinary piece of work. Cardinal Albanese would never have been able to tell the difference. Not unless he subjected the volume to sophisticated tests.”

  “But which version of the gospel did he remove from the papal apartments the night of the Holy Father’s murder?”

  “It was the copy,” answered Father Jordan. “I have the original. The Holy Father gave it to me for safekeeping in case something happened to him.”

  “That book belongs to me now.”

  “It belonged to my grandfather before it was taken from him by the Order. Therefore, I am the rightful owner, just as Isabel Feldman was the rightful owner of that painting that magically resurfaced last weekend.” Father Jordan scrutinized him for a moment. “I suppose you had something to do with that, too.”

  Gabriel made no reply.

  “It never goes away, does it?”

  “What’s that?”

  “The survivor’s guilt. It gets passed down from generation to generation. Like those green eyes of yours.”

  “They were my mother’s eyes.”

  “Was she in one of the camps?”

  “Birkenau.”

  “Then you are a miracle, too.” Father Jordan patted the back of Gabriel’s hand. “I’m afraid there is a straight line between the teachings of the early Church and the gas chambers and crematoria of Auschwitz. To maintain otherwise is to engage in what Thomas Aquinas called an ignorantia affectata. A willful ignorance.”

  “Perhaps you should put it to rest once and for all.”

  “And how would I do that?”

  “By giving me that book.”

  Father Jordan shook his head. “Making it public will accomplish nothing. In fact, given the current climate here in Europe and America, it might make matters worse.”

  “Are you forgetting that your former student is now the pope?”

  “His Holiness has enough problems to deal with. The last thing he needs is a challenge to the core beliefs of Christianity.”

  “What does the book say?”

  Father Jordan was silent.

  “Please,” said Gabriel. “I must know.”

  He contemplated his sunbaked hands. “One central element of the Passion narratives is undeniable. A Jew from the village of Nazareth named Jesus was put to death by the Roman prefect on or about the holiday of Passover, in perhaps the year 33 C.E. Much else of what was written in the four Gospels must be taken with a cartload of salt. The accounts are literary invention or, worse, a deliberate effort on the part of the evangelists and early Church to implicate the Jews in the death of Jesus while simultaneously exculpating the real culprits.”

  “Pontius Pilate and the Romans.”

  Father Jordan nodded.

  “For example?”

  “The trial before the Sanhedrin.”

  “Did it happen?”

  “In the middle of the night during Passover?” Father Jordan shook his head. “Such a gathering would have been forbidden by the Laws of Moses. Only a Christian living in Rome could have concocted something so outlandish.”

  “Was Caiaphas involved in any way?”

  “If he was, Pilate makes no mention of it.”

  “What about the tribunal?”

  “If that’s what you want to call it,” said Father Jordan. “It was very brief. Pilate barely looked at him. In fact, he claimed not to be able to recall Jesus’ physical appearance. He merely jotted a note for his files and waved his hand, and the soldiers got on with it. Many other good Jews were executed that day. As far as Pilate was concerned, it was business as usual.”

  “Was there a crowd present?”

  “Heavens, no.”

  “What was the charge against Jesus?”

  “The only crime punishable by crucifixion.”

  “Insurrection.”

  “Of course.”

  “Where did the incident take place?”

  “The Royal Portico of the Temple.”

  “And the arrest?”

  The bells of Assisi tolled two o’clock before Father Jordan could answer. “I’ve told you too much already. Besides, you and your family have a plane to catch.” He rose and extended his hand. “God bless you, Mr. Allon. And safe travels.”

  There were footfalls outside in the corridor. A moment later Chiara and the children appeared in the doorway, accompanied by the Benedictine monk.

  “Perfect timing,” said Father Jordan. “Don Simon will show you out.”

  THE MONK SAW THEM INTO the street and then quickly closed the gate. Gabriel stood there for a moment afterward, his hand hovering over the intercom, until Irene finally tugged at his sleeve and looked up at him with the face of his mother.

  “What’s wrong, Abba? Why are you crying?”

  “I was thinking about something sad, that’s all.”

  “What?”

  You, thought Gabriel. I was thinking about you.

  He lifted the child into his arms and carried her through the Porta San Pietro to the parking garage where he had left the car. After buckling Raphael’s seat belt, he searched the undercarriage more carefully than usual before finally climbing behin
d the wheel.

  “Try starting the engine,” said Chiara. “It helps.”

  Gabriel’s hand shook as he pressed the button.

  “Maybe I should drive.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  He reversed out of the space and followed the ramp to the surface. The only road out of the city took them past the Porta San Pietro. Framed by the archway, like a figure in a Bellini, was a white-haired priest, an old leather satchel in his hand.

  Gabriel slammed on the brakes and climbed out. Father Jordan offered him the bag as though it contained a bomb. “Be careful, Mr. Allon. Everything is at stake.”

  Gabriel embraced the old priest and hurried back to the car. Chiara opened the satchel as they sped down the slopes of Monte Subasio. Inside was the last copy of the Gospel of Pilate.

  “Can you read it?” he asked.

  “I have a master’s degree in the history of the Roman Empire. I think I can handle a few lines of Latin.”

  “What does it say?”

  She read the first two sentences aloud. “Solus ego sum reus mortis ejus. Ego crimen oportet.”

  “Translate it.”

  “I alone am responsible for his death. I alone must bear the guilt.” She looked up. “Shall I keep going?”

  “No,” he said. “That’s enough.”

  Chiara returned the book to the satchel. “What do you suppose normal people do on vacation?”

  “We are normal people.” Gabriel laughed. “We just have interesting friends.”

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  THE ORDER IS A WORK of entertainment and should be read as nothing more. The names, characters, places, and incidents portrayed in the story are the product of the author’s imagination or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Visitors to Munich will search in vain for the headquarters of a German conglomerate known as the Wolf Group, for no such company exists. Nor will one find a restaurant and jazz bar in the Beethovenplatz called Café Adagio. Thankfully, there is no far-right German political party known as the National Democrats, but there are several like it, including the Alternative for Germany, now the third-largest party in Germany, with ninety-four seats in the Bundestag. Bf V chief Hans-Georg Maassen faced calls for his resignation in 2018 over accusations that he harbored extremist political views himself and was quietly working to assist the Alternative for Germany’s rise to power.

  There is no restricted section of the Vatican Secret Archives known as the collezione, at least not one I uncovered during my research. Deepest apologies to the prefetto for shutting down his power supply and security system, but I’m afraid there was no other way for Gabriel and Luigi Donati to enter the Manuscript Depository undetected. They could not have been given the first page of the Gospel of Pilate, because such a book does not exist. The other apocryphal gospels mentioned in The Order are accurately depicted, as are the words of early Church figures such as Origen, Tertullian, and Justin Martyr.

  It was Cardinal Tarcisio Bertone who undertook an ambitious renovation of two apartments in the Palazzo San Carlo to create a 6,500-square-foot luxury flat with a rooftop terrace. But Bertone’s dwelling was a hovel compared to the palace in Limburg, Germany, that Bishop Franz-Peter Tebartz-van Elst, the so-called Bishop of Bling, renovated at a reported cost of $40 million. In May 2012, Ettore Gotti Tedeschi was removed as president of the Vatican Bank in connection with the sex-and-money scandal that became known as Vati-Leaks. An internal Vatican dossier on the rampant corruption of senior Church officials reportedly influenced the 2013 conclave that elected Pope Francis. The Vatican Secretariat of State condemned the media’s pre-conclave reporting on the scandal as an attempt to interfere in the selection of the next supreme pontiff.

  Former cardinal Theodore McCarrick of Washington, DC, reportedly funneled more than $600,000 from a little-known archdiocese account to friends and benefactors at the Vatican, including popes John Paul II and Benedict XVI. The Washington Post found that several of the Vatican bureaucrats who received money were directly involved in assessing allegations of sexual misconduct leveled against McCarrick, which included accusations that he solicited sex while hearing confessions. An Episcopal Conference of Switzerland report released in July 2018 found a startling increase in new accusations of sexual abuse against Swiss priests. It is little wonder that Swiss Catholics, including my fictitious Christoph Bittel, have turned their backs on the Church in droves.

  There is indeed a Catholic fraternity based in the Swiss village of Menzingen, but it is not the fictitious Order of St. Helena. It is the Society of St. Pius X, or SSPX, the reactionary, anti-Semitic order founded in 1970 by Bishop Marcel-François Lefebvre. Bishop Lefebvre was the son of a wealthy French factory owner who supported the restoration of France’s monarchy. During World War II, then–Father Lefebvre was an unapologetic supporter of the Vichy regime of Marshal Philippe Pétain, which collaborated with the SS in the destruction of France’s Jews. Paul Touvier, a senior officer in the notorious Vichy militia known as the Milice, found sanctuary at an SSPX priory in Nice after the war. Arrested in 1989, Touvier was the first Frenchman to be convicted of crimes against humanity.

  Not surprisingly, Bishop Lefebvre also expressed support for Jean-Marie Le Pen, leader of France’s far-right National Front and a convicted Holocaust denier. Monsieur Le Pen shared that distinction with Richard Williamson, one of four SSPX priests whom Lefebvre elevated to the rank of bishop in 1988 in defiance of a direct order from Pope John Paul II. Williamson, who is British, routinely referred to Jews as “the enemies of Christ” whose goal was world domination. While serving as rector of the SSPX’s North American seminary in Winona, Minnesota, Williamson declared: “There was not one Jew killed in the gas chambers. It was all lies, lies, lies.” He was expelled from the Society of St. Pius X in 2012, but not for his anti-Semitic views. The SSPX called his removal a “painful decision.”

  By the time of his death in 1991, Bishop Lefebvre was a doctrinal outcast and something of an embarrassment. But during the 1930s, as storm clouds gathered over Europe’s Jews, a prelate who espoused views similar to Lefebvre’s would have found himself largely in the Catholic mainstream. The Church’s preference for monarchies and right-wing dictators over socialists or even liberal democrats has been painstakingly documented, along with the appalling anti-Semitism of many of the Vatican’s leading spokesmen and policymakers. While few Catholic clerics supported the physical elimination of Jews from European society, the Vatican newspaper L’Osservatore Romano and the Jesuit journal La Civiltà Cattolica cheered laws—in Hungary, for example—that purged Jews from professions such as the law, medicine, banking, and journalism. When Benito Mussolini enacted similar restrictions in Italy in 1938, the men of the Vatican could muster scarcely a word of protest. “The terrible truth,” wrote historian Susan Zuccotti in her remarkable study of the Holocaust in Italy, Under His Very Windows, “was that they wanted the Jews put in their place.”

  That was certainly true of Bishop Alois Hudal, rector of the Austrian-German church in Rome. It was Bishop Hudal, not my fictitious Father Schiller, who wrote a viciously anti-Semitic book in 1936 that tried to reconcile Catholicism and National Socialism. In the copy he sent to Adolf Hitler, Hudal penned an adulatory inscription: “To the architect of German greatness.”

  An Austrian national who was said to be obsessed with Jews, Bishop Hudal moved about Rome throughout the war in a chauffeured car that flew the flag of Greater Germany. Two and a half years after the Allied victory, he hosted a Christmas party attended by hundreds of Nazi war criminals living in Rome under his protection. With Hudal’s help, many would find sanctuary in South America. Adolf Eichmann received assistance from Bishop Hudal, as did Franz Stangl, the commandant of the Treblinka extermination camp. All with the knowledge and tacit support of Pope Pius XII, who believed such monsters to be a val
uable asset in the global fight against Soviet communism.

  Pius’s critics and apologists have engaged in a decades-long quarrel over his failure to explicitly condemn the Holocaust and warn Europe’s Jews about the death camps. But his indefensible support of wanted Nazi mass murderers is perhaps the clearest evidence of his innate hostility toward Jews. Pius opposed the Nuremberg Trials, opposed the creation of a Jewish state, and opposed postwar attempts to reconcile Christianity with the faith from which it had sprung. He excommunicated every Communist on earth in 1949 but never took a similar step against members of the Nazi Party or the murderous SS. Nor did he ever explicitly express remorse over the death of six million Jews in the Holocaust.

  The process of Jewish-Christian reconciliation would therefore have to wait until Pius’s death in 1958. His successor, Pope John XXIII, took extraordinary steps to protect Jews during World War II while serving as papal nuncio in Istanbul, including issuing them lifesaving false passports. He was old when the Ring of the Fisherman was placed on his finger, and sadly his reign was brief. Not long before his death in 1963, he was asked whether there was anything to be done about the devastating portrayal of Pius XII in Rolf Hochhuth’s searing play The Deputy. “Do against it?” the incredulous pope reportedly replied. “What does one do against the truth?”

  The culmination of John XXIII’s bid to repair relations between Catholics and Jews in the wake of the Holocaust was the milestone declaration of the Second Vatican Council known as Nostra Aetate. Opposed by many Church conservatives, it declared that Jews were not collectively responsible for the death of Jesus or eternally cursed by God. The great historical tragedy is that such a statement had to be issued in the first place. But for nearly two thousand years, the Church taught that Jews as a people were guilty of deicide, the very murder of God. “The blood of Jesus,” wrote Origen, “falls not only on the Jews of that time, but on all generations of Jews up to the end of the world.” Pope Innocent III wholeheartedly agreed. “Their words—‘May his blood be on us and our children’—have brought inherited guilt upon the entire nation, which follows them as a curse where they live and work, when they are born and when they die.” Were such words spoken today, they would rightly be branded as hate speech.